open » i've got an atlas in my hands

[mucked]

Who: Peggy Carter + YOU
Where: Library, Rabbit Hole Diner, and other locations.
When: Early Feb
Rating: PG-13; will warn for changes in individual threads.
Summary: A catch-all for the first half of the month. There are some open prompts under the cut, but I'm also posting some closed starters in the comments. Hit me up if you'd like something other than the options below.
The Story:
[ DURING february's first few days, peggy pays a few productive visits to the »LIBRARY. she arrives armed with a scrap pressed into her palm. the paper is thin and torn, jagged, from a puzzle book -- folded in threes with precision and hard corners forced onto its asymmetrical shape. while she walks from stack to stack she traces the list's edge with the pad of her thumb. in reality, she doesn't need it. she'd long-since memorizes the book titles recommended to her in order to bring her loosely up to speed with popular science. so the list is a flimsy talisman, maybe, but during these visits it represents purpose. forward momentum.

her reading list is accumulated over multiple days, as though some reflexive defense mechanism convinces peggy to take her time. patience is rarely her strongest suit but she nevertheless makes an effort, knowing that a rush will only leave her rudderless and once again without distraction. to that end, she allows herself to wander off-path. maybe she's come for non-fiction, but she detours through a shelf of thrillers and mysteries and adventure stories.

she touches the spines as she passes them by -- her little list peeking between her knuckles like an ace at the ready. peggy never intends to appear lost but catch her at an odd moment and she might want some help. after all, stark never gave her author names to go with the titles.

LATER, with her coursework assembled, she goes elsewhere to conduct her reading. a great deal of it happens behind her bedroom door as she readjusts to a solitary life now that jane has returned to her husband. but some of it happens at the »DINER. with a whole booth claimed for herself, she sits with the dust jacket removed so bystanders can't easily discern what she's reading stephen hawking's a brief history of time, incidentally. it takes some two or three chapters to really dig into work she couldn't already recognize in passing -- and, on occasion, she offers up an audible scoff when she finds herself confronted with a colourful explanation of scientific discovery which nevertheless somehow manages to neglect howard stark's contribution.

she orders a plate of chips (hot; crispy; salted) and implores the wait-staff to keep them coming. instead of tea, she asks for a milkshake. not a quarter of an hour passes before she's cracked open a journal and uncapped a pen. her annotations are, for the time being, made in pitman shorthand -- and so appear as a series of near shapeless scribbles to those who aren't fluent. even so, there's no secrecy behind that choice. merely a swell of impatience after she'd worked so hard to contain it earlier.

and yet peggy's not averse to interruptions. not exactly. she may not be the most welcoming conversation partner, nor is she particularly fond of idle chatter, but she doesn't chase off interruptions or inquiries.

OTHERWISE, known associates and strangers alike are free to run into her »OUT & ABOUT. whether she's 'commuting' from quarters to library or grabbing a quick breakfast in the dining room early in the morning. she doesn't have a precise schedule (on most days) but she's not impossible to chance upon. she's nearly always immaculate -- from heel to hair-pins. having a project in hand puts her in a better mood. ]

Comments

[directed]

[Strange how easily the mood has shifted; just a few short minutes ago, they'd been quite cheeky with each other, all flirtations and zeal as they stood at the firing range. Now, however, Rip must confess that the impending loss of his beard is quite far from his mind--and perhaps also from Peggy's, given the way she pecks and pries into every tidbit he offers up. Less personal this time, but oh so relevant to their situation. She asks if it happens here, and Rip cannot help but consider the woman he walks beside now.

She herself stands as part of the foundation of whatever sense of stability he might maintain there. Peggy Carter, whose voice and figure and presence are all intimately tied in to what it means for a period to qualify as a Wednesday anymore.

Yet in spite of this, Rip still shakes his head, slow at first, but with growing certainty.] Not as I've experienced, no. What Wonderland is reported to do is something far more profound. Our memories here are not merely blurred until we belong to this world, but rather sharply and precisely carved from our minds.

[It's close, perhaps--but the questions she seeks answers for will not come from Rip in this instance. He tightens his fingers around the mugs he still carries, and in the motion, finds explanation for the difference.]

Think of time drift like adding a bit of sugar to tea, hmm? [Not to rub salt in the metaphorical wound, but it is an apt enough comparison.] It starts out where it belongs: a bag of sugar, just a few granules among many. But add the smallest bit to a cuppa, and it'll dissolve--and if you've got enough a strong enough tea, you won't be able to even tell it's there at all.

