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IC Inbox - Entranceway
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
no subject
but it all drains away the moment she thinks on how he'd returned her kiss. and peggy has to ask herself whether or not she already regrets ending it. rather than answer this silent internal investigation, she takes her lead from him and forgoes the crystal tumbler (hers, much like the chair) for the whiskey bottle. formalities are eroding by the heartbeat.
oh, but it had been good while it had lasted. the kiss, that is. she'd like to argue that she'd done it to prove a point -- because a point it had most certainly proven. but the uncomfortable truth is that she'd wanted to be roughly so bold for a short while now. there had been a moment, adjusting his lapel at the end of a dance...
peggy swallows a mouthful of whiskey, as if in a bid to catch up. by now she has managed to wash away the rum taste, but just watching him take his own swig reminds her of that sickly-sweet flavour. yes, the kiss had been good while it had lasted -- would it have been better without the tinge of fermented sugarcane? ]
That makes two of us. [ at odds, yet nevertheless on even footing in their uncertainty. she'd stayed away because she was convinced this would all peter out far more smoothly without something like genuine affection mucking it all up.
mock-idle (although she's anything but), peggy leans forward and snags his arthur conan doyle off the table. there's a willful incivility to the way she cards through the pages, losing his spot. ]
Holmes. I'm not surprised. [ she's derisive, sliding her attention onto his choice of mystery -- as though it could ever, ever, ever buy her a deflection from the real topic at hand. as if it could ever distract either of them from the plain fact of what'd just happened between the two of them. what she'd done. ]
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Distraction comes as an easy craving--particularly when the alternative is to question what now, what next?
It's not often that Rip lacks an answer to those questions, thanks to his trade.
But he does agree: the kiss had been good. This would be easier if it hadn't been, if something deep and hungry hadn't felt a release when she pressed her lips to his. But opening the gates merely lets air in. Fires burn hotter when they're given fuel, and if their mouths were so occupied, then there'd be no futile need to search for words.
Until there was. They cannot succumb to distraction forever.
Yet he still doesn't know what to say when Peggy reaches over, picks up his book and so childishly shuffles through it's pages. As if she couldn't see the detective's name on the cover; as if she didn't know damn well before she picked it up and decided to inch her way under Rip's skin that much more.
And oh, but it no surprise that she speaks the words with that haughty air.]
You disapprove. [In that Rip finds himself unsurprised. Given her era and her personality alike, Rip expects Peggy might cut her teeth on Dorothy L Sayers or Agatha Christie. But he can summon barbs of his own, especially if they mean to travel down this route. He shifts in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, and does his utter best to look every bit as comfortable as he doesn't feel in this moment.]
Yet it seems you're out to prove yourself every bit as frustrating as Irene Adler herself.
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no, this hour feels much more like their verbal spar by the firing range. he'd been far and away from his better self. and there's a bit of her, a fraction, which is made sad by the comparison. it's that narrow bit which understands how she still cares for him. it's the bit that doesn't want to see him hurt. their weekly sessions had been all about bringing out the best in each other, not the worst.
but it's not wednesday any longer; she's a day late and a dollar short for being the best at anything. except, perhaps, the best at being a massive pain for the pair of them. so peggy carter goes looking for bruises to press.
yes, yes, she disapproves. and in her private thoughts she aligns herself exactly as rip predicts: vane, marple, wimsey, poirot -- each to differing degrees, of course. in a gentler moment she might have forwarded these alternatives while she was bright-eyed and smiling and teasing. as she's behaved, with him, on a half-dozen prior instances. but peggy's armour is up, her hackles raised, and rip as good as scalds her with the comparison he subsequently lays at her feet.
adler! the way in which she snaps the book shut is all the suggestion needed that she understands the insinuation. ]
Does that mean you're casting yourself as our eponymous detective? [ one hand chokes the whiskey bottle's neck while the other uses his book like a prop. she points at him with one of its corners. ] You've got the arrogance for it. I'll give you that much, Mister Hunter.
