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open » i've got an atlas in my hands

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. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Perhaps he should be called careless once more for tipping off Peggy to the truth—in fact, he likely won't realize until after they're done to piece together just how she figured it out. Yet the end result remains every bit as delightful as he had hoped when Rip measured out the sugar, sweetened the tea exactly to his tastes and quite contrary to hers. He watches over a sip of his own while she sputters and frowns, quite deliberately managing not to outright laugh at the reaction that plays out before him.

Little victories won; battles claimed, even though the war still looms.]

Certainly you can stand a little sweetness, Miss Carter. And besides—

[He takes a step closer, and rather deliberately holds her gaze.]

It might serve you well to get used to the taste of it now.

How cruel. [ peggy doesn't retreat; her gaze shifts upward to compensate for their fresh proximity. ] You realize that even the men on death row get to choose their last meal. If -- and I do stress the word if -- this was to be my last cup before defeat, it ought to have at least been a good one.

[ but she has no designs on being defeated. and although peggy doesn't boast those intentions quite as cheekily as he does, she makes them plain enough when she transgresses against that no man's land between them -- cupping her palm against his chin, beard and all, for a brief moment.

peggy knows how good she is with a gun. and she's been practicing with the new one. the pat she offers his cheek is conciliatory. ]

That won't be necessary. [ she smiles. that same hand drops to her hip, her holster, her gun. ] Shall we?

[She calls him cruel, and the answer comes easily to Rip: he has not once claimed to be kind. Yet the man who once proclaimed that he would most likely wind up in hell for the actions of his life holds his tongue, listening instead while Peggy cites the charities afforded to even the worst of humanity that now seemingly have been denied to her.

She cannot be surprised that he doesn't look apologetic in the least—nor how he cannot quite resist pressing his cheek against her palm, if only for the brief moment when her skin rests warm against his.]

By all means. [The barest hint of a smile on his lips, Rip motions for Peggy to step forward first. He has little doubt that she will pick the furthest target, and equally that her aim would be steady and true. The simple fact is that for all his challenge, Rip knows damn well he could lose this contest of skill. Peggy wouldn't have suggested something she didn't feel confidence in, and equally, she has something to prove:

Mastery of a gun that doesn't kickback when one draws the trigger.]

[ despite his efforts to rile her up, this is certainly a friendlier interaction than the last time they stood together under this shelter. perhaps peggy's heart is no less broken, but she's certainly less prone letting it show. and she would happily take his current antagonism over the hard flensing philosophy with which he'd argued before rip's brain was set once again to rights. and maybe, just maybe, there's a bit of recognition of that difference when her gaze holds his and her fingers trail off his cheek.

ladies first, then. she tugs her gun free of its home. war games and training competitions alike have familiarized her with all manner of shooting competitions. bullseye, field, run'n'gun -- the whole gamut. but for a woman so enamored with negotiations, she's in no rush to hash out the gritty details of their contest. today is all about accuracy, pure and simple. no gimmicks; no flourishes.

(not yet, at least.)

she squares up to one of the firing lanes. it's unsurprising that he would suggest she shoot first -- she might resent that arrangement, too, by some small measure. but it's not worth arguing. after all, someone has to go first. peggy checks the gun's mechanism as though she's skipping rapidly down a protocol list in the back of her mind.

peggy used to think the modified ppk had something of a sinister glow. but now, having adapted to the wash of red light, she finds herself fond. many an early morning has been cashed in at this range since christmas. she's learned the gun and relearned her posture. more importantly, she's been making a point to switch between this and a more conventional pistol; she worries about any one skill rusting out. ]

Let's not muck about, [ she announces, using her free hand to point down the range where the targets wait. ] Five bottles each. I've staggered some of the distances. The goal is hit two at the near distance, two at the middle distance, and one at the very end of the range.