[The sugar changes the flavor only just--and a single person moved into a different era will be much more likely to lose themselves rather than set the whole period of time off course.]

[mucked]

[ she can't decide whether she's relieved, or not, when he gives his answer. how simply it might have been to blame even this excursion on forces beyond their control. but how much more empowering, still, to reassure themselves that they're strong enough to make their own decisions.

but! the real question, the one she's not asking and won't ever ask, still rattles around the back of her brain. does it happen to a man who hasn't traveled in time so much as he's slept through it? can someone wake, rediscovered, in the wrong century and find themselves exactly like that cuppa: overtaken, gradually or otherwise, merely by time spent so very far far far away from home. so if peggy can't blame wonderland for what happened to steve rogers then maybe she can blame the ice. blame the future. blame anything, at this point, besides her own short-sighted hope.

it's progress, of a sort. at least she's now looking for something or someone else to blame. ]

I can always tell, Mister Hunter. [ she shakes off her lurking heartache. it has no place, here. not tonight. not when she finally turns her head and looks at rip in profile and finds herself reminded of exactly why she likes watching him. ] What was so sweet in the old west that you couldn't tear yourself away?

[directed]

[His answer would seem to satisfy, as Peggy once more returns to the original topic--and still, Rip is left to wonder if there hadn't been more to that momentary tangent than the surface would suggest. Like the woman beside him now, however, Rip will not ask. There are certain stones best left settled, and others that should only be turned when the time is right.

Besides, how can he resist a bit of a tease when she makes such an assertion like the one to just pass from her lips?]

Fortunate, then, that you'll have the next week to adjust. [Now he is looking to tease, but only for a moment. Peggy's quick to question him again--and Rip himself is curious just as to what she might think of his answer, and all that is reveals.

He'd met Steve Rogers, after all. The man truly did seem to carry a heroic air.]

A Time Master's charge was to protect time--and quite often that means making what many would see as questionable choices. [Certainly it's plain enough to see; she's from a few mere years after World War II, orchestrated by men whose prejudices and cruelties knew no bounds. Wouldn't it be better, so many would ask, to remove those key figures from the timeline? To prevent the horrible, unforgivable deaths of millions, long before the ideas that cemented their fates could spark?

And yet the matter is never so simple. How would the world be altered had madmen not risen to power only to be defeated, their ways of thought condemned on grand scale because of those crimes? The truth is that there are no good answers--and as a Time Master, Rip had taken on the burden of that reality over and over again.]

But that particular time presented any number of opportunities to do good for people. To play the part of the hero, as one might call it. [And much as he'd enjoyed twirling his gun about before, Rip had relished that chance to help. To see lives saved, made better by his efforts--

To enjoy a simpler morality when given the opportunity, and act simply because it had been right.]

I found it quite enticing.

[mucked]

[ something prickles along the back of peggy's neck when she listens to rip describe heroism -- describe goodness -- like a vice. like a craps table or a gin house or a smoke-wreathed saloon. it's in the way he says his final word: enticing. she's never heard another soul describe it quite like that. and she has to wonder whether it's something natural inside rip or else something cultivated, after the fact, by the time masters. she stays silent as she tries to wrap her head around this inclination to articulate good works as luxuries rather than labours.

-- which is why she holds her tongue instead of retorting that maybe it's not such a terrible thing to be seduced by what's good and just and proper. she already knows the hairs that would be split in the wake of such an argument.

so peggy eyes him, quiet, risking her foothold on the well-trampled snow just to get the best read possible on his composure. and she never would have asked herself this question had he not worded his explanation just so, but now she can't help but think about whether his distinction lies somewhere between ego and altruism. was it the accolade that tempted him? was it heroism's public parts? the gratitude, the aura, the importance?

no -- she doesn't want to think so. she can't make that work with what she knows about him. but, then again, maybe he was different once. she knows better than most that the public face is sometimes the absolute least important part of doing good.

there are only a few bites left of her sandwich; fewer excuses not to answer immediately. ]

I should think -- [ she should hope! ] -- that any particular time presents such opportunities. There's nothing special about one or the other. There are always people who could do with a bit more good in their lives.

[ which brings her back around to real fulcrum of her interrogation: why then? ]

[directed]

[He knows she's watching; Rip can feel her eyes upon him, an observation of sight designed to serve as counterbalance to the weight offered up by his words. And equally, Rip knows that it is a failure and admission both not to look at her, to keep his own gaze directed at the snow in front of them, packed down and slick as it covers the well-traversed path. He fears what he might see within brown irises, hardened to steel and utterly uncompromising.

