October
She had never asked what happened to his Baby, and he had never offered. It was Independence Day before she realized that he was spending later nights at the office, keeping her company on her couch or through her phone. She teased him about his sexy voice, and he didn't even complain when she started making a habit of calling him just to ask him to bring her coffee at 10:30pm. He made it sweeter than she allowed herself.
Click. Click. Click.
She should've known earlier. He had basically admitted it in June when she warned him about the McCann-Erickson takeover. But she was distracted to notice, too aware of the children running down the halls, that worry beneath the back of her skull. Would she have a job next month? Would he have a job next month? Where was that little boy? Was she a terrible person?
She was definitely a terrible person.
Clack.
She smacks the carriage return key with a bit more force than the typewriter deserves.
Elaine. That was her name, right? No, Ellen.
Peggy stops typing to bring the cigarette out of its ashtray and to her mouth, inhaling thoughtfully. Her lips still stung where Stan's teeth had bitten her yesterday, her throat burning where the brush of his beard had nestled. She absently leans the cigarette away and traces the irritation along the side of her neck. It had only gone on a few minutes before Marsha had interrupted them with a surprised squeak. Stan had left the door open for anyone to walk in.
"I—I-" Marsha had turned to leave, but then paused, her face flushed bright red. "The research you requested for Chevalier got dropped off - I'll just… leave it here." She almost threw it on the couch, her eyes skirting the tentacle cunnilingus Japonisme hung brazenly on the wall above it. "And David wants to speak with you… um, the both of you."
"T-thanks!" Peggy replied, a little too loudly, embarrassingly out of breath, trying to cover her mouth with her fingers, sure her lipstick was smudged across her chin. Stan chuckled against her ear.
And so they had left it at that. Chavalier had needed revisions, which meant a late night only for work, and for nothing else. Stan had brought her a cup of coffee around 11pm and she only thanked him with a smile. It would be easier if they were on the same floor, but she was on 18, and he was shoved in with the rest of the Art Department on 14. She's not sure when he left for the night - she had fallen asleep with her face smushed against the stack of media releases. The night man gave her a skeptical once-over when she hurried through the foyer to try and hail a taxi at 3 am.
Click. Click. Click.
No, it was definitely Elaine.
Heavy hands land on her shoulders, marked by turquoise jewelery around thick fingers and wrists. It's closing in on 5 and she's a signature line away from being finished. She smiles at the relief, tilting her head back to look at his shaggy face. She only manages to capture a glimpse as his lips meet her forehead in a strangely familiar intimacy. They both look back to the paper in her typewriter.
"How's it looking?" he asks, voice vibrating down through his hands. She feels it in her teeth and runs her tongue along her lower molars as her fingers find the last few keys. The carriage snaps back with satisfaction.
"Finished," she remarks, more to herself than in response to him. His thumbs circle the points at the tops of her shoulder blades, easily finding the tension that marathon desk-slouching had created. She groans lightly, letting her head hang forward.
"You wanna get outta here?" Stan's voice is earnest, but still laced with that heady smugness and she waits a second, leaning her shoulders back into his palms. "… Peggy?"
She swivels on her chair, standing as Stan drags his hands away from her shoulders, moving his wide palms down her arms instead. She can smell the day on him: pencil graphite, that strange metallic on his fingers and forearms, the tobacco in his beard, the coffee on his breath.
She has to lean up onto her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck, her heels discarded under her desk. His bolder hand sweeps inward to press a palm against her breast, his other keeping her hip in place. They smile stupidly at each other. Despite his coffee and cigarette habit, Stan had very white teeth - she had never noticed before. "So how was your day, Honey?" he teases.
"Good." She can't help but ruffle her fingers through the back of his hair, tightening her arms, pressing her stomach against him. He glances down between them, his previously safe hand now gripping her ass, pushing the front of her skirt into the crotch of his jeans. "I was very surprised when my art director sent up the colour panels three hours early-"
"Your art director spent all night working on those," Stan interrupts smugly, his palm widening along the top of her breast, his thumb finding the zipper grooves in the front of her blouse knit.
Peggy frowns at him, her mouth a bit open, little lines deepening between her eyebrows. "What time were you here until?" she asks, trying to ignore how Stan's fingers have managed to find the zipper's tab, starting to pull it down. Shit, what bra had she thrown on this morning?
