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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Re: private text » april 9th

[directed]

[He's not in his room when the text comes—but fortunately, he's also not in a position where he's afraid to walk away from the project of the moment. It is, after all, quite near completion--a relatively simple endeavor, focusing on the fine art of piping—and something beyond the thoughts rambling ever louder through his head. He's just set one pastry bag down to survey his work when his communicator rings; a beat later, and he types his own short reply.]

I will be within fifteen minutes. Meet in my room?

[A place he hasn't quite managed to find the same level of comfort in since his return, but he equally no longer hesitates to go inside. Assuming it likely won't be an issue, Rip tucks the phone back away in favor of putting the finishing touches on the cake, including a carefully written note in block print:

Chocolate cake layered with mixed berry filling and cream cheese icing. Free to a good stomach.

That done (and the note unsigned), Rip heads upstairs. Really, while he'd guessed it would only be a quarter of an hour, more time might have passed, or less. He's not gotten his sense of passing time back just yet either, which is no doubt understandable given that he was better off not keep track over the past year.

Regardless, he expects that Peggy could be there when he comes in—and a touch cross that he's late. But surely that's all he's meant to be concerned over after her message, isn't it?]

[mucked]

Will do.

[ so! he's right, then, in that it's not an issue at all. and his room does make the best sense as a rendezvous point, doesn't it? they've spent altogether too much time in hers, peggy has decided, and it's not as though she's in the habit of asking him out anywhere else. that one time with the carnival aside.

-- and when she gets to his door, a few minutes shy of fifteen, she knocks. no answer. with an uncomfortable flip of her stomach, she tries the knob only to learn it's still locked. oh. it's only that he's not back yet from wherever he was. good enough. peggy isn't eager to be found waiting like a lost puppy in the corridor so she lets herself in using the key she'd appropriated while he was gone. the key she hasn't yet given back to him. and when he never asked for it, she assumed he'd conjured up a second for himself.

he must have done; the lock hasn't been changed.

peggy strides inside with something cradled in the crook of her elbow. perhaps it's a little backwards to go giving gifts on her own birthday, but rip isn't privy to that intel. and she can remember a time when something a little green and vibrant in her flat had offered up some scrap of a routine outside of work, work, only work. it's almost a relief that he's not here, not yet, because it lets her deposit the succulent on his shelf -- crowded together with his other ornaments -- and dodge all the awkwardness of actually giving him the thing.

but then she's waiting. and peggy isn't great at waiting under the best of circumstances. but now it's beginning to feel a little like the wednesday she found him missing (although it's a monday and she knows he's around the mansion somewhere). in an unexpected and unwitnessed display of uncertainty, she checks her messages.

and then she checks them again.

for the most part, she's been spared most of the inconvenience associated with this particular event. but as she does what she did the last time she was here, a worrisome passion strikes. while rip was gone, she'd gotten used to bee-lining for where the room is divided by shelving to hide his bed. and, beside it, the record player. peggy's fingertips glide over the dust cover. ]

Don't wish it away,
don't look at it like it's forever.
Between you and me I could honestly say
That things can only get better.

[ but what starts as a tuneless hum and builds to a slow clumsy singing has got very little to do with the record player itself. it's only a trigger -- one pulled by a mere touch. the words themselves are familiar and novel all at once. they aren't more than mumbled until, hovering just out of sight, she rises to the occasion of the chorus: ]

And I guess that's why they call it the blues.
Time on my hands could be time spent with you.
Laughing like children, living like lovers,
rolling like thunder under the covers.
And I guess that's why they call it the blues.

Just stare into space,
picture my face in your hands.
Live for each second without hesitation,
and never forget you're my man.

[ -- wait. she chokes off, confused, before she can continue. that's not how that line is supposed to go, is it? ]

[directed]

[He hears the sound of her singing the moment he twists the knob, pushes the door open. It's—well. Off-key and a touch horrible, really, but Rip finds himself striving not to interrupt her all the same. Perhaps it isn't fair not to announce his presence, to warn Peggy that he's now an unwanted intruder to the song she no doubt never meant to start. But Rip has never seen himself as a fair man, or a good one—

And what other opportunity would he have, he wonders, to hear her say that things can only get better?

That he's moved the record player closer to the bed stands an unforeseen blessing then; it leaves Peggy unaware of the fact that she has an audience as she continues on. For his part, Rip remains beside the shelves, arms crossed, head lowered and a small smile gracing his lips. He'd discovered earlier on that she'd chosen that record to play, presumably on the day he'd vanished. The song, it would seem, has found it's way under her skin, become something more than the anthem of the lives they never led in a world neither of them belonged to.