[ mister hunter. as though taking a kiss from him leaves that particular habit unaltered. so maybe not everything's changed. ]
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Rip knows he's hit a mark when Peggy closes the book with force, her eyes hot with whatever insult she finds in the comparison. Worse is the fact that he doesn't bother to temper his grin; why should he on this night when they've apparently decides to tear the lid off Pandora's box, let secrets fly out free into the open.
It's all so ridiculous, he knows. They get nowhere with such jabs, certainly no place of significance. And yet in the moment, he can't deny that it's all so immensely satisfying--
Especially when her counter opens such a tempting door.]
Oh, I should think not, Miss Carter. [Though Rip does indeed carry that similar brand of arrogance, and often. Certain of his choices, determined his judgement would find the right path, for whatever definition of right is being quantified at the time. She cannot know it, but he's even engaged in illicit drug use, though without the benefit of his memories to teach him better.
And certainly it isn't humility at all that guides his next remark, one delayed only as he takes another drink of the rum.]
After all--Irene Adler managed to outfox Sherlock Holmes in the end.
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this time, she looks for satisfaction in knocking the damned thing off his face. even before he finishes the sentence, midway through outfox, she's throwing his own damned book at his head. it's not as gratifying as throwing a punch, perhaps, but it'll have to suffice for now.
so, so, so uncharitably: ] So you agree, then. This is the end.
[ you know, she doubts adler ever had to cope with holmes kicking out the legs from underneath her just-patched-up relationship with her not-quite-nephew. from the future. lucky her. ]
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But perhaps Peggy had been right in her earlier accusations. Just as Rip expects he's got an upper hand in the midst of all this madness, Peggy presents a sharp and sobering proposal.
It does wonders for wiping the grin off his face. Bravo, Peggy Carter.
Rip doesn't answer until after he's sat back up, nor does he quite manage to look at her again. He's not so wasted, even now, to childishly suggest that they simply attempt to go back to Wednesdays at they were, when Wednesdays and whiskey and dances at weddings all led them to this moment.
When he knows that he cannot say with any truth that he wouldn't kiss her again.]
I suppose it's as you said. [The rum gets moved from one hand to the other, Rip's eyes focused on the bottle itself. He leans forward then; stretches just enough to set it back down at it's place on the table.]
It doesn't make a lick of difference what I think. You've gone and made the choice for both of us.
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perhaps she'd made the choice for the both of them, but as far as she's concerned he was the one who empowered her to make it. peggy can still remember the hitch in her heart moments after she'd pulled her trigger, not yet certain whether her shot had missed him or not. she's chosen not to feel that hitch a second, third, forth time. how many would it take before she got him hurt in earnest?
the whiskey's hit her blood and warmed her body but she's still not so drunk that she doesn't recognize the complete folly in telling him the truth. it's for your own good is never an argument any competent individual wants to hear -- so she'll forgo making it, even if she believes in it utterly. ]
I have. And I did. And I would have expected you to make the same one. [ choice. ] I merely made it first.
[ there's no mistaking her tone. peggy is suggesting she would have found herself disappointed if he'd done anything but. ]
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Steve returning, untethered to anyone. Miranda, showing up alive and well and eager to see her husband.
But he has not been forced to think it through, nor to decide for himself just what he might do with the knowledge that she's developed feelings for him--and likewise, he must admit, he for her. Instead Rip is given an odd position on the high ground when Peggy so cavalierly spells out her expectations. And suddenly it doesn't matter so much if she's right.
Not when Rip is feeling far more contrary than charitable.
Besides, with the decision made, what harm is there in hypotheticals?]
And why exactly would you expect me to reject you? [Oh, but this sparks a memory for him. A voice sounding out from a broken porcelain face, marred with lipstick too deep a shade of red. They use her, they die--
Or they reject her.]
Bloody hell! [Rip rises to his feet, hand lifted in the air as this revelation crashes in his mind. Perhaps it's not the brightest move, but placing his other palm on the couch ensures his balance is kept.] This is about the bloody shadow, isn't it?