He gives her a skeptical look, laced with mild suspicion, the heavy weight of his hand pressing into the center of her blouse, the zipper still determined to hide her bra beneath. "Little after 3:30. I came up to say goodnight, but you'd left already-" His roaming hand grasps the back of her skirt and tugs sharply.
"I didn't think you were still here…" she loosens her grip on his neck, drawing her hands down his chest, the thick cotton of his red shirt. She shakes her head, embarrassed, fiddling with the small buttons. "You didn't have to do that… those panels aren't being sent to David until tomorrow."
Stan shrugs. "Didn't sleep anyway."
"Me neither."
Peggy knew why he had shown up in her office at the day's end. She was glad he took the initiative… she didn't want to have to walk down to where Stan shared a studio with George and Charlie, the two dullest illustrators on the planet. They had looked at her funny the last time she showed up to bug Stan, as if she were both the enemy and the master. George had glared over his shoulder at them, so Peggy had made up an excuse and left. The floor that housed McCann's art department was decidedly more square than the creative lounge at SC&P. She hadn't been back, and Stan kept her away with phone calls and coffee excuses.
"So." Peggy blinks away her wandering thoughts. "Should we-" She doesn't finish. Stan interrupts her, having been blatantly watching her mouth the last 30 seconds, that curve of her lip under the red gloss. The kiss is a bit messy, desperate in the right way, his tongue suddenly insistent upon it. She grabs his shirt collar in surprise, then returns her arms to his neck, clutching tightly as his closest hand violently tugs on the reluctant zipper, exposing her chest and stomach to cooler air. How was she so warm all of a sudden?
She pulls her shoulders back to try and tug the blouse off her arms, but Stan has grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her easily up onto the typewriter table at her back. A pen digs into her behind, and she blindly pushes away the intruding papers and phone, Stan's mouth still hot on hers as he pushes her skirt up her thighs. He makes a sort of strangled groan as his fingers find the garter holding up her stockings and he pulls her forward against him as his mouth finally leaves her damaged lips and moves to her throat.
His denim jeans are rough on the inside of her thighs, but Peggy still lifts her legs and links her ankles around his waist. They're pressed tightly together and she can feel her pulse pounding in her ears, down the front of her throat, past her heart and to her belly. Stan's fingers have given up on her garter clips, instead tearing the stockings from the suspenders, his palms pulling at the bare insides of her thighs. She is suddenly glad that she had ripped her last pair of pantyhose this morning, the back running as she tripped over her coffee table while trying to slip her heels on. It had taken her an extra 10 minutes to find where she had pushed her garter belt into the back of her closet, and another 5 to find stockings.
A phone rings somewhere down the hall, but she barely registers it, her eyes lazily glancing over in the sound's direction, to her couch. Stan's belt buckle digs into her stomach and she squirms against him, laughing aloud when he bites her shoulder in reprimand. His hair is soft against her neck, but his beard scratches her chest. She didn't even realize she was itchy there. Her eyes focus on Cooper's painting. Abe was the only lover who had performed that act on her, and it had always been awkward. She bet it wouldn't be awkward with Stan. His beard would brush her legs, his moustache would be wet…
Her back goes rigid. "Stan." Her voice comes out as a croak, as she tries to push his heavy chest away with her elbows. He makes an indistinguishable noise from where his mouth has started to peel the cup of her bra down. "Stan!" She manages to smack his shoulders with a couple of solid palms.
"Ow," he replies, voice muffled, but his annoyance clear enough.
"Stan you left the door open! Again," she hisses, throwing out a palm to illustrate the visible hallway. A secretary walks by, her nose in a stack of papers. Stan shakes his hair out of his eyes with a flick back of his head as he looks to where Peggy is pointing. She pushes herself forward, squirming to push his weight back and her skirt down as her feet land between his boots.
"Baby, stay there, I'll get it-" Stan tries to grab her wrist as she squeezes past him, putting a safe distance between them.
Peggy returns a scathing look over her shoulder. "Don't call me that."
"What?" His head pulls back in confusion, green eyes slightly hazy under his brow.
