anon text | action

[directed]

[Wednesday sees Rip—on a boat! A boat and a bar, to be precise. Anyone is free to find him there. But even if they don’t, they might still speak to him. Only they won’t necessarily know it’s him, as he sets up his text to be anonymous:]

Now that our happy little “war” has come and gone, let’s move on to other things, shall we? I bake things. Cakes, specifically. With preparations no longer taking up so much of everyone’s time, I’ve got hours to fill. Thus, an opportunity for you, the random citizen of Wonderland.

If you would like something made especially for you, let me know. I’ve ample practice in both cooking and decoration, and I’m rather good at it should I say so myself. The one catch is that I’d prefer not to make my identity public. Personal reasons, you all understand. Or you don’t, but that won’t change my mind.

Now then. Ask away as you will.

[Spoilers, he was drunk at the time of this posting.

More spoilers? He’s going to be drunk on Thursday too. But since the bar on the boat closes eventually, Rip does end up back at the mansion. There may even be food involved at some point, should anyone want to find a potentially water-logged British man making demands of the cabinets in the kitchen--though not for nachos. Oh no. His once go-to drinking snack has been forever associated with someone else, and he’s trying not to feel at the moment, thank you.

There’s also the fifth floor bar, where Rip heads with a bit of trepidation. He’s a touch more somber there; more watchful than he cares to admit of the entrance, and those who pass by it. It’s foolish, really. They’ve already had their talk. Why would he expect to catch glimpse of Steve Rogers on the fifth floor now?

Why would he be there still. So many hours—a whole night later.

It’s late in the evening before he thinks better of it, finally, and returns to his room for the night. Late before he drops down onto his bed to stare up at the ceiling, dizzy with drink, and wait for exhaustion or alcohol or whatever other forces remain at play to let him drift into unconsciousness.

He doesn’t expect anyone will come calling.]

[[ooc: So Rip has two open posts! For anything on the boat please go here, anything after that can go in this one. I’m also open to have him found elsewhere should anyone want him! He’s just going to be sad and miserable for a bit. :c]]

Comments

[beautifullies]

This does beg the question: Are you embarrassed or simply so good you're afraid your talents will be demanded of you day in and day out?

[ She's not anonymous, but she has spoken to Rip before, so maybe he can tell just by words there's a slight smile to her statement even as she types it, a light teasing. She's not mocking, she is truly curious. Maybe whoever it is doesn't want to have demands made of him. She can't help but be curious. ]

[directed]

It’s not something I wish to be associated with.

[An odd but entirely true explanation. Rip had only started the hobby because Gideon insisted he needed something to pass the time while trapped in the Waverider—something more to focus on than drinking himself into a stupor while unable to do absolutely anything to fix the world or save his team or even get beyond the walls of his own ship. It had been a desperate distraction, straddling that middle ground between being meaningless and yet involved enough to present a challenge.

Rip Hunter: the man who took up cakemaking in exchange for his hope.

Definitely not a topic he wants to broach.

...so yes. Embarrassed.]

[beautifullies]

Then I'm going to guess, with certainty, that you're a male.

[ Look, she's from the 60s and at best, the 18th century. Gender stereotypes are real even if she doesn't agree with them. ]

No matter. How skilled do you believe you actually are at your secret craft? I may have an idea for you.

[directed]

That’s got nothing to do with it.

[Even though she’s not at all wrong.

Still! She’s interested enough to ask after his work, something Rip can provide evidence of. Shortly after his reply, Claire would receive pictures of past creations; she might even have seen some of them, as Rip has taken to leaving the goods in various tea rooms and other places about the mansion.]

The flavors were well-received, from what I’ve gathered. Or at the very least, no one threatened to light anything on fire after someone left out an inedible batch of cupcakes.

[beautifullies]

[ She doesn't know any women who mind others knowing they bake, so it's all she can assume, that someone with a fragile ego doesn't want anyone to know he's actually - as she looks at the photos - quite talented. ]

These are remarkable. I believe I do have a challenge for you. My husband never had the chance to meet our daughter. Her favorite cake is chocolate with a raspberry filling and chocolate buttercream frosting. Would you be willing to try?

[ She'd love to have Jamie have a piece, to know what his daughter enjoys, what the last eight birthday cakes were at her request. ]

Kitchen

[bibliocorn]

[Sunburst's tendency to get stuck into a good book and forget important things like eating means he's often wandering the kitchen in the small hours, trying to get some food once his body reminds him that hey, you didn't eat today.

