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

[mucked]

[ 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. ]

[directed]

[--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.]

[mucked]

[ 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. ]