IC Inbox - Entranceway

[directed]

Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.

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[directed]

[She is his first in a damn long time, since Rip walked the hellscape left behind by Vandal Savage, and on that killing ground found the bodies of his wife and son, unmoved from where they had fallen until Rip gathered them both into his arms. After that his life had been consumed by duty: to those he loves in quest for vengeance, to those he's left unprotected as he strives to safeguard time. Even when he hadn't fully been himself, there's always another task: a movie to complete, spear fragments to gather, something always in demand of Rip Hunter's attentions.

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.]

[mucked]

[ once the initial shock and novelty begins to subside, peggy at long last begins to absorb some of the finer points of this new, new experience. chief among what's unfamiliar is the scratch of his beard. the sensation sits like a kind of almost-irritation, existing in stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. it doesn't last much longer. once again, everything changes.

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. ]

[directed]

[Well, at least one of them still seems to possess some manner of grace. For his commentary on her possession of the bottle, there is something quite alluring indeed about watching Peggy straighten up and drink once she's given him that perfunctory kiss. He's quite ready to steal another when, instead of being allowed to wrap his arms comfortably around her waist, to crane his neck upward just that little bit he needs in order to close the gap of her advantage, Rip finds himself presented with that same bottle of whiskey and a complaint.

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.

[mucked]

Question my tastes all you want, Mister Hunter.

[ 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. ]

[directed]

[The thought might not be spoken, but the implication is there, as easily seen as the woman now perched on his lap, equally easy to touch. And like Peggy Rip does mean to do so; though they've maintained a certain distance before this night, he's long been one for such affection. A clap on the shoulder, a wiped away tear, the comforting caress of fingers across a cheek when his few comrades have fallen into darker hours. Tomorrow they'll well be damned, but now there is liberation in the lines being blurred, gates opened as each of them pleases.

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.]

[mucked]

[ and so they work in unexpected harmony. rip, holding her steady while she sees her 'mission' through. and peggy (habits loosened by the liquor) allows herself to depend, sincerely, on that same steadiness throughout the maneuver. leaning low like that has invited a rush of blood to her head and, upright again, she wobbles just a little. this 'grace' he recognizes exists only superficially, now. well-trained muscle memory and poise which compensate, both, for her drunkenness. but just beneath her skin she roils.

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. ]

[directed]

[She may take offense with his beard, but Rip rather enjoys the feeling of her fingers scraping against it, how her palms press against his cheek as she slides them where she would, cupping his head and touching with almost as much fervor as the kiss itself. And certainly Rip does the same; the hands that had been about her waist traverse along her back, fingers splayed and open even as their course causes that once pristine white blouse to wrinkle under his touch. He finds himself thinking he could kiss her this way for hours--perhaps he already has, given the dizzy buzz still floating about his head when she leans her forehead against his, when Rip licks his lips for those last traces of whiskey and her left after their kiss.

Of course it's not just what they share physically that's left him light-headed; a fact reaffirmed when she throws out her wry comment.]

I suppose it should have known better then. [Words that slip out when he's preoccupied with how she brushes his hair back into place, the aloofness in her expression and that single shrug of her shoulder. By God it makes him yearn for her, and Rip leans forward to press his mouth to her throat--but only briefly. It occurs to him then, a heartbeat after his lips part against her skin, that there's something odd in what he said.

Something, something, and he leans back with a frown.]

...I really am rather drunk, aren't I? [Because the table should have known better, and he breathes out a short laugh at himself for it. Drunk and dizzy and a touch tired, yet Rip is hardly willing to give up just what he's found with Peggy now, particularly with a potential end implied for the morning. So he leans forward again, meaning to resume what he started once before, the eager exploration of her neck by way of lips and tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth.]

[mucked]

[ well before he identifies his sorry state, peggy's got a quiet smile on her near-bare lips -- the colour long since smudged on him and on the whiskey bottle. there's a faint red stain around his mouth because of it. it's a strangely encouraging sight. and one she thinks she'd sorely miss except that it otherwise seems like a worthy trade when he bows forward and noses his way against her throat.

audibly, she breathes out. relief and tension dovetailing together until -- annoyingly -- he straightens again just so he can natter on about being drunk. of all the foolishness...

peggy's shoulders sink with a sigh and it's a miracle she doesn't tug his mouth back toward the slope of her neck. she endures his laughter, his self-effacement, with a stony and impatient look. augured differently, she might have laughed alongside him or even found his burst of incredulity to be endearing. not so right now. she mumbles another curse, mutters something along the lines of steady going, mister hunter, and drapes her arms around him.

