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[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]]

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[ there are urges -- pieces, really -- compelling her to stay. a paucity of breath, so much so that she feels as though she's been left skint broke of oxygen. of reason and good sense, too, as she slowly stumbles over the full realization of what she's done. what doors she's closed; what windows she's opened. there are no easy retorts for what he's saying. in many ways, she feels entirely disinclined to punch any holes in his sails. not when he's looking at her like that.

(has she ever seen him smile so much? no, not at all, not since -- whitechapel. and even the barest comparison of such an easy unanchored happiness has her head spinning.)

good feelings, little bouncing pebbles of the same, roll through her and gain momentum. she's adamant that she didn't make a choice but, truth be told, there's a great deal of relief found in the wake of whatever-else-it-was. choice or otherwise. and without that happiness, she might have given up on the supplemental quest. only...only she finds the gift at the end of it is something she really does want to give him.

so she turns her head, she looks away, she disengages with him just long enough to fish her handbag off the floor and pull out a familiar compact mirror. but, for the first time, rip hunter will see it opened -- and after she fiddles a moment with the device, a little holographic map materializes above the mirror's surface.

it's the mansion. ]

Look. [ she leans in and draws his attention toward a scurrying blip. no more than a dot, really. it's a fine distraction from what had otherwise been a moment teetering on too much tenderness. ] Objective the first.

Edited 2018-07-05 23:18 (UTC)

[It hurts in so many small ways: that unhappy ache that comes from muscles left to atrophy, not tended to or exercised in any significant way. But once it passes, once the memory kicks in that oh yes, this is a way to move, to stand, to smile, it all feels rather right.

So it goes, for so much of this evening.

He doesn't fight when she pulls off; even if he weren't feeling so cooperative in spirit, curiosity would overbear his resistance. And, it seems, be paid off in turn: she pulls from her bag a compact he does indeed remember quite well, one he'd managed to steal away for a time, and barter back in exchange for a rather tidy sum.

He'd been quite pleased over that deal--right up to the point that the event ended, and Rip became all too aware of why he shouldn't be.

Now that unanswered question finds its end, as Peggy opens the compact to reveal a rather clever device within. Drunk or not, the puzzle snaps together nicely: he's seen the partner to this device as well, a sliver of a thing tucked away in a watch, just in case it turned out that Rip returned more monster than man.

The same sliver, he suspects, which now lies embedded in whatever she's got planned for him.]

Seems a rather easy scavenger hunt thus far. [Even if it's only the first branch, as she implies. It's an impressive little bit of tech all the same, and Rip takes stock of the mansion laid out before them, where the marker summons them to go.]

Shall we be off, then?

[ it is an impressive little bit of tech. and, for a moment, peggy can be seen manipulating the display with anachronistic ease. with light, practiced gestures she "zooms in" on the dot's location -- the basement, apparently -- and each touch shows that she's learned and practiced what she's been given. she mightn't understand the work and engineering behind it, but she's adapted wonderfully to the actual user experience.

thus focused on the first checkpoint, she trusts the compact and its map to rip's care. grabbing his wrist, she raises his hand and leaves the compact sitting open in his palm. but it's true that her touch lingers, fingers drawing back against his skin with more time taken than necessary. he is her partner in this (in a lot of things) and even if she can't articulate it half as heartily as he can, it shows in moments like this one. ]

I already did most of the work for us. [ she counters, abruptly, and uses her newly freed hands to rummage for something else in her purse. two somethings else, actually, because she pulls out a flip notebook and a tube of lipstick. the former because it has written in it important intel for the hunt; the latter because he's gone and smudged the red on her mouth with his kiss and she's keen to correct it before they leave.

peggy tucks the notebook into the waist-hem of her skirt and (without a mirror) applies a fresh coat of lipstick. after a soft pop of her lips, she explains: ] It'll be a rat. A white lab rat, to be precise. And it'll have coordinates marked on it. I've caught two before tonight. This little bastard is the last one.

