IC Inbox - Entranceway

[directed]

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

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[directed]

[She 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.]

[mucked]

[ once upon a time, peggy would have been upright and alert at the first sound of an intruder. but, in some ways, wonderland has made her soft. nights and nights and nights spent staying in someone else's bed -- in someone else's room -- has made her more tolerant of the noises that come with that territory. especially with rip, whose nocturnal habits had taken some getting used to.

so even here, in her own quarters, the noise doesn't wake her. not immediately at any rate -- and all the drink she'd consumed the night before doesn't hurt his chances at staying stealthy. and although she does toss and shift a bit on her own bed, she doesn't fully rouse until something is sizzling in the pan.

it's the quality of the hiss -- the dna it shares with the crack-fizzle of a fuse -- that brings her heartbeat up to conscious speed and sees her sitting up in bed, filling her lungs with a deep breath through her nose...

and promptly crashing backwards in a dramatic slump has the brunt of her hangover hits. from the other side of the divider, the corner of her room where the bed hides, she lets loose an undignified little fucking hell. ]

I'll have you know -- I'm armed...

[ she warns, groping first for her device instead of the ppk whose holster sits slung over a bedpost. blearily, she reads back the last few messages before dropping her arm over her eyes and wishing -- devoutly -- that she could cease to exist for a good two to three hours. ]

And if you're anyone but who I hope you are? I will shoot.