she draws him in. lifts his back away from the sofa's cushions. encourages his progress in how her head tilts and her neck opens up. there's nothing hidden in the way her breath catches when she feels teeth on her skin. she whispers a quiet affirmation and her fingers, sinking just beneath the collar of his shirt find first warm skin and next the the leading edge of whorled scar tissue extending from his shoulder.

curious.

she switches tack, pulling at his shirt in a sudden bid to remove it. to see him. but it doesn't prove simple to extricate themselves from their present tangle -- she finds her finer motor functions don't always obey her thoughts. the liquor's fault, most likely. the urge to enjoy him battles it out with another equal urge to explore him. ]

Utterly sloshed, yes. [ peggy assures him, head turning so that her words catch on his ear. if she wasn't drunk herself, she might have asked him if he wanted to stop. sit back. catch their breath and reconsider -- but instinct tells her they are both on the same page for once. ] It's likely a good thing you're not the one trying to keep upright.

[ ...nevermind that he's been bracing her above him since the moment she landed in his lap. ]

[directed]

[She's a damn demanding partner, a lesson Rip is learning quickly and in spades, yet he enjoys that unyielding quality in her, certainly more so now than in their professional engagements, but that's a far off concern at present. Hours away, a whole sunrise at least, and when he nips and finds reward in the way her breath catches just so, Rip is the one who grins against her flesh.

Seems he's found another button to push; how many more still will he discover before they're each sated?

Except Peggy's done a bit of exploration of her own, fingers snaking underneath his shirt, and when she tries to pull away the cloth she gets a grumbled complaint for her trouble. Now who's the one trying to get him to break off, and just as Rip's centered his parted lips over her pulse, readied himself to do something she will undoubtedly be quite cross at him for. But coordination makes certain demands neither of them can quite meet, and he's left to hum against her throat as Peggy brags into his ear, confirmation of what Rip himself has said while at the same time turning it into a triumph for herself.

Well. He can hardly let that stand, can he?

There is no warning beyond a tightening of Rip's hold before he turns towards his right--her left, because even sloshed Rip isn't keen on having her gun dig further into his leg. The tangled mess of their bodies only grows worse as Rip half-tosses, half-drops them onto the couch, meaning to have Peggy land flat on her back with Rip poised above her. Never mind that he has no hope of a graceful transition by now; a miracle might allow Peggy to land without hitting her head in some uncomfortable way, only to have Rip's weight press into her scant moments later.

But once he's balanced--oh! They would absolutely see just how he could perch himself atop her, albeit in not quite an upright position.]

[mucked]

[ there's no miracle, here. no eleventh hour intervention, it seems, when rip swaps his position with hers. and in the process, much as the danish prince once said, he breaks all the spokes and fellies from fortune's wheel in the process. it's not a rough tumble, but it drags a sharp curse from between her gritted teeth when the back of her head bumps against the sofa arm. she speaks a hard damn and grabs onto his waist, his sides, him. certainly, he'd caused it. but she still looks to him to keep their joint precariousness steady.

she wiggles backward, propping herself up against the offending arm. and, above her, rip tries to find and keep his balance. despite the novelty of this angle, she stares up at him with a sort of low-broil exasperation. -- the kind that burns and sparks and spoils for a fight. or (in this instance) more of one. in one inelegant maneuver, she's lost both her higher ground and the sweet-hot trail of his kisses down her throat.

god, he's gone and left too much ruddy space between their bodies. even if she can feel him weighted and unsteady atop her -- it's not enough.

but there'll be no complaining about it. not in those words, at any rate. peggy will have to find some other means of expressing how she's unsatisfied with her change in fortune. only he's just there, canted above her, and she lets her eyes climb him slowly. blame the booze (she thinks) for how tardy her own gaze is in finding his again. how it sits and lingers and gawks. ]

Careful. I could have you on the floor, you know. [ she curls her fingers behind his belt. thumbs flush against the flesh just above his trousers. the touch is deceptively soft. ] If I wanted to. You're treading mighty close to being in my way.