He knows it just as well too; knows when the lyrics change. Like Peggy he hesitates; there's an event at play, they're both aware, yet—how much is the event to blame for that alteration of words? In the end, there's not much time to try and pluck apart truth from influence; the melody though unheard continues on, and Rip suddenly finds himself compelled to pick up where Peggy has left off.]

Wait for me girl. Cry in the night, if it helps.

[And perhaps she had—oh, he'll never ask, and certainly he knows Peggy would never admit it. But she might have indeed shed tears for his loss when the end had been less certain. It's something he never meant to have happen; to have hurt her simply by being there.

But he has. He might just again now. Rip swallows thickly, but the song moves ever on. His head lifts, and he meets Peggy's gaze well aware of what comes next. Compulsion, truth—or some mix of both. Regardless, he finishes the verse.]

But more than ever, I simply love you.
More than I love life itself.

[mucked]

[ about, oh, two-and-some years ago she'd sat across from angie at the l&l automat and assured her almost-friend and eventual-roommate that she (peggy, that is) can't carry a tune. angie, quick and impish as anyone, chided that it didn't matter when she had legs like hers. and just now, hearing him finish out the next verse, her legs are feeling a little weak at the knees.

her first thought is how lovely a singing voice he has. fascinating and warm; she hasn't heard it properly in ages. listening to someone sing is intimate enough; listening to someone sing the next bit of a song she herself started is even more so. peggy turns on a heel. it's a lot like meeting his eyes over the expanse of a trainwreck -- both of them know what follows, but neither of them can find the decency to avert their gazes. oh she could listen to him sing this bloody song on repeat, she realizes, but only until a certain point.

her second thought is how devoutly she wishes she could disappear. into the floor, into the ether, into thin air. peggy doesn't suffer embarrassment easily -- not least of all because she equally doesn't suffer exposing herself to situation that might invite embarrassment 'round. but she feels it now, hot under her cheeks, with a kind of inward cringe as four little words pierce her like a dagger. bad enough that he heard her! worse still that he should join in. and that it should be this song, weaseling its way out of their lungs during a time when they've both been left raw and reeling from too many emotions.

adding insult to injury, peggy finds herself picking up the next instance of the chorus -- delivered not to herself, alone, with no stakes. but crooned to an audience of one with a vulnerable warble in her voice, as peggy pins him with a look -- far more hostile than the message sewed into the words. ]

And I guess that's why they call it the blues,
time on my hands could be time spent with you.
Laughing like children, living like lovers,
rolling like thunder under the covers.
And I guess that's why they call it the blues.

[ peggy's turn to swallow hard. as she feels the next few words build up in her throat -- wait for me -- she makes a sudden break to push past him and serve herself a splash of whiskey. hard to sing her passion, she surmises, if her mouth is too full to let the song squeak out.

and to think she came here today to avoid embarrassment. ]

[directed]

[His voice trails off where Peggy's picks up, and perhaps if someone else were to find themselves in that room, they might think it all part of some pre-planned duet. The truth is anything but; with the words he's only just finished still buzzing in his throat, Rip now listens once more as Peggy goes into the chorus. He can only imagine what she must be feeling, looking at her while she sings. A flush of red on her cheeks, daggers pointed outwards in her eyes—and perhaps, Rip hopes, something akin to what he has just confessed, to her and equally to himself.

They are words that cannot be unsaid; they change everything, and Rip once more stands paralyzed. Surely Peggy herself made similar confession, echoing back to the last time they were together before he vanished. You are my man, and yes, he'd promised her as much, trusted herself to her steady hand and whispered that indeed, he was hers. Yet despite how the song suggests they might spend their time together, in the very bed that stands so nearby, Rip doesn't move when Peggy breezes by. He can guess where she's going; he's tempted to do much the same, but for the moment it might perhaps be better to let it be.

The song isn't at it's end. In his mind Rip still hears the notes, as surely as he might if the needle had reached that point on the record. A soft harmonica, the hallmark instrument of the blues so many might say, mournfully admitting that yes, oh yes, it understands the nature of such sorrow.

He stays leaned against the shelf, hands tucked into his pockets. Even if he knew what to say next, Rip doesn't know if he could speak to break the spell. No, he thinks; Peggy would be the one to do so. Either the music would sing sweetly on—

Or she would see it end.]