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but there are no good footings found in the conversation once he's sniffed out the cause-and-effect, the first domino, the catalyst. peggy's annoyance swims alongside her pride, and she can't figure out which to curse first -- his wits or her sentiment. the latter has always been rarer than the former.
she could lie, peggy thinks. and if she lied she also thinks she could fool him -- should she put her best shoulder to the stone and treat him more and more like the opposition instead of the ally he'd started out as. but instead of lie, she tilts back the whiskey bottle. another shot's worth, maybe a shot and a half, before the leans farther forward and places the alcohol just out of reach when she's once more sitting comfortably.
two fingers touch just above her brow in a mock salute. blasphemous, almost. ]
Well deduced, Sherlock.
[ but peggy reassures herself that her choice isn't any less rational simply because he's traced it back to its source. her chin lifts, letting her look at him as he stands. ]
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So to be sure I understand this clearly. [After all, they've both imbibed a decent amount of alcohol; Peggy's left a fair gap in the bottle she'd claimed for herself during their discussion, and Rip started off drunk, so they really should take the time to be sure they understand each other--especially as Rip is about to be right.] We started this little Wednesday tradition of ours because you refused to let Wonderland dictate our--relationship.
[He nearly spits out the word; even now, it feels too personal, too close to the heart. But if it does for him, then certainly, Rip thinks, it will for her too.
He points a finger in the air now, moving it about as he continues on.] And now, after another event, you've decide to call the whole thing off, and why? Because you think I'm going to turn my nose up at you.
[He shakes his head then, and oh, if she's expected his disappointment, then job well done Peggy Carter. She's earned it.]
You're a hell of a lot better than that, Miss Carter.
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and worse yet, this whole altercation underlines for peggy just how unusual it is for her to reach an incipient moment like this in any (any) of her would-be relationships since she'd been the one to break her engagement at nineteen. by this point, in any other relationship, the other someone would be gone already. dead, fled across whole bloody country, or turned intangible. or shacking up with his best friend. but she's got no comfortable way to tell him so.
the same can be said for their unsteady status as colleagues, as they'd taken to calling each other only recently. because look how poorly that's turned out back at the ssr! the destruction comes full circle, it seems, when her mere presence torpedoes another engagement.
(christ, daniel is the last person she wants to think about just now.)
she's poison, and not only with the men for whom she might carry a torch. but platonic, romantic, fledgling -- she mucks it all up. what few exceptions there are only prove the rule, and perhaps it's howard stark's place on that short short list that makes her so cripplingly afraid to lose tony's esteem in turn. peggy had steeled herself to never come back to this room, on a wednesday or otherwise, but one squabble with tony and her plan lost its legs. ]
I'm not, actually. [ better than that. ] But evidently I have done a bang up job of convincing you otherwise.
[ her fingers bite into the chair-arm, anchoring her as she resists the urge to stand up only so she can exist on the same plane as him. if finds her feet, if she removes so much as one of the hurdles between them by doing so? then peggy can't make herself any promises on staying put. the jury's still out as to whether she'd close the distance to hit him or hold him. ]
And even if it that wasn't the case? Good God, man, this truly isn't the place for it.
[ for relationships. no matter how fondly she still remembers the rousing wedding speech he'd given standing before ray and sarah both. ]
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[Because they could always compare their lists of mucked up relationships. Certainly Rip has any number of his own, and the fact that he doesn't so much as flinch when someone speaks of punching him speaks to that fact. He's gotten plenty of people killed, directly or otherwise. He's been rejected, betrayed, used as a pawn--and even those whom he associates most closely with now likely wouldn't say they trusted him, not truly. And those few good relationships he's maintained? Well. Perhaps they can be traced back to the fact that he'd been there and gone in the blink of an eye, or so history might show it to be.
Hell, even with his own family, his wife, his son. Rip had constantly been pulled away to the mission, the protection of time. What does it say about a father when his son says he misses him first, and that he loves him only after he's been reminded?
She tries to speak to better reason, but Rip is quick to shake his head.]