[ like the table, it seems. and he, like the table, should learn to know better. but then she has to wonder what exactly her 'way' is that he's obstructing just by getting her beneath him. skirt hitched by circumstance, blouse running to creases, and her lipstick wrecked. shambolic, all of it.

she gives him a tug, eager to tip his balance towards her body. rip is drunker than she is, and she's not afraid of pressing that advantage. if she's going to be stuck under him, then she might as well make the best of it. ]

[directed]

[He won't apologize for it; even when he hears the thud of that impact, the curse she lets fly when her head hits the arm of his sofa, Rip still won't utter that he's sorry for a second time. It's unlike him anyway, and besides, she all but asked for it with that challenge.

Not to mention how he enjoys the way she clings to him in the process and the aftermath. It might well be what equally keeps him from tipping too far in one direction for the other, the anchor of her hands about him, particularly since Rip doesn't quite press fully against her just yet.

Soon, however. So very soon, especially when he catches sight of the look in her eye, how her gaze wanders over his body. They're long past the point of toying about it, he thinks; kisses have been exchanged, explorations begun, and Rip goes so far as to move a hand to her thigh, teasingly pushing her skirt up that much higher as he answers her newest complaint.]

At this point, Miss Carter--[He breathes out her name, formal and proper still, because Tony Stark doesn't have a clue what he's talking about if he doesn't realize just how sweet that stiffness can sound]--you could likely have me anywhere you damn well pleased.

[But that's the game, isn't it? Challenges made, accepted, pushed one step further with each hungry breath? He goes where she leads, already certain of what she's after: a task left unfinished, and he's quick to resume his earlier efforts even as he shifts against her, to once more find her fluttering heartbeat along the side of her throat.

Yet there is a cruel irony, given the boldness of his words. The abundance of rum topped off by whiskey has left him wanton, reckless, far too keen for this foolish exchange--but as Rip presses down against her, there's a noticeable lack where eagerness should make itself most clear. Where the spirit is willing the flesh has been plied with too much alcohol, leaving him woefully unprepared to make good on what he's just asserted.]

[mucked]

[ his mouth finds her skin again and peggy's head lulls backward. it's such a scant thing, maybe, when compared to what precedes and what's promised to follow -- but she's got a wicked little love for these particular kisses. they line up like bedrock, from throat to jaw, and build her greed. rip's breath and his words both flood against her neck and she's so stuck on that volatile feeling that she barely notices how his fingers have climbed her thigh. not until her skirt hitches high enough to leave the skin above the hem of her stockings bare and vulnerable to the air, to his touch, to the shock of the upholstery beneath her.

-- it's like the whiskey's gone and dulled everything but the brightest, boldest sensations. they seize upon her suddenly and steal her breath away.

and so she sounds strained, pleasantly so, when she hisses her next best retort: ]

Anywhere, it seems, but below me. And I've got the lump on the back of my head to prove it.

[ she wheedles out the fine print from what is otherwise a rather pretty notion. his voice conjures up all sorts of possibilities. his floor, his bed, right-bloody-here on his sofa. peggy kicks off one heeled shoe and drops her toes to brush the ground beside the couch. and by order of some flexion in her hips, she fits her body better against his.

and it's in this moment she predicts she'll feel him full and present and expectant through his trousers. but expectation seems to lag behind reality. worse yet -- for as much as she holds herself head-high as an expert in all things, it's been a handful of years since she's gotten this heated and physical with another person. the fact that the booze might be to blame doesn't immediately occur to her. not in her own buzzing mind.

peggy wants him. and unless she really hasn't been paying proper attention, she's more than convinced he wants her in turn. this isn't only a meeting of bodies but a meeting of wills. and the heat of his palm on her leg, the plunder still taking place against her throat, the way she can feel his heart thunder when she dares to lay a hand over his chest -- all of it speaks to a wonderful covenant.

and yet.

-- there's no profit found in being bashful. peggy shifts beneath his body enforcing enough space to fit her hand between them. and with no ceremony at all, she palms the front of his trousers with an open eager curiosity. no, there's no mistaking it, he's not quite so ready for 'anywhere' as he's implied. ]

[directed]

[Oh but there is some wonderful victory in hearing her shoe clatter, gone and forgotten against his floor. He's noticed how she never quite makes herself entirely comfortable on their Wednesday nights, how the one other time she'd relaxed enough to slip off the heels she so favors had been the evening that whiskey and soft music lulled her to sleep, Peggy kicking off the shoes when she'd been only just awake enough to do so. Small things, little gains, such as the difference between silken stockings and heated skin, how she doesn't at all protest his hitching up of her skirt because they both are keen for the part that comes next.