[mucked]

[ the bridge gives breathing space -- but peggy should know better than to think the farce ended. after all, she'd only listened to this exact song again and again while he was missing. so much and so often that familiarity with the tune must have adhered it to her feelings. every line fits a little too well and a little too plainly. an uncanny twist, really, given how she'd first heard it hummed and muttered during an event that had been anything but real.

whiskey burns on the way down. she drinks again, glancing at rip where he leans and waits and sings nothing. (pity.) peggy scrubs a hand under her curls and lets the glass settle back on his desk with a heavy sound. ]

Wait on me b-- [ she claps that hand over her mouth, stopping another edit from being heard. the action is forceful enough to smudge her lipstick, but the song continues muffled behind her fingers. sung, but stifled. individual words can't be discerned, maybe, but it doesn't take too much intellect to pinpoint when it happens: i simply love you, etc., etc. inarticulate behind her palm, perhaps, but the look of hot trepidation in her eyes says it just as loudly.

surely, peggy carter won't survive this. there's an anger brewing in her over an event stealing away something she wasn't convinced she ever wanted to say to anyone, any longer. ]

[directed]

[The words are cut off with a sharp clap, the sound of impact loud enough for Rip to look over in surprise. There Peggy stands, eyes full of ire, her mouth presumably still moving behind her own attempt to keep the words in, to not reveal anything that has been forced upon them by the song--and in the process, exposing more than she might ever want to.

Because he knows if there weren't weight behind the words, she wouldn't be so damn set on not singing them.

So watching the woman he's arguably confessed his love to now, restraining herself from doing the same, Rip does what might be the worst thing he could in such a tense moment: he laughs. Oh, it's brief and soft, but the sound is there all the same. Amusement and admiration both bubble in him at Peggy's stubborn attempts to stay her own course, to not be swayed by Wonderland or whatever else might decide it wishes her to move one way rather than hers.]

And I guess that's why they call it the blues. [He shakes his head as he picks up the song; yes indeed, the lines are rather apt, even if Rip largely suspects no blues writer had this particular scenario in mind when they wrote of their heartaches and hardships both. But this hopelessness--lost to what they have, unable to really fight it--perhaps that comes a touch closer to the truth. Lightened now by Peggy's stubborn efforts, Rip risks becoming the solid target of her anger by pushing off the shelf, walking towards her now that presumably, she's freed from the compulsion to sing.]

Time on my hands could be time spent with you.

[But they have time now, don't they? And since whatever reason Peggy had for coming here in the first place clearly cannot be addressed until the end of the song, Rip takes advantage of the moment inflicted on them by Wonderland. Or--he tries. Stepping closer, Rip reaches for the hand she's left guarding her mouth, his fingers curling around hers. And surely by now she would recognize the sway of his body, how his other hand rests on her waist as he coaxes Peggy to move in time with the song, the rise and fall of rhythm now carried by Rip's voice rather than hers.

Sometimes, victory comes not by winning the battle, but knowing when to surrender to it's course.]

Laughing like children, living like lovers
Rolling like thunder under the covers
And I guess that's why they call it the blues

[mucked]

[ if only the forced element -- the wonderland's wicked influence -- wasn't present, it might have had the makings of a truly tender moment. a better birthday, honestly, than she's had in years. a song and a dance, although she very nearly resists the latter. his laughter makes her cheeks burn that much hotter. ordinarily, she chases the sound. hunts it down through careful calculated conversations. however right now it scrapes at her. it rankles.

but not nearly enough to make her want to spurn his hand and his invitation. the singing was forced upon them...but the dance is all him, isn't it? a spark of choice and willpower lighting up the moment. although peggy's not happy with him (not happy with much, just now) she agrees to take him by his hand and advancing into the shared space of a dance. she learned months and months ago that her lines and his lines fit well together. and perhaps she can't carry a tune, but she can carry a one-step two-step whatever-step. it feels good to make a choice. it feels proper to grasp a whisper of control over what's transpiring between them.

besides, getting closer to him also means getting closer to his singing. and as long as he's singing, she finds herself far less compelled to sing herself. peggy skips any pretense at a formalized dancing style with space for grace left between them. she pulls near enough to hear all shades and dimensions to his voice -- and near enough to tuck her chin against his shoulder.

