entrancelogs | what’s your sound? will we ever know?

Entry tags:

what’s your sound? will we ever know?

Who: Rip Hunter, Phil Gasmer...YOU?!?
Where: Anywhere!
When: The 13th onward
Rating: PG/PG-13 max probably? cw: drug use mentions likely in Phil’s case
Summary: Winter fun days for Rip and his mirror Phil! Come enjoy a grumpy British fox or a put upon film student trying to document Wonderland
The Story:

Rip

[Well, it's certainly turning out to be an active holiday season, isn't it? The open invitation for the Mirrors to cross over keeps Rip on his guard, although on the whole this event seems decidedly less harmful than most that have gone on during his tenure in Wonderland. Nearly a year now, a though which is on his mind often as he makes his way about. Truth be told he doesn't plan to indulge in any of the holiday festivities provided by the Red Queen; even the Winter Ball is likely to be skipped, thanks to the fact that it falls on a Wednesday, although Rip isn't planning on making that public knowledge.

But as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men—and artic foxes, as the case turns out to be. One cookie grabbed without realizing the consequences on the afternoon of the 16th finds Rip transformed, still himself in mind but unable to speak or enjoy the benefits of opposable thumbs, up to and including being able to unlock his bedroom door and hide away for the duration of his transformation. Two days, as it turns out, during which time he's forced to wander about the mansion and hope that no one is overly invested in fashioning themselves a snowy white fur coat.

After that, Rip won't be going anywhere near the baskets, thank you.]

Phil

[At first, Phil hadn't been too keen on crossing over. Sure, the Red Queen said it was alright, but she's not the Queen of Hearts, and the last thing Phil wants is to wind up with a traitor's mark or worse. But she doesn't make any declarations against it, and a lot of people are crossing over—plus, he's curious. This is a pretty rad opportunity, given that there's no switch this time. Real and Mirrors existing together just doesn't happen often, and it gives Phil an idea.

So eventually he does make his way across, camera in hand (one of those really cool future models he's been reading about) to film—something. After all, it's a pretty unique opportunity, right? A chance to document Real and Mirror interaction like never before—not to mention he's really missed being able to film in color. Hopefully when he tries to make something out of it after all this is over, it won't just be black and white like everything else. And as for what he's filming, well, it could be anything. There's no script for this; just whatever catches his eye.

Of course, even film students have to eat, right? And unlike the man he's meant to be the opposite of, Phil's a bit less discerning about what goes in his stomach; all part of the adventures of recreational drug use. But it's all free and tasty-looking, so who can really blame him if he breaks off a piece of gingerbread from the wall and starts munching? Or hits up those baskets of cookies; getting one of the hot chocolate ones is a little inconvenient, especially when he tries to layer on so many coats he can't really bend his arms anymore. Oh, and then there's the sweet dreams cookie he munches on the next day, which has him falling asleep in the middle of filming, or walking, or whatever else he might have been doing.

The biggest pain though, is the smallest: one eat me cookie on the weekend has him way too small for this world of giants, and worse? He can't lift his camera! What if someone sees it just sitting on the ground, and totally ignores the four-inch person trying to keep his movie safe?!

Life is rough for film students, man.]

{{OOC: Replies from Rip will still come from

directed while replies for Phil will be from

unripped!}}

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ for the first time since establishing their routine, a wednesday is swallowed up by an event. and when she wakes up that morning and finds everything sickly sweet, turned to desserts, peggy wonders whether they should simply call it off. given the last couple of weeks...

the thought sticks in the back of her mind while she goes about her day. twice, now, she pulls out her network device with every intention of firing off a brief message 'offering' to postpone the usual -- or, at least, what's become the usual. and while she's nibbling on a cookie left out on the counter in the kitchen (really, she should know better, but she assumes it was simply one of the busy-body do-gooder types) she starts typing something in earnest.

but mid-cookie (and mid-message), she's struck with an overwhelming instinct to course correct in the opposite direction. rather than avoid each other at a time like this, why not lean into the very thing that makes this season so nice? as instincts go, this one is far from natural for peggy carter. but she'd gone and devoured a biscuit that's stoked a feeling of unconditional charity and kindness.

it's not as though she doesn't feel these things in the normal course of her life. it's just -- she so rarely acts on them. so, backspacing her way through a cancellation notice, she instead types an entirely different message: ]

-- What if today I stopped in a bit earlier than usual?

[ odd enough that she should be texting him at all. odder still that it's with any intention of asking permission. she's never done that before on a wednesday -- preferring to show up whenever she likes, so long as she does indeed show. ]

Edited 2017-12-14 15:59 (UTC)

[He's not expecting a message from her; truth be told, outside of their shared Wednesdays and the occasional event Rip and Peggy talk very little. It emphasizes the reasons for their little get togethers, has even before their "arrangement" became more physical in form. That element of separation is what they had been seeking, or so Rip sees it. Just a time to apart from the worries and stresses of Wonderland, to indulge in something simpler.

