[ she answers, but it's a quiet aside. if she sounds as though she's scolding anyone, then she surely must be scolding herself. peggy has got herself caught up in another mystery besides the question of how to get out of the mansion -- and it's a mystery she can't exactly share with her...friend. yes, peggy decides with a nod, let's damn well go with friend. as reluctant as she is to admit it during every subsequent instance. every friend made.
she pauses in her browsing. one well-shaped nail holding her place between record sleeves as she turns her head -- just a little, as he's been kind enough to approach and wait at a spot comfortably within her sight-line. natural, yes, but understandably deliberate. she eyes the glasses in his hands and oh, god, she's like a drink. but under the current circumstances, she's got to commit to the evening's first musical selection before she can any. ]
...Do you keep notes? [ it's question posed through formality only. peggy suspects he does -- just as she does, although she's never carried her scratchpads and notebooks this far. she devotes her mornings to them. one for wonderland; one for the 21st century.
and with work on the table (so to speak) she nearly manages to slip back in the record pile and pull the elton john album from where it's currently tilted idle against her hip, top of the pile, as she reviews the rest of the stack. but when peggy turns back to the task, her attention snags on the grey blanket folded and stored on a nearby shelf. disdainful of waste in her own right, she doesn't expect any less than rip having kept the blanket. however, there is something in how it sits out -- prepped and waiting -- that makes her reconsider cracking open the tin on those emotions and games from saturday night.
something sticks in her throat, but her expression goes unchanged. and peggy tells herself there might be time, yet, to explore sir elton john's discography. first she picks something safe and familiar, although the pressing itself is from well after her time. the name is known to her.
she follows the album in sequence: side a first, and the first song in order. the volume is kept low and unobtrusive. peggy cants the half-empty sleeve against the wall, beside the player, and turns around to face rip with all the bright cheer of a job well done.
two strides later, and peggy stands opposite to him on the other side of her chair. ]
You must. Surely. [ keep notes. ] I'd like to see them.
no subject
[ she answers, but it's a quiet aside. if she sounds as though she's scolding anyone, then she surely must be scolding herself. peggy has got herself caught up in another mystery besides the question of how to get out of the mansion -- and it's a mystery she can't exactly share with her...friend. yes, peggy decides with a nod, let's damn well go with friend. as reluctant as she is to admit it during every subsequent instance. every friend made.
she pauses in her browsing. one well-shaped nail holding her place between record sleeves as she turns her head -- just a little, as he's been kind enough to approach and wait at a spot comfortably within her sight-line. natural, yes, but understandably deliberate. she eyes the glasses in his hands and oh, god, she's like a drink. but under the current circumstances, she's got to commit to the evening's first musical selection before she can any. ]
...Do you keep notes? [ it's question posed through formality only. peggy suspects he does -- just as she does, although she's never carried her scratchpads and notebooks this far. she devotes her mornings to them. one for wonderland; one for the 21st century.
and with work on the table (so to speak) she nearly manages to slip back in the record pile and pull the elton john album from where it's currently tilted idle against her hip, top of the pile, as she reviews the rest of the stack. but when peggy turns back to the task, her attention snags on the grey blanket folded and stored on a nearby shelf. disdainful of waste in her own right, she doesn't expect any less than rip having kept the blanket. however, there is something in how it sits out -- prepped and waiting -- that makes her reconsider cracking open the tin on those emotions and games from saturday night.
something sticks in her throat, but her expression goes unchanged. and peggy tells herself there might be time, yet, to explore sir elton john's discography. first she picks something safe and familiar, although the pressing itself is from well after her time. the name is known to her.
she follows the album in sequence: side a first, and the first song in order. the volume is kept low and unobtrusive. peggy cants the half-empty sleeve against the wall, beside the player, and turns around to face rip with all the bright cheer of a job well done.
two strides later, and peggy stands opposite to him on the other side of her chair. ]
You must. Surely. [ keep notes. ] I'd like to see them.