He smiles as he sees Rip trying to get some food of his own as he enters, right up until he gets a whiff of booze and- is he wet? ]

Uh. You okay there, Rip?

[Friend you do not look okay, should he be concerned? ]

Re: Kitchen

[directed]

[The problem with sharing so many Wednesdays, so many evenings with one other person, is that associations get made. He can’t have nachos, which is a bloody shame. He’d love a good plate of nachos just then. But other things are off the table too: fish and chips had been their first dinner together. Sandwiches? Ha! They’d had those more than once, as themselves and otherwise. Even shepherd’s pie makes his gut twist, if only because he’s rather certain it’s the sort of thing Peggy would tuck into with gusto.

He’s nearly settled on something completely different—maybe a nice lasagna would be safe—when Sunburst shows up. Of course the unicorn would, and Rip lets out a short little laugh, grins at the universe sending the one pony-person to him that would absolutely not leave Rip alone in his current state.

Since when had he gathered all these people who gave so much of a damn about him?]

Sunburst. [At least he’s got something of a grin on when he turns his head to look down at the unicorn? Perhaps this might work out in his favor after all.] I’m fine, and thank you for asking. You know, since you’re here, I’m curious: just what do ponies eat?

[bibliocorn]

[Rip would be absolutely right in that assessment. Sunburst is going nowhere, that concern is definitely feeling more validated with every passing second. Something has gone disastrously, horribly wrong. ]

Well, mostly foods comprised of oats, hay, grass and flowers. Things like that. Cakes and bread too, if we're of the mood.

[He politely asks the cabinets to offer up an oatburger and lo, it appears on a plate. ]

Like that. Uh. You don't- you don't look fine.

[directed]

[Cakes! Well, cakes he could absolutely do, except he isn't. Also not on Rip's list would be essentially everything Sunburst named before that--and really, what else should he have possibly been expecting?]

Hmm. [Is it kosher to eat meat in front of an obviously vegetarian pony? A hamburger wouldn't be misplaced, after all.] Just having some trouble deciding what I want for supper.

[Which doesn't explain the anything else, but pfft. Details.]

[justella]

[ She can't resist, this is exactly the type of thing she has been looking for. ]

I'm running the coffee shop at the moment, and I'm planning a bit of a grand re-opening. Would you be interested in baking some cakes?

[directed]

[Now this is an unexpected turn; Rip had been expecting an offer or two, perhaps someone wanting a cake a touch more special than what one might summon from the closet for a birthday. But this is actually a regular gig, from the sounds of it. Expectations every few days, perhaps more often, and for a moment he wonders just how committed he wants to be to this hobby.

Except—except. He’s got nothing but time to kill. Particularly now. (Can’t make it tonight).]

I could manage that, yes. Were there any particular kinds you had in mind?

[justella]

Nothing particular. A variety would probbaly be good. And you can’t go wrong with some plan vanilla and chocolate but I can leave the creative process up to you.

I don’t need a lot, or everyday, if you don’t want to be stuck in a kitchen so much.

[ She doesn’t want to demand too much from them. But cakes or cupcakes here or there much add a nice touch to the shop. ]

[directed]

I appreciate the consideration.

[He doesn’t go so far as to say that he might be able to devote more time to this than she would expect. Rip may have more free hours to fill in the future, but he also knows what happens should he indulge this particular habit too much.

It’s not the form of escape he wishes to focus on.]

Starting with the grand re-opening, correct? When do you expect that to be?

june 15th »

[mucked]

[ but someone does come calling -- albeit a day late.

thursday night turns into friday morning. early, early friday morning. peggy isn't near as well-sauced as rip, maybe, but she'd had a few dirty martinis at jane's apartment back 'round supper time. she'd like to explain away the dull ache in the back of her head as some sort of premature hangover -- truth is, it's more likely to be a combination of things. the vodka, the guilt, and more sadness than she'd admit to feeling. for such a long time, she'd been holding sacred a little piece of her heart and now she's forced to reconcile with reality the fact that this little piece won't ever be put to its proper use. what's most likely is that it will remain, haunted, whether steve is here or whether he's gone.

and the mental math needed to achieve that reconciliation has her up, awake, miserable, at the arse-end of friday morning -- long before the dawn, long before it's late enough to start in on anything sensible, long before it even begins to feel like friday. it's an unfamiliar situation; ordinarily, very little keeps peggy awake except for when a sense of alertness is required of her. but her conscience is doing running drills in the back of her brain.