[ a rat chase! how romantic. her brusque delivery suggests they've hardly just been engaged in exchanging vows or confessions of any sort. ]

[Rip needn’t strain himself to guess the origins of the compact once Peggy sets about manipulating it’s display. She’s long had her favorite, and creating something useful for the future Director Carter no doubt has played into her efforts to build him back up after the portal disaster. An accomplishment in Wonderland: that rare little gift, and seeing Peggy pleased by the results would likely have been an effective balm indeed.

Rip, certainly, has taken comfort in her satisfaction before. He enjoys watching her now, navigating through technology so foreign to her era.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is how easily she hands over that little marvel to him now. Before she would have given up nearly anything to barter it back from it; now, the surprise shows briefly in his eyes when she takes hold of his wrist, positions his hand just so and trusts him with it. Certainly it wouldn’t be the case should he not be recovered back home as well as here—the thought pops into his head, a practical, logical explanation for action. But another voice tells him that he needn’t break apart the details this time. For once, he should just be happy that someone he cares for sees fit to believe in him.

It’s a rare thing. Rightfully so, for him. Time Masters weren’t meant to have partners.

But I am no longer a Time Master.

As her touch reminds.

Then to the mission; objective the first turns out to be objective the third by her count, the last in a trio of white lab rats. Peggy takes a moment to pull out a notebook first and lipstick second, and in that brief pause Rip has to wonder at the sight of her readying herself for this little bit of action. She won’t leave the room unprepared it seems, either as an agent or as a woman taking measure of her appearance; practiced gesture, given how confidently she reapplies the red without needing to so much glance at herself. He’s long found the color striking on her; moreso now, that he’s got the opportunity to watch her put it on as a knight would armor.]

So this was set up for you. [Now that’s curious. Perhaps by the same architect who created the watch? A surprise shared between the two of them then, although presumably Peggy knows what treasure lies at the end. Still, her having the answer damn well doesn’t mean he does. There will only be one way to find it out, and with a quick swipe at his mouth to scrub away any unseemly hints of the kiss they’d shared, he moves towards the door.

And pretty damn well, for a drunk man.]

We’ll likely need to hurry. If the rat finds its way into the tunnels, we could end up spending the rest of the night chasing it.

Back whilst I was still convalescing, yes.

[ she punctuated the space between one of his statements and the next -- peppering the brief silence with an explanation that (truth be told) hardly counts for one. whether rip has sussed out the engineer or not, the rest of the implication is left vague and up to his interpretation. had she asked for such a hunt to be arranged? was it done to peeve her? did her convalescence have anything to do with the puzzle, or is the timing a mere coincidence?

peggy watches him move -- reading his gait as he goes, gauging how sauced he is by how the skinny remainder of his balance presents itself. and before she follows, she places the tube of lipstick on the corner of his desk. leaving it there for later. her handbag, too.

but once they're out of his room, she waits only so long as he fumbles with his key in the lock. he walks passably well, but finer motor details seem to still escape him. with a tut, she nudged him aside and wrestles the key into her own care. and while she works, she delegates: ]

-- Focus on the map, Rip. [ she makes much shorter work of the lock. the jiggle of the tumbler, the curve of the doorknob in her palm, it's all remarkably familiar by now. ] It's your duty to tell me if our friend Ratty makes a break for Toad Hall.

Edited 2018-07-06 23:54 (UTC)

[Convalescing, and quietly going out of her mind with the boredom of being able to do nothing productive or even routine without sharp agony running through her. A more foolish man—as Rip has often been—might take the opportunity to point out that if she’d let him help her sooner, she might not have been stuck for so long. But even as drunk as he is, outside his door and now struggling just a touch to get his key in, Rip isn’t nearly that stupid. Not when things are finally going right.

At least until Peggy ushers him aside. He frowns rather petulantly even as he does as she says.]

I’d have had it in another second. [Merely a mumble as he stares into the hologram, eyes examining where the rat’s red dot falls on the map.] So far so good. Seems he’s busy with a bit of doggerel just now.