Yet the ice makes quite a convenient excuse, doesn't it? Particularly as Peggy has chosen not to be watchful just then.

He can practically feel the questions she wants to ask burning on her tongue, the protests she wants to make. And like Peggy, Rip already begins to consider the miniscule differences in shades of grey, how good and evil in grander context is far more complicated than so many would care to admit. Rip does not bear the weight of a single life or a single town on his shoulders, but the whole of history. All the lives that would ever exist, that should, and the way that they would shape the world.

Peggy opts for a different path in the end. Then it's his turn to silently consider, to weigh, although without any bites of sandwich to offer excuse for his deliberations. She isn't wrong, after all; every era presents its chance to do good, as Rip has well seen throughout his years traveling through time.

Yet saving a single life has never been the true mission of a Time Master. Even when he'd sought to save Miranda and Jonas, Rip had told himself it wasn't just for them. Not just for his family, but for the billions Savage would see dead, crushed beneath his heel as he rose to power.

Even after he failed, he still sought to stop that mad conquest—or had he been more interested in vengeance for the wife and son lost, once and for all, left dead on Savage's slaughtering grounds?

Or did one justify the other? After all, what he'd done in the end had been cold-blooded murder, plain and simple. And no matter how one might argue that his actions served the cause of a far greater good, oh how he savored the pain he saw in Savage's eyes, the fear of his own mortality as the man felt death grip him once and for all.

He doubts a good man would delight in such things as he had. Would press his palm so carefully against the butt of the knife, just to drive the blade that much deeper.

To ensure it couldn't be removed to ease the man's passing.

He'd never had to think of such things in Calvert. Not until the very end.]

Indeed so—yet I found it to be a simpler way of life all the same.

[mucked]

[ her harder parts -- fickle and mean -- urge her to scold him. to entreat him, then, to say what he means if what he means is that he liked it. the era, the location, the aesthetic. or maybe that's merely a revision she'd prefer instead of hearing reasons that only raise more questions than they answer.

simpler, rip says. and peggy wrestles with that instinct. part of her misses 'simpler.' except that simpler, for her, was excising friendships and doubling-down on her professional principles. to say that life was simpler was to say that she knew she was right, that everyone else was wrong, and refusing to divert her actions because of it was a simple act of will. difficult for some; dangerously easy for peggy carter.

and now she's walking back to a cursed mansion, in the company of man whose character she is continually reminded she can only flesh out in broad and assumed strokes, and already pleasantly resigned to sleeping with him tonight. looking forward to it, actually, despite the grim greyness of their current discussion.

she polishes off the sandwich and licks her fingers clean. ]

And was wearing a hat like Kid Colt part of that simpler life?

[ it's a touch of mercy, maybe, that drives her to lighten the conversation up. just a little. just enough, perhaps, to tease him. ]

[directed]

[Certainly there are any number of ways Peggy might pry still; she's quite right to think Rip is being purposely evasive—quite a skill given that he is also being rather honest about the whole matter. But between his revolver and now his duster, he might also expect the fact that he did indeed like it to be an obvious conclusion to draw, even without knowing that both items were, in fact, authentic to the era.

Guts of the revolver excluded, naturally.

Yet instead of trying to dig deeper into that canyon, or ask what caused him to leave--a topic perhaps not well suited for a Wednesday—Rip instead is asked about hats. He can only presume what she means, hopeful that the style she has in mind isn't something outlandishly ridiculous from the imaginations of those who would draw only loose inspiration from the period for their creative (and cartoonish) endeavors.]

Indeed. [They're nearer the mansion now, and Rip decides to lean a touch closer—to take advantage of Peggy's mercy by driving the topic just that much further away from the darker timbre of before.] I'll pull a replica from the closet if you'd like. Although I suppose it'll have to wait until after my shave.

[mucked]

No, no, that's quite alright.

[ she heads him off at the pass -- eager, it seems, that he shouldn't get the wrong idea. peggy feels firmly ambivalent about the prospect of any replica hats being produced. tonight or otherwise. although she's altogether more welcoming of just how his posture inches over the unspoken line drawn between them. it's like a bell, ringing to remind them they can be playful once again. especially when the subject of his shave resurfaces. peggy smiles -- but says nothing on it just yet.

with her sandwich finished and the greaseproof paper stuffed into a corner of the box, she mirrors his motion when she too leans closer -- but only so she can snag her (cold!) cup of tea from his hand. she'd half-hoped he would have poured it out before they left the range, even as she'd predicted he wouldn't dare. hope and prediction often come with such a wide gulf between them.

so! it's left to her not to waste what's been served. sugar and all. she takes an unhappy sip before explaining: ]

Although -- I was recently offered a role in a Western film. [ 'offered' might be a bit of a stretch. but such stretches are half the fun when it comes to sharing her stories with rip hunter. ] Turned it down, of course.