"I said," Peggy replies, hurriedly pulling her loose stockings down her legs, bunching them into a ball and throwing them in her garbage can, "don't call me that." Her voice is a bit too quiet and she's not sure he's heard her until she looks up, her fingers clutching her blouse closed. There's tension in his arms and stance, the lines between his eyebrows deepening. "You say that to all the girls," she adds, her voice softer now in a different way, embarrassed.
"Oh. Okay." He watches her for a second, then sighs, holding out his hands in surrender. "I won't call you that. Can I shut the door now?" He takes a step to reach for the doorknob, but Peggy shakes her head.
"No…" She sighs in frustration, fixing her blouse. "We can't do this here…" She gestures to the desk she was pinned on not 10 seconds ago.
Stan grins. "You're right, the couch is a better idea."
Peggy tries not to smile. "Weren't we leaving?"
She watches as Stan practically deflates, his exhale ruffling his mussed hair. "I don't think I can wait much longer." He shifts, reaching a hand down to adjust himself in his jeans, despite the wide open door and a couple of junior copywriters walking by, on their way out for the night. Peggy raises her eyebrows, her lips still pressed together to conceal her smile, slipping her hands under her skirt and digging her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and pulling the briefs down her legs. Stan's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, glancing between her and the open doorway uncertainly.
"It's been 5 years, Stan. What's another hour?" She tosses her briefs at him, but they hit the corner of her desk instead, falling to the floor in a pristine heap. Close enough.
Peggy kicks the sheets off her legs, her apartment way too warm, even for October 29. He's like a furnace. She's not sure she'll ever need to turn on the radiators again, and even as he feigns sleep next to her, she can feel the heat on her bare chest and stomach. His eyes are closed, one hand shoved beneath a pillow, using his arm as a kickstand, his other open on the mattress between them. She takes another drag off her cigarette, the smoke already hazy in the bedroom, tobacco mixed with grass. She allows herself to smile, clenching the cigarette between her teeth as she reaches over to take Stan's relaxed hand. His fingers move and tighten around hers, although his eyes don't open. The metal of his ring is surprisingly cool to the touch.
She hadn't realized how long she had been waiting.
In her office, Stan had stared at her discarded garments for a second before grabbing her elbow and pushing her out the door. She was barely able to grab her coat off its stand before he swung the door shut after them. His palm stayed on her lower back as they walked down the hall, nodding stale goodnights at their colleagues. They waited for the elevator with Marsha and one of the younger secretaries, slick dark hair piled ontop of her head and dated mod makeup drawn in black lines around her eyes. Peggy glanced up at Stan, but his gaze was out the window, his pulse visibly pounding in his neck.
He had been a little too handsy in the cab for their elderly Irish-Catholic driver, who barked at Stan to keep his hands to himself or he'd kick them out when they were barely west of 7th Ave. Stan had rolled his eyes, settling back into his seat with a touch of petulance, and Peggy squeezed his leg to comfort him, but that only seemed to make him more impatient. His knee bounced all the way up the West 80s and Peggy gave the driver an apologetic grimace as she followed Stan from the backseat.
"Jesus, I didn't realize you lived here," Stan had said, looking around the dingey neighbourhood as he followed her up the front steps of the brownstone.
"Oh?" Peggy fumbled with her keys in the front door, the chain heavy with them. "It was Abe's idea." She could feel Stan behind her as the door swung inward. She hadn't meant to bring Abe up.
"Ah," was all he said.
"Sorry."
But he hadn't seemed to care, his hands running over the waist of her coat, distracting her from the series of bolts to unlock her own door. She was almost there, her hands trembling as his mouth found the side of her neck. He seemed to like it there, his lips had a habit of finding that sensitive spot below her ear and it sent sharp pangs down her spine and heat between her legs. She had been so preoccupied with his mouth that she didn't realize he had dropped his hands to the hem of her skirt until his fingers were at the very insides of her thighs. She knew she already had wetness there, but his pleased exhale against her temple confirmed it.
Any of her tenants could have walked down the stairs and seen her like this, pinned against her door with a man's hands up her skirt. She had almost given up on the last deadbolt when a set of fingers lightly, finally found the space between her legs and she nearly jumped at the touch.
Stan had laughed against her cheek. "You need help?"