[Or rather more simply, just staying put.]

[ some thin mercies remain. if he were in a better state, if these days had been better days, she might have teased him that one more second could have been another second too long. after all! he does as he's told. and she doesn't shoo him so far away that they aren't still standing thick like thieves beside one another.

shoulder to shoulder. temple to temple, too, if she felt so inclined to lean in his direction. although she doesn't -- choosing instead to keep her back straight and her posture in line. they are together on the other side of his door, now, and she won't be quick to forget the difference. what either of them said on the other side of it doesn't change her habitual discretion.

but oh the way he extends the joke tugs a brief smile onto her lips. ]

Here. [ peggy offers him back his key. after all, she has her own -- although he never gave that one to her either. ] So -- three coordinates. Why three?

[ they live in a multistory building, after all. peggy knows why. but the question isn't posed because she believes (for a moment) that the answer isn't laughably easy; rather, it's posed because she wants to take the measure of his drunkenness. it's less about whether he knows the answer and more about how he gives it.

and how well he keeps pace with her as she strides to the stairwell. ]

[Well. At least he won’t have to go wishing up a third key, although Rip’s aware enough of the reason why Peggy doesn’t need to add another to her collection. He pockets the thing, and though he might still like to pout a bit about it, her smile does too many wonders to his spirits for that to be allowed. A common reference, rooted perhaps in her childhood as well as his, and the stories he shared whenever he could spare a night to spend with his son.

(He’d brought Jonas a toy motorcar once. Just like the one Mr. Toad stole.)

Peggy snaps him out of that train of though with a question, fortunately so—although she’s being a bit obvious in the asking. He gives her a brief look, put upon and questioning, because they both clearly know she already knows the answer she’s after. And while it might be a decent enough question of ability for most, for Rip the answer is child’s play.]

Three dimensions. Can’t just go left or right. [Complete with accompanying hand gestures of course; Rip motions one way and the other, all with minimal sway before changing to a vertical movement.] There’s also up and down.

[Although at that particular moment, their red dot seems to be scurrying on a more horizontal plane. Rip catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, then lets out a groan.]

Dear lord. We’re about to have to run, aren’t we?

[ she examines him, as well as his answer. and no effort is made to conceal such an examination -- lifting a brow when he gives himself over to gesticulation. there isn't anything particularly odd in it; he is, after all, in the habit of moving his hands as if they somehow lend more weight or credibility to his words.

(they don't -- not for her. but, then again, peggy is of the mind that he's got weight and credibility enough all on his own. no body language needed in order to reinforce what he says.)

but it's adequately proven he's stable enough where he stands. peggy nods her verdict, one last flicker of concern duly addressed and silenced, before she puts away the proverbial kid gloves. ]

Do you have something against running?

[ contrary to the question, she slows her pace just as they reach the stairwell -- gesturing for him to take point. he is, after all, holding the tracking device in his hands.

and surely it's got nothing to do with the way those particular words (in that particular order) seem to stick in her throat. ]

Edited 2018-08-02 23:23 (UTC)

[It’s an old habit, really; emphasis, explanation, distraction when needs must. But in this case, under her ever watchful eye, Rip begins to wonder if he’s not being tested. Perhaps the whole mess with the key (just one attempt more!) has wrecked her faith in his ability to handle his liquor.

Or at least, the amount he’s likely to have consumed over the past two days. So it’s not an entirely unfair concern, even if Rip’s still firmly sure it’s unwarranted. Mostly.

But running! Oh, does that throw a spanner in the works. A brisk walk would be fine enough, and no doubt there’d be some darting about required once the infamous Ratty was in sight. But to break into that faster pace when they still have stairs to climb down, twists and turns to make in order to reach the basement—

So her concern might be slightly more founded than Rip would care to admit. He’s absolutely certain, after all, that a sudden surge of sickness would be decidedly unsexy.

