IC Inbox - Entranceway

[directed]

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

Comments

[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.]

[mucked]

[ as is her way, peggy powers through the pain. although her very musculature feels tight and ill-fitted to her skeleton, and although the lights they'd left switched feel like a hundred thousand candles, she behaves as though this isn't the case. as long as one wasn't looking too closely, they might mistake her for being perfectly unaffected by the near-full bottle of whiskey she'd swallowed up in under twenty minutes. no water, no food, no proper rest to cushion the fall.

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. ]

[directed]

[Certainly Rip has had sweeter greetings come mornings spent in the company of another, and as he manages to crack open his eyes, grimace still firmly set on his face, he wonders for a beat if somehow he hadn't apparently dreamed all the better parts of the night prior. Certainly he remembers touches that were softer and sweet, the raking of fingers through his hair and the gentle caress of his cheek as they exchanged pleasantries before attempting sleep.

--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.

[mucked]

[ back to business as usual, then.

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. ]

[directed]

[He may be slow to notice it, what with the throbbing of his head and the sickly flavor in his mouth, but somewhere amid his body's slow acceptance of sitting rather than laying down, Rip realizes that no, Peggy hasn't yet to move from that same spot. Certainly she'd been keen to have him off of her, yet her gun is still on the table; she still lingers on the couch next to him, stretches one arm back and asks a question that only has one answer, regardless of what Rip may think.

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.]

[mucked]

[ he uses a great many words to answer a question that should have been handily executed with with a single syllable. but that's alright -- if her voice is the reveille bugle, then his is gunfire. rat-a-tat, quick and mechanical. and, once aimed through her ears, it pings around her skull and leaves arcing aching trails. her teeth grit, her mouth grimaces, but she does nothing else to express her suffering.

peggy watches him rise and walk away. she thought it might be tougher, this morning, to affix her gaze on him. but the opposite seems to be true. quietly, privately, she thinks it doesn't much matter how the night had been diverted or interrupted. this morning is just as tricky, she thinks, as if the rum hadn't interfered. more so, maybe, because now cooler heads can prevail.

-- once those heads begin to hurt a little less, at least.

he says something about tea and peggy perks up. only after a moment do her thoughts slog through the rest of the sentence (lemon-ginger?) and she's forced to register a deeper displeasure. she doesn't hide a lick of it. ]

What, no black tea?

[ hell, she'd settle for an oolong. anything, anything, but a herbal tea which isn't a tea at all in the end. beggars, it seems, can indeed try to be choosers. but after a moment of staring at his back, his shoulders, the muss of his hair... ] I suppose a cup won't kill me.

[ and only then does a kind of cooperation seep into her voice. they have a tough morning ahead of them, peggy realizes. and she hasn't currently got the constitution to be a roadblock just for the sake of blocking any and all inroads. at least, while he's turned away and fussing with his pot, she sees fit to lean forward with elbows on her knees. she rubs fingertips against her temples.

she relents: ] Truth is, I feel far far worse than rotten. But punishment details were always dreadful if you were caught 'red-eyed and bushy-tongued' during inspection -- we all learned to hide it as best we could.

[ which is to say her current stoicism in the face of a hangover has little to do with natural reserve and less to do with subterfuge. it's got everything to do with the hell that was basic training. and maybe, just maybe, giving up that bit of information will spare her the far more difficult conversation that's yet to come. ]

[directed]

[She isn't wrong in her approach to the morning; Rip's thoughts run much along the same lines, because he knows damn well what would have transpired had the night seen him capable of the act. Intent in this case proves every bit as potent as action, leaves the heavy weight of consequence resting unquietly in the air between them, even as Rip fusses with the kettle and fetches what ingredients he needs from the closet. Fresh ginger, rich and aromatic, partnered with lemon and, though Peggy hasn't been warned, honey. He expects that'll earn him a comment anyway once she tastes the sweetness on her lips—but given that the last time she provided him with tea, it had been without sweetener of any sort? Now seems a fine enough moment for revenge.

Particularly when she makes her remark about black tea. Rip spares her a glance and a frown over his shoulder, but makes no comment aloud once she relents.

About more than one matter, it would seem; he's prepping that little knob of ginger when she confesses that her outward appearance is helped by prior experience. Punishment details and military inspections, and in spite of the rolling waves of nausea and aching pain flowing steadily through his body, Rip finds himself willing to grin.]

And how many punishment details did you have to endure before you mastered the art of hiding it?