More or less.

So Rip is surprised when he checks his device only to see her text; doubly so, when he considers that Peggy hasn't ever bothered to ensure it's okay if she shows up at all. Of course this deviation in routine is far more preferable than her last, so odd as it is? Rip's reply is an easy one to make.]

I'd be curious about what inspired the change—but certainly willing to welcome you in.

[Of course the notion remains vague; a bit earlier could mean he might expect her within the next few minutes or at six forty-five rather than the typical seven-ish. Regardless, Rip needs to do little to be prepared. He's just managed to finish a shower, made particularly interesting given that his faucets seem to now be made of foil wrapped chocolate. Even if she shows up at his door immediately after his reply, he'll at least have a pair of trousers on.

And really, it's not as if she hasn't seen him in less at this point.]

[ curious, he says. but he doesn't ask -- not outright. that fact doesn't much surprise her, of course, because asking so rarely gets either of them anywhere. besides! he's only matching the hypothetical nature of her initial text. so upon reading his reply (twice) she finds herself keen more for his attention to such a detail than for anything else.

she takes another bite of her cookie. and she chews, idly, while she also consider what 'a bit earlier' could end up meaning. ]

How does half five sound?

[ earlier, but not immediate. before now, peggy has always arrived late enough to just sneak beneath any expectation of meals, of food, of anything of the sort. but with generosity and charity coursing through her, she thinks a little bit about what might make for better evening. warmer, kinder, nicer.

peggy sends a follow-up text before she waits out his answer: ]

Don't make any supper plans.

[The prospect of sharing a meal with one's not-quite paramour likely shouldn't fill someone with a sense of foreboding, and yet there Rip stands, staring at Peggy's quickly sent pair of texts. He wonders if perhaps her mirror hasn't crossed over and somehow knicked Peggy's phone—but if that is the case, then there's no real way to contact Peggy save for going upstairs and hoping she might be in her room.

And that it isn't the mirror posing as her.

He taps his thumb on the side of his phone; half five isn't so far off. If this is a case of stolen identity, Rip won't have to wait long to find out. Trusting (hoping) Peggy can manage if she's gotten into a bit of a trouble with her mirror, Rip taps out a reply:]

Considering your second text, half five sounds rather ideal.. [Although Rip isn't exactly one to keep regular mealtimes. More it's a matter of remembering to eat, either when he's in the middle of some intensive project, or a depressive stint that saps all his energy.

The message sent, the agreement made, Rip sets aside his phone then to get dressed—and to prepare. With no idea of what might happen, he wants to be ready for whatever the mirror might be plotting, whether this is an attempt to harm Peggy by getting at him, or something else equally as nefarious.]

[ enchanted biscuits or otherwise, there are great wide parts of peggy that won't be changed. seemingly can't be changed. such as her inclination towards a thrift for words. she reads his 'rather ideal' rather as a yes, and there's no reason to reply with anything else. the time is set -- the day has been, already, for weeks now. she could have responded with some edict that he should consider himself still in command of the alcohol for the evening, but she knows better than to think he needs reminding. even if, under no outside influence, she might have paid closer attention to how rip's answer wasn't much of an answer at all.

under no outside influence, she absolutely would have called him to task for it.

but as she finishes off the cookie, and as its effect comes to full blossom, all she can think about is the meal she's promised and now must deliver on. earlier in the day, she'd had a thought about taking sweets when she visited -- better sweets, however, than the ones swapped in for the mansion's infrastructure. that idea has since snowballed into something bigger.

-- but not too big.

ultimately when five-thirty rolls around, she's settled on something satisfying but without spectacle. inspiration smudges over from a conversation earlier in the month, had with someone else, and peggy had so enjoyed the fish and chips she'd shared with tony. he, however, had seemed a little less than enthusiastic about the traditional dish. better to have the same with someone who might know how to appreciate it.

(with the added bonus that it makes the decision easy on her. nothing fancy, nothing novel, nothing too impressive.)

she knocks on his door with two packages balanced in one hand. as packages go, they're both terribly nondescript and terribly recognizable all at once. but she's also got a tin tucked under her arm. and (thanks to the cookie's lingering effect) not an ounce of nervousness in her whole body, no matter how much of a departure this is from their established protocol. ]

Edited 2017-12-17 20:38 (UTC)

[The fact that she does indeed let him slide by with that indefinite answer only confirms that something must indeed have happened. In Rip's mind the possibility that this is Peggy's mirror remains highly likely, and thus he is armed when she knocks upon his door, not just with his normal revolver but also with the stunner, tucked safely away in the inner pocket of green jacket. His room is a touch colder than normal; blame the snow outside, or the fact that gingerbread drywall and cotton candy insulation only do so much against the weather.