Yet the trap has long been set. Any hesitance now would only open the door further to Peggy to needle him over his reaction to the whole affair, so he hits that first passageway firm, sparing a glance back over his shoulder to her.]

Only that you might not keep up. [Ah, Rip Hunter. Always one to dig his grave ever deeper. But there’s nothing for it now but to continue down that darkened road—or stairwell, in this case. Quick as you like, with one hand safely hovering just above the stairwell in case of the worst.

She’d get bloody damn cross if he lost his balance and dropped her precious locket, after all.]

-- Wrong answer.

[ peggy doesn't know what the right answer should have been. but she does know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the one provided is a good half-dozen leagues in the wrong direction of anything approaching correct. and for many other people this moment might make a good candidate for explaining all the ways in which his answer is so very very wrong, but peggy chooses instead to lead by reckless example.

well. only a little reckless. after all, she's performed far more strenuous feats in heels than chasing a man down a stairwell. her steps are certainly louder than his -- punctuated by the echoing noise of her shoes on each step.

he'd had a bit of a head start, yes, but she takes some stairs two at a time with confident and headlong hops. it's not long before she's switched from tutting over his rum-soaked balance to instead using it to her advantage as she stretches to catch his elbow in her fingers -- either to pull him back or push him aside or at least slow him up so that his 'taking point' doesn't transform entirely into 'taking the lead.'

she's convinced whatever happens is his fault and not hers. rip, after all, should have known better than to offer her anything even vaguely challenge-shaped. ]

[Bollocks; as far as Rip’s concerned, Peggy’s got absolutely no one but herself to blame for what happens next. Oh, he hears her getting closer: with the way her heels clip-clop on every stair, it’s likely the whole damn mansion does. And though he does his best to pick up pace in response, eventually she does make her grab and her pull, right as they head into a turn that promises nothing but disaster for them. Really, it should have been easy to see where they’d end up--they, because Rip would not be going down alone in this venture, thank you very much.

He careens into her when she gets him off balance, overcompensating until there’s absolutely no hope of victory for any force beyond gravity. About the best he can do is keep the locket out of it all; he snaps it shut as he grips it tight, his other hand gripping not the rail but rather the offending party in this whole affair. Not that he knows what part of her he gets hold of—just that it’s enough to make sure they both end up in a heap on the ground, half-sliding, half-rolling down the stairs before they end up at the base of the next landing.]

…Excellent work, Miss Carter. [Rip says the words with a groan, his eyes pinched shut as he just lays there (sits there?) for a moment. There’s utterly no chance of knowing just which way is up just then, so he doesn’t try. Rather, he allows the world a few precious seconds to stop spinning quite so violently.

--Hopes, for the sake of not vomiting, that it might do so quickly.]

[ oof.

...you know, she's come to accept a certain threshold for bruises and marks when it comes to splitting her time with rip hunter. but, admittedly, this is something completely different. and (oh alright) she perhaps might take half the blame. a third, maybe. it's a good thing she knows how to fall -- the whole thing might have been much worse if she didn't know when and how to brace herself.

and then there's rip. peggy pushes up onto her elbows, wincing, and watches as only a few inches away he sprawls supine as though clinging to the floor might somehow solve all his problems. if she's reading him right (and she believes she is) then he looks a bit queasy after their tumble.

she very nearly tells him his discombobulation is well-deserved. next, she nearly laughs -- it bubbles up as far as her mouth and she coughs to cover the near-sound. there's nothing she finds funny about the evening but...well, it's all a bit absurd. isn't it? here's peggy carter, fresh off two of the most challenging personal conversations she's ever held, and she couldn't refrain just once from rising to obvious bait.

with a groan, she gropes along the landing's baseboard and thinks about what standing up might look like. ]

..was hardly working alone, was I?

[ she grumbles, mostly to herself, before reaching out to brush back a bit of his hair that's flopped out of place. ]

I trust you're still all in one piece. We can't have you scuppered at the first trial.