[ It's a momentary distraction, he knows—but as pleasant a topic as they're likely to find while the tea brews. Certainly they can at least wait until they each have a cuppa before they strike at the heart of the matter.]

[mucked]

It only took the one. It was -- there was a Major, a Coldstream Guardsman, who was partial to disciplining his trainees by having them scrub the -- [ guildford bunkers. she pauses, frowning, because she'd been about to name the location where she'd been first sent after being recruited into the s.o.e.

her headache has kept her clumsy. and if she reaches for her ppk, now, then it's only to provide herself with a distraction from that clumsiness. ]

He'd have us scrub the floor of a nearby air raid shelter with our toothbrushes.

[ something about how if the recruits were so keen to chunder, he would happily supply them with a more expedited means of turning their stomachs. the very memory -- dragging her straight back to those early days before she'd left for active duty -- puts a green tinge into her expression.

maybe, if she watched closely enough, she would have witnessed just what sort of tisane or tincture he's preparing across the room. but her depth perception is unreliable at best, and she's far better served by sliding her gun back into its holster. ]

Did your Time Masters hold inspection parades? Or were they not that sort of organization?

[ paramilitary. that's what she's asking. ]

[directed]

A rather classic approach.

[The fragrance of the ginger helps; the promise of a hot drink moreso, and the familiarity of the scent eases Rip's agonies a fraction just as Peggy's recollections worsen hers. Fortunately while he prefers the traditional way of heating the water, of a long and careful steeping process, in this instance Rip is willing to forgo in favor of early twenty-first century convenience. The next best thing to having a cup replicated and ready, when a throbbing head and a queasy stomach don't allow for much patience.]

Yes and no, I suppose. They were adamant about the fact that they were not raising an army, though we were uniformed and trained in ways akin to a military academy. [Not so informal as a college, and each with their own ranks to earn as they mastered concepts and theory, practical challenges and hands-on training.

There is a rather keen difference, however, at the very center of things. He's noticed it every time he's spoken to a soldier.]

They also didn't seek to inspire the same sort of comradery many armies do. [He turns to face her fully now, leaned back against the edge of the table. Even electric kettles need time to do their work, however reduced in length.] The more attachments a Time Master has, the more compromised they might potentially become when faced with some manner of impossible decision. Not to mention the liabilities involved in having people they care for in the first place.

[What any of them might do should someone they loved be threatened, or killed.]

We were meant to be—removed from humanity. And that included any bonds with our fellow Time Masters that might prove detrimental when it came to the protection of time.

[mucked]

[ by contrast, peggy's isolation was never an institutional one -- there was no one breathing down her neck at any of the letter-agencies she'd worked for. instead of being told she couldn't form attachments, attachments were practically expected of her. after all, she'd met her ex-fiance while working for british military.

but then peggy carter went to war in earnest. it was active and it was consuming, and there was hardly any energy leftover for attachments of any sort. there were exceptions, of course -- the howling commandos chief among them. peggy would never hesitate to call those men her dear friends. but after the war...? well. being a spy during wartime and being one afterward were two very different beasts. the former required her to lie to the king's enemies; the latter required her to lie to would-be friends. it was a self-imposed isolation already dissected and displayed by her shadow-self, and one she's not keen to revist this morning.

and so it's fortunate that rip isn't talking about the soe or the ssr. he's talking about his own experiences serving as a time master. more accurately (although neither of them say the word), he's talking about his family. rip's attachments. and it's an unwarranted reaction, yes, but peggy suffers an extra roil of guilt at the thought.

oh, this is all such an inconvenient turn of events. inconvenient enough to remind peggy that they will need to talk about it, and soon. if only to put the inconvenience to rest.

rip turns back around. peggy straightens her spine and sits primly once more, this time folding her hands uselessly in her lap. so your solution is to remove yourself from the people you wish to protect? her mouth twitches down into a frown, and she stops herself from parroting another man's words. how ridiculous that she should only begin to see the true wisdom in them now that she's far far away from mister edwin jarvis. ]

I'm starting to see from whence the arrogance comes.