[ so, no, hadn't been waiting long for his arrival -- but she'd had time enough to put thought and effort into the field. before rip can confirm whether that arrangement suits him or not, she's already raising her arm and pulling the trigger.

there's no kickback to account for, and no bullet drop neither. peggy learned very quickly, weeks ago, that in firing the laser gun she no longer had to consider how hard the wind was blowing and from where. once she'd stripped away these basic provisions, she found the weapon was suddenly -- stunningly -- easy to work with. easier when compared to the firearms that saw her through the war.

and so, it's also easier to calculate quickly between the different targets. in rapid succession (and starting rather cheekily with the furthest target) peggy smashes all five of her bottles in succession, leaving their neighbours intact. all told, it's not half as hard as lodging a bullet in a hydra agent's head as he speeds away in a taxi cab. ]

[He follows after her, naturally, a step behind and to the left while he watches Peggy ready herself for her turn at the targets. It would seem she's used that time she waited well, and Rip observes the lines of bottles so neatly arranged as she lists out her terms. The stakes have already been laid out: either a week spent clean-shaven for him, or one spent with nothing but sweetened tea in her mug for Peggy. He gives a nod of agreement to her terms, but it's perfunctory only; she's already begun firing even before he can move his head.

Furthest first, of course. Rip might have rolled his eyes, but then he would've missed the rapid volley of shots. Red blasts fired one after the other, and in their wake, glass scattered on the ground as bottles are shattered one after the other.]

I'll admit, that was quite well done. [Confirming his suspicions that she had indeed been practicing. With Peggy's turn out of the way Rip waits for her to step aside, in essence switching spots with her as he readies himself to aim and fire. As Peggy had done, Rip checks his weapon, the revolver's weight long familiar in his hand. Equally he doesn't delay once he takes in the scope of the field. Actions much different from Peggy's could cause a complaint, after all, that needing more time to aim in order to make the same number of shots only proves her the better marksman.

Regrettably, it only takes one to cement it: furthest first, and although Rip does hit the bottle it's not a perfectly clean shatter. Only the top breaks, with the lower half still plainly visible and perched upon the target. He knows as well as Peggy that the contest has been won and lost in that single moment--

Which is why he mutters a quiet bollocks before polishing off the last four bottles; at least those smash completely as he intends for them to do.]

[ quite well done, he says. and it might be permeated with understatement, but peggy will certainly take the praise. it manifests a little smile, as if (for once) peggy is more pleased with with his endorsement than with the achievement itself. it's not all that noteworthy; more like she has forever tethered both the weapon and its unconventional power to rip and if she has any hope of mastering it then she must court at least a sliver of his approval.

he takes her place and she falls back by the requisite few steps -- and although it might suffice to watch from a safe distance behind his shoulder, peggy chooses instead to step into the neighbouring lane. she leans her elbows on the wooden rail and pitches forward, positioning herself firmly in opposition any unspoken safety regulations, so she can take a better view of him and his effort. she doesn't want to stare at his back while he cycles through his shots but would rather watch his front, his face, his attention.

-- but the spell isn't long-lived. it's broken in the split-second before he swears beneath his breath. and peggy, braced and watching, lets go a breath she'd thought she'd have to hold a bit longer than this. it doesn't change the expertise of his follow-up shots nor the understanding that he came awfully close to forcing another round via a tie. ]

You know, [ she at least has the manners to try and bite down on her smug grin, ] I expect you'll look quite dashing without your whiskers.

[ where had offered understated praise, she now offers an understated boast. gloating, hidden within a dash of flattery. ]

[Perhaps the fact that she does attempt to restrain her gleeful victory only makes it worse; a glance over provides Rip enough evidence to see the way her mouth has gone tight, her eyes equally bright with the delight of knowing she's won their gamble--at least this part of it. While Rip would accept his loss, that certainly doesn't mean he's so willing to walk away yet as the loser of the competition.

He's got stubbornness to spare, much like Peggy herself--and a strategy already forming in his mind.]

I suppose that will be seen, won't it? [Personally Rip's always thought he looks a bit odd without the beard; too young for his age if he's honest. But those insecurities won't be spoken. Instead, Rip goes through the motions of checking his gun once more, although his attentions are in quite a different place.

The first step to setting a trap is always to select the proper bait.]

Although I do wonder if you'd like the chance to sweeten your victory a bit--since it seems you won't be forced to do so to your tea.

