IC Inbox - Entranceway

[directed]

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

Comments

[directed]

Between Doc Holiday and...?

[Yes, he's beginning to suspect the same himself--although Rip had worn a tie to his last quickdraw.]

[mucked]

You. Between him and you.

...I wouldn't ask about myself. Good Lord. Even I know my limits.

[ wait, no, she doesn't want to open that conversational door. peggy frowns at the swimming screen. ]

He's getting married.

[directed]

Implying that you suspect mine might surpass yours.

[If one might look at it from a certain way, perhaps. Or perhaps, more likely, Rip is trying to needle Peggy still.

But the conversation does at last come back around. A wedding, and indeed, it would be just the sort of thing one would normally wear a tie to. But knowing this, and by extension just why Peggy is bringing it up to him, doesn't mean Rip's letting her off the hook.]

Is he? I'm sure he's quite thrilled.

[mucked]

[ oi! she didn't say that! did she? peggy scrolls up, squints, sighs. she did sort of imply it -- alright -- but it was bally rude of him to put it into words and then type those words into a handheld device and have his handheld device send those words to hers and...

oh, right, he's probably waiting for a reply... ]

Of course he is. So am I.

[ a hundred percent true. doc and wynonna come from the very same world -- there's nothing tragic, to peggy's mind, about that match. why shouldn't they enjoy it all a little sooner? ]

Look:

[ and after a few failed attempts (most of which involve sending unintentional snapshots of her bedroom floor) peggy manages to attach the original invitation as if that is explanation -- and question -- enough. ]

[directed]

[...Peggy knows Doc Holiday.

Rip is sleeping with a woman who knows Doc Holiday, and has yet to meet the man himself.

Yet however decidedly unfair he believes it to be, at the moment Rip is far more amused when Peggy still attempts to put forth the obvious without saying it. Going so far as to show Rip her--floor, apparently, and before she quite manages to get the invitation to him, he offers up his first reply.]

It is a very nice rug, but you'll recall I've seen it in person.

[Ah, but then, then! The invitation comes. Date and time just as she said, leaving Rip quite aware of what she wants him to conclude.

And naturally, offering up anything but.]

Well, that's quite the coincidence.
A wedding, just when you've demanded I make myself available.

[mucked]

[ more than that, mister hunter! peggy taught doc holliday about about the world wars. a factoid that should only further ruffle feathers but which has absolutely nothing to do with the current battle of wills. ]

Oh for Heaven's sake. [ typed exactly as she might have said it -- and odds are she did, uttered vindictively under her breath. ] Must you?

[ must you be so very much yourself right now? ]

[directed]

You likely already know the answer to that.

[So, yes.]

[mucked]

I'd be nice if you joined me.

[ half points? ]

[directed]

Would you?

[No doubt an innocent mistake--and then, in a show of mercy:]

I suppose that even if you weren't, I would enjoy going with you.

[mucked]

[ her brows furrow. and, upon discovering her typo, she feels fit to sink into the very rug she'd accidentally shared with him prior in three unfocused photos. she knows she shouldn't care. but, thanks to the vodka, she does.

and -- thanks to the vodka -- she cares with a vengeance. ]

At this rate, one couldn't be blamed for assuming you might actually prefer it if I wasn't. Seeing as you're being so willfully DIFFICULT.

[directed]

But alas, you've already promised to not only to behave, but to be -nice.-

[He'd been willing to call a true of sorts, but it would seem that Peggy's not going to have it.

So instead, he'll offer salt for her wounds.]

I suppose we all have our burdens to carry.

[mucked]

[ excuse you, no one said anything about behaving.

which is just as well, really. in the end, neither of them are ever looking to behave. ]

If a promise was even made, and I'm not convinced it was, then keeping that promise is rather contingent upon your answer.

[directed]

And my answer is contingent on being asked a question.

1/3

[mucked]

[ oh flipping hell. she sorely misses keeping up with him but the drink has got her thoughts all dizzy. ]

You're altogether too sober. Unfair advantage.

2/3

[mucked]

[ wait. ]

3/3

[mucked]

You are, aren't you?

[ sober. oh, please say he is... ]

[directed]

I've had nothing more than a nightcap.

[And she's seen him drink. It might as well have been water.]

[mucked]

I'll wager whatever it was went down better than a dirty martini.

[ or, you know, many dirty martinis. ]

[directed]

Or several.

[Oh, he knows. He knows.]