[ she pipes up, and if she winces it's only because of her thundering headache and little to do with any ill feelings surrounding the accusation. she'd called him as much, last night while they were both drunk, and it seems she believes the word still applies. this time, however, it's not hurled like a weapon. she's not trying to outfox anyone.

merely trying to make it through the morning without getting sick all over his sofa. ]

[directed]

[Though he talks about them as concept, in separated terms that might be applied to any given Time Master and their relationship with another—yes. Rip does also speak of himself and his family, the people he betrayed that very organization for. And yes, their ghosts still haunt him in this moment, shadows lurking about his thoughts as he considers the life he once planned for all of them, the course of his own days being spent as husband and father, only now to find himself speaking to another woman he would have shared a bed with only a few hours ago.

He never thought there would be anyone else other than Miranda, in that regard. And there still isn't, technically—but the overlap remains.

She straightens when he turns, apparently insistent on maintaining that façade whenever he might see. Airs, he knows instantly, be they to protect herself or out of trained-in instinct, and he huffs out a soft breath as she once more sights his arrogance. For all the same reasons, no doubt.]

By that estimation, I came by it honestly. [Because it is a brand of arrogance to be sure; self-reliance and surety and all the other things required to be able to make the choices he has to. There's a soft ding as the kettle finishes its work—soft and high and just as sharp as a needle jabbed into Rip's temple, and once more he winces before he turns back to pour tea into a pair of mugs.

One for him. One for Peggy Carter.

And not for the first time, he thinks that she and Miranda would've wound up thick as thieves, had time and their universes allowed it.]

[mucked]

[ arrogance is an accusation that's been leveled in her direction, too. and on more than one occasion. peggy prefers to keep counsel with her instinct instead of letting others tell her what she should believe -- and, often enough, it translates into bullheaded imperiousness. it sends her cracking off in directions counter to what her superiors would expect or want. and it takes a lot to crack through that pretension but last night, with three sheets to the wind, rip managed it.

and peggy is left questioning whether she'd like to offer him a second run at the gauntlet. she bites the inside of her lip, but otherwise doesn't so much as flinch when the electric kettle sounds off. hearing it reminds her of the rather impressive model she's got back in her room -- a gift, or a requisition, or a something from agent fitz. she finds herself quietly enamored with the idea of an electric kettle, and it's one of the few 'modern' conveniences that hasn't drawn out her haughtiness.

he pours the mugs and she raises a hand, crooking her finger as if to suggest he should bring them both back to this side of the room. there it is again: imperiousness in every line, although it's not her room and it's not her mug, and it's not her labour what went into the tea. ]

Still. [ she charges into the very heart of the conversation, almost too impatient and too hungover to beat around its bushes. she isn't the only one in the room to have dabbled with insubordination. ] Although they expected you to forswear such attachments, you didn't. I can't decide if that makes you more or less arrogant.

[ peggy doesn't ask a question. there's no question that needs to be asked, really. just a gap in the discussion that he's free to fill or ignore as he sees fit. ]

[directed]

[In this small thing they seem at least to be in sync; Rip had intended to bring Peggy her mug even before she made that silent gesture, perhaps not asking outright but implying all the same—as she has so often accused him of, in fact. The roundabout journeys to a point, or the implications left in the gaps between words: these are languages he and Peggy are both quite well-versed in, and no doubt that commonality serves as part of the platform on which they now find themselves.

He crosses the room, holds out one cup to Peggy and ensures she's taken good hold of it before he sits on the couch again. Beside her again, in nearly the same spot he'd had before, both this morning upon rising, and last night when they came crashing down together.

They are no longer talking of the Time Masters. Volumes are spoken in the unsaid, and as Rip takes that first glorious sip of tea, he recognizes this divergence of path. Still—his answer is delayed as the warmth of heated ginger and lemon spreads through his chest, not at all unlike the alcohol that they had both indulged and overindulged in the night prior. For a moment he's pulled away from his own thoughts to savor the comfort of that sweet relief.

Only a moment, however. Peggy is still waiting—and though he could avoid the gambit, he'd earlier told himself that once they each had tea in hand, this topic would be broached.]

Certainly at some point it became more, given that we were both training to be Time Masters when things began. [He looks down at his mug, now cupped in both hands.] We snuck about and expected we were too clever to be caught, right up until the moment that we were.

[Bold as brass they'd been, exchanging heated kisses in the hallway. Rip could make the excuse of youth, perhaps, could tell Peggy how he and Miranda made all the same promises, that this was merely an affair, a fun little fling, there would be no harm in it.

And then he suddenly found himself ready to give up everything for her.]

Although I expect much the same could be said for you. [He glances up at Peggy, if only just enough to catch her eyes, the look on her face.] A war is hardly the ideal backdrop for any affair. The risk of losing those closest to you remains ever-present.