"No," she had remarked, her voice a bit sharp to cover the complete churning of her insides. "I got it." And her wrists somehow worked again and she kicked the door open. And once they were inside her apartment, she had realized how unnecessarily nervous she suddenly was. But Stan had seen her naked before, and his appreciation had been difficult to hide, despite his insistence that it was remnants from the Playboy he had been reading just to get under her skin. They had both been naive back in 1965, maybe just in different ways. Peggy laughed at the memory, and Stan had given her an amused grin.
"What's so funny?" he had asked, re-locking the door as he kicked his boots off to the side. She flicked on the stand-up lamp trio, which sent soft shadows across the walls and ceiling.
"Nothing." And she had reached up to him, asking to be kissed, her hands insistent once again in his hair and along his back.
The sex had left her legs tingling and her belly aching. Stan was stocky, clearly once very athletic, although softened from a decade of sitting at a desk all day, and he had been delightfully heavy between her legs. It had been different than Abe or Duck or Ted. Stan's ego was good for one thing besides artwork, at least, and he knew what she had wanted, even when she didn't. But it had also been frantic, too many years in the making, and she could already feel the bruises forming on her hips and ass, in the array of his finger pads. He would probably have little red crescent marks on his back from where her nails had dug too deep.
She wasn't that same girl now, was she?
"What're you thinking about?" Stan is bored with pretending to sleep, and he plucks the burning cigarette from her fingers, bringing the stub to his own mouth and taking a last drag on it. He leans over her to smash it in the glass ashtray on her bedside table, and when he moves back, his nose drags along the top edge of her stomach, lips then moving up to kiss the closest breast, sucking the soft nipple into his mouth. Peggy feels her stomach kick up against her ribs, her mouth coming open in an exhale just as he kisses her there.
"This," she replies against his teeth, boldly taking his drawing hand and placing it on her stomach. She feels his wide grin beneath his moustache. His fingers circle her navel, finding the little criss-cross pattern of stretch marks, so light they are almost invisible. Abe or Duck or Ted had never noticed them, but she had never given them a reason to look. He shifts his weight, kissing her mouth once more before moving back to her neck, down her chest. His palms slide under her thighs as he knees them apart, his tongue lazily attending to the pattern of freckles across her torso. Her stomach gives an odd little quiver and his fingers tighten on her legs, keeping her still.
She tries to pretend that the silvery marks aren't there, keeping that hole in her heart at bay, but Stan's mouth is warm and wet against them and she sighs, running a hand through her hair, the flip long-since flat after an hour against the pillow. Her inhale is so sharp it bows her back off the sheet, Stan's face unceremoniously dropping between her legs, his body shifting back. When she looks down at him, all she can see is the mess of hair and beard, a back that still holds thick muscle, the curves of his arms beneath her body.
It's better than her daydreams. Her legs tighten around his face and her ankles come up as she bears down, clenching her teeth to keep from squealing. The tickle of his beard, the suction of his mouth and flat press of his tongue is almost painful, and her hands don't know how to respond. They finally find the sheet, bunching the cotton between her fingers, her belly's vibrations searching for balance. She can't keep it bottled anymore and she sighs shakily, loudly, her voice too needy for her own ears, flush blooming across her face and down her body.
"Stan…" Shit, was that her voice? She had never been one of those girls.
"Yeah, Ba-" He cuts himself off before he finishes the pet name she had banished back at the office. He grins anyway as he raises his head, easily picking her body up and rearranging her on the bed, her muscles giving a protest that also feels like a perfectly long stretch. "You'll have to coin something else for me to call you," he laughs, smoothing his palm up and down her side. They're lying in a diagonal line across the mattress, and her ceiling looks dizzying from this angle.
"I do have a name, you know," she manages to bring herself to reply, her hands lifting to run over his shoulders. His gaze is still down at her body, his nose lingering over her chest.
"Peggy Olson, Copy Supervisor," he replies, still distracted. "God damn, your tits are fuckin awesome."
Peggy giggles, unable to stop it. "Stan…" She squirms under him, even as his weight presses forward, his palms sneaking under her to bring her hips up, his body fitting snugly into hers. His torso lifts up, knees spreading her legs wider, and his forearm briefly rising to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and her from his mouth. Peggy feels high. She is high, Stan's weed somehow stronger than the stuff Abe used to buy.