[Certainly there is a strong argument to be made for it: that laying on the floor, sprawled out like some upturned turtle, would indeed improve matters—or at the very least, not make them worse. But then Peggy coughs in that unnatural way, and Rip winds up cracking open an eye to look over at her. Just the one, mind, and only until he catches her looking back at him. Then his lid snaps back shut, nothing to see here, certainly he hadn’t been looking at her.

Nor is he grinning now. Absolutely not.

Still. Her grumble doesn’t go missed. Neither does the way her fingers brush along his skin when she combs that stray bit of hair back. It’s a gentler touch than he expects, a sweet note of surprise that stirs something warm and far more pleasant than the wave of nausea that threatened him mere moments ago.

Remarkable, really, how the smallest gestures can cause such stirrings.]

I think I’ve managed to survive. [He speaks as he reaches up, takes her hand into his with a light touch. It’s not that he wants her to stop by any means—rather, he draws her hand down to his lips, presses a kiss against her knuckles. Odd, perhaps, given their predicament, but…

He’s equally certain that it’s right. He opens his eyes again (both, now), and makes the risk of slowly sitting up.]

[ tonight has got helluva pendulum swinging through it -- sawing wildly from confrontation to contentment. peggy watches every little shift in his closed-eyes expression and wonders (not for the first time) how on earth she landed herself here. here, tumbled on her backend in a mansion stairwell. here, detouring any consummation of loves and might-loves with a foolish playful chase through the building. here -- with him, with anybody, with a smile sneaking onto her face.

the smile feels equally as right-wrong as the brief heat of his lips on the back of her hand. an odd old gesture. and it's a disservice to both of them, maybe, that her first instinct is to turn her head and glance back up the stairwell, like she might worry whether they're being watched. like she hasn't yet realized that this secret hasn't been a secret for quite some time.

but her touch lingers one second, two seconds, three seconds longer than her paranoia. ]

Good. [ she answers, registering both her pleasure in his survival and her exasperation that it was ever called into question. as though she herself hadn't also taken the fall. as though she hadn't precipitated it. peggy pops back to her feet and promptly offers him her hand.

...but only for as long as it takes to take back her compact mirror and take over the responsibility of steering their journey. ]

Landing you in traction would be a rubbish birthday present. Early or otherwise.

[ she heads down the next set of stairs -- intentionally looking away from him when she plays this particular card. ]

[However it happened, there they are: collapsed together on the stairwell landing, for a moment savoring an improbable peace despite the chaos that spawned it. A pendulum indeed, and though Peggy spends those seconds of affection looking away, she doesn’t withdraw entirely. Not a bad sign, for a woman whose vulnerabilities have been laid bare over the past few days.

He doesn’t ask after her state; even if she’d broken something Rip expects Peggy would stubbornly get to her feet regardless. Rather he takes her exasperation with a touch of patience—although there’s a moment when he frowns when she reclaims her compact, a soft oi when he finds his hands suddenly empty of both it and hers.

But any further complaint is cut off when she points out the full truth behind this gesture. As she’s likely planned, Rip’s left stunned on the landing, surprise freezing him in place until she’s a good three or four steps ahead. His birthday isn’t exactly a thing celebrated often—not anymore. Only two people alive even know when the date falls, and Rip now chases after the other one, once more finding his feet to move forward.]

You planned this whole thing out as a gift? [The for me may go unsaid but it hangs in the air regardless, right along with Rip’s disbelief. Never mind all the confessions that have been so recently made, Peggy’s choice to somehow remain with Rip rather than reclaim her lost chance with Steve. Somehow it remains an almost impossible thing to consider, that she might want to commemorate the day—

And him along with it.]

Heavens, no.