He knows the materials because he's checked.]

Miss Carter. [With offerings in hand: two paper-wrapped packages, and even through the parchment Rip can already catch a whiff of the familiar scent of fish and chips. Hot and crisp and perfect, no doubt, but Rip ignores both the pangs of his stomach and polite protocol by refusing to take either the parcels or the tin. He does at least hold the door open for her, however, eyeing her packages and the opportunity the represent.]

It seems you've put some thought into this. [He expects she'll head towards the table, where as always there is alcohol at the ready; bourbon this time, something traditional and something once more a bit off the beaten path.]

I don't suppose you brought any of those same pastries you did the last time? [He asks with a touch of put-on hope in his voice; in truth Rip asks not because he has so much a preference, but to test her memory. There had been no mirrors visible in their part of the hall. He'd kept the ones closet shattered, meaning the contents of the pastry box then would be unknown save for Rip and the truth Peggy Carter.] That one I had was rather good, though I'll confess I'm not sure what it was.

[This is a lie. Rip's familiar with bakewells, though it's a rather specific treat to bring along. Not the first one he suspects a mirror would guess, given Peggy's proven voracious appetite for sweets.]

[ there's nothing odd in how he answers his door. and peggy proceeds unbothered even when doesn't relieve her of her packages -- after all, she is more than capable of keeping them steady right up to the boundary of his little sitting area. as comfortable now as she's ever been, she leaves both the parchment packages and the tin on the table -- snug next to the bottles.

bourbon. peggy smiles, finding herself eager to crack into either or both and remind herself of that particular mid-palate. but before she turns to tell him so, rip starts asking her about pastries. listening to his question feels a lot like walking up a staircase and missing a step. something about the inquiry rubs her wrong. it raises an alarm.

she knows when she's being tested. as the pieces fall into place, she glances at a mirror. she sighs. ]

I'm afraid not. [ her own suspicion suffuses through her voice. peggy leaves the tin where it is, falling back a few steps so that she's just shy of an arm's length away from rip. ] Although I will say the future must be damnably bleak if you don't know a Cherry Bakewell when you bite one.

[ the words are said like a passcode. under ordinary circumstances, she might have enjoyed dragging out the interrogation. such as it was. but she's still feeling more charitable than not, and so rushes to fill in his required blanks.

but that charity doesn't stop her from raising an eyebrow as if to ask a single question: satisfied? ]

[He's been caught, and perhaps that is as sure a sign of Peggy's identity as the very correct answer she provides about the pastries--leaving Rip in a truly tricky situation. Now Peggy would be wondering just what about her behavior Rip found so odd as to make him suspect she might be someone other than herself. Or...or! Luck might smile upon him, and she would accept an excuse of reasonable precaution being taken under the circumstances.

...He won't hold his breath.]

Well. It does still have his moments. [The slightest nod of his head, yes yes, he's satisfied, and then Rip moves to pull items from the closet. Fish and chips may need no accompaniments in the form of silverware or plates, but wishing up a set of napkins does give him a moment to recoup, doesn't it? Rip may not have been the best husband, but he knows damn well not to make a partner cross when she gets it into her head to do something different--whatever the motivations behind it may turn out to be.

Rip's still working on figuring those out when he moves to take a seat and pass over a napkin to Peggy.]

Oh, ah. Thank you, by the way. [Rip motions to the parcels. Honesty is on his side in some ways, at least.] This smells fantastic. [Straight from a proper chippy stuff, and if he hadn't already stuck his foot in it, Rip might have made a teasing comment about how it must mean that Peggy hadn't cooked it.]

[ ordinarily, holding his breath under such auspices would be a poor choice indeed. but luckily for rip, peggy's feeling generous. it only takes a spark to span the distance between suspicion and satisfaction. there are mirrors about; hers has yet to make any kind of public appearance. none that she knows of, at least.

and ordinarily, yes, she would have had a strip out of his hide both for the implication that something might be amiss or else because she'd see fit to scold him for a sloppily administered security test that, in truth, wasn't sloppy at all. not that that would stop her from claiming otherwise. instead, she quite charitably overlooks these things.

instead, she smiles. it's warm and it's optimistic and it would be honest, too, if it wasn't also charmed. ]

I asked myself 'what's the point in eating alone?' when, give it a few hours, and I would be here regardless. Why not bump the schedule up a bit and share what's good.

[ she takes a napkin and drapes it over a knee once she's claimed her usual chair. it's a rather...different start to the appointment than the last two times. hell! different to the last every time, too, when the circumstances are better examined.

peggy unwraps her meal with gusto. ]

...And I though you could likely use the company.