[directed]

[With relief not unlike that of letting go of a too-long-held breath, Rip surrenders the cup when Peggy reaches for it. Equally, he falls into this new orbit of conversation, light and easy when compared to the line they had brushed against only a few moments before. No hat tonight, and that's well enough; his soon to be clean-shaven face can be the feature, with the promise of a cowboy's hat saved for another night to surprise her. Likely into laughter, given her reaction, but certainly that's a worthy goal all on it's own.

Closer and closer still; their arms brush as they make that last stretch of journey to the mansion's door. Peggy's timing is convenient; having one hand free allows him to reach for the handle, to pull open the entrance for her.]

Oh, I'm certain. [That she would turn it down, that is. Never mind her penchant for privacy; Peggy's a career woman through and through, absolutely not the sort to go about spying after she's had her face billboarded across the silver screen.

Still. He does have to ask--in his own roundabout way.] Although I wonder just how you managed to catch the eye of someone in a position to offer you such a role.

[Peggy skulking about movie sets in Hollywood isn't something Rip would naturally picture.]

[mucked]

[ she's got no complaints for walking through a door that's been held open for her. not all points of chivalry are offensive, it seems, and the truth of the situation is that he was the one best suited to the courtesy. peggy saves her objections for a mouthful of cold too-sweet tea, sighing with disappointment after she swallows.

she's got a week of this ahead of her.

but it's his turn now to poke and prod for a bit of information -- although it's reasonable to assess she would never have said anything about it if she wasn't willing to share the broader explanation. still! she behaves as though she's a little but put-upon. ]

That someone is the head of a new movie production company. Howard Stark. [ she's never actually said howard's name -- except to talk around his existence when referencing tony. doesn't matter; the family name is enough. ] But he made his fortune first as an industrialist and defense contractor. Film, he argues, is more science than art. He's working on a new way to bind images to celluloid.

[ the tea is almost a balm at this point. she'd thought she was ready -- comfortable, even -- to discuss with him some minor details of her life. but even now peggy realizes she's leaving blanks in the hopes that rip will do the heavy-lifting to fill them. she doesn't presume to sketch in every detail for him. ]

He's also possibly working on a way to find new and exciting loopholes in the tax code.

[directed]

[The name does indeed offer explanations of its own, though by and large through inference. Peggy has mentioned her colleague in context of his son, a man for whom Peggy feels a strong enough affection to claim a familial tie. Hardly a thing done lightly by the woman in question, and given that the son is so clearly from the future, Rip can only assume it speaks to the bond between herself and this Howard Stark.

A scientist, as she makes clear a beat later. More science than art she offers up as Howard's proxy, and Rip cannot help but frown. They are old memories, yes, ones that do not quite belong to him, but there's an American voice urging him to protest the point all the same, to cry out that true cinema couldn't be broken down into formulas and equations.

--Although Phil would have no doubt had an interest in the potential of this binding process.]

A man of many interests, I see. [This is the reply he musters up instead, walking with Peggy still into the mansion's lobby, up it's first flight of stairs. She is right to think that he would naturally fill in the gaps between certain details, but Rip isn't one to let her off the hook quite yet.] Yet presuming he knows you from his time as a defense contractor--[which seems the most likely possibility]--I again have to wonder just what inspired him to offer you a role as a starlet.

[…Yes, Rip is exaggerating a touch now, he realizes it. Yet given what he suspects Peggy's reaction must have been, even to an offer made in jest, this Howard might as well have offered her a leading role with the promise of having her face plastered on billboards across America.]

[mucked]

[ she takes the stairs by staying a few steps ahead of him -- grabbing onto the rail and turning her head when she sees fit to address his question. ]

Arlene French called in sick.