Keen, but still putting up their barriers. He chuckles darkly against her skin, favors her with another teasing bite as she complains about a bruise.] Somehow I think you'll manage. [The counter comes with easy confidence, mostly because Rip is damn sure there's allure in the challenge of it for her, same as him. Neither of them relents, each inch gained an inch that is earned, and if there is one thing about Peggy that has struck him is that she has little tolerance for weakness of will.

Besides; if she's that eager for revenge, the floor does remain an option.

But just as he readies himself to go a step further, to unclip the garters holding Peggy's stockings in place (which will prove a difficult act of balance to be sure), she finds space between them first, her hand worming beneath his body until she presses her palm boldly against his trousers--and finds a rather disappointing result. Rip grinds into that touch, but only once, a single thrust before he too seems to realize the same.

It's an unexpected problem to be sure; the rest of him is quite ready to proceed onward.]

That's--unexpected. [He frowns, cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red than what the alcohol has already provided. Like Peggy he doesn't come by the obvious culprit first; rather, he's quite caught up in the immediacy of what hasn't happened, despite some rather excellent temptation on Peggy's part.]

[mucked]

[ her exploratory hand lingers just one beat too long -- waiting in the aftermath of his eager press, although the gesture makes little-to-no difference in changing the outcome. peggy clears her throat and, in a rare moment of fluster, quickly adjusts herself so that she's sitting just fractionally higher on the couch. it puts a little distance between them, certainly, but she makes no attempt to push him away or rebuff any remaining proximity.

if anything, she's only a bit confused.

although she's no stranger to shouldering the elephant's share of blame when it comes to death and destruction, all other moments see her as a person who outright defies fault. but now, just now, she can't help but wonder just a little -- did she somehow mistake the cadence of their kissing? perhaps what she'd understood as alluring and playful had been something else -- after all, once the night had been properly catalyzed she'd wasted no time in coming on strong.

now, just now, a flutter of panic settles beneath her ribs. peggy had refrained from visiting his room like usual because she'd feared -- rip had been right to name it fear -- rejection. whiskey, ordinarily such a bolsterer of ego, now turns hers uncharacteristically vulnerable.

despite her trepidation, her palms come to rest solid and certain against his shoulders. even now, there's comfort taken in the heat of him through his sleeves. there's no trouble found in meeting his eyes, however, provided he'll meet hers. peggy clears her throat and proceeds the only way she knows how to. ]

I daresay I can't decide which one of us is more surprised.

[ -- wryly. ]

[directed]

[Honestly, it's all Rip can do to keep from sitting up straight and withdrawing himself fully from what has so quickly shifted from something recklessly heated to a far more humiliating thing. This is not a problem he's encountered before--and then the thought strikes that he's only ever attempted this with one other person before, and perhaps it's fitting that when he dares consider it again, he finds himself unable to meet muster.

He braces a hand on the arm next to Peggy's head; beside her temple, his fingers tighten against the fabric.

Where she finds it a simple matter to seek out his gaze, Rip is determined to look anywhere but. His head turns towards one side, away from the couch and away from her, and when he catches sight of the few swallows of rum left in the bottle he (rather ironically) wishes there might be a good deal more in the glass. Yet she doesn't grant him escape; it works out well, considering the hole Rip suddenly desires to swallow him whole has yet to appear. Her assurance, dry thought it might be, offers something that doesn't quite merit the label comfort, but equally doesn't fall far off that measure.]

Oh, I'm fairly certain it's me. [Funny; Peggy's first thought is to question herself, and for Rip that is in no way a possibility. He runs his tongue across his lips, swallows against a suddenly dry mouth, shakes his head all in the span of stretched-out seconds that take entirely too long to tick by.

Funny how not all that long ago, he'd brashly decided not to apologize.]

I am--so, so sorry. [Dear lord, what has this night even become? Rip takes a breath, still unable to even look at Peggy; suddenly all the brazen courage provided by the drink seems to have abandoned him, the pleasure of that dizzy buzz now morphed into annoyance.] It would appear that I'm having some, ah. Technical issues.

[Yes, that hole could appear any moment now, thank you kindly universe.]