-- it's 2:45ish, a-bloody-am, when she realizes what's required of her now. she's done her due diligence with one man, now she must fulfill the same duty with another. she can't let it drift, unfinished, until the next wednesday rolls around.

(and it's been so long! and they left things so frigid and sour...)

so peggy finds herself knocing on his door, sharpish and insistent, and she doesn't anticipate that he's asleep yet either. yes! she'd read his tone into an anonymous message over the network, but came to the announcement rather too late and entirely unwilling to engage with it. she'd been left exhausted by her conversation with steve; it's taken her until now to gather her wits back about her. to remember how to be shored up and castled and fortified. not so long ago, she told him she'd always arrived at his door with a plan in mind. now is no exception.

even when the door goes unanswered, she has her plan she follows. with a sense of entitlement, she lets herself into his room -- and for half a beat she actually believes he's fast asleep in his own bed. ]

-- Rip?

[ she's barely a silhouette in the doorway, and only a shadow once she shuts the door behind her. and it doesn't occur to her, not one moment, that he might have given himself over so completely to despair. cue her plan derailing in 5, 4, 3, 2... ]

Re: june 15th »

[directed]

[He's got no clue what time it is when someone comes knocking on his door. Truth is, Rip isn't in much of a place to know if he's awake or he's asleep, if the pounding on the entrance isn't really anything more than the beating of his own pulse just inside his skull. And even if he could distinguish between the two, if he cared to, that wouldn't serve as motivation for him to rise. Flat on his back, arms outstretched in the perfect picture of a martyr, Rip's decided he's done with the well-intentioned concerns of others for the day--night. Whenever it is.

He's groggily turning thoughts over in his head when she slips in, visions and memories of the past forty-eight hours and before. The last thing he expects is someone to come padding in; beyond that, he would've never guessed it to be her.

Not until the moment Peggy says his name. A question of many layers that has Rip sitting stark upright in bed, his mouth open, lips formed into an "oh" of surprise.]

Peggy. [He swallows hard, moves to stand--or rather, makes the attempt. All of this sudden rushing around has left him a touch dizzy (just the surprise, nothing to do with the steady flow of alcohol he's ingested over the past two days, surely). He pushes forward off the bed and nearly crumples with the landing, bent over and only catching himself with a well-placed palm on the ground.

He straightens himself slowly. Gets his balance. Nods to himself that yes, he's recovered well before turning to his visitor.





...Oh, right. He should say something more, shouldn't he?]

Well. [A moment to clear his throat.] Hello.

[mucked]

[ ...he's been on the lash. and, as peggy adjusts to that realization, she supposes it shouldn't be too much of a surprise. only this was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid when by deigning to send him a message before she cancelled on him. after all, it had been her lack of communication that had gotten is ire up the last time.

and it's remarkable how she can feel her heart swell with sympathy for him even as she spares him none. none, at least, when she reaches out to flip a switch and flood his bedroom with light -- exposing his plastered state. the rest of the apartment, still new and novel, sits in inky darkness behind her.

her confusion sits, stays a moment, and then flickers quickly into exasperation. ]

You're drunk.

[ they've done this once before. but now: ]

How long have you been drunk?

[directed]

[Yes, she'd tried, but so much has changed between then and now, hasn't it? They've changed in that they've become a they--a proper one that had been on a date, even if their first kiss had taken place oh so many months before. And perhaps it's a silly and small detail to focus on, but it's the one his mind kept going back to: nachos in the diner, walking back to her room afterwards, sharing whiskey and kisses before going to bed together.

God, it had been so innocent. He wouldn't have thought it possible. Not after everything he's done.

But change continues on. She snaps the switch up, leaving Rip to wince as suddenly, ow, there's light everywhere. He lifts a hand to shield his sight from the worst of it, face scrunched up as he looks over at Peggy from under his fingers. She doesn't need long to realize the state of him--probably had before she illuminated the room, to be honest. Still, when she falls back on the observation, demands to know how long this little bender has lasted, Rip shakes his head.]

That's not how this is supposed to go. [Because yes, of course, he remembers the night too.] I'm supposed to say you're late. Which you are, by the way. Is it--it's not even bloody Thursday any more, is it?

5th floor bar

[tattooedredheads]

[Kay ends up on the fifth floor bar the day after Rip's announcement. Second - or third - arrival? His mind has been more focused on recent events at home than what he remembers of Wonderland for the past few hours.]