[ but peggy says sick as though she means nothing of the sort. the implication is obvious: the woman was drunk, unable to make it to set, and utterly disruptive to the entire filming process. however she also betrays just a twinge of bitterness. somehow, it doesn't quite occur to her that 'arlene french' might not be the silver screen darling in other worlds that she'd become in hers. because, in the end, it's the irony that's so galling: being asked to sub in for a woman who, not a year earlier, was cast as betty carver in the captain america radio programme.

as explanations go, this is one she's rather disinclined to share. ]

And I was visiting the filming lot -- keen to take advantage of one of those many interests to help in a case I'm working. [ present tense. but that still -- still -- doesn't explain why the role was offered. so, pausing at the first floor landing while he catches up, peggy continues: ]

And he's an utter wanker.

[directed]

[Arlene French: a name Peggy might expect Rip to know, from how she says it. Yet like "Captain America" or "Iron Man," the woman's fame apparently doesn't stretch beyond Peggy's corner of the multiverse. Fortunately there is context enough for Rip to understand that she must be an actress—and more, just what the stress of her so-called sickness likely truly means.

As clear as Peggy's dislike of the woman.]

You're not a fan, I take it. [But it's a mild comment, a curious aside as they each make their way up the stairs. It won't take long for Rip to reach her once Peggy pauses; he's able to match her pace easily enough, and his legs are longer besides.

Still. He too pauses when she makes her thoughts on Howard Stark known in neat summary.]

Is that better or worse than being a rotter, I wonder? [His expression remains deceptively neutral, Rip careful to hide his amusement. It would seem that so many of the men Peggy associates with have earned her ire right along with her companionship.

One might think she finds it endearing.]

[mucked]

The distinction, Mister Hunter, remains to be seen.

[ betwixt rotter and wanker. or affection and indignation. such lines bleed deep into one another when you are, as peggy is, a person who best shows the former by indulging in the latter. earnest enemies would see a far colder anger instead. enemies like whitney frost -- a starlet in her own right, albeit one drastically underestimated by her industry. just thinking about frost causes peggy to pump her fist closed-open-closed with a now months-old memory of pain.

as miserable as it had been to fall, impaled, on rebar? it was peanuts compared to what she'd felt when whitney frost had hold of her arm. she puts that restlessness to work as she gestures down the corridor -- putting on a show of letting him lead the pair of them back to his room. ]

The truth is, [ she sighs her way through the word -- finding it altogether too apt a thing to say, ] Howard is a friend. Has been since the war, yes. [ peggy acknowledges his earlier, good assumption for what it was. ]

He's a lot of things. Lousy, vain, debauched, and likely incapable of ironing his own shirts. But he's damned brilliant. And for a long time he was just about the only person who believed in me, stateside.

[ a twitch in the corner of her mouth. such faith carries a lot of weight for peggy -- it was often hard to come by, back home. but it's uncertain whether she articulates it now because of how comfortable she is with rip, or else because of how much of her emotional real estate has been spent on howard's memory ever since tony had showed up. regardless of the why, it's a far cry from the night months past when she'd deigned to only call him a colleague. ]

[directed]

[Oh but her sharp reply does get a grin out of Rip—brief, perhaps, but no less amused as Rip watches Peggy's back while they continue their walk up. Certainly it might be a touchier subject if he didn't already recognize in her the affection that bleeds through her frustrations. He's had rare instance (thankfully rare) to see Peggy Carter truly mad, and equally, Rip doubts they would be such successful cohorts if he failed to recognize that.

He might have been content enough to leave the matter at that; after all, Rip also knows Peggy's not one to offer up blunt affections easily. Yet something seems to push her to do just that, at least about Howard Stark. Adorned in sighs though it might be, it's quite the tell coming from Peggy regardless. One well founded, as she herself reveals shortly thereafter. She speaks of his faith in her, how he stands out for such a distinction, and that alone is enough to answer in Rip's mind the unasked question of just how the pair came to be so close.

Close enough that, on his arrival, Peggy had all but adopted a nephew out of a stranger.]

Damned brilliant, as you said. [To see that potential in Peggy and not dismiss it simply due to her being a woman. But there's something else funny that comes out of this talk; Rip realizes it when he moves past Peggy to finish the trip to his room, pulling a key from his pocket along the way.

She's chosen to be rather honest with him just then. She needn't have been; Rip's clever enough to put the parts together into a whole, after all, to realize that Howard was the same "colleague" she'd spoken of before.

But she is.

It's a pleasant little thought.]

But now comes the moment of my defrocking. [They've reached the door, and when he opens it, Rip shifts the conversation back to the present. He's already gotten to enjoy the first bits of his prize, seeing each time Peggy's stolen a sip of tea and winced for the sugar within it. Only fair to properly address hers. Moreover, he knows that Peggy isn't the sort to let herself be so open and vulnerable for long. The shift stands as an out, should she want to take it; Rip's questions have been answered well enough, and more.