It's slower this time, sweeter, and she's glad for it, her entire body already exhausted, yet not tired enough. Stan coaxes her back up and she lifts her hands, running her nails through his damp beard, playing with the ends of his moustache, watching his eyelashes - that shifting golden brown- too pretty on any girl, let alone Stan Rizzo.
They lie in a slump for too long after, and Peggy has to elbow him off, pushing herself up. He groans in protest, rolling onto his back, scritching his fingers through his hair. "What are you doing?" he complains as she gets up, craning his neck back to watch her walk over to the window and open it. Their clothes are scattered across the hardwood in an almost comical trail, and Peggy kicks them to the side of the room as she passes. She quickly pees and washes her face, giving herself a critical once-over in the bathroom mirror. Her skin glistens in that strange combination of sweat and saliva, patches of pale and rouge over her stomach, light marks starting to form on her thighs and at the base of her throat. Her summer robe hangs on the back of the bathroom door, and she ties it loosely on, the silk cool.
She brings Stan a beer from the fridge but he has just finished rolling a joint, his tongue licking it closed, his lips sucking on the end to seal it. "You want this?" Peggy asks as she climbs back onto the bed, settling next to where he's leaning against the headboard, the sheets half-covering him, only his watch and turquoise to his name.
"Sure," he replies around the joint, tilting his head as he lights it with the Zippo he must've found in her nighttable. Small panic bubbles in her chest. What else did she have in there? Abe's notes? Lady Chatterley's Lover? Tampax?
But Stan seems unperturbed as he takes the beer with his free hand, puffing on the joint with the other. He lets the smoke exhale through his nose as Peggy leans in to kiss him. "You might have to give me another minute," he remarks, smirking against her soft brush of lips. She gives his chest a light smack.
"Such a pig. Give me that." She takes the joint, settling against his shoulder as she lets herself relax. His body heat no longer seems oppressive, but comforting. Peggy examines the joint as she passes it back, cracking open her own green bottle. "There's nothing else in that, right?"
"What you mean?" Stan places the end of the joint back in his mouth, puffing around it. He's found a pad of paper and pencil lead, doodling on the corner, his fingers steady, pushing expert lines even without paying much attention. His eyebrows quirk together as her question clicks and he gives her a dubious blink. "It's fucking grass, Peggy. I grew it myself."
"Oh." She takes a second, then squints in surprise. "You what?"
Stan huffs another thick cloud of damp smoke. "In my closet."
"Isn't that…"
"Illegal?" he answers in amusement, the lines in his mouth seeming to curl all the way up to his eyes.
Peggy acknowledges her bottle in his direction. "Good point." She crosses an arm over her chest, staring at the opposite wall, listening to the scratching of his pencil on the yellow notepad. Then she smiles, taking another small drink. "Stan Rizzo… green thumb," she teases.
"Shut upppp," he complains. But the crinkle around his eyes doesn't drop.
"Jesus, when is that pizza gonna get here?" Stan throws the notepad down in frustration. There's a series of discarded yellow pages at his feet, some with work panels, others of elaborate doodles in Art Nouveau's revival, a profile of Peggy's stomach and breasts that he would later hang on his bathroom mirror. She's lying in the other direction, her feet perched on the headboard-shelf, her own pad of paper in her hands, pen pressed against pursed lips. Her bare legs are distracting, the hem of her robe falling to the sides. He can see the inside of her thigh, a slight sheen on her pale skin.
"When it gets here." She lowers her paper to glance at him, hair mussed from either his fingers or hers, that little set of lines back between his eyebrows. The air had grown damp from the open window, and rain is pattering on the sill. Peggy tosses her work next to Stan's discarded pages, lowering her legs and scooting herself forward to lean over and slam the window shut. She turns back to find him looking at her, eyes glossy and red from the smoke.
"You know this is fucked, right?" he deadpans.
Peggy rolls her eyes. "What are you talking about? I had to convince you that doing it in my office with the door open was a bad idea."
"No." Stan gestures to the pages with a hand, "we're working on a Thursday - it's nearly midnight-" His hand tugs on her waist, pulling her close to his chest. His mouth tastes strongly of weed when he kisses her, and if she wasn't already stoned the contact of his tongue would be enough to make her so. It's a shorter, sweeter kiss, just an offer to convince her. He leans his forehead against her temple, his beard brushing her swollen lips. "Let's go to bed," he proposes quietly to her ear, kissing that part of her jaw.