-- or maybe she capitulates because, in the end, it's revisionist history. wouldn't she have been thrilled if twoish weeks ago he'd stolen back into his room while she was morosely listening to elton john over and over and over again? wouldn't she have preferred it if he'd danced away the dozens of concerns she'd begun nurturing the moment she realized he was late? worse than late.

if she listens closely to the petering out of the song, to the final ringing of the verse, she might just about be able to imagine time accordioning in on itself and erasing everything that's changed between then and now. as if (naively) she thought they could ever fold up and stow away everything that's tumbled out of their most well-guarded corners since then.

peggy doesn't say anything. she does, however, hum along. ]

[directed]

[Rip doesn't go so far as to assume that all is well—if he's not mistake, Peggy's face had shifted to a deeper shade of red just before she relented, something closer to the lipstick she so often wears. Yet all the same, she doesn't tell him no or push Rip aside when his movements make clear what he suggests. Quite the opposite, and Rip finds himself pleasantly surprised when she opts for something less formal. Her cheek is just warm enough for him to feel through his shirt, but Rip doesn't laugh again. Nor does he comment, except to continue on with the song. The familiar notes fall with the confidence that promises he knows them well, and that Rip also expects to please whoever might be listening.

He doesn't yet know how she waited, nor the choices Peggy Carter had made two weeks prior. Though Wonderland had attempted to pry certain words from her lips, just as they had from his, she fights tooth and nail as she always does. No, all Rip can do is to attempt to take this compulsion now inflicted on them and twist it into something better, something that's theirs despite its unwanted origins.

There's not much song left when they begin. A few repetitions of the chorus, sung by him and hummed by her. Without the record playing, it's up to them to decide just when the dance ends, and even after he feels that need to sing release him, Rip continues to sway in time to an unheard tune.

It would seem that rhythm, like truth, need not necessarily be heard to be real.]

I somehow suspect this isn't what you had in mind when you asked if I was available. [Rip speaks quietly, minutes after the song has ended. He doesn't pull away from Peggy, nor try to push her from him. Rather, it would seem that he's quite content to remain just as he is, at least so long as she allows for it.]

[mucked]

[ something -- not always, but sometimes -- a dance is an exercise in trust. especially for whoever follows, placing all care and responsibility for their rhythm in the someone else's body. now, peggy knows from experience that she can trust a lot to his. nevertheless, those first few seconds of any dance kick off with a reverence. without formal form, without music, without a crowd, but the reverence remains. her palm settles against the small of his back. and then, on the opposite side of their postures, peggy folds her fingers around the edge of his hand.

odd. he smells of vanilla and flour.

rather than wonder why, peggy starts down the winding mental road towards convincing herself that the event is to blame. not her heart, nor his. so her urges run in contradictory directions: one keen to keep him close and continue dancing through the last choruses and beyond; another just as keen to discredit everything that had brought them both to this particular crux. ]

Not in the least. [ she answers -- mouth against his shirt, hand still on his spine. it's a blessing that she's manage to iron out any quiver from her voice. as dreadful as it had been to sing, peggy already misses listening to him. it would appear she relishes anything of his that speaks to warmth and depth and liveliness: a song, a chuckle, a pleasant sigh. they are all of them medals she collects and keeps, memories intended to shore up her walls against how miserable she'd felt while missing him.

their tuneless dance makes a wonderful excuse for avoiding any eye contact. so she maintains it, breathing deep against his chest. ] Rather, I wanted to bring you something.

[ something that couldn't wait until wednesday, apparently. maybe it would have been better if it had. ]

[directed]

[She lingers, and more—Peggy maintains that easy step, following Rip's lead rather than demanding her own. There's something special about that gesture most would simply assume is traditional. When she wills, there is utterly no stopping Peggy from doing as she wants. But for now, it would seem she's content to trust Rip to guide them both, and without a map of music to ensure their safe passage. How odd they must look there, to be swaying in silence only broken by their own conversation.

And yet Rip wouldn't alter the moment that it's become if he were given the chance.

He slips his hand more firmly about her waist, letting it rest on the small of her back as they continue to dance. His chin dips until it's just atop her head, and like Peggy, Rip can sense the scent of his partner with every breath: lavender, in her case, from her soap and shampoo. A fragrance he's starting to like rather a lot, by chance.

(Maybe one day he might wear it too, along with cake flour and vanilla bean.)]

Something for me? [Quiet though he still is, the lilt of surprise in Rip's voice stands clear. It's rather unexpected that she might bring him anything at all, since with rare exception, it's usually Rip who provides between the two of them: whiskey on Wednesdays, glasses to drink it from, the bed they share.]

Should I ask after the occasion? [He makes light of it, but part of him can't help but be concerned all the same. He's always found it easy to think through to the worst case scenario, yet these days that grim outlook comes all the more readily. Peggy in particular doesn't do things without some reason; whatever it is she's brought, there's a purpose behind it that likely goes beyond her merely wanting him to have it.