His version, one might say, of a cowboy hat.]

[mucked]

[ her stranger-turned-nephew is much on her mind, these days. peggy knows tony is being chewed up by demons beyond the ones he owns with such theatricality. even in talking about howard, she finds her worries drifting up to the tenth floor. and maybe, someday, she would like to process aloud the complexity of feelings surrounding how tony might be a stranger to her but she was never the same to him. every fresh story he tells her about his beloved aunt peggy proves as much.

once upon a time she might her keen interest in tony stark might have been almost exclusively for howard's benefit, but now she enjoys a relationship that is built on more than emotional nepotism. and yet, now and then, peggy must wonder whether it's truly been earned. paradoxically, she suspects rip might be the best person to ask; however, when the moment presents itself, she retreats.

she takes his escape route -- and with a smile. ]

Defrocking. [ peggy repeats, waiting beside him until his door is opened and she helps herself to the first stride inside. ] Now, don't you think you're being a touch dramatic? I won't believe you've never shaved for -- oh say -- a mission, Mister Hunter.

[ first things first: she pulls free her tan holster and hangs it on the back of a chair, transitioning smoothly from wednesday afternoon to wednesday night with a defrocking of her own. a laywoman, once again. ]

You know, I intend to stay and witness it. [ was there ever any question? likely not, but she behaves as though there was. ] By the same math you mentioned earlier, I've only got this Wednesday and the next to enjoy my spoils.

[ next, her jacket. she drapes it over the same chair-corner as her gun. underneath, she's wearing a collared shirt and tie both so dark a green that they nearly appear greyish-black in this lighting. ]

[directed]

[He can only guess at all that Peggy wishes to avoid when she chides him for his theatrical description of what's to come—but all the same, it's rather nice to see her smile as she breezes past him into the room. While it's quite true that they each have shared a moment of victory this evening, now's the time for Peggy to savor hers.

And she damn well knows it too.]

Not in years, I assure you. [Like Peggy, Rip sets himself to the task of setting the remainders of their "dinner" down, then peeling away his coat and the little extras he doesn't need in the moment. There's an ease to the moment that defies the underlying anticipation of what's to come, a confidence in them both that speaks to just how often they've each made themselves at home in this little room, and around each other.

Once a week for months now. An intrinsic part of his routine, and yet so often anything but when it comes to the woman in front of him. Once he's got his coat hung on it's place at the door and his holster on the shelves near the bed, Rip takes a step closer to Peggy. He's got a task to accomplish, and no doubt Peggy will rather quickly call him on it—yet there's an allure to this new way she's dressed that Rip doesn't care to ignore. He reaches not for her directly, but rather for her tie, uses it to tug her closer to him still.]

And I've no doubt you'll enjoy those spoils quite thoroughly. [But not just then. One last kiss, one last moment for Peggy to feel the scratch of Rip's beard on her cheek—at least for however long it takes him to grow it back after his week is done.]

[mucked]

[ they had been circling each other since they both arrived at the firing range. and there seems to be no reason to stop the circling now, taking up comfortably opposite positions in his room while they shed their outer layers. and peggy, for her part, makes no real attempt to hide how she watches him dispense with his. she barely hears his assurances, such as they are, because they and the rejoinder prompting them was more flirtation than conversation.

and conversation flees the room in full when he circles his way within reach. his approach is bold -- bolder than peggy had expected, in this particular moment -- and it shows when her expression flashes with pleasant surprise. she's been on the advancing end of such a maneuver once before, at new year's, and arguably something similar had happened with his crossbelt out on the range. but to find herself being drawn in by her own necktie suddenly steals all reason away from her.

-- a quiet forceful curse, a good god, grinds in the back of her throat before rip kisses her. peggy misses only a beat before returning it. she sinks backward by a few inches first only to quickly rise to the occasion, pressing upward as she tastes him. the movement refuses him any opportunity to slouch just to reach her, forcing him to stand straight while she cranes her way deeper into his kiss. he might have intended it as a mere moment's reminder, but peggy draws it out. she's got no reason to hide her hunger.

nor is she thinking about why or what for. and if she notices the scrape of his chin bumping hers, then she certainly doesn't piece together the sly rationale behind it. peggy opts instead to commit herself only to the moment, cracking open a trove of urges that had been building and growing the whole time they had been out in the world instead of tucked safely behind rip's closed door.

it would appear that enjoyment starts now, well before the razor. it lasts until she feels dizzy and then a moment longer still. but when they tilt apart, when she looks him in the eye, she is so very quick to give assurances of her own. ]

That's enough. A decent distraction, perhaps. But no more prevaricating.