She smiles, her eyes flickering up at the ceiling, recognizing the sexy voice that she used to bug him about. "We already are in bed…" She lifts her fingers to trace the ridges across his upper ribs as she slings a leg over to straddle him. Her other fingertips pull lightly at his mouth, tugging at the curve of his lower lip, slipping around his lower teeth. His pupils are wide, even under drooping lids. "Or is this what you mean?"
The obtuse sound of the front buzzer stops any retort he might have come back with. "Pizza," Peggy laughs as Stan groans, dropping his head back to hit against the shelf.
"Forget the pizza, I'm not hungry anymore-" he tries to hold onto her waist as she tries to elegantly hop over him, but almost ends up falling on her face instead. She rights herself, retying her robe shut.
"Do you have any cash? I'm not sure I have enough."
"Should be a couple bucks in my wallet." Stan swings his legs over the edge of the bed, standing up with a bit of a sway, scratching his stomach. He disappears into the bathroom and she finds three dollars in the back pocket of his jeans. She tries to fix her hair as she hurries through the front room, unlocking the front door as the buzzer impatiently goes off again.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" she yells as she steps into the hall, quickly wiping her lips off with the sleeve of her robe, making sure it's tied tight enough that the wind doesn't help her flash whatever crowd of degenerates were standing around her stoop. She double-checks the money as she pries the door open, immediately getting hit in the face with the rain pelting in from the south-east. Her mouth dries out. It's not the delivery she was expecting. "Oh."
"You going to let me in or let me drown out here?" Don asks loudly, dryly, already stepping in through the door. He's holding the pizza Stan ordered. "Here. Took this from a sad-looking kid." Don shuts the door, ignoring the look of utter surprise still plastered on her face.
It takes Peggy another second to find her voice. "What… what are you doing here? I thought - when did you get back?" Her voice turns from shocked to demanding, hands on hips, despite only her thin robe covering them. "I was so… worried!" She realizes she's more relieved than angry, and throws her arms around him. She feels him sigh, one hand holding the pizza away from her, the other holding a leather dufflebag. His denim jacket is soaked from the rain, but she doesn't care, his flannel shirt soft on her cheek.
"Peggy, my hands are a little full here." Don laughs against her hair, then lets out a slight cough. "Jesus, you just come back from a Grateful Dead concert?"
Peggy pulls back to glare at him. "You're such a hypocrite." But he's smiling, and she knows he doesn't mean it. She doesn't mean it either, not really. She stares at him, still not entirely convinced he's real. Maybe she's still stoned.
He clears his throat. "Are you going to invite me in?"
"Oh…" she laughs nervously, shaking her head. "Of course. Of course." She gestures to her open doorway, and Don follows her lead, stepping into the apartment before her. He's thinner than he was a few months ago, but he doesn't look as tired, the bags under his eyes softened, the lines around his forehead lightened. He places the pizza box on the sidetable and she realizes she's still clutching Stan's three dollars in her palm. Oh, shit-
"Don?" Stan's bewildered voice is behind her even before she's finished her panicked thought. She sees Don's gaze flick up and surprise draw his head back on his neck, an amused frown forming on his face. He looks down at Peggy and then up at Stan, his face showing each dot connecting. Peggy can't erase the wince on her expression, unable to bring herself to turn around. Please let him be dressed. Please let him be dressed.
Stan has pulled on his jeans and his shirt - only half buttoned up his stomach - is wrinkled from where she had kicked it out of the way. It's completely obvious. Peggy swears under her breath, giving Stan a death-glare. He pretends not to notice, a smile starting to break over his face as he walks through the room, offering Don a hand.
"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes," Stan smirks as Don smiles, a somehow strange look on his face, shaking the hand he's offered. As Stan pulls back, he puts his hands to his hips, surveying their returned boss, unable to wipe the grin off his face.
"Stan. How've you been?"
"Can't complain."
Don raises his eyebrows dryly, clearly trying to keep from pointedly looking around the room. "I can see that."
Peggy smoothes down the front of her robe, trying to smooth her nerves at the same time. "You want coffee?" she interrupts. "I want coffee."
