[ she's not deaf to why he might take that particular tack in his reply. a confession, rip suggests, and peggy raises her eyes to watch him directly. tea steams in her cup, kept blessedly hot thanks to the thermos. without looking, she screws the lid back into place.

had it been a confession? at the time, peggy had felt too blindsided to even consider the motives behind what barnes had revealed to her. in many ways, since then, she'd simply assumed it had been an attempt to get ahead of the story -- to tell her before someone else did. a selfish but ultimately very human motivation. ]

The context is something I only know in fits and starts. Haven't had much opportunity to peel away the intel on that particular chestnut. Even if I wanted to, they're gone now. Barnes and Rogers both. No one else involved wants to talk about it. And I can't blame them.

[ she blows on her cup of tea -- old, fruitless habit. a good analogy (perhaps) for all the changes she wishes she could make but likely never will. ] I don't want to talk about it either. I don't suppose we can't find a safer topic.

[ peggy takes a risk when she tries to conjure up any earnest question. ]

Why, exactly, does your revolver glow? [ she's been dying to know, really, since that first day when she stepped out of his closet and found the gun aimed her way. ]