[ she leans on the wooden rail delineating one narrow little box from another -- dividing up the shooting lanes so that a handful of people could shoot together if they liked. there's something about the old standard issue tactical gear that relaxes her posture and gives a glimpse (however oblique) of what she must have been like in the field. during active missions where wigs and heels and subterfuge had no place.

peggy is enjoying herself. so much so, in fact, that her focus isn't on the competition beneath their existing one. it's not often that she takes her eyes off the ball so spectacularly, but it happens today. ]

What do you propose? [ she asks -- skipping the coy little conversational dance if only to give her time to think up a second forfeit, a price worth taking from him when (not if, ha!) she secures herself a second win. ] Because I'm afraid you've only got the one chin and I might need a moment to decide what else I'd like to take from you.

[Perhaps it's that lingering sting from not having a tic in his own win column that keeps Rip sharp--or simply that he's long enjoyed posing a challenge to Peggy, as much at least as he enjoys the ones she offers him on a regular basis. It's what got him to agree to come out there, after all; her hackles being raised over his general attitude of taking the path closest to victory, shunning those that might carry greater risks.

But now it seems she might be a touch spoiled by her victory. Rip watches her lean on the rail, and even so covered as she is, so tactically dressed, he finds it quite a sight. Only a red lip partnered with red nails betray the near military quality of her outfit, and yet equally that same confidence lingers.

It's almost as if Peggy might feel at home within her own dress--and it's a look that suits her well.]

Time. [Though it might not come as much of a surprise to her; Rip looks up as he gives the chamber of his revolver a twist, something done purely to allow him the opportunity to move his fingers.] One week grants you tonight and next Wednesday at best to ah, take advantage of the situation. But three weeks would certainly afford a greater opportunity--not to mention the better chance of a habit being formed on my part. I've not gone that long clean shaven since I could grow a beard.

[No promises made, of course. They've always considered such vows best avoided. Yet Rip still suggests that possibility, just to sweeten the pot some.]

Meanwhile, I'll still be playing for my single week of you sugaring your tea. Seems only fair, since I've yet to earn a win.

Perhaps.

[ she turns -- elbows braced behind her. shoulders low. she might not recognize the trap that's already springing around her, but she certainly recognizes the opportunity he's using to spring it. even his particular pause just shy of the words take and advantage enrich her victory.

but just because she's blinded to the bigger picture it doesn't mean she's lost her teeth. peggy isn't thinking about all the ways in which he might try to level the competition; however, she certainly is thinking about all the ways she can take better advantage. what she might want beyond time. ]

When I win again, [ she catches his eye, ] then three weeks it is. However, it shows rather bad faith to go renegotiating after you've already lost -- and to that end I think you ought to suffer a forfeit.

[ she pushes off the rail. she takes a step towards rip. ] If we shoot again, regardless of who wins, I want your word that you'll show your face on the network -- publicly, mind -- before the first week's done. Consider it the price of buying your way back into the game.

[ she trusts a poker metaphor won't go amiss. ]

[Set the bait, dangle the lure.

She's all confidence and ease when she pushes off the rail, and Rip finds himself rather enchanted watching her move. She does wear victory well, even if in the end he expects it will drag her back down to earth. The wax wings always melt, after all, when greater heights are striven for.

He doesn't give her positive answer right away. Too much eagerness on his part would only arouse suspicion; her lofty high can only be counted on for so much. So holding her gaze, seeing that brown-eyed mischievous stare, he mulls over his options--or rather, counts down the seconds it would take to do so, had he not already decided.]

I'll do it, with one additional condition. [The field remains set; Peggy had been prepared for a tie, and a number of bottles still sit, neatly lined up on each of the targets.] This is meant to be a challenge, after all. A true gamble, and the way you're talking it surely wouldn't be. So I propose that before I agree to the ante...

[This time he is the one to take a step forward. This time, Rip draws nearer--close enough that the fog of his breath mixes indistinguishable from the fog of hers.]

I want you to agree that this time, we'll both shoot with our off-hand.