[mucked]

[ she doesn't try to force the point when it comes to finding eye contact. he looks elsewhere -- so be it -- and she burns spare attention on the finer details of where the pronouncement of his cheekbone meets his temple. in this way, her gaze will be waiting for him (right there) the moment he can stomach it.

if, if, if he can stomach it.

peggy's hands chafe briefly against the outside of his biceps. a funny, almost platonic kind of gesture -- like a friend offering an awkward burst of support, and nothing like a lover trying to bridge a gap. after all, she's not quite convinced that's what they are no matter how close they'd come.

and close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades. ]

Oh, for chrissake, don't apologize. [ she sighs, more unnerved than annoyed. he was right to think she can't abide weakness -- and the only weakness she identifies, just now, is how quick rip is to roll over and sell this like some dereliction of duty.

only now does she urge him backwards. ] Sit up. Go on. I know you must want to.

[ because she wants to, too. it's cruel and bizarre to stay canted in this suggestive position now that the mood is indelibly and irreversibly shattered. but even once they're both sat up, side by side, she find she can't exactly let him go. it's as if, this time, she's the one worried he might take flight. there's a churning in her stomach and peggy carter blames the--

oh. fucking hell, of course. it's ill-placed, maybe, but she can't quite stifle the sharp rifle report of a chuckle that bursts out of her. one doesn't rove the european theatre with a band of ne'er-do-well soldiers, from front to front, and not pick up a few stories. more than one centered on the age-old paradox of relying on liquid courage. ]

Mister Hunter. [ peggy is herself far from sober, but she's good at managing her symptoms. she almost looks clear-headed, although there's colour in her cheeks that can be blamed on alcohol and arousal both. ] May I be so bold as to suggest a diagnosis...?

[directed]

[Her words silence any more floundering on his part, no doubt for the best as Peggy takes command of the situation. Earlier on he'd claimed to not be some schoolboy but that is awfully close to what Rip feels like just then, chastised as surely as he might be for having his hand caught in the cookie tin, only countless times worse. But she offers--well, support he supposes, or at least enough sense to get Rip unfrozen from where he stays over her. As if only just then remembering he can move Rip does indeed sit up, surprised not that Peggy follows but that she still holds to him once their positions change.

It's...nice.

And a moment shattered quickly; he's almost worked up the nerve to look at her once more when Peggy suddenly laughs, sharp and sudden, not enough to fill the room in normal circumstances but Rip's nerves are rather raw just then. He frowns but! He does indeed turn eyes towards her, even meets her gaze as if showing off his displeasure at her amusement trumps whatever she's suddenly found so funny about the whole mess.

It would be worse if she didn't offer to at least share. He still doesn't look happy, but Rip nods all the same. The answer matters more, particularly if things might somehow be reversed or at least deemed temporary. He'd really prefer for this not to be an ongoing issue, particularly not if such an opportunity might arise again.]

By all means, Miss Carter.

[mucked]

[ they are the both of them...disheveled. to say the least. peggy doesn't dare lift her hands off the outside of shoulders as she sits with one leg folded on the sofa cushion. her body twists to face him, a sudden absence of poise and posture permitted in the face of such a bizarre situation. not even the darting edge of his glare could coax any stiffness back into her body. whiskey and wantonness has banished it all. where the liquor had seized him earlier and still, peggy's just now sinking into her stupor. she'd started long after he did, after all.

speaking of! she nods her head towards the table. it houses not only his notes, her notes, but also two bottles. one emptied and one nearly-so. ]

Lechery, sir, it -- [ that is, the drink ] -- provokes, and unprovokes.

[ maybe it would be more merciful to tell him plainly what she thinks has happened. but, truth be told, it's all kinds of strange to be the person telling someone else what's gone awry with their own body. she's no physician, no nurse, no expert on anything except the ribald tales told around soldiers' campfires.

of course, she isn't accusing him of lechery. far-bloody-from it. nor is she calling him 'sir' in earnest which, let's be honest, would be a whole other kettle of fish. but why say a thing plainly when there's a perfectly applicable piece of good english drama that can say it for you? ]

[directed]

[She lingers beside him, arms still wrapped about his shoulders, and as Rip begins the mournful trek down that sweet high of inebriation, it becomes clearer to him that Peggy's at long last caught up. The revelation at least aids his wounded ego, particularly since she doesn't see fit to offer up a straight answer. Rather, there's a quote, and it takes Rip a moment to shift it merely from the realm of the familiar to that of the recognized.

She'll doubtless know it when he does; Rip groans out a low bloody hell, and drops his head into his hands when the words of the porter echo in his mind. Provokes and unprovokes indeed, as the very alcohol that led to Rip's willingness to indulge has prevented him, them from the ultimate act of it.