[ she bursts that bubble quickly and without remorse. her attention is bowed to the compact -- although it's content truthfully aren't as interesting as how she imagines his face might look. glancing over her shoulder to see for herself would be like pulling aside the curtain and revealing her intention to spin him off axis. so she settles (not unhappily) for the disbelief in his voice.

yes, yes, you silly man -- for you.

peggy forgoes a handrail and proceeds down the last staircase at a fair clip. ]

This little hunt hasn't got anything to do with it -- except that your gift is waiting at the end of it. [ a pause. and now, at the bottom of the stairs, she really does stop and look at him. ] At least I hope it is.

[ fitz had really been left to his own devices on this front. the end result might be as much a surprise for her as it will be for rip. either way, there'll be no finding out until the lat rat is trapped. so -- now that they're at the mouth of the tunnel -- she tracks the dot in earnest on its holographic display. ]

[There’s a frown as Peggy quickly dismisses his assertion, although the momentary contradiction does at least allow Rip to find his feet again. He heads down after Peggy, one hand on the rail in salute to the way his head still spins a bit, but at least his stomach feels a touch more settled after the pause. Enough for him to walk and listen and break apart words, that the hunt isn’t near as much about him as the prize at the end is. So the parts she planned have apparently been done with Rip in mind—although from the sounds of it, they represent a mere fraction of the whole.]

I’m surprised. [Spoken softly as he catches up with her at last, on more even ground as the enter the tunnel. Looking over her shoulder he can see the dot—a feisty little rat—and his gaze moves between it and the silhouette of her face.] It’s not like you to let someone else have so much say about how something might turn out.

[Something that she might see as important, at least.]

[ at first, she doesn't say a word. not a damned thing. because rip's commentary earns him a careful-coy glance -- as though for a moment she's trying to decide for herself whether he's pivoting his words around a more playful meaning. but whether it's there in the subtext or not, the surface meaning remains. and peggy could evade the whole conversation--

but for reasons she doesn't want to articulate, peggy decides not to. ]

Agent Fitz can strike a rather strict bargain when he wants to. [ she folds one answer into another. ] The scavenger hunt could be considered a kind of price paid for what's at the end. A commission, I suppose.

[ intended to keep her (safely) busy during her recuperation. and -- she would argue -- a kinder tactic than dragging her to a witch for unconventional cures.

her mouth opens to add some other detail when -- there! skittering along the wall! a plump rodent. ]

Target spotted.

[ and rip earns himself a poke in the ribs to hurry him along, along with a precise pattern of hand gestures suggesting they ought to try flank the animal. ]

[--So whatever prize lays at the end of this odd little rainbow of theirs, Fitz had a hand in creating. It further opens the door of possibility as to just what the treasure might be; a bit of tech, no doubt, although given the man’s skill that’s about all that Rip can guess at.

Besides—he merely would’ve given form to Peggy’s ideas. As he’s just said: she’s not one to often let others dictate terms.

And the price of his commission had been an odd one. Rip might have been about to ask after that very detail when Peggy jams an finger into his side, begins flopping her hands about in what no doubt would be a very precise and easily understood military bit of signaling. Instead, however, Rip takes merely one or two steps forward before he frowns back at the woman.]

Why don’t you just shoot it?

[He does speak softly, at least. But from the tone of his voice, it’s clear that Rip sees this as a very viable, very simple solution to the matter at hand.

And might well be drawing his gun had he carried it with him.]

[ as tempted as she is to blame the rum (and whatever else rip's consumed over the past couple days) peggy recognizes his expedited logic. the suggestion is him, through and through, right down to the utter lack of shame present when he voices it. and she doesn't strictly disagree with him, either -- in fact, she'd pursued the same thought process much much earlier when, in favour of playing chase with rat #1, she'd attempted to dial down the setting on her blaster and stun the thing instead.

...only to learn that these were no plain and garden variety rodents. ]

Because, [ she scolds him without breathing so much as a word about her previous exploits, ] I suspect these little bastards hail from Agent Simmons's personal stock of lab rats.

[ she doesn't reach for or grab him again, but she does make a good attempt to stride beyond him. whispering all the while: ]

And it's a rather unpleasant thing to read the inked-on coordinates through singed fur.

[ speaking from experience. ]

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