Whatever "it" turns out to be. He'd been too busy listening to her sing to notice anything new in the room—and he doesn't much care to look beyond her just then besides.]

[mucked]

None. No occasion.

[ her reply doesn't miss a beat. not in conversation nor in their dance neither. in technical terms, it's a lie -- but not one of those lies she feels all that cut up to tell. so what if it's her birthday? what use does he have for that information? things are strange and muddled and emotional enough as-is; weaving in any sense of celebration simply seems like it might be asking for turmoil.

besides, it still wouldn't explain why she's bringing him a gift.

peggy's head lifts just enough to puff warm breath against his throat -- a punctuation note between steps, between thoughts, as though she's deciding whether the act of actually handing it over to him is worth cracking open their intimate formation. evidently not, because she waits until their lackadaisical dancing turns just enough so it's him facing the shelf before she says: ]

It's next to your little Waverider. [ she explains -- knowing he might only get a glimpse of the succulant in its aggressively modern planter before their silent rebel's dance turns again. ]

[directed]

[No occasion, but it's still several steps further before she gives the first hint of what his gift might actually be. Certainly Rip's curious, but he's got no cause for complaint; if a touch of delay is the price to be paid for their continued embrace, then he will happily wait--complicated emotions or otherwise.

Yet it's not too long before she drops her hint, forces Rip to turn his head just enough to catch a glimpse of--something green? He frowns, not in dislike exactly, but rather curiosity that's now warped into confusion.]

You got me a plant. [Statement and question both; while Rip does have some manner of nurturing traits, he can't exactly recall ever keeping a houseplant before. Moreover, it doesn't explain why Peggy thought he apparently needed one.

He knows she's got no reason to assume he would want one.]

[mucked]

I got myself a plant.

[ but! before he can take that explanation some woefully wrong way, she carries on: ]

They make a nice addition to just about any room, you realize. [ peggy keeps three or four small-to-middling size and non-flowering plants back in her own quarters -- quiet punches of greenery and effort where once upon a time the whole place had been textbook dreary. ] But that little fellow doesn't quite fit in with the rest of mine.

[ she's telling more lies, of course. they're easier told when their eyes are nowhere near meeting and she didn't have to see his confused frown. no, the choice of a succulent was rather deliberate and thoughtful -- rip was right to consider that no action peggy takes is without some sort of intention. ]

I thought it would look better on your shelves. So -- it's yours, now.

[directed]

[He spares her the repetition--you got you a plant--given that Peggy is quick to carry on. It would seem, on the surface, that she's given quite a great deal of consideration to plants and their placement within living spaces. Indeed, Rip can recall seeing a few touches of greenery in Peggy's room. Small signs of life, though he cannot say he's fully convinced that this little gift is the result of decorative notions.

But just then, with her pressed against him, the echo of a song still resonating in their dance, Rip finds himself less inclined to pick apart truth and lies. Later, perhaps, when he's been left alone with his new roommate and the silence.]

I suppose I'll have to attempt to take care of it then. [And there's the rub: Rip hasn't exactly kept houseplants before. Water is part of the process, as anyone knows. But a trip to the library might be advised for anything more intensive than that.

Unless--] Any advice on ensuring I don't force it to suffer a slow and agonizing death?

[mucked]

[ she doesn't laugh out loud. but she feels the same feeling as if she had -- a warm burst right in the heart of her chest, a sensation that if it had a colour would be coloured like a sunrise. it's enough to make her take a step in retreat, stealing a bit of control into her own steps, and inviting herself into a modest spin before she sinks back against the reliable line of his body. snug, hip to hip, and with a slight lift in her posture that brings her face nearer to his face.

and there, briefly in the middle of it all, she had allowed her eyes to lock onto his for the first time since their bizarre dance began.]

You water it. Luckily, yours will be a bit more forgiving than mine. You give the soil a thorough soaking once a week, perhaps twice. That sort of plant is built to expect a drought. It prepares for them.

[ that plant is a survivor. ]

Don't you dare let it die.

cw: suicidal thoughts

[directed]

[And there's the rub, spoken after a magnificent turn in which Peggy decides all on her own to twist and twirl. From outside appearances it might still seem that Rip carries the lead, but the opposite is true; they've shifted once again, as easy as a change in the breeze, with Rip the one to feel it's caress on his cheek as he watches Peggy's movements.

She's quite marvelous; her steps, her confidence in body. The look in her eye when so briefly, their gazes meet. Perhaps more now than when he'd sung those lyrics, Rip feels knocked off center.