Come off it. You're only saying that now to try and distract me from the rest. [Even if she's right, and there's a damn good argument to be made for the fact that she is, Rip won't hear it now. This has gone beyond whatever desires they somehow have sparked in each other. He looks down--not at her, but the bottle she's put aside. Whiskey he'd plucked from the closet, hoping she might find the taste pleasant.
It's the same goal he had when picking out records too.]
You're afraid. Of being hurt, of hurting me, hell if I know. [Hell if it matters, really, just which it is. He swallows; the only shadows in the room now are the ones cast by the lights above, ones dimmed so they only shine enough to allow him to read. Yet it seems that once more Rip must profess what he thinks--what he knows to be true of her.]
But what I am sure of, absolutely certain, is that the Peggy Carter I've come to know wouldn't back away from something because she's afraid. Though you getting pissed of at it? Now that. [He nods to himself.] That I can see.
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the truth is that even if she has misjudged the quality his person, that doesn't mean he hasn't also misjudged the quality of hers. it's far more likely that they've both just about managed a pleasant(ish) fiction on their wednesday evenings.
peggy very nearly signals for him to take a ruddy seat, already, but some lines perhaps can't be crossed in his quarters. not now -- not when he's already courting her anger with a kind of precise familiarity she'd not realized she'd allowed him to gain. it's working, and as such it's difficult to say whether the colour in her cheeks is due to her temper or her lack of temperance.
against her better angels and finer judgement, she rises to her feet. if she's going to be heard, if she's going to be seen, then it had damned well better be on equal footing. as equal as it can be when he still has a few inches on her, even after the heels are accounted for. ]
You said something at the bathhouse. [ she steams forward with her irritation still foregrounded in her tone -- as though it's a true aggravation to be put into a position where she has to speak even this much plain truth. ] You said I was important to you. Well, you're important to me, too, you know.
[ one hand on her hip, the other loose and useless as her side. she should have said it then, perhaps. if so, that's on her. ]
And it's why I'm not trying to distract you when I insist once more that, for Heaven's sake, Wonderland isn't the place for it.
[ romance, love songs, dancing, getting her fingers once again twisted up in the collar of his shirt. none of it. ]
Because -- [ oh, bloody hell. her mouth settles into an earnest frown when she realizes, in a flash, how the best explanation is among the cruelest. at the very least, she has the good sense to appear apologetic before she speaks. ] Liability reasons, Mister Hunter.
[ theirs isn't the endearing love story. it belongs to some other rip hunter and some other peggy carter -- mayflies who were never meant to exist beyond the walls of their event. ]
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He's seen more than her façade; he's sure of it. As sure as he is that Peggy's gotten a glimpse past his—more than, when he thinks to the day she found him outside this room, when he found her shooting not at targets, but at her own heartache on July 4th.
She stands, and by instinct Rip leans forward just that touch to meet her at her level. For better or for worse, because it gives Peggy a damn fine view when his eyes widen at her words, the return of confession that she finds him important too. Something unspoken can be known but still somehow unreal; this, now, is given shape and weight by the cadence of her words, and Rip presses his mouth into a tight line, takes in one breath and then another.
Peggy can craft her lies well—but she isn't cruel enough to lie about this.
He swipes a hand across his lips, fingers outstretched, slow as they drag over his mouth. She goes on, insists on her logic, calls out to his with two simple words and yes, oh yes—
Rip does remember well just what they mean.]
Liability reasons. [He repeats them softly, his head dropping down, sagging as once more hands return to his hips. Some other Rip Hunter, some other Peggy Carter, who had met and kissed and maybe even fallen in love with the possibilities of each other. But she's right; that's not who they are, and Rip lets out a soft huff before he turns his head to look at her once more.]
I'm not some schoolboy gone head over heels, you realize. [God, what is he even saying? She's right, she's right, he knows she's right, and yet he still argues all the same. It's not just the desire to be contrary anymore; Rip knows it at his core. No, it's something more profound and more selfish all at once, and he could kick himself when he figures it out, just what he's fighting for then. After all, it's hardly fitting of a Time Master to be so moved for such a reason as not wanting to lose someone they care for.
He's never been meant to have such attachments.]