And here he'd thought he'd have to wait until at least sunrise for those regrets to set in.]

Well. There's no helping it now. [Rip leans forward, quickly though, just long enough to grab the rum before leaning back into Peggy's embrace. He'll finish off the rest of the bottle before tossing the empty vessel onto Peggy's chair. There's nothing to spill, and better it land against a cushion than clatter to the floor as it's partner had earlier.

But he only needs one hand to do so; the other finds it way around Peggy's waist. Explanation found, and with it, some of Rip's tension eases. He even manages to look at her again, to huff out a sigh before offering up a diagnosis of his own.]

We're both rather hopeless tonight, aren't we?

[mucked]

[ she chuckles, again, when he doubles down on his wretched state and copes by finishing off the very poison that did him in. unlike real laughter, it's little more than one hard burst of breath. her head swims -- a by-product of how her heart still races, pumping blood and scotch through her body. every piece of her still feels electric. physically, she's as awake as she's ever been even as her mind drifts in and out of wit.

rip welcomes himself back into her care. his willingness to do so surprises her, humbles her, and she shores up her embrace -- tugging him close so that he sits against her side, head on her shoulder. ]

Speak for yourself. I'd say this night's got hope bursting at its seams.

[ only...only it's the sort that goes unfulfilled. right now, yes, she has an arm affectionately tossed about him. and it's the nearest she's come to a cuddle in years. but when the sobering light of the sunrise turns up, peggy will doubtless take two steps back for this one hopeful leap forward. and it will have nothing to do with what's been provoked and unprovoked tonight.

even so, there's a restless energy in the way her fingers trail along his arm. a light, attentive touch. ]

[directed]

[How she guides him to better lean against her comes as a surprise to Rip--but a welcome one. No doubt the morning would bring a far different approach from the both of them, but at present there's something truly sweet in having her tug him along, fitting his body against hers, even pillowing his head against her shoulder. For a moment he savors it, closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her once more, laced with the lingering aroma of whiskey and rum both.

Bursting at the seems, she says, and then it's his turn to let out that single huff of amusement. He keeps one arm wrapped about his waist, considers what path they had trod towards, how it diverted and led them here. Feels the way her fingers brush against his arm, and Rip in turn once more presses a palm lightly against her thigh.]

You know--there's no reason that both of us should go without. [Rip's fate might be sealed for the evening, but Peggy's may well not be. He once more lets his fingers run a course over silk stocking, following the line of her garters upward, the trail previously abandoned when the unhappy discovery had been made. There's more to be found in sex than one's own satisfaction--though make no mistake, Rip is a fan of that part as well. Still, another urge might be sated, and Rip turns his head just enough to press a kiss at the corner of her jaw.]

[mucked]

[ she's surprised, too. his weight against her shoulder, her side, sits like something both comfortable and unfamiliar. peggy feels as though there's something satisfied, now, that found its first hunger in that empty hallway two events prior. they'd sat with a thermos and a box of pastries between them, but the seriousness of that moment should have ordinarily called for something exactly like this.

not that peggy will regret that it didn't -- neither will she imagine that it ever could have happened without tonight's crucible of anger and alcohol. but those are thoughts both too complete and too profound for how she currently finds herself. heavy and floating all at once. had he kissed her until her lips went numb, or is that the scotch working its dark magic?

but she's surprised again when he climbs his hand up her leg -- swearing softly, affectionately, under her breath. despite all the appetite and desire still dammed up inside her, peggy catches his wrist (gentler, this time) and diverts his attention by boldly lacing her fingers between his.

it takes her a good long pause to figure out precisely what he's saying. in fact, it takes her longer to understand rip's intention to see her sated than it did for him to remember his shakespeare. that's how foreign the concept is for peggy carter.

yes, alright, there's a quiver to her breath. even so, she hesitates: ] Kind of you to offer, but -- I do think the moment has passed.

