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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.
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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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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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-- 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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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...?
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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.
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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? ]
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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?
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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but oh, lord above, she feels wrecked.
and disheartened, too, when despite her light touch rip is dragged out of what otherwise looked like a...sweetly peaceful sleep. the moment he talks is the moment she lifts her fingers off his cheek, as though burned. as though caught red-handed.
peggy can't decide whether his hangover is worse or whether he's just prone to dramatics. she leans back against the couch's corner, unsure of what to do with her hands. she settles for draping one arm over the back of the sofa -- coolly pretending as though she hadn't just been pulling her fingertips gently -- slyly -- through those first few inches of his hairline as though the gesture might have managed to keep him slumbering. ]
Get up. [ now that he's 'awake,' the enchantment's broken. peggy no longer has much incentive to be kind about it. she ignores his complaint, although stops short of actually jostling him off her lap. ] It's half-nine. Time to face the music, Mister Hunter.
[ it's a godsend, really, that he's behaving so pitifully. it only makes it easier for her to scrabble at the high ground and grit her teeth through the first wave of nausea. ]
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--But then, as the ache progress from his behind his eyes downward, Rip is reminded that they had both been rather drunk at the time.]
Back to business as usual then? [Given that she calls out the time with all the understanding of morning reveille at boot camp. Certainly her voice digs into his eardrums much the same way as a blaring trumpet, and Rip is left with little option but to push himself off, despite the protests of his head, his back, his gut, his extremities, and possibly even the very tips of his toes.
Still. Rip turns to sit on the couch properly, next to Peggy rather than propped against her. The movement truly does him no favors, leaving Rip to curse to himself while he rubs a hand across his eyes. Fortunately the room remains mostly dim, although there's nothing to be done for the light coming in from outside. Worse, Rip suddenly becomes quite aware that only empty bottles are within easy reach. Water and the stuff to make a proper cup of tea—ginger, given the roll of his stomach—are all across the room, requiring the effort of standing, walking, and somehow without emptying his stomach of bile in the process.
Which settles it: it doesn't matter that Peggy's apparently entirely ready to go; Rip is going to need a bit longer to sit, thank you. It affords him the opportunity to look over at her, particularly since she seems to be giving off the impression of being fine.
Like ruddy hell she is.]
--There's absolutely no way you don't feel rotten.
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now there's a thought. such a return to form could be devoutly desired, but peggy must concede that it was 'business as usual' that brought them to this junction. or, rather, whatever passed for 'business' and 'usual' in wonderland. they'd gone and make a habit of each other -- or of spending one evening a week together, at any rate -- and look where it landed them. hungover and stuck treading water in the liminal seas between colleagues and...something else, peggy supposes.
but at least she has the satisfaction of seeing him appear as miserable as she feels. it makes the distance that much easier -- distance both physical and emotional. and she thinks she nearly gets away with her facade except that he comes shooting back at her with a mild accusation.
peggy's laughter sounds more like a groan. pained, but just a little. she sits up straighter and finally sees to yanking the hem of her skirt back into place. at some point during the night she'd eased the ppk out of its holster and now the gun sits on the table -- she doesn't reach for it. not yet. honestly, the whole motion is eerily reminiscent of that morning in the hallway. she remembers, now, how he'd averted his eyes then. ]
Is that so? [ haughty. her chin lifts. there's nothing but challenge and guff inside her words, as though she's just woken up in a pleasant little tangle with him and yet wants nothing more than to put him on his back foot. ] Do I look as though I feel rotten?
[ she knows she doesn't, and therein lies the guff. there's a tinge of red in the whites of her eyes and a smudge of dark exhaustion under her eyes -- or maybe that's only a faint smear of mascara. peggy looks a little pale, yes, but she's fair-skinned to begin with. outwardly, she does a marvelous job at fighting off the worst of it.
but inwardly! man alive, she feels hollowed out of everything but aches and pains. it's a little telling when she rubs the back of her own neck, digging her fingertips into the tight muscle above her shoulder blade.
it's more telling that she hasn't yet made any brave attempt to stand. instead, she sits where she slept -- watching him with dulled interest. peggy looks like she's swallowing down a question she'd otherwise love to ask. ]
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It's more coincidence that his reply happens to be the truth. The whole truth, because after that unceremonious dismissal of permission for Rip to linger, certainly he's earned this opportunity to provoke.]
Miss Carter, I am entirely miserable and considering perhaps that I might be better off having used up one of my deaths rather than be in this state--and regardless, I still know better than to say anything except that you look nothing of the sort.
[Not that he expects Peggy to fall for unwarranted flattery, even now. But Rip recognizes the trap for what it is; it's a thought he won't voice but he'd been married for just beyond a decade. He's had opportunity to learn.
No, unwise ideas are made manifest in different ways that morning than to comment on a woman's looks--one he'd damn well would have slept with, he knows, save for the alcohol that has left them both in this sorry state. Instead of slipping into the snare she's laid out, Rip pushes himself off the couch--not without a grumble, certainly not without regrets, but business as usual involves one thing for certain.]
If you're particularly adverse to lemon-ginger tea, then you'll be on your own this morning. [It's a simple enough matter to make a double batch, but Rip's good will only extends so far. Especially since after this, he'll have run out of distractions--and there is the pressing matter of last night that truly should be discussed between them. He hasn't forgotten, after all, everything that transpired--least of all that sense of uncertainty that hung about them both before they each decided to let the night be what it would, regardless of consequence.
Yet that's the thing about such cavalier actions: there are always consequences. From the start, this morning had been when Rip knew they would be faced.]
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