But it's a dance, and he must keep time and rhythm alike. He tilts his face down but does not kiss her properly; rather, he presses his lips gently to her forehead, a whisper of a touch as she spells out her reasons in the form of instruction and demand. It's not just the plant she wishes Rip to maintain then, but himself right along with it. Once, maybe twice a week, and to do that he needs to remember what time it is, what day, to not let all of Wonderland blend together like that miserable hell he'd lived through on the Waverider.

Prepare for the hard times. Don't dare to let them consume him.]

When you put it like that, I suppose I don't have much choice. [Not if he wants to keep what he does have. Rip has experienced loss, keen and defining, the sort of thing that has made him wish for his own death time and again. But he's never managed it; there's always been some greater purpose, some task or duty to hold on to--or now, a woman in his arms and all she represents, moments of happiness and levity and song, and so very much more.

No. He can't dare let it die. He won't.]

[mucked]

[ there is no inkling, no slightest hunch, about what's happening in his brain. it's as if peggy can see just deep enough to diagnose the problem -- a failure to chart time, a disregard for routine, the sort of listlessness that had him coming to her door when he damn well shouldn't have -- but not so deep that she can recognize the root causes.

perhaps she bigs him up in her thoughts. perhaps she refuses to imagine him as ever being quite so vulnerable as he ever was. it's a dangerous bias she carries, towards strength and reason and perseverance. or maybe she merely hopes a nudge is all he needs to go back to who he used to be. after all, she'd never had her heart quite so broken as the day she realized how much seventy-some years had changed someone else; surely, a mere year is entirely recoverable.

peggy maintains her lead. she dances him through the small unoccupied space in his room, between desk and table and shelf and bed, with as much confidence as if they had a whole ballroom to themselves. but without music, without rip leading them with meticulous precision, the steps get sloppier. confident, but careless. and soon after his little kiss, they're left doing nothing more than swaying hanging off one another. ]

Peggy's orders.

[ she settles on an old phrase, one that hasn't been uttered much since her time with the howlies. but they'd always known what it meant: here is a position from which she won't budge, and from which they shouldn't deviate. where everything else might be negotiable, this wasn't. and it's confirmation that what he says is true -- he doesn't have much (or any) choice. ]

[directed]

Peggy's orders. [Repetition, confirmation, and Rip breathes in the scent of lavender as easily as he'd spoken the words. The dance may have broken down even further, but Rip still follows that gentle sway, the cadence defined by a different beat now, hearts and bodies and all they might demand. He hasn't forgotten the words he sang—the ones Peggy refused to let be heard, beyond off-key notes muddled behind her hand. Truth or compulsion, and Rip can no longer quite deny just which way his gut tells him to lean even as he nudges her gently towards one side of the room.]

I know it isn't Wednesday. [Naturally not, but Rip continues all the same.] Yet I feel like I should offer you a proper thanks for my gift all the same. [They've yet to stop dancing, after all, and Rip believes that they can remaster the rhythm, set up their own notes and their own lyrics, sing the song they choose rather than the one Wonderland has composed in their minds. A moment longer and he seeks to take the lead from Peggy—to pull gently away from her body, though their hands remain linked, and draw her back towards the bed.]

[mucked]

[ she won't say it aloud, she doesn't dare to, but it seems to peggy like wednesdays are growing less and less singular -- albeit no less reliable. mondays, fridays, other days are all squeezing into their calendars. they embellish what's routine. they supplement. and as convenient as it might be to blame his going home and coming back for this development, she knows the pattern started breaking down well before he left.

it's late afternoon, on a monday, and peggy can't be arsed to play coy. already, she kicks off her heels. even now, dancing and warring playfully over who's leading who, there's an echo of new year's eve in the room. rip coaxes her in one unmistakable direction and there's not an ounce of her left that would want to linger back or loiter.

in fact, she proves in one or two wide strides that she doesn't need leading. she's there, at his side, and intends to sprint well beyond the discomfort of the event -- to stopper up any further risk of singing when she ensnares him in a kiss, one that she needs to stretch upward to achieve now that she's lost a good three inches without her shoes. they sit abandoned like tipped warships in the middle of his floor. ]

I suppose a proper thanking won't go amiss. [ but peggy does appear conflicted, for just a moment, as she considers where they stand and what options sit ahead of them. truthfully, she can't decide between knocking him flat on his back or otherwise taking a prim seat for herself on the mattress's edge. ] Provided no one bursts into song again.

