Work Text:
The first time they smoke together, they’re alone in the creative lounge.
Breaking their backs over Mountain Dew has become a nightly ritual, but feeling wiped out on every account is par for the course, these days. It’s hard not to, what with Don dropping out of the office at moment’s notice, too busy planning his wedding to be bothered over anything else (the engagement will probably last longer than the courtship, she thinks, not without a stab of annoyance).
Crumpling up her twentieth unworkable (rotten, her mind hisses) concept, Peggy throws it into the trashcan with a growl. Stan looks up from his own sketches, raking an appraising eye over her before grinning slyly.
“You seem a little tense. Wanna relax?”
She glares, and his grin melts into a look of irritation.
“Jesus. I didn’t mean that.”
Pulling it with ease from his shirt pocket, he holds the joint aloft with the air of a magician who’s just performed an incredibly impressive trick, waiting for her reaction. (Possibly also applause.) When her lips slowly curve up in approval, he smirks.
“Although, it could mean that… other thing. If you want.”
She stares him down, unimpressed. Clearing his throat, he looks away. “Uh, or not. Got a light?”
-
It’s routine, after that.
Client throwing a tantrum during what should be a slam-dunk pitch? Smoke after work.
Don taking out his personal frustrations on them? Smoke after work.
Don not taking out his frustrations on them because he’s too distracted by his twenty-something bride-to-be to even care about anything anymore? Smoke after work.
Speak of the devil - they even smoke at the wedding reception.
She couldn’t afford a decent present yet, at least not on such short notice. What do you get for the man— no, the couple-- who has everything, she wonders, watching an ecstatic Don twirl an even more ecstatic Megan around the dancefloor. In all their newlywed splendor, they look like they stepped out of an issue of Better Homes and Gardens.
She’d scrawled an awkward IOU in the card, hoping they wouldn’t be too offended until she scraped up enough to find something suitable. Judging by the looks on their faces, she could probably walk right up and tell them World War III had just been declared and receive nothing in return but bright, guileless smiles.
“I got them a toaster,” Stan offers, taking a drag from his cigarette. His date, a well-endowed brunette whom Peggy found friendly enough, is currently revisiting the hors d’oeuvres tray and one martini too many in the sanctuary of the ladies’ room.
Kenny Cosgrove grins.
“Us, too. So did the Cranes. Hope they like toast.”
At Ken’s side, Cynthia bristles. “Well, there was no registry. We couldn’t have known.”
(Her underlying meaning is clear: this is what happens when you move things too quickly.)
“This place is incredible,” Abe says, glass of champagne in hand, so handsome in his suit it makes her feel proud. He’s surveying the elaborate decorations lining the reception hall’s high ceiling with an impressed nod of his head. The only things making him take a break from ranting about those hydrogen bombs in Spain tonight seem to be chandeliers and booze.
“I’m goin’ to check out the basement of this place, see if it’s haunted,” Stan says, all too casually hovering a hand over the pocket of his tux jacket, lifting his chin. “If you’re interested in comin’ with…”
Peggy grins. “We’d love to.”
She turns to Abe, but he’s already arguing with someone she recognizes as one of Megan’s many cousins.
“No, no— it was not just a simple little accident. Do you even know the kind of stuff they carry inside those bombs? To act like there’ll be no repercussions—“
(Thank small favors - at least it’s not a revisit of the World War II discussion he had with Roger Sterling earlier.)
Peggy strolls over to the cookie table where Stan’s waiting, and manages a tight-lipped smile.
“Let’s find some ghosts.”
-
She’s in the middle of brainstorming her first assignment for CGC - Cocoa Puffs (make it fun for kids, but practical for parents, Chaough had said, clapping her on the back lightly) - when there’s a knock at the apartment door. It’s as welcome a distraction as any; she’d been contemplating taking a walk in the rain to help clear her mind, maybe follow it up with a matinee.
Stan nods at her in greeting. His camel-colored jacket is plastered to him with rain. Under his arm is a large, similarly-soaked cardboard box, the top panels taped shut.