[ shooting had been fun, yes, but there is something all the more enjoyable about a good round of give-and-take. conditions countered with conditions. bluffs, raises, doubling-downs. she realizes altogether too late that he's flirting with her ego -- it doesn't always make a reliable appearance, but when it does it's easily goaded. it's in the way he calls it a true gamble. she's suddenly dead certain he's not suggesting a gamble at all.

rip stands right there -- closer than she ordinarily allows people to get when all they're doing is talking to her. want, want, want. both of them are naming what they want while all the while the real temptation settles, unspoken, in how they stand and how they gaze.

she runs the percentages in her head. how often has she noticed rip using his other hand, for anything? what hand did he shoot with during the bathhouse event? is it at all possible that he's been disguising his favoured arm this whole time? no -- don't be silly. if he was, she knows, then this wouldn't be the moment to reveal it. the stakes are high but they're not that bloody high.

once again, she pries her gun out of her holster. she passes it from one palm to the other. peggy can shoot off-hand, but she's put only a minimal amount of effort into training herself to do so with any sort of discipline. certainly, none of her practice this past month has involved that particular parlour trick. ]

Deal. [ she's come too far. and although she can feel herself slipping off her imaginary podium, she finds herself unwilling to spoil their outing by suddenly now turning cowardly. peggy puts her empty hand -- her good hand -- on his chest. her fingers catch briefly around his crossbelt before she nudges him back towards the firing lane. ] This time you go first.

[ her words say only a little but her eyes say a lot. ]

[Really, the words being spoken seals the deal. Peggy cannot turn away from the challenge without exposing vulnerability, doubt that she would not allow herself even under the most forgiving circumstances--and their battle now certainly is not so kind. Too late does she realize the machinations Rip has laid out, and with her own agreement she cements her place in the trap, it's hinged jaw closing about her in silence rather than with a snap.

Not that she goes quietly. Her fingers curl around the belt, and Rip himself almost wishes to forgo the next stage of their contest in favor of the suggestion in her eyes. But there are still ways for him to lose, even as he's this time balanced the scales more heavily in his favor: distractions, and of course, a miscalculation of his own skill pitted against her own.

But how many people truly do train themselves to shoot not just with their best hand, but both?

His shots are quick, nearly as quick as the first volley once he begins. Just as Peggy had before him Rip starts in the back--starts with the shot that cemented his fate their first go-round, neatly disposing of the half-bottle that stands responsible for his clean-shaven chin of the next week. It's the middle target that trips him up this time, but never with a solid miss. Simply near ones, and the precision of a laser that burns rather than merely impacts the goals.

In the end, he clears the farthest, leaves all but the neck of one bottle in the center, and finishes neatly by shooting away the near. And when that is done--knowing he's not left her much room to topple him--Rip goes so far as to spin the revolver with easy confidence about his finger, first on his left hand, then tossed to his right, before he holsters it with all the certainty of a man who has spent endless hours learning his craft.

He says nothing when he looks at her again--but not doubt his smirk speaks volumes all the same.]

I never took you for a peacock.

[ she says of his finale -- glibly disguising praise as protestation even as she pays careful attention to her annunciation.

and yet there's something almost charming in the display. peggy might make a habit of turning her nose up at flair and showmanship but the shooting is damned good. and for that reason alone he might as well earn his wordless gloat. the flavour imparted by his spinning trick is like the flavour of the revolver itself: old world swagger. it casts a different colour on the man, standing here in his coat and his crossbelt -- as though she's been caught off-guard by his slippers all over again.

hell, she almost smiles to see him smirk. for a very brief moment of time peggy almost invites her own defeat. impending and inevitable.

certainly, there's no delaying it. no talking her way out of it. no swerving this particular fate. she can almost taste it in the back of her throat: cloying and sweet and flat like tea with all the peaks and valleys leveled out to one bland landscape with so much sugar. so she squares up to the firing line and raises her gun with a stance that's straight out of the book, no matter what the hand. strong; able; precise.

it doesn't make a lick of difference.

for all the attention poured onto the first (farthest) target, she succeeds in seeing it shatter. relief ruins her second (middle) shot as it goes wide -- breathing a burn mark into the glass but never touching it; the red laser loses itself in the distance, wrecking a tree trunk instead. the third (and closest) target leaves her with nothing to lose. ironically, that single shot might be her most gracefully executed of the entire competition. it barely registers with peggy because she's already turning away from the firing lane.

there's no embellishment. no peacocking. peggy holsters her gun on her hip and marches over to the thermos -- drinking tea straight from its mouth as a means of waving her white flag. it should be a pyrrhic victory, at worst, but she can't help but feel as though she'd been bested entirely.

she pulls the back of her hand across her mouth, scowling. ] That's it. You're getting rid of that beard the moment we're back inside.