[ the words are wry and tight and a touch too restrained as she reaches between their bodies and pries her tie from his grip. peggy loosens the knot and steps beyond him -- aiming for the where the whiskey is kept. if she doesn't find another distraction soon, she might forget entirely to claim her prize. ]

[directed]

[Oh, but what a pleasant turn that kiss turns out to be. Even before his mouth covers hers, Rip hears her curse, the feels the breath that carries with it sharp and surprised words inspired by, he can only assume, the way his fingers curl about her tie. And for a moment along with the taste of him, Peggy would feel the way he grins as Rip tucks that bit of intel tidily away in his mind--saved for another day, another occasion in which he might have opportunity to pull her nearer in such a fashion as he has.

And then, like Peggy, he commits himself to the present. Here and now and her, the hunger in her kiss matched by his own. It's quite tempting to forgo the shave entirely, at least for the time being, to instead delay that formality in favor of something far more indulgent and greedy. But Peggy herself draws the line, even when sparse seconds before everything about her screamed for more and more; when they're each left breathless and forced apart by the need to gasp quietly for air, she's quick to redirect Rip back to his original task.

Despite how clear it is in her voice that it's a difficult choice to make.

He watches as she steps back, green eyes darkened and sharp, more so when he feels the tie slip from his fingers. She dispatches it quickly after, sheds herself of what they both now know to be a weakness, a chink in her armor that Rip might well take advantage of when circumstances allow. But she busies herself with his whiskey after, and Rip returns to task: shedding the assorted layers he's donned for the trip outside, until he's left with a bared torso and he's kicked off his boots, at which point he goes for the shaving kit he's kept on a shelf ever since he found it as his door come Christmas. She need not have spoken her intentions for him to know that this is the razor he should use.

There's one final grin offered up to Peggy, an echo of her words (no more prevaricating) before Rip disappears into the bathroom, kit in hand. Worse, he closes the door behind him, but only partially--only enough to allow one to peek inside should they stand at just the right spot, and at the same time, only enough to prevent entry to one who doesn't seek it at all.

Although doubtless she would make quite the distraction to his efforts should she join him inside.]

[mucked]

[ she's down to a dark dress shirt, collar loosened for 'comfort,' and equally dark trousers. inky blacks and greens aren't ordinarily her go-to look, a fact they once tackled in conversation months ago when rip teased her about capes and costumes. but she does harbour respect for a uniform and there's something sweetly sacrilegious about it now -- mussing what might be considered standard issue, not with combat but with something else entirely. peggy drapes the dark tie over her abandoned jacket and pours herself a generous glass of whatever's left from last week, pulling it off a shelf and opening it with her mouth because the tumbler is already waiting in her hand.

but then there's him, down to his skin while he takes his tools, and peggy's sigh (pushed through her nose) is audible. he's maddening, he is. more so than she could ever have anticipated before all of this began. and she forces herself to set aside bottle and cork both as she turns to watch him march to the bathroom. she can't even bring herself to feel smug over how he reaches first for the shaving kit she gave him, because -- somehow -- him doing so of his volition robs her of that satisfaction.

peggy takes a drink. eyeing him, and with colour in her cheeks, while he disappears from sight. it's the slightly-ajar door that finally does her in. but at least if she can't see him then he equally can't see her, or her mouthed protested, or the way she shakes her head with frayed frustration. maybe it was the shooting, earlier, or the intimacy of their swapped stories -- but this kiss leaves her a touch more undone than plenty of others.

(she doesn't dare entertain the notion that the tie might be at fault; that unexpected weakness gets shoved under a mental rug.)

she listens to the water run -- wanders over to rip's pile of records, paws through them -- and tells herself she's not fixing to bust in on him. only her wording had been specific, hadn't it? maybe (maybe) a scant five minutes pass before she gulps down another mouthful and reminds herself he's only goading her. the mostly-shut door is nothing more than a trap. but peggy's belief is as firm as it's ever been: a trap is only truly a trap if you don't already know that you're walking into it. ]

I did say I intended to witness your 'defrocking,' you know -- [ is peggy's announcement as she approaches the door and outright shoulders her way inside. whiskey in hand, she breezes by him and takes a seat on the edge of the tub before glancing up at what five minutes' work entails. only? ] Good God, your mirror.