Where we are is a tragedy waiting to happen. [In time and place, in circumstances that exist only between them and as part of the world they've been forced to live in. Rip takes a step closer, as if he might somehow need to. As if in the quiet and dim of the room, she might not be able to hear him somehow.] I warned you when we met that there were nothing but bad barters in this world, and no doubt you know it just as well.
Yet even so.
[Even so.]
There's no ending this without regrets, regardless of what we choose.
[A knowledge shared between them. This path only promises agony at it's end, be it here in this room, or when the inevitable future comes. He reaches up then, brushes a lock of Peggy's hair back if she lets him, despite knowing damn well that he shouldn't.
He shouldn't. They shouldn't.]
Are you so sure that these are the regrets you wish to carry?
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just as well. whatever it is, peggy's not ready to call it what it is. what it might be.
and perhaps rip is correct to call her on her cowardice. she is afraid -- unwilling to put either him or herself on the line once more for what will only ever be a transient arrangement. he calls it a tragedy waiting to happen, but the cynic in her suspects the tragedy has already transpired. it was birthed in a moment much like this one, because the way he touches her cheek is hauntingly alike to the way she'd adjusted his collar pin once they'd finished dancing.
a liberty taken; a detail fixed. and peggy's eyes harden because while he protests that he's no schoolboy -- and not least of all because it's never occurred to her to think so little of his feelings. after all, they'd shored her up through the altercation with her shadow. without him and his support, she might have succumbed to fighting the thing. it wouldn't have ended well. then again, neither will this.
even so. she allows him the brush of his fingers. her mouth twitches into an uneasy line even as her head turns toward rip's touch. the motion isn't dramatic -- barely more than a minor correction, maybe, but it nevertheless measures as momentum in his direction. and that's why she frowns, as if she's disappointed in her own constitution.
it's become staggeringly obvious to peggy that she has allowed him too deep behind her walls. too often, she's let him see the toll taken by her regrets. it's a note he's often heard in her voice and it's that note he plucks right now. she's being called upon to weigh one regret against the other, choose the one she can better live with, and thereby make her bad barter. ]
No. [ peggy lays two fingers against his wrist, gently redirecting rip's hand before the warmth of his touch proves too diverting. as it had already had about, oh, seven minutes prior. ] But only because, just now, there's very little I find I'm sure of.
[ except she's sure of her instinct -- even when she doesn't like what her instinct is telling her. but she remembers once asking someone, someone who also rated the word important, whether it was imperative he settle for only two options. have, or have not. zeroes, or ones.
peggy doesn't let his wrist go. instead, her grip settles like a buffer between them. something to inoculate them both against any escalation. fingers turned inward against the architecture of his wrist, far enough along the arm so that she can't be accused of holding his hand. ]
I am sorry. [ has she apologized for anything, thus far? surely not in earnest. but it happens now -- although it feels like pulling teeth and it makes her stomach knot. ] Not for not showing up, mind you. [ implying, perhaps, that she still stands by that call. ] But...for the radio silence.
[ i'm sorry. ]
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That one alteration in course. The thudding in his own chest, steady. Constant.
He doesn't fight when she tugs at his wrist, draws his hand downward and away. Hers are not the only notes he's plucked with his words, because regret is so much of what forms their commonality. They have both made difficult, impossible choices. They have both risked so much, and felt the bitter pain of that loss.
They've both been the one to survive in the wake of death, to find themselves crumbled in a moment, torn and bleeding but still left to wonder when the new day comes, just how do they carry on.
She admits that she's not certain, and Rip only lets out a breathy huff because it makes him understand just how equally unsure he is as well. And that, that is the funny part, because he's normally the one who always can plan out the next step. To think and predict, to analyze situations and people and history itself, until the best of all the horrible choices stands out as the path he's meant to take.
But right now, just then, damned if he doesn't know where the next handful of seconds might lead as he stands there, head tilted forward, Peggy trapping his hand between them because as unwilling as she is to have him touch, equally she's unable to let him go.]