[Just as it does in Wonderland.]

[mucked]

[ peggy finally finds comfort in giving her hands something to accomplish. in this case, it's the simple act of supporting the mug between two palms and letting the heat leech into her skin. the ceramic teases at the very edge of too hot but her hold stays firm, two fingers looped through the handle for extra stability.

she smells ginger and she smells lemon. somehow, the honey escapes her notice. and although it won't when she takes a sip, that sip is still delayed. it's as if peggy is denying herself that first rallying mouthful. it's just as well, because when rip tries to paint her with the same careless brush she's quick to frown and shake her head.

no, peggy thinks, much the same can't be said for her. there had been no sneaking about, no risks of being caught. maybe she and steve had fallen irrevocably in love, but when she risks discipline for his sake it'd only been to support his foray into austria after what was left of the 107th. a professional gamble, she still tries to tell herself, and not a personal one.

maybe she should turn, twist, try to face rip while they speak. but she doesn't. peggy suspects she's been flexible enough. it's time to be a little more unyielding. ]

It wasn't like that. [ she reminds him, although she knows how hollow it sounds given details come to light during the last event. ] We had our priorities. Both of us. And those priorities always took precedent.

[ right to the end. ]

There was nothing to catch us for. Regardless of the gossip that followed -- [ peggy feels a little nerve-wracked during this particular confession. she doesn't want to say it, but she thinks it's important to mention in light of the current circumstances. she doesn't want to live a public life with public affairs and public affections. she'd as good as done that already with a dead man, and the gossip had frayed her.

she nearly tells him so, too, except that she takes this momentary pause to drink her tea. she expected to miss the rich bitter bite of black tea, but what surprises her is the sickly-thick addition of honey to the mixture. it cuts through the gingery heat and the lemony brightness. it turns her stomach all over again.

her expression is something to behold! pinched and unhappy both. ] Christ, that's vile. It's like you're trying to make the hangover worse.

[directed]

[He already knows it's not the same, but only in that Peggy and Steve never acted on what they might have felt. It's knowledge he's had for quite some time, unfairly gained, one might argue, during a time when he'd been acting for a different purpose and far more cruel intentions. But while the thought might seemingly work in her favor, that Peggy could keep her emotions in check, that she could behave and act and live as if that American had never touched her heart—

He knows better. How many times must she have been hurt, and how deep must her regrets run, for the shadow to have spoken of them aloud, after all?

And indeed, perhaps the shadow's words linger on Peggy's mind as well; perceptions might not be what one would expect Peggy to fear, but it's there all the same. And why wouldn't they be? Steve Rogers, Captain America, had no doubt been idolized for all he did and sacrificed. In an era like the one Peggy comes from, where a woman is seen not for her own quality but rather that of her man, she likely suffered endless headaches for it.

But secrecy is something he can manage, if that is part of her terms. He means to tell her as much—but ah, then comes the moment when Peggy discovers his little addition to the brew.]

I wonder how many barracks you would've had to scrub if your Major caught you pulling that face. [Vile! Honestly. Rip takes another drink of his own, by all appearances quite enjoying the flavor.] The honey is meant to help right along with the lemon and the ginger. And for someone who enjoys a pastry as much as you do, I can't help but wonder why you're so against having a touch of something sweet in your tea.

[mucked]

[ parts of her posture, her airs, break rank and allow peggy to raise a hand to her face -- scrubbing the tips of her fingers down her temple. it's as though her unpleasant shock around the honey gives her further permission to settle into her hangover. nurse it, just a little, and stop hiding it quite so doggedly. she would much rather be at her best and sharpest during a conversation of this kind, but she equally knows that she's unlikely to leave this room peacefully without exchanging some words about last night.

peggy leans back, hugging the cup, and she defers another drink. for the time being, at least. she eyes him. even now, under the light of morning, it's impossible not to shake some of the sweeter memories from before they'd both fallen asleep.]

I prefer -- I want -- my tea a certain way. [ she retorts, knowing full well that, by the other side of the coin, she would take every opportunity to deride him for his tea-related choices. she settles comfortably into this particular hypocrisy -- and why shouldn't she? it provides cover against every other criticism and difficult question she might have to answer for in the following minutes. ] And there's no sin in knowing what you want.