[ give it a few hours and she will regret these effusive and inviting words as forcefully as she might otherwise regret a hangover. ]

Edited 2017-12-23 02:24 (UTC)

[The notion that something must be going on hasn't left Rip's thoughts entirely, but he's yet to understand exactly what. So for now, he expects the best choice is to go along with it: that generous spirit that doesn't have Peggy giving him a proper litany over his test or the reasons behind it. She doesn't so much as ask why, instead seemingly content to tuck into their dinner, a pack for him and one for her, and truth be told Rip's pretty eager to do the same. The only thing that keeps him from unwrapping the paper just then is his last task of pouring the bourbon: a glass for each of them, generously filled as that seems to be the spirit of the evening.

Though as he sets the bottle down, he almost wonders if they shouldn't be having a beer instead.]

Well. You're not entirely wrong. [Rip takes to keeping his own company far too often, as he's been told more than once. Mealtimes are no exception, and with the alcohol poured he, like Peggy, tears into the paper keeping their fish and chips safely stored hot, with the fragrance of vinegar promising they've been thoroughly prepared. He flashes a cheery grin when he takes a proper look into the package; good food, the kind well and truly thought through, is always the best to have.

And it's been quite awhile since Rip had a meal like this.]

What's good indeed. [He goes for a chip first, crisp and sharp with the vinegar. It's absolutely perfect, and he shakes his head as he points the remaining half at her.] At least we can agree on the way to properly season fish and chips. There may be hope for you yet, Miss Carter.

[Odd circumstances aside.]

[ and so they hove in, together. quaint and almost domestic -- except that there's nothing exactly proper about the way they bow over the lower table, nor anything elegant in the rustle of grease-stained paper. but the food is good and she doesn't need any magical biscuits to tell her how to relish his grin or the pleased shake of his head after his first bite.

normally, someone else's delight doesn't register so strongly with her. but it strikes her as rewarding, tonight, to have filled a niche. stopped a gap. she can't even bring herself to question whether bourbon goes with fish because the truthful answer is that bourbon goes with everything, and she takes a happy glug to light her throat on fire before she reaches for a trio of chips. ]

Mine isn't the pitiable case -- [ implying, of course, that his is. but with a brightness in her eyes that belies any hard feelings. she chews her way through those three chips -- hot and lovely -- before thoughtfully adding: ] Consider this my good works for the season.

[ her chin dips. her smile grows. it's hard to say what's more indulgent, the meal or the joke. ]

Alms for the poor.

[The longer this goes on, the more of Rip there is that simply wants to believe that Peggy's in a good mood for no nefarious reason, for no machination on Wonderland's part but rather her own simple enjoyment of a day. She still teases him, after all, answers his commentary on her tastes with quick retort, speaks with a brightness in her eyes and a mouthful of chips that, on the whole, he finds utterly endearing to see.

It's not a side of herself she shows in such force--and that is the problem. Perhaps Rip has gotten peeks here and there, when Peggy sat plied by alcohol or basked in the afterglow of physical pleasure. But now he sees fully, he thinks, the person whom Peggy might just be should she not have those walls carefully constructed about her, guarding off the most vulnerable parts of herself from absolutely everyone about her.

Rip, of all people, cannot begrudge her the need for those safeguards. In another place, and another life--perhaps she'll find the opportunity to let them tumble down at times.

But this is not how it is meant to be, not how Peggy would choose for things to be were she herself in full. Rip stands sure of it, and thus no matter how sweet her smile, or honest her enjoyment, he knows there will come that moment of realization when she herself understands what's gone on.

Yet it does not stop him from allowing this to happen. Perhaps in the future she might think it unkind--but Rip cannot quite bring himself to give reason for her smile to fade just yet.

Maybe yelling at him later on will help Peggy take the edge off her frustrations.]

How charitable of you. [A few more chips gone, the first bite of fish following, and Rip still eyes the red tin curiously even as they eat.] And just how far does that charity go? I'm not wrong to assume there's something sweet in that tin, am I?

[Dessert is always the best part. Pure indulgence, a moment of joy that only speaks to the promise of plenty, rather than the bitter and soured scraps one might have to scrounge about bins of an entirely different sort for in far more cruel winters.]

[ aha! the tin.

truth be told, the tin was an idea germinated well before she fell under any cookie's sway -- but once the sugar dust has settled, peggy will make all manner of claims to the contrary. but it was the tin that tipped all of this off, because she wouldn't have visited the kitchen at that hour had she not been searching for a gesture of adequate kindness. and had she not visited the kitchen, she might not have taken the treat that soon after inspired her to aim far, far above adequate.

she reaches out and taps its rich red lid with a stilted rhythm off the edges of her equally red nails. ]

No, you're not wrong. [ and for a moment it seems as though that's all she would give him. but the rest wells up like compulsion -- wagging her tongue before she has a chance to stop it and covet the answer for herself alone.

she only manages to last until the end of a bite of crispy battered fish, and then she's spilling secrets like spare change: ] It's not Christmas without mince pies.

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