An apology from you. [One she means, a single grievance she laments and gives voice to. Not for her earlier failure to show up at his door, nor the kiss she pressed upon his lips, the one they shared once the spark of shock ended. He means to finish the joke, to cite how the world truly must be ending, because Peggy Carter has just apologized to him, of all people.
He cannot. The words die in his throat, supplanted by another set, another urge because if everything changes after this, then damn if he's not going to make this matter.]
I'm sorry too. [Not for transgressions already done, but ones yet to come. She holds his wrist between them, but Rip has height on his side. He tugs his arm down just that fraction, knows she'll understand what he means to do even before he leans his head forward. The best worst path, and he means to stand just as guilty as she, moreso perhaps, because if Peggy's kiss came in the heat of an argument's blaze, then Rip's would fall in the slow steady rise of incoming tides, the push and pull of an ocean that drags him out helpless into their depths.]
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she wishes she had the right words to say. she wishes she could apologize both for more or less. she wishes the book she'd tossed had hit him squarely in his lovely face. maybe, then, she might have felt that little bit better about how she now holds her place and raises her chin and exhales -- impatient -- in a way that dares him onward. yes, yes, go on -- give yourself something to be sorry for, peggy thinks.
rip frets over his ability to trace the broader picture. peggy, meanwhile, frets over hers to absorb the smallest specifics. hers is an intellect both immediate and instinctive, and there's something just a little too quiet and inexorable in what's soon-to-be another kiss. the lean-in is slow enough to let the bottom drop out of her stomach, to let her stew in the span of heartbeats
his pull on her hand is an early-warning sign, and peggy finds herself resenting the position in which it leaves her: with time on her hands! so much of it, brimming over, that there's no hope for blaming immediacy and instinct for what happens when she pushes upward -- heels leaving the floor to give her height, letting her mouth meet his. in this way, she's kissing him back even before the kiss begins. peggy is an equal partner in it.
it's a novel place to be. ordinarily, as earlier indicated, she's the aggressor. that role has always served her best. shoot first, cut first, kiss first.
her fingers travel from his wrist to his elbow, digging in just above the joint in a sudden hungry bid to keep her balance in favour of crashing against him. and maybe there are a handful of comments she could make, but there's no air going spare for any of them. she spends her lung capacity on him -- and only towards the end does she grab at the back of his neck with her other hand, dragging him that one, maybe two, inches lower. ]
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But he knows better. Head swimming from alcohol and the late hour and the heat of her mouth once more against his, Rip still knows that there is nothing promised in the moment after this one, or the next. So he doesn't waste his time with comfortable barbs of their normal Wednesday tete-a-tete; it's long past Wednesday, and the morning would no doubt see them less compromised.
So he lets abandon guide him, seeks out the taste of her under rum and whiskey, and the lingering traces of her lipstick. Once her hands shift so do his, each finding a place at her waist and drawing her closer, until there's little more than a whisper left between them. Words are left forgotten, unspoken, even in the moments when one or both of them must break away, forgo the pleasure of their indulgence to answer the greedy demands of lungs starved of air. But on those breaths he can still catch her scent, perfume and alcohol and this isn't Wednesday, but already it all feels familiar.
They've been there minutes, longer, before he finally does speak. His eyes still closed, his forehead resting against hers.] We should move. [A necessary note of caution, because the longer they stand there the more the room seems to spin, and while Rip is quite content to lose himself in her for however long this night allows, he'd rather not sway too far in one way or another, and find himself tumbling down in ridiculous fashion.
The problem is, caution isn't so much a thing being indulged tonight. Even after he advises, Rip is quick to press his mouth to the corner of hers and lower, to tilt his head so he can trace out a path along the line of her jaw.]
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an when she speaks, it's in a tone harder than a whisper. ]
So move.