“My place is a mess,” she says, weakly, but he doesn’t bat an eye at the carnage, side-stepping a pile of wrinkled dresses with something close to grace.
After ushering him to the couch (none-too-subtly elbowing off a stack of dirty laundry in the process) and grabbing them a Pilsener each from the fridge, she sits and looks at the box.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“Someone had to.”
I was going to come back— but the words die in her throat. It’s a lie, and she’s had her fill of those. He’s already neatly sliced open the tape with a pocketknife. On top of the pile of contents is the framed floral print she’d hung behind her desk.
“I really appreciate it.”
He smiles crookedly. “That’s not everything. Keep diggin’.”
Bemused, she glances back up at him before poking into the box again, pushing aside plastic rulers and a blown-glass paperweight and dog-eared paperbacks -- and then, her fingertips find the soft contents of a tiny plastic bag. She knows what it is before she even pulls it out.
“It’s good stuff.” His tone is light; nonchalant. “I’d been savin’ it for after we won Jaguar. Thought we’d celebrate together.”
She meets his gaze defiantly, but there’s nothing accusatory in his returning stare. Her shoulders start to unhunch, slowly.
“Oh.”
“You really left everything behind, didn’t you?”
“I brought my mug.” She tries smirking, but her mouth isn’t cooperating with her brain at the moment. She settles for an uneven smile. “And my thermos.”
“Got a light?”
Being only a social smoker, she (guiltily) doesn’t carry one of her own, but Abe left behind a dozen or more, somewhere - buried in abandoned jacket pockets, propping up shortened table legs.
What seems like years later, they make do with a matchbook she finds under the sofa. She takes a long drag, passing back to him. “Who told you?”
“Crane. He overheard Don talking to Roger. Guy’s got a big mouth.”
She can’t argue with that.
“But speaking of Crane - lemme ask you somethin’. It’s probably just a rumor--“ He raises a hand in supplication when she rolls her eyes. “Look, I-- just gotta know. I may have heard that a certain Creative Director, hypothetically, got a little overzealous and turned a wad of cash into a baseball.” His jaw tightens. “Aimed it directly at someone’s face, too.”
She blinks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sure?” he asks, quietly, gauging her reaction. Let it go, she wills him, keeping her eyes passive and the line of her mouth flat.
“Come on. There’s bigger things to worry about now.” She places a hand on the crook of his arm; he stares at it, blinking slowly, as if he’s unsure how it got there. “You helped land Jaguar. This is huge for you.”
He laughs, the sound harsh. “And that’s all I care about, right?”
“You’ve got a lot of new freelancers already.” She knows Don didn’t mean for that to sting, but just the same, it did.
“It’s not the same.”
She snorts.
“I’m serious. You really put us up shit creek sans paddle. It’s dangerous, y’know, what with Jerry Lee Lewis runnin’ loose around the place without you to mother him. The way things are going, I’m waitin’ for him to set a typewriter on fire during our next pitch.”
She laughs wildly, at that; he joins in after a beat. The sound’s loud and raucous - she’s barely even high, yet.
“I miss it already.”
“Mmm?” He passes back to her; she takes a drag, frowning.
“I don’t know,“ she says, gesturing vaguely with the joint, “this. Not just smoking, but… talking. Laughing.”
“They don’t permit laughing at CGC, huh?”
She smacks him in the arm, none too gently. He smirks.
“It’s just... I’m the supervisor, now.”
“You were our supervisor, too.”
“It’s different. They--“
She almost says, respect me, but stops herself. That’s not what she means, and anyway, it’s untrue – Megan respected her. Ginsberg respected her. Stan respected her. But Don--
“It’s different,” she repeats, softly.
He doesn’t say anything for a long while; neither of them does. For one bizarre moment, she thinks he’s fallen asleep, somehow still sitting up. When she turns to look at him, though, his eyes are still open, brow creased and lips thinned, staring down at his knees.
Those new guys act like scared rabbits, she thinks drowsily, always so jittery when they’re called into my office. Like they’re afraid I’ll snap.