[ as though reminding herself (and him) that she'd won the initial wager. ]

Edited 2018-02-18 01:15 (UTC)

[He lets her have her commentary in those last fleeting moments before her defeat. Never mind that only a few minutes earlier, Rip had been the one with wounds to lick; the tables have well and truly turned, and with his showing Rip accurately predicts what is to come. Of course, Peggy does make a strong effort all the same--an impressive one, given that she's likely not spent nearly so much time honing her craft with the left hand as she has with the right.

But a win's a win all the same. Peggy herself acknowledges as much when she crosses back to the tea to gulp down a hearty swallow. And in those moments, Rip suspects she might just be seeing how deep his win truly goes.

Certainly he must think so when she moves over to him and addresses his beard.]

A peacock without his plumage, then? [Not quite, but apt enough for the moment. And now that they're on more equal ground, Rip is far more willing to accept his own share of defeat.] Although I really wouldn't go so far as to call it peacocking; just a habit from my days spent in the American Old West.

[A balm, perhaps, for Peggy's bruised ego. Not that she won't have enough of one when Rip breaks out her Christmas present to use for the first time, but he also knows just how she loves prying into those hints he sometimes lets slip about his past.

And it's better, he thinks, to have a bit of conversation going just then. Looking at her now, the way she scowls, knowing damn well the taste of tea and sugar lingers on her lips? It's a true struggle not to kiss her right there in the bloody open, damn the chance of anyone else wandering by.]

[ his balm does its job. peggy knows she's being baited, knows she's being distracted with a bit of verbal slight of hand. something to tide her over and wet her appetite and (of course) it works. she reviews his entire appearance with the crumb of information newly in mind. it's a lens through which to view him all over again.

she doesn't take another sip of tea. one was enough for tonight, and she can feel a building thirst for something else instead: some of his whiskey, back in his room, and sheltered from the chilly defeat of the outside world. not least of all because he takes it all with so much more grace than she does. there is a fickle-mean part of her that wants to see him knocked down, just a bit, and made to pay his dues.

peggy twists the lid shut and tosses him his thermos. ]

Days, was it?

[ it's a nibble. nothing more than the leading edge of a more concerted interrogation effort that will no doubt come full bloom while they walk back -- together -- to the mansion. ]

Hell of a party trick to pick up in mere days.

[ go on, tell her more, she's listening. she's also grabbing a second sandwich half for the return trip. ]

[He expects she's a bit more knowing this time as she snaps up the bait, but Rip hasn't made the offer to be sly this time. In truth it might be telling that Peggy accepts this small bit of mercy for him, rather than veer sharp into avoidance in the name of not being patronized. Certainly she's proven herself contrary on more than one occasion—no doubt it's a lifelong habit, he thinks, for Peggy Carter to haul off and do something outrageous, and all because she's been told she can't.

He catches the thermos tossed to him, and equally gathers up the mugs. Carefully so, of course, they've each to finish theirs, and it'd be a terrible shame to waste a well-brewed tea.]

Not days meant in so literal a sense this time; truth be told, it was closer to months. [Closer to a year if he's fully honest, although as it so often goes Rip doesn't have reason to be.] Go on and grab the whole box while you're at it; I've got my hands full here.

[And she'll still have one hand free to hold her stolen snack on the way as he tells her of one of his earliest missions—full of cowboys and quickdraws.]

Months.

[ she's busy exposing the sandwich -- eyes kept in a rare downcast state while she picks at the greaseproof paper and reveals a good bit of crust. with a bit of time between now and their twin defeats, she's settling into her tentative acceptance. it makes her obliging -- for now, at least, as she cradles the box of sandwiches under one arm. even if they're not all eaten tonight, they won't go to waste. she already has designs on taking some back to the fifth floor when she leaves.

it'll be a good enough reason to stay inside for tomorrow's lunch. ]

That can't have been common -- sticking 'round somewhere for months at a time.