[ while he suggests and cautions, peggy (predictably) hasn't got the patience to do the same. she'll nudge him backward -- bumping him, briefly disappearing that whisper of space between them -- until his legs hit the coffee table. and then, with a choice blaspheme, she kicks the ball of her shoe against the furniture. with a hitched breath, she shoves it aside and clears a path to the sofa on where, earlier, he'd been sitting with his rum.
peggy's fingers seize at the nape of his neck -- twitching tight just milliseconds after his mouth begins its migration across her chin. only moments later does it occur to her that they might both be better served if she didn't grip him like a grappling partner. she can feel him wobble on his feet. by contrast, her posture is steady. she leans leftward as they pass the table and grabs what's left of the whiskey, holding the bottle by the neck.
it requires sacrificing her guiding hand, the one that had nudged him along, but she hazards an easy guess that he no longer needs it. ]
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Wonderland has changed that. Certainly there are projects, experiments, what attempts he might make to tie research together and find a way home. But separated from his proper place in both time and the multiverse, this captivity has allowed him to chase down a different desire.
And only for the second time in his life.
She's harsh, demanding, and Rip would likely have rolled his eyes when she demanded he move if he'd not been otherwise occupied. Yet she remains demanding as ever, set on having things the way she sees fit as she pushes him back, threatens the balance of them both, and really, it's quite difficult to drunkenly kiss someone when that same person is urging you straight into the coffee table. He hisses softly when his legs hit, the edge digging into his calves, but only for a second.
Peggy's damn distracting when she takes hold of his neck.
Somehow between the two of them (perhaps mostly her), they make it to the couch without either of them (most likely him) sprawled out on the floor. There's a curious hum when she leans leftward, but Rip can't really afford to stop and question. The next impact has him against the couch, and with a momentary grin pressed against her skin, now it's Rip's turn to tighten his hold as he unceremoniously drops against the cushions, dragging Peggy along when he comes crashing down.
Only after, when Rip is trying to figure out just where their tangle of limbs and bodies might best align, does he realize what she's brought along with her.]
You grabbed the whiskey? [There's a touch of incredulous humor in his voice, Rip shaking his head.] Certainly I'm not doing that bad of a job at this.
[Even if it has been quite some time.]
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he hits the couch. he pulls her with him. and peggy, thinking dully and in the final second, lands in his lap with her knees pressed against the cushions -- the ordinarily discreet existence of her thigh-holster now made obvious and distinct beneath a hitched skirt. the slim line of her ppk juts against the outside of his leg. discernible.
but peggy isn't thinking about her gun. instead, her focus lasers in on sitting a little higher -- spine straightening so she might take, oh, a bare advantage in 'height' as she steadies herself with an unoccupied palm against his shoulder.
she takes another kiss. shorter, this time. and pursued as if she's using it to prove a point. a point which soon follows: ]
You still taste of rum. [ she has the guts, still, to chide him. and although she takes another drink (the actual goal being to catch up), peggy presses the bottle against his chest. she gives it to him. ] Here. It'd be preferable.
[ she doesn't indulge him his humour. not with a smile and certainly not with any verdict passed on whether it's a good job or a bad one. honestly, she'd hope their current predicament speaks volumes on that account.
or, put another way, it should go without saying. ]
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But not about the quality of his kiss, at least.]
First sugarless tea and now rum; I'm beginning to question your tastes, Miss Carter. [She doesn't smile and nor does he, but there is something to be said about the amusement of despair. This has all stretched well beyond the realm of reason, their efforts and choices now ones designed for present pleasures and future regrets. But be it madness, then it is pardonable, or so the old quote goes. He meets her gaze, perhaps a touch unsteady, but certain still as Rip drinks to take away what she's noted as the offending taste.
Not that image he seeks to create will last; a beat later and Rip means to set the bottle down without looking at where the coffee table should be--but since someone has already moved it, the whiskey merely hits his floor with a thunk before tipping over. It's rather loud in the room too, and Rip frowns as he looks down where it's fallen.]
...oh bollocks.
