[ she likes rip. honest, she does. he makes her laugh, he's got good taste in scotch, and he keeps her on her toes with his mercurial answers -- by times ruthless and others sentimental. from the night she'd stepped out of his closet, arriving abruptly in wonderland, she'd found something in him that she could work with. but he's right to think that all the appeal in the world would not help rip hunter if he crossed her now. and deeply, indelibly, with utter conviction...she takes his measure and understands that she must always always always keep herself between him and leo fitz.

(and it's not just about fitz. it's about all of them -- the good bits of shield, tony, a whole rank and file of people whose presents are her future. she feels responsible for them; in moments like these, she feels protective. possessive, almost.)

while rip weighs his costs, peggy weighs hers. what does she risk by shutting him down? what does she provoke by keeping her finger out of the pie? at least, if she has a seat at the table, then maybe she can temper some of that eagerness she sees so barely-hidden behind rip's pressed hands and inside his bent frame. it's the kind of eagerness that could steamroll a person, she thinks, with enough impetus. ]

Guilt's more than wisdom. Guilt can be a useful barometer, too. [ peggy sits up and lets his notebook flop shut on her fingers. she returns it to him. just now, she doesn't need to read any more of it. ] And if his guilt tells Fitz that the gamble is too steep, then he's not your man.

[ it's not the plan she objects to, but the too-ripe potential for it to churn a person up and spit him out. ]

But I'll talk to him. Get a reading, so to speak.