"Uh, sure." Don starts to take off his wet jacket and Peggy hesitates, looking to Stan. He is still out of his mind. Her own head swims a bit and she massages her eyes with her palms, trying to rid her vision of the little twinkle lights, the action only making it worse. But Stan is opening the pizza box, his previous insistence that he'd rather have sex than food conveniently forgotten. She doesn't ask him if he wants coffee, slowly retreating into the kitchen, unsure if it's wise to leave her Creative Director and Art Director-now-boyfriend alone together for too long. She practically throws water and coffee grounds into her percolator, fidgeting with the gas switch on her stovetop as she peers around her kitchen doorway to keep an eye on Stan and Don.
"Weren't you in California just yesterday?" Stan asks, sitting on her couch and rolling up a piece of pizza, taking a bite.
"Yes…" Don sits in her wingbacked chair, tapping his fingers on the armrests. "Touched down an hour ago." He reaches into the box for his own slice.
Peggy frowns, trying to keep one eye on the stove and the other on the two men in her living room, each looking out-of-place for different reasons. She's not sure she's ever seen Don in jeans before. "You just got back?" she asks Don loudly, "and you came… here?"
He gives a chuffed laugh around his bite of pepperoni, looking up at her, his eyebrows that always-perfect arch over the bridge of his nose. His eyes are glistening, excited, that look he gets just before he dumps a lot of work onto her plate. She's not sure if she should be relieved that he's still alive or worried that he's maniacally hanging onto the last threads of his career. Don leans forward onto the edge of the chair, his flannel rolled up to the elbows, gesturing excitedly with his hands, even as he fixes where his bangs have fallen over his forehead. "I have an idea."
"Oh, God." Peggy blinks open her eyes. The apartment is blinding her, the light streaming in through her open living room window. Somewhere, her alarm is going off. "Stan!" she yells, blinking, rolling onto her side, but finding herself flush against the back of the couch. She'd fallen asleep there sometime a few hours ago. "Stan, get the alarm!" Her mouth tastes like sawdust.
She waits for his retort, or the end to that damn beeping, but there is no response. She untangles herself from the afghan blanket someone draped over her, kicking it off and nearly knocking a half-full beer bottle from the coffee table. Her robe is tied lopsided, so she fixes it as she stumbles across the hardwood to silence her alarm clock. Her bed is still unmade, her sheets stained, a full ashtray on one pillow and two empty bottles on the back shelf. It looks more accusing in the daylight. She rips the dirty sheets off the mattress, putting the ashtray on her nightstand, gathering the pillow cases and walking through into the kitchen and to the back porch.
"Stan?" she calls one more time, chewing on her lip. She's still sore, that tell-tale stretch in her thighs, the rash on her neck; besides, there's too much evidence in her apartment, in her hands as she stuffs her soiled bedclothes into the washer machine. She checks the kitchen one more time before looking back at her messy living room. The papers, Don's ideas, and Stan's rough sketches are gone from where they were scattered on the floor until the early hours. Her apartment is just as empty as it was yesterday morning. Even the cat is missing.
She is almost late, stepping off the elevator onto McCann's 18th floor at two minutes to nine. She had hopped into the shower to scrub her skin with her nails, fixed her flip with a curling wand, pulled on one of the scooter dresses she had bought last week at Macy's, left her legs bare, and did her makeup on the subway. The businessmen across from her had watched in mild fascination.
There is a strange buzz in the hall as her heels click down the tile. One of her junior copywriters, McNeil, had ducked into his office when he saw her coming. He was a bit off anyway. There is a crowd of secretaries hanging around the kitchenette, but that wasn't too unusual, although the phones ringing impatiently in the background was. As soon as Peggy opens her office door, Marsha is at her heels. "Morning, Peggy!" she chirps, handing her a stack of folders. "These came for you from Mr. Riley in Accounts. Also, you have messages from Misters Rizzo and… Draper." She looks excitedly at Peggy to see her reaction. Peggy manages to keep a straight face as Marsha hands her a cup of coffee next, clearly put-out that she seemed unimpressed.
"Thank you, Marsha." Peggy holds out her free hand for the message cards. "Can you shut the door?"
"Of course." Marsha gives her another secret smile, as if the two of them were sharing some important gossip. "I'll buzz you for your 9:30 with Creative."