[ once again, she doesn't ask a question. but this time there absolutely is an answer she's trying to hunt out of him. ]

[directed]

[Though admittedly not a fan of suffering in those he has developed a partnership of some ilk with, Rip is almost glad for the way Peggy seems to unravel that much further once Rip pushes her buttons. He suspects she's clever enough, observant enough to realize he should know better, given that the last time it had been Rip making a dissatisfied face while Peggy implied he could deal with it when it came to their individual preferences in tea. Yet she doesn't act unaffected, but rather quite the opposite. Her posture slips, her frustrations show, and she reaffirms that when it comes to tea, she would have it her way, thank you very much.

And so she would—unless Rip was the one making it, he decides then. He expects no less the same from her in the end.

He can feel her eyes on him once Peggy sits back, appraising as she decides just which step comes next in this clumsy little dance of theirs. They never stray so far from the center, however. A twist, a turn, and what sounds like a conversation over entirely British conundrums has a new depth of meaning. There's no sin,, she states, and the sentiment is easy enough to agree with.]

Not at all. [But there's a time and a place for subtlety. Neither of them may want to talk about this in blunt terms, but it's a conversation that must be had. Otherwise they'd both would likely be driven mad by the questions and the curiosities—and frankly, Rip isn't keen on spending another Wednesday evening wondering just where Peggy has vanished off to.]

Which begs the question of what you do want. [Of each of them, Rip understands, but there's a certain benefit in not being the first one to answer. Peggy wears aloofness like a shield, and Rip separates himself, quietly ponders, questions. The first one to wish for something the other won't have is the first one to wind up with a bruised heart—regardless of what pretty lies they tell themselves, or things they refuse to name.

And Peggy isn't the only one wary of that pain.

He clasps his cup tighter. The burn of hot tea isn't at all unwelcome just then.]

[mucked]

[ here they are at last -- circled 'round to the things they should have discussed last night, before she kissed him. before, peggy realizes, she'd simply walked out on their partnership and left him to stew alone. maybe it's something that should have been discussed that first wednesday after ray and sarah's wedding, but they'd both managed to distract each other rather soundly with work and...

work. that's a decent avenue with which to begin. ]

It'll make for a far quicker conversation if I tell you what I don't want.

[ and peggy takes another (rough) gulp of tea before reaching forward. she snags her notes off the coffee table, where they'd been sitting since last night. her mug is exchanged for the book. it only takes her a moment to flip through and see what sort of progress he's made through her codes and ciphers. ]

For one, I rather enjoy working alongside you. [ it's not easy for her to say it, but his perspectives and his strengths settle well alongside hers. professionally speaking, they're compatible. and peggy finds him far more palatable to work with than many of her colleagues at the ssr back home. ] And what I don't want to do, Mister Hunter, is jeopardize that work. Or distract from it.

[ priorities and precedence. last night, with him and whiskey as her witnesses, she'd admitted his importance to her. but that doesn't change the fact that they're both stuck somewhere they shouldn't be -- and making this place more palatable won't do either of them any favours. ]

[directed]

[Perhaps they have done things entirely out of their proper order, yet it's hardly a concept Rip's unfamiliar with. His entire profession rests on the fact that for 99.9% of all the people to ever exist, time would be experienced in a linear fashion—and for the rest, it must be navigated carefully, lest their disruptions shatter the flow of what has happened and what should be.

Fitting, then, that Peggy latches on to work first. A matter of priorities, as she had said, and Rip shows little reaction when she picks up her notebook. He's taken care to not write on the pages themselves; rather there's all manner of inserts and adhesive notes, a key written out where he's solved her cypher and made a quick reference for himself tucked between the pages. All that's left is to finish going through it, but—point to what Peggy has said—Rip has been taken his time with the thing, picking it up and putting it down as one might expect a person to do with a hobby rather than a matter of work.

But they do have all manner of time to fill here. After nearly a year, Rip understands the value of having a project; he's been less keen on ending this one so quickly. Maybe moreso now, if Peggy decides she'd take the work and dump off everything else.

She isn't wrong, however. Regardless of anything more to come (or to be avoided), the effort to return to their respective worlds should come first.] I enjoy working with you as well, Miss Carter. [Echoed because even this much of an admission causes Peggy to falter in her expression, and certainly she deserves to know that their thoughts run mutual in this regard.]

And I agree with your sentiment. We both must keep our eyes on the prize, as they say. [The pleasures that might be found in Wonderland are at best momentary indulgences, distractions from the dangers and the hardships those trapped within this world are forced to suffer.