[ it's intact. perhaps it's her natural inexperience in shaving beards surfacing, just now, but she's rather taken aback by the gamble. ]

[directed]

[Five minutes in which to work, all the while wondering whether or not Peggy would give in to the temptation of a poorly closed door after the way they've worked each other up during this little excursion of theirs. Yet Rip cannot let himself be distracted by looking in the mirror, trying to get glimpses of just what Peggy's doing in the room beyond (or wondering just who might be looking back at him); the trap would only ensnare him in such a case, and Rip's got no intention of being found slacking if and when Peggy should venture in.

Thus! Five minutes becomes long enough to soften his beard with a damp heated towel pressed against his face, to leave it there while he strops the razor and makes it ready for use. Oh, certainly he hasn't done anything like this in years, but Rip knows how; barbershops have long been excellent places to pick up on scuttlebutt, though only if one can integrate quietly into the background of one, allowed for by a steady hand and confidence of movement.

He's got the towel hanging off his neck by the time Peggy makes her pronouncement. Rip does her the courtesy of not grinning even as she saunters in, makes herself quite at home by perching on the edge of his tub with a glass of his whiskey in hand. And it's all rather perfect, right up until she makes mention of the mirror--the very glass that Rip himself watches her in then, as he gets the brush and lather ready for use.]

A necessary risk, I'm afraid. I can't exactly do this without seeing it. [He's out of practice to say the least, and not so keen on cutting himself by making a cavalier attempt to shave himself blindly. And in the end, he reasons that all any spying mirror might see would be his transformation from having a beard to being clean-shaven--not exactly the kind of detail he thinks they would find useful when it comes to any nefarious effort.]

[mucked]

[ there were reasons beyond the obvious when she decided on this particular gift: a good, classic shaving kit that at the time she suspected would never see use. but seated now, watching his place in the process, she could almost smile to see one of the other reasons come to fruition. the ritual of it all, meticulous and careful. and if she feels smug now then it's got nothing to do with besting him and everything to do with knowing him.

but what's smug doesn't reach her expression. that, at least, remains halfway stern as she eyes the bathroom mirror from an oblique angle. it won't do, will it? she crosses her legs and leans one palm on the tub's edge while she takes another drink. ]

Of course. [ peggy doesn't disagree. while she might have gone out of her way to achieve as much of her toilette as possible without relying on her reflection, she's forced to recognize that what rip's doing just now isn't something he does daily. there's no percentage to be found in picking this fight because he's right. and she wants to see him clean-shaven, not hacked to pieces.

a thought occurs to her. ]

Only -- [ she glances from the profile of his face to his sightline in the mirror ] -- what if you took a different risk instead?

[ peggy leaves her whiskey on the tub. although she'd just sat down, she rises to her feet once more. her boots are still on, she realizes, and she suddenly feels a little apologetic for that fact. but it doesn't change the confidence with which she holds out her empty hand, waiting to see if he would relinquish the brush once he recognized her suggestion. ]

[directed]

[At first it might seems as if they've reached a lamentable agreement, that the mirror must stay and along with it, all the risks of having their continued time together spied upon. A necessary price to pay, as Rip would much prefer not to blindly set blade to his chin in the hopes that his hand would prove steady, his guesses accurate, and there would be no need to rush to the closet for bandages or sutures.

But Peggy has another notion—another risk, as she calls it, and indeed, Rip finds himself in agreement when he recognizes why she holds out her hand. Others might be wary, given the glass she's just set aside, but Rip and Peggy have been drinking together for months now. She's got an impressive tolerance to say the least, and he possesses no fear that alcohol might bring a quiver to her fingers.

No, the danger here is far more seductive, and in silence Rip turns the brush in his hand to offer it up to Peggy. His gaze meets hers as their fingers brush against one another, the moment not unlike a ritual in its own way. Neither of them is the sort of trust; even after all this time, after all they've shared with each other, they each both also have their secrets. Of course, arguably in matters of physicality their bond has been far more firmly set—yet Rip still finds it almost odd how easy it is to give himself over to Peggy in this manner.

The question of whether or not he should doesn't even form.]

By all means. [And then in his momentary way he smiles, a mere tick at the corner of his mouth before Rip turns to address the mirror. He's thought this through, given how often it does need to be broken: there's a thick canvas tucked within the wall beneath the glass not unlike a curtain set the wrong way, one he unrolls up over the mirror with practiced ease. It snaps into place and covers the panel, catches the fragments a moment later when Rip shatters it, quick and hard punches in strategic spots designed to break the mirror completely.]