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[ there's a pause just after her full stop. as if maybe she meant to say more in space following his name and how her voice curls low and slow around it. whiskey-warm at its edges, but otherwise perfectly chilly. question them all you want, but realize that you're therefore only questioning yourself -- that's how it might of went had she been of a mind to remind him so grossly of what, exactly, she's been tasting.
once upon a time he called dared to call her obvious. she dodges that description now.
she leans back and she watches him drink. straight from the bottle, and although the sight might have made her smile on another day it certainly doesn't now. her wit might be out, but she's still clouded by earlier implications. they're bound to regret this, no matter what way it's sliced.
and there is a moment of almost-lucidity where she watches him and her bottle. her hand settles against the line of his side. before tonight, she'd barely touched the man. but these new circumstances prove a kind of voluptuousness in her earlier reserve -- as if somehow her distance kept has been in direct proportion to her desire. but it seems as though she might be so inclined to run her settled palm up his torso but--
but then he drops her whiskey, as she's come to think of it, and peggy hisses a companion curse to his -- abandoning what could have been another kiss in favour of grabbing at his belt, treating it like a lifeline, and drifting nearly out of his lap in order to rescue the bottle off the floor. leaning away, reaching-- ]
Damn you. [ there's solace found in how much has already been imbibed, its contents too shallow to spill in earnest. peggy does them both a favour once she's recovered it and drains the last two, maybe three mouthfuls. ] Willful waste makes woeful want.
[ and, flooded with buzz, she nevertheless manages to reintroduce the empty bottle to the displaced table. ]
In fact, if anyone's tastes ought to be questioned...
[ but much like the first, this sentence doesn't find its end either. ]
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Up until the point where Rip drops the whiskey, at any rate.
Peggy shows her ire openly then, cursing the circumstance and Rip alike as she leans to fetch the thing. He in turn grips her round the waist, holds tight while she bends lest Peggy lose her balance and somehow send them both spilling. They'll have plenty to lament when morning finds them already; he'd much prefer a cracked skull not to be heaped upon that list.
But the crisis is averted, mostly. She moves with a rather impressive grace, given how much of the bottle she's already emptied in this short night. Peggy finishes it off then, and not without saddling Rip with a lecture besides. His head cocks to one side, his eyebrow arched up, and even when she properly places the bottle down he still offers his counter.]
Damn yourself, Miss Carter. You were the one who moved the table.
[Yet there are better pursuits than this argument, aren't there? Now that he might taste a little less of one spirit and more of another, Rip leans up to interrupt the statement she never means to finish anyway. His kiss is harder this time, more eager, as if somehow letting more of that restraint go might in fact be the key to winning their little discussion.
Or perhaps it has something to do with what pleasure can be found with a beautiful woman balanced just so atop him. One of the two.]
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looking at him, she forces her eyes to focus on him once more. bringing his angles and the sharp lines of his face into hard focus as she lifts the heel of her palm against his jaw. fingertips curling into a thicker corner of his beard -- nails scratching against the hair with little noises. damn yourself, he says, and she breathes out some short laughter through her nose.
-- whatever she might have argued in return, whatever antagonistic protest she had chambered on the back of her tongue, it's all of it drowned out by yet another kiss. this one more dynamic than the last. peggy's sigh muffles into a quieter noise before it gets lost against his mouth. and in that moment she brings both hands to bear against his cheeks. her grip slides just behind the hinge of his jaw.
there is almost more eagerness found in the way she claims her handholds on him than there is in the kiss itself. in a moment like this one, peggy betrays herself as a fundamentally physical person. regardless of the distance kept, the reserve cultivated, and all the detachment in the world. and although she'd feel sick to consider the word, the truth is that she loves as fiercely as she lashes out.
only this isn't love. can't-bloody-be. this is -- rip hunter. he's to blame. a rare person, the sort who figures out how to press her buttons with precision instead of simply mashing them all and hoping for winning combination.
peggy pulls back a moment and tilts her forehead against his. while she'd been plying her tongue against his mouth, she'd safeguarded some sly comment in the back of her thoughts -- something about how he ought to have known better when he damn well knew she'd moved it -- but suddenly the words break apart and float away.
instead, she offers a one-shouldered shrug. she lifts her face from his and brushes back a piece of longer hair that's fallen over his brow -- mussed in the heat of the moment. ] It was in my way.
[ and peggy carter has little-to-no forbearance in the face of an obstacle, be they people or protocols or pieces of furniture. ]
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