[ thoughtful and enticing as the proposal is, peggy's never experienced its like before. she's no stranger to one-sided trysts, but that one side had never been her side. so rip's suggestion comes across like fiction -- like fantasy -- and although she objectively understands that such a generosity of affection must exist in the world, in her world, in her decade? it's damned difficult to reconcile it with her reality when the shortlist of her partners never shared that virtue. at least, never the few who made it this far.

tipsy and confused and under the weight of a few too many paradigm shifts, she's not at all ready to try and shoulder another. the very notion makes her nervous -- gunshy of being the center of someone else's attention.

spooked. ]

[directed]

[His had been an offer made in earnest, but he will not press once Peggy takes his hand into hers and tells him that the time for such trysts is over. If only for now, he thinks, but doesn't give voice to the thought. Still, if this would prove to be a single night, a single chance that finds them and sees them fumble, the ending isn't quite so bad. They fit together well, and even in the silence that's eventually broken up by yawns and quiet remarks, there's a certain satisfaction Rip hadn't expected to find when the clock struck midnight and Wednesday ended.

The night goes on, and lulled by the warmth of alcohol and the soft presence of a woman, Rip finds himself dozing before the next day begins. Peggy too, perhaps; at some point they shift and twist once more, until Rip lays stretched out on the sofa, his head pillowed in Peggy's lap, his legs dangling over the opposite arm from where she leans. Of course there are other consequences to come when each of them does wake up, but as the clock ticks over to half past nine, Rip still sleeps, the rise and fall of his chest steady, the faintest sound of a snore heard on every other breath.]

[mucked]

[ peggy has never found much trouble in falling asleep.

the war haunts her much as it haunts others who survived its gauntlet, yes, but that haunting doesn't happen behind her eyelids after she's slipped asleep. and during those years, shifting from army cots to lumpy safe-house beds to rough-and-tumble bivouacs in the field with the lads, she'd learned how sleep in all kinds of uncommon places and positions. so although it perhaps shouldn't seem as such, sleeping sitting up in the corner of a sofa with the sofa owner's head cradled in her lap, and her hand still holding his, their tangled fingers settled above his heart? not the most inconvenient way she's spent a night.

or half-a-night, as the case is.

so for the second time within a month, peggy carter wakes up in rip hunter's quarters. this time with a slight chill despite the warmth of his cheek turned against the silk thread of her stockings, against a curve of her thigh that never got covered again because she'd never remembered to yank her hitched skirt back into place. christ, she says in a soft hoarse voice and rubs the heel of her palm into an eye socket. a little forlorn, she casts a red-eyed look at the grey knit blanket folded on rip's shelf.

why hadn't she insisted on grabbing it? why hadn't she -- hell, peggy can't recall the finer details of falling sleep. only a few whispers and maybe maybe a kindly said good night. she breathes a stiff breath through her nose and shifts only a little, unwilling to shock him awake. not until she can sort through the how and why of her present circumstances. she can remember an argument and she can remember throwing a book at his head and...

oh, flipping hell.

peggy remembers the intimate pull of his teeth against her neck and she can't rightly say whether the flip-flop in her stomach is because she's still liquor-sick or saddled with a lingering hunger. last night's events come tumbling into the forefront of her mind with a screeching vengeance. accompanied, it would seem, by a devastating headache. she swallows against an uncomfortably dry mouth.

...she's got to get out. peggy gropes for a stray cushion and embarks on a very brave quest to first ease rip's head onto it and off her lap. her touch is light and coaxing throughout the attempt, first brushing fingers back through his hair in an effort to keep him peaceful while she executes her escape plan.

all the while wishing the cannons would stop firing against the inside of her skull. ]

[directed]

[To the contrary of the woman who has kept him company this night, Rip quite often does have difficulty resting--particularly when some problem nags at his mind. Truth be told he hadn't expected to sleep at all beyond perhaps a light doze, when exhaustion and alcohol made the words of his book blur and he simply drifted away without realizing it. And something like that had happened last night: he'd lain awake a bit longer after they whispered their good nights, listened to the sound of Peggy's breathing, matched his own to her cadence before at last dropping off.

It had been pleasant, if he's honest with himself. A satisfaction he hadn't even dreamed he might find again, either in his own universe or this one. But one seemingly short-lived, as day comes and with it, Peggy stirs and decides to attempt a daring escape.

Problem is, any kindness provided by the alcohol has long since passed. She jostles his head with such care, but it's enough. Explosions go off behind his eyes, and without opening them Rip grumbles his lack of appreciation despite how gentle she is.

Even that slight pressure sets off the angry beat of drums.]

Would you hold bloody still? [Oh, but speaking is not wise; Rip hisses just after the words slip out, pressing a hand to his face, grimacing at the cotton that's filled his mouth. The curse that follows after is more softly spoken, but the damage has been done--and in spades if the rather pitiful groan that follows is any indication.]