I wasn't aware you had a taste for gin. Or vodka. Whichever was the poison of choice for you and Jane.

[mucked]

Vodka. And I don't.

[ have a taste for it, that is. because a mouthful of vodka so often reminds her of russia. of sleeping in barns and drinking whatever they could rustle up -- listening to dugan bemoan the days, weeks, months it'd been since he'd last had a drop of bourbon.

but peg does have a taste for jane's company and (more often than not) jane's company brings out something adventuresome in her. ]

So don't be clever and order me any while we're at the reception.

[ it took her a moment but she's chosen her tactic. peggy proceeds as if he's already said yes to a question she never yet asked. saves them all a lot of trouble, surely.

device in hand, she leaves the sofa behind and drags her bare heels in the direction of her bed. ]

[directed]

[She tries; Rip does indeed give her credit for that.

(And makes note of her disdain for vodka, even when cheekily offered up.)]

The reception? Quite a bold assumption, given that you've still yet to ask me to attend the wedding proper.

[mucked]

[ ...she's half-undressed when his reply rolls in. the device beeps, peggy abandons her effort to unbutton her blouse, and she stands unkempt beside her bed with the her thumbs idly tapping the screen's edge. he's the bold one, she decides, and tosses the phone onto the mattress while she strips away the remainder of her clothing.

before crawling into bed, she pulls on a grey cotton tshirt. it's one of his -- so recently stolen that it still carries his scent. it makes for a comforting nightie, albeit an inelegant one.

but once her head hits the pillow she goes fishing for the device, digging it out from under her hip. ]

Rip Hunter. Will you be my date?

[ with a queasy flip felt low in her stomach, she surrenders. ]

[directed]

[She must be tired, he suspects, eager for sleep after days and nights spent in the company of others. Like Peggy, he sets his device aside for a time--sipping a drink, flipping through a book, pointedly not looking at the bit of tech every few moments until it beeps again.

Tired, but not gone quite yet.

Too far to see how her question makes him smirk, however.]

Peggy Carter. I would be honored.

[He gives the answer a moment to settle--gives himself those same moments to picture how she might grin or scowl, or perhaps some odd combination of both in the wake of something so definite.]

[mucked]

[ moments after sending the text, her fingers grip the device. her thumbs hover. her muddled mind gropes and grind gears, looking for some sort of clever follow-up that she might slot in before he can reply. peggy's thoughts spin their wheels and, ultimately, she decides that she can't bear waiting and witnessing whatever smug rejoinder he might provide her. although she grips the phone, her hand falls limp against her chest. she yawns; she rests her eyes; she chastises herself for not turning off a lamp.

she entertains one last fleeting thought of him in a dinner jacket and a tie.

-- and she falls asleep before his acceptance arrives with a gentle ding. peggy is far too busy snoring to send anything in return. ]

[directed]

[No answer comes; Rip watches the phone for a few minutes, then sets it aside while he reads, glancing over every so often, listening for the notification that doesn’t come. In the end he’s glad for it; Peggy needs the rest, and knowing she’s drifted off allows Rip to enjoy a peaceful night himself. He even gets a few hours of sleep in as well, waking up early on the couch with his book fallen nearby, and a crick in his neck from the odd angle.

A glance at the clock leaves him wondering if Peggy’s up and about yet. A look at his phone makes him think she’s not—and equally, sparks an idea in his mind.

There’s a bit of prepwork involved: Rip knows there’s not a great deal of room to work with where Peggy stays, as cooking doesn’t stand as one of her interests. So he chops and mixes and prepares as much as he can while still downstairs, packing bowls with assorted ingredients ready to take up to the fifth floor. He looks quite the opposite of a burglar when he arrives to her door, bag loaded down with the results of his efforts. Still, anyone who might poke their head outside at just the right moment would no doubt think his motivations nefarious.

Especially since it takes Rip longer than he might like to pick the lock of Peggy’s room.

Still, he’s near silent as he does it, and when he finally walks in. He peeks in on her with a grin before he sets about to work, eyes adjusted to the dim light provided by the windows. He has to fetch a hotplate for the work, but really, Peggy would do well to have one anyway. Rip even goes so far as to clear a bit of space for it, leaving it to heat while he unpacks the rest of his goods.

Eggs, fatty bacon, beans, tomatoes, toast—all the sort of things that make for a proper fry-up, and the ideal breakfast for someone who might have had a few too many martinis the night before.]