[He grabs an extra cup and pours soju into before handing the drink to Rip.]

Want some?

[directed]

[While there is a certain expectation of strangers handing him drinks--he is in a bar for a reason, after all--Rip really isn't expecting to get any that he hasn't asked for. Still, he's not in a mind to reject the offer. He peers down into the cup, sees the clear mystery liquid within, and lets out a quiet hum.]

Why not? [Taking the glass, Rip raises both it and his gaze to the man who'd offered it.] What are we drinking to, then?

[tattooedredheads]

Hm... [Kay has a few different reasons to drink. His boss' untimely murder. Kay's own murder of the murderer and subsequent jail sentence. The loss of his dream to catch all the villains who used their power and influence to undermine Sakia's laws. That he'll never again work alongside hi subordinates (his friends).]

To endings, I suppose. And lost chances.

[directed]

[It’s quite a bit too on the nose, and for a moment Rip stares at the man, trying to figure out how he can possibly know before reason assures that he cannot. Rather, the redhead must be talking about his own circumstances, a calamity of some kind that apparently falls too closely in line with what Rip may now have to face, and he covers that momentary shock with a raised glass, a slow sip, before making comment.]

Seems a rather sad state. Someone sent home?

[It’s the most likely cause, he thinks. And just in case their circles are closer than Rip expects, he’d like to know if that someone is a person he was acquainted with.

Purely for strategy’s sake, of course.]

5th floor;

[revokes]

[ tony's been doing nothing but work.

it's been this way for a few weeks. home brought about new memories, ones that didn't sit well with all the idleness wonderland had supplied him with. getting out was even important now, as well as keeping a certain someone out of wonderland's boundaries. So he worked through his days and most of his nights, trying to find a new theory, a new lead, anything.

For a man obsessed, a man touched by mania, it was surprising that he didn't resort back to drinking. Alcohol was always tony's friend but he made a promise to pepper that, back home, was to become a marriage vow.

Balance. Roots.

so he's in the bar not for a drink but, amazingly, for business. ]

seriously, why do you sneak up in here? I'm beginning to think you have a problem. I'm signing you up for group therapy tomorrow.

[ he's talking to someone or - something. look carefully and you could see that it's a bug-sized drone, shaped like an odd-little bird. it wheezes and screeches as it emerges from underneath one of the chairs. ]

you're an embarrassment. shame on you. I'm putting you in the same corner.

[ he picks it up and that's when he finally looks around and. oh. fancy that. ]

-- who ran you over with a truck?

[ what. he was never one for sugarcoating things. ]

[directed]

[Well, isn't this quite a turn? Of course, Rip needs to figure out Tony's talking to him first. The man's been prattling on, so it's not exactly the most obvious thing to discern when his address shifts from the bot of the hour to Rip himself. There's a silence that lingers because Rip doesn't realize, until the moment he does, catches sight of Tony looking over at him and understands that he's the one being asked after now.

And something about group therapy? Or perhaps not.]

--Do you truly care? [Speaking of not sugarcoating things. Rip has tried with Tony, on multiple occasions, only to be absolutely stonewalled at every turn. Oh, but it's likely that the man's put together the pieces already. He would know Steve Rogers, perhaps even be a contemporary given the way things seem to work among those from Peggy's world.

He huffs out a breath before turning back to his glass.] You should know damn well what's going on.

[revokes]

I know of several things going on and they all suck.

[ there's a new queen, there's thanos, there's a douche in a cape who is a wizard named Dr. Strange. And all of those things are generally awful. He frowns - the man can't know about most of it, so it must mean - ]

You can't be serious. You're sitting here moaning because of Rogers?

[ tony doesn't care much about rip, he also doesn't care for Rogers and here he is about to talk about one with the other. ]

This cannot be my life.

[directed]

[Rip rolls his eyes as Tony comes to his ultimate conclusion. Normally he might show a touch more discretion, contain his reaction just that much more. Today, however, he is drunk and lacking in patience. He realizes that there's likely no further point in trying to get on with this man who has stubbornly refused to budge even an inch in all the months Rip has known him.]

Yes, how utterly terrible it must be for you. [Rip turns in his chair, faces Tony properly as he continues on.] Although, perhaps it might be less so if you opted to take your head out from your arse and realize the entirety of Wonderland somehow doesn't revolve solely around you, Mr. Stark. I've got plenty enough on my plate without you looking down your nose at my situation, so in the words of so many Americans I've come to know?

Go fuck off.