[ in the end, she splits the difference -- tipping backward but hauling him with her, tugging his body down against hers. oh she'd missed being with him in his own bed. the last time she was here, she'd been alone. ]

thread is gonna get nsfw

[directed]

[It had taken weeks for her to kick off her shoes the first time. Perhaps that had been the first true sign after she'd knocked upon his door, beyond even sipping his whiskey and sharing meaningless stories about his past and hers. Naturally he'd taken note without commentary, realized that Peggy's heels had wound up under a chair while she relaxed--trusted him just enough to let that first brick in her walls crumble.

And now he can't remember the last Wednesday--or Thursday morning--when she was with him and didn't have to go scrounging for her shoes.

She doesn't simply follow, nor put on an air of reluctance; Peggy proves herself eager, willing to be with him, and that very notion threatens to overwhelm. It doesn't escape Rip that he hasn't been with her, or anyone, in well over a year. But unlike the first time, they aren't drunk; unlike the first time, now he's coming off months and months of isolation, where the thought of another human's touch was as hopeless an indulgence as belief they might somehow defeat Thawne and his foes.

But he's no longer trapped within that prison; Wonderland may have pulled him into a different cage, but it's one filled with life, a sweet floral fragrance, and the odd taste of her lipstick as it smudges against his mouth. The doubt may linger as she makes her choice, but Peggy's quick to banish it again in him; he doubts she knows it's even there when she sends them both crashing into his bed, him atop her, trapped by her all the same.]

I'm sure there are ways we can prevent that. [A promise sealed with lips pressed to Peggy's jaw before Rip nuzzles her chin upwards. Just as she had stopped herself from singing those certain words, clearly Rip would be unable to do more than hum should he keep his mouth suitably occupied. Yet as so often is the case, there's another reason he ceases the opportunity. Whatever he might say as thanks or preventative measures, in this way he is the one setting the pace. She needn't touch him for his pulse to flutter so much the same as hers when he closes his mouth on her skin; no, rather Rip fears being unable to endure it, to fall into the storm that is Peggy Carter when she craves.

It's a good showing, all meant to hide away just how terrified he is of finding himself as he had in her shower, unable to do anything more but sit while she scrubbed away the dredges of his world.]

[mucked]

[ what doesn't escape him does indeed escape her. peggy isn't thinking about the discrepant distance or time between them. she isn't thinking, either, about what that discrepancy might mean for him. it's not selfishness that wipes the slate of her thoughts clean, but rather the sheer force of his own ability to overwhelm her. sly words, words as good as a wink, and the scratch of his cheek against hers before he's tilting her head back -- exposing her, pulse and throat alike, to this little private world of theirs.

peggy's next (first) breath is more like a pant. it's a short, sensitive sound -- a direct reaction to the familiar alchemical reaction that takes place just beneath her skin when he gets his mouth on it. blood simmers and nerves light up.

and she can only lay still for so long before she makes sudden and enthusiastic good on her half of this crash. crooking it at the elbow, she lays her arm from bend to wrist against the line of his back. it won't matter that she's stretched beneath him, or that his assurances are firm when he suggests he knows how to keep one or both of them from cracking into song. it won't matter, either, that she squirms when he sucks a kiss against the side of her neck. because while that transpires she has her palm tented against his neck, where it disappears under his collar, and her fingers reaching high on his nape. it's a steadying touch -- as though she recognizes the lead he takes in kissing down her throat, but she's still got her hand on the rudder. ]

Yes, yes, of course. [ even so, her voice is strained and thin and telling when she answers him -- falling into a more familiar melody than any song could provide. yes, yes. each word carrying more weight and affect than the conversation implies. ] An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

[ she presses her lips, smudged nearly bare, against his temple. the only part of him own kisses can reach. and when that sparks a touch of frustration, peggy copes by tugging, pulling, grabbing at his shirt with all the loudly telegraphed desire to see it stripped off his body. ]

[directed]

[She remains ever a wonder, eager and grasping for whatever parcel of skin she might find, fingers outstretched, neck curved as she chases some patch of flesh to plant her own kisses against. She breathes out her lustful sound and Rip finds himself nearly undone within that short note; he trembles hard above her, the want of her a sharp pain that makes his muscles seize for too long a heartbeat before he can think again, urge himself forward again.

Or upwards, as needs be. Her frustration has equally made itself manifest, and by the time Rip constructs some mental dam for his own desires, Peggy's started to claw at his shirt. Her message stands clear, and Rip pulls away from her, pushes himself onto his knees not only to breathe, but to tug away the now offensive garment. A brief blur of grey obscures his vision before he throws it aside; up and over, he thinks, though if either of them were to look, they would see it caught on the highest shelf beside his bed.