[ she drives immediately for the heart of the story, should a story be forthcoming. she could ask about the setting or the year or what mischief it was that required him to learn such tricks. but, truthfully, she finds it altogether more curious that a time traveler would need to be anywhere for months. shouldn't the technology involved support a more, say, surgical strike?

she begins walking back to the mansion, but not before tearing a bite out of her snack. ]

[Of all the things she might have asked after, Peggy cuts straight to the heart of it. It's a cleverness that Rip's long appreciated, even if at the moment, it lands a bit close to sensitive quick. Her assumption is dead on, and Rip himself glances down as he walks just beside her.]

Not typically, no. [And though he speaks it so much like a confession, it's not what Rip offers up next that qualifies it as such.] It was one of my earliest missions--and unfortunately, the time pirate in question had just enough time to endear himself to the boss of the reigning gang before I tracked him down.

[Alarming the Time Masters early on, but--Rip had been confident enough in himself. Swore that he would undo the damage with minimal impact to time.

He had technically been correct in that--and yet the thought hardly serves as comfort, even all these years later.]

[ it occurs to her that they don't do a lot of walking together. mostly, they sit across from one another. or -- alternatively -- they do an awful lot of something else together. but none of it involves putting one foot in front of the other and glancing sidelong and keeping up conversation. it's a little quibble, maybe, but she doesn't appreciate how near he walks nor how equally he matches her pace.

she isn't bothered near enough to say anything about it. but it's there, just below the surface. a disquieting little reminder, once again, that they have kept their shared circumstances so carefully narrowed to one small room. ]

What was so atypical about this mission?

[ again, she finds her line of inquiry by leveraging his words. she finds the paths he creates and she barrels down them. and she takes note of how he doesn't try half as hard as she does to check in, from time to time, with eye contact.

she could ask about the time pirate. she could ask about the gang. but neither are half as interesting as those first three words were: 'not typically, no.' ]

[It is odd, falling in step with her. Not that they haven't moved together before--and quite often, given their weekly meetings. But falling in with each other's rhythms under those circumstances is quite different than this simple stroll. Hands full, heads down, quiet conversation shared between the two of them. Inside his room they are together and separated from this world; now, they walk among it.

Fortunately, the weight of the topic at hand keeps Rip's mind from wandering too far down that other road. It's hardly an easy thing to discuss, given the full scope of all that had happened--and more, what Rip had caused to happen through foolish interference.

The choice he'd been forced to make in the end.]

It was nearly also my last as a Time Master. [Still, she's too observant to not understand that there must be something about this particular mission, so. Rip offers up bits of the truth.] If a person spends long enough outside of their normal time, they experience something known as time drift. Their memories begin to warp until they believe they truly do belong in the era in which they've been placed--and it had started to happen to me by the time all was said in done.

[Just a little longer, he'd told himself over and over. One day more within that period, to be a hero and do some good.]

[ his was a profession filled with jargon. time drift, rip says, and peggy suffers the usual point-seven-five seconds feeling a rebellion of disbelief in her gut. at first, it doesn't make any sense. and then, after a moment's consideration, it makes altogether too much sense. she tears another bite out of her sandwich and she glances forward towards the mansion.

she wonders how young he'd been. how green, how fresh, how newly minted in his vocation. she wonders whether it was the sort of thing he'd been warned against but fell prey to all the same. she wonders a lot of things, all of them devoutly personal and deeply inappropriate to ask while they trek their way back from the firing range.

-- and she wonders, with an odd little pang, whether or not he'd been married by then. because rip says it had started to happen to him by then but the initial description repeats in her thoughts: months! it had been months. no different to a soldier leaving his sweetheart behind, perhaps. barring the convenience of time travel. ]

...Do you believe that's what happens here?

[ there's no denying that people learn to settle. they get comfortable. but -- time drift? this question is no less personal and no less inappropriate but at least it diffuses some of the discomfort. there are gradations of behaviour for which she'd love to have an explanation: hers, yes, but someone else's too. ]

Edited 2018-02-21 03:36 (UTC)

[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.]

Edited 2018-02-21 03:53 (UTC)

[ 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?

[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.

Edited 2018-02-21 04:54 (UTC)

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