However pleasant those diversions truly are.

He almost continues on, to point out that diversions can take on many forms—but he's put the onus on Peggy, and she's shouldered it admirably thus far. It would be unfair of Rip to let some manner of impatience show just then, so he swallows his words with a touch of tea, waits for her to be ready for whatever part she deems suitable to come next.]

[mucked]

[ the very intersection of his notes with hers is already a damnably intimate thing. peggy pulls aside a stuck note, absorbs the short-hand commentary he'd left on something she'd wrote, and realizes that in effect he's been having conversations with her all week -- with her scribbles at any rate.

the understanding shows in her face when she looks at him -- chin low but eyes flicked upward to steal only a glance, to catch him as he takes another swallow of lemon-ginger-honey. it's easy to believe his rejoinder -- that he enjoys working with her as well -- when she can see that enjoyment in every annotation.

it's tragic, yes, but the truth is that peggy's rarely known collaboration like this. she's only ever been a unique asset to a unit (as it had been with the howlies) or she's been an ill-fitting one in an agency of mostly-buffoons who refused her her acknowledgement. is it no wonder she cherishes this partnership, now? no wonder that she hesitates to see it evolve? ]

It's a fine platitude -- [ eyes on the prize! ] -- except it doesn't account for when those eyes start to wander.

[ and when it comes to eyes, she speaks of hers as much as she does his. it would be easy to blame him, to castigate him, to do what she did last night and accuse rip of being somehow inappropriate in the face this change on the horizon. but the truth is that she's met him here like an equal partner.

last night, she kissed him first. ]

I don't want to be sweethearts.

[ peggy sticks to these guns: the shorter list, the don't wants above the wants. in the end, this point rings similar to rip's earlier protest over not being some schoolboy head-over-heels. the assumption might not be there, but she feels it's important to dash it all the same. ]

[directed]

[In so many ways, Peggy offering that notebook for Rip's perusal speaks of her expectations of him: to be able to see beyond the codes and the cyphers, to study the meat of her observations, and in the end, to build upon them, add his own thoughts to hers until they come up with something viable in this silent war against Wonderland. Except now, as she judges his jottings, the collaboration becomes far more personal. In a sense they are speaking terms, and Rip realizes then that she's not just settling out a list for him to agree and disagree with.

She called it the shorter variant, but now Rip suspects it's likely the easier one too. Her form of avoidance, to partner with his earlier ducking of the question by asking it.]

That's a fair way to wander, you realize. [Sweethearts, a word that sounds every bit as saccharine as she accuses his tea of being. For Rip, Ray and Sarah could qualify as sweethearts. A pair who are consumed with each other, who have decided to live and breathe and build a life together, however long it might last.

He'd had similar desires once. But when viewed through such a lens now, Rip finds it a touch easier to nod in agreement—not because he's adverse to the idea.

Rather, he simply understands the manner of person he is.]

Likely it's for the best; I've never been much good when it comes to playing the romantic anyway. [Oh, he's had his moments along the way; little surprises cooked up for Miranda, things he knew would make her smile. But far more often it had been her leaving him the reminders of home and family and love, her the one to steal his breath away. There's already so much pain to come with their inevitable parting; better to not add disappointment to that list too.]

[mucked]

[ ...she closes the notebook over her thumb, holding the book at a random page, and bouncing it thoughtlessly against her knee. the soft tap tap tap punctuating silence, biding time while peggy thinks her way through his reply. rip understands her list for what it is: terms, given with a whisper's space for haggling.

it would have been easier if he'd overlooked that fact. there was always the possibility that he would have argued, laughed, or reacted with indignation. had any of those happened, peggy knows, she would have stood up and walked out.

but he entertains the negotiation. so she stays, despite how her head swims. maybe peggy should drink some of tea, get some more fluid into her system, hold her verdict hostage for a bit of toast. but no, they're in the mud of it now, and she intends to see the discussion through to its end. ]

-- I also don't want you consulting Tony Stark on my whereabouts. Or my well-being. Or my...anything, for that matter. [ the two are free to talk, of course, but she'd rather not be the subject of that talking. ] It's twice now I've argued with him because of you. I won't suffer it a third time.

[ this might seem like a non-sequitur. except for peggy, it's anything but. she'd made a fuss over 'sweethearts', but last night tony had sent her a message that rather annoyingly referred to rip as her 'boyfriend,' and it's that same temperamental refusal to embrace those labels that makes her raise this new point. ]