For Rip, the tee is already forgotten; he's too impatient now, too needy, to think of things that have been stripped away.

Instead of falling back atop her, however, Rip takes advantage of his position to address the blouse Peggy still wears. Part of him would rather see her buttons fly than be carefully undone, a temptation that only grows when his fingers shake as he undoes the first. But there's some part of him that can still reason better than that. He's more than mindless impatience; he's no fumbling schoolboy, and even in his hurry Rip can see a better end to be earned than surrendering so wholly to carnal desires.

Even so, he doesn't undress Peggy fully; her blouse laid open, Rip only now rejoins her in full, picks up his trail at the patch of red kissed into her neck, traces a path of like imprints as he travels further down.]

[mucked]

[ he rises; her hands drop away. and in open defiance of her customary impatience, peggy takes a moment to behold him. to enjoy the sight, no matter how familiar, of him kneeling above. in the seconds after his shirt disappears (rendered irrelevant the moment it left his body) she slides a palm onto the flat of his stomach. her nails catch and pull at the trail of fine hair leading from navel to somewhere below his belt, but her touch continues in the opposite direction. with a rotation of her shoulder, with a bit of a stretch and with only her fingertips, she can just about reach the spot housing his heart.

it's bounding. or else she fancies it is -- leaping, like a jack rabbit, in his chest. peggy bites down on a grin as though some piece of her still won't suffer him seeing how much she enjoys his tells, or the shared effect they have on one another when the pleasantries crack away and their desires reign instead. such as the shake in his hands as he works at balancing out their states of undress, picking at buttons while she -- keen-eyed -- watches him fight a little battle between his instincts and his inclinations. her own is waged by the dark in her eyes and the lift in her hips. it's won and lost in the way she sighs when his touch, dipping between buttons, catches her skin.

it's been a week since he's come back to her and about ruddy time to acknowledge something beyond the tricky and poorly articulated emotions surrounding their reunion. this is a far far simpler language, and one they fall to speaking with familiar ease. he bends forward and she lets her hand slip back to his waist, fingers curving against his side with the kind of grip that allows her to urge him near. rock him forward. to take that spark of what's carnal and ignite it against a dash of encouragement as her body raises against his. her skirt is already in a state. creased, riding above her knees, hitched since the moment they'd tumbled into his bed together. and much like his shirt and her buttons, the rest of their clothing proves more burden than benefit. ]

-- Christ. [ she swears, sharply, and disavows any earlier desire to foster an even playing field between them. the slow torturous line of his kisses, sucked and marking, wreak havoc with her tolerance for laying back and letting him plot his own course. and so she lets her own want get the better of her, her own instinct win a skirmish or two, whens he grabs him by his waist and seeks, a touch roughly, to turn him onto his back. peggy hopes to supplant rip in his position and straddle him instead. ]

[directed]

[She gives him precious little time to sample her skin, to kiss a trail marked by reddened flesh and scrapes of teeth and perhaps a darker bruise or two, leading from the line of her throat down to the swell of her breasts. He wants not only to have her, but to relearn her; to once more seek out and discover all those hidden treasures within her, the ones that make her gasp and writhe and want until it's too much to resist. And it would seem he's traveled the path well, for just as he hooks a finger into the lace of her bra, aims to tug it aside to reveal all the more of her, she tries to change the game completely. She takes hold of his hips and he remembers without thought just what it means to have her hands on him like this. He remembers and reacts, just barely fending her off, keeping his balance rather than letting her tip the scales and him onto his back.

Not that it isn't a struggle. Peggy's gotten damn strong thanks to her efforts in Wonderland. There's a war to be prepared for, and days spent running and training show in the effort Rip needs to counter her push. But he's got leverage on his side; his weight atop hers, and Rip shows little gentleness as he moves to grab her arms, one after the other, his hold tight as he tears them away from his body and up, up, pins them to the bed on either side of her head.]

Not yet. [He breathes out this admonishment even as he shifts against her, presses the bulge of his arousal down between her legs. God, how tempting it is to let her have her conquest, to feel her over him, knowing Peggy would make short order of those last barriers to take him within. But this is Rip's endeavor, his dictates; he means to do more than simply lose himself in her. Not that he has the use of his hands at the moment. But he'll still make do, ducking his head to capture her nipple between his teeth, lace and all, to suck firmness into the nub and have her all the more eager for it.]