Only they’re not new - she is.
“They bring me coffee,” she says. “Every day. I don’t even ask for it.” One of his hands, resting on his knee, curls slowly into a ball. “But every morning, it’s there on my desk. Black, in a paper cup from the diner down the street.”
“Uh-huh.”
She breathes out. “I have my own office, now.”
“I gathered as much.” When he’s being petulant, his voice reminds her of a boot heel scraping gravel, dark and low.
His hand is still curled into a half-hearted fist, strained and flexing. Before she realizes what she’s doing, she lays her hand over his, stilling it. She can feel the calluses on the sides of his fingers, from drawing.
Whenever they smoked at work, she liked watching him draw; bones flexing beneath taut skin, joints moving languidly, darting across paper. Graceful in a way she could never compete with.
She slides her fingers up, circling the bones in his wrist. If he finds it odd, he doesn’t show it; his eyes merely follow the path of her fingertips, chest rising and falling, breathing even and deep.
Lazy curiosity isn’t uncommon for her in this state, but it usually manifests itself in a decent pitch idea, or at least the starting point for one. Now, all she wants to do is look at his hands, and maybe order some take-out. Indian, perhaps, or Chi--
“I miss you bossin’ me around,” he says.
She starts laughing again, stopping only when she meets his gaze, sees the lack of humor reflected.
“…oh.”
She starts pulling her hand away, but he covers it with his other one, trapping it between his, wide-knuckled and square and weather-beaten, riding the last hints of a summer tan. It suddenly occurs to her that she’s seen this man naked, that he’s seen her naked, and yet, this is perhaps the most intimate moment they’ve shared.
“I don’t know if we’re hiring any art directors, right now,” she ventures softly; he clenches his jaw.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She swallows. “Yeah.”
He lets go of her hand; she pulls back, wringing it awkwardly in her lap. He lets out a shaky chuckle, brittle and fake as a plastic Halloween mask, before looking away and starting to lift himself off the sofa.
“I should get goin’.”
“No.”
She settles a hand on his forearm. Almost hesitant, he sits back down, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
“Look.” He sighs, heavily. “I didn’t mean to—“
She leans over and kisses him.
He stiffens in surprise, nearly staggering back. She pulls away, more confused by herself than anything, before he yanks her back to him, so roughly she almost winds up in his lap, kissing her with a ferocity she’d almost forgotten could exist between two people who didn’t hate each other.
A faint scrape of stubble burns her cheek – this is the first time she’s seen him not entirely clean-shaven. One hand lifts above her shoulder, tangling in her hair; the other moves clumsily down her side, skimming her waist, settling over the swell of her hip.
“I once thought about taking you during a presentation,” he says, in a harsh whisper; his breath is wet and hot against her ear.
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
She stops herself from asking which one.
“Knockin’ the displays over, Ginsberg locked up in a supply closet… it would’ve been beautiful.” She laughs, pressing her lips against his throat; he groans when her tongue darts out to trace his Adam’s apple.
Judging from his past failed attempts, she’d thought he’d go for her skirt immediately. But he’s intent to keep kissing her leisurely, one hand digging into her hip, the other stroking the side of her neck. It’s nice, but after a while, she’s had enough. When she pulls away, he lets out a shaky breath. He looks— not angry, but wary.
(Despite herself, she likes that look on him.)
“You okay?”
He hitches in a breath. “Feels like my heart’s trying to pound its way outta my dick, but other than that? Golden.”
She laughs, soothing her hand over his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“Did I say that was a bad thing?”
Catching her own breath, she takes him in: face and neck flushed, chest heaving, watching her back – distracted, but still in awe of her; nearly reverent. He’s looked at her this way so many times, yet only now does it strike something inside her.
“You missed being bossed around?”
His eyes darken, wariness turning to pleased recognition.
“Mmm.”
Licking dry lips, she keeps her voice steady and low. “Then stand up.”
“What?”
“Stand up, close your mouth… and do what I tell you.”
He does.