Peggy nods, smoothing the back of her dress as she sits down at her desk. Her phone and typewriter are still in disarray from where Stan had shoved her against them. She tidies her desk as she reads her messages. The one from Don just says requests meeting, and then one from Stan says call upon arrival, in Marsha's beautiful script. Peggy takes a drink from her coffee cup as she picks up her phone. She calls Stan's extension on line 3.
He sounds annoyed when he answers. "Rizzo." His voice is sharp.
"It's me." Peggy twists the phone cord around her fingers, turning to look out her window.
"Oh." Stan's voice loses a bit of edge. She can hear voices in the background, Charlie's thick Boston accent. "You hear the news?"
"Well, clearly he's back." Peggy shakes her head, amused. "He has more guts than I would."
"Yeah." There's a whirr of an electric pencil sharpener and Stan's swallow of his morning coffee. "Walked into Hobart's office around 8:30, apparently. Hobart's secretary didn't have a clue who he was." Stan chuckles, only a little bitterly. "Waltzes back in after a 3-month bender. Good thing he came back with that idea for Coke, or Ferg Donnelly probably would've drop-kicked his ass through his fancy 19th-floor window."
Peggy waits a minute to see if he's gotten it off his chest, but he goes silent, waiting for her to speak. "This idea is big, Stan. It's not ever going to be the same."
Stan sighs in her ear. "I know."
She takes a bite of the sweet roll Marsha had left on her desk, with a packet of orange marmalade on a little white plate. She picks at the inside, avoiding the crust. Stan is still quiet, and she listens to his light breathing and the familiar sound of him working. His lines always sound confident, long strokes and light scratches. "When did you get in?" she asks after a minute, quietly, although what she actually means is when did you leave?
"Bout 30 minutes ago. Don wants more finished work."
Peggy checks her watch. "The meeting with Creative is in 25 minutes."
"I'm almost done."
"Oh." She fades off, being quiet for another minute until Stan laughs. There's a muffled sound of a door shutting and his end of the line is suddenly still.
"I had to go back to my place to shower and change clothes."
"What time?"
"4:30? I can't really remember. You fell asleep about 4, and we split soon after."
Peggy laughs at the image of Stan and Don stumbling down her front steps in the dead of night. Her intercom goes off.
"Mr. Draper would like to see you," Marsha says apologetically.
"Jesus Christ," Stan complains suddenly in her ear. "Peggy, I gotta go. Chuck's just cut the top of his thumb off with an X-Acto."
Peggy winces. "Don't let him bleed on the work. See you in a bit." She hangs up as she presses her intercom to reply to Marsha. "Let him know I'm coming."
The 19th floor is in even more of a state than the 18th. Everyone is talking behind hands, sending each other Looks - as if any of them knew what was going on - and Peggy is instantly irritated. Don's office door is closed, no secretary at her post outside, where Meredith had been let go the week before. She stalks up to Don's door and knocks loudly, not waiting for a response before she barges in. Don peers up at her, dressed in a neatly pressed grey suit, a sharp contrast to his plaid and denim of the night before. But his eyes are still warm, relaxed.
"Peggy! Shut the door." Don stands up, fixing his suit jacket as he walks around his desk. Everything in the room had been boxed up, and their contents are now strewn in disarray across part of its floor. She side-steps half-open folders as she tiptoes across the room. She's expecting the first words out of his mouth to concern Coca-Cola, but his hands land on her shoulders and he hugs her tightly instead. She goes rigid with surprise, but then relaxes against his familiar chest, his familiar smell, feeling his lips on the top of her head. Her nose tingles with the sudden rush of unexpected emotion.
"It feels like I've been gone a long time," Don says, voice rumbling against her cheek. "A lot has changed." He rubs her arms as he pulls back to watch her. His lips move in a smile he's trying not to show. "You and Stan?"
Peggy immediately blushes. "That's… recent. Really recent."
"Well." Don moves back to his desk, once again unbuttoning his jacket as he sits down. "Not that I'm surprised. The pair of you have been fighting like an old married couple for years."
Peggy's mouth drops open. "We have not!" She falls into one of the folding chairs on the closest side of the desk, crossing her arms over her chest. She scowls at Don's clear amusement, even though she knows it's true. "Whatever," she mutters. She glares out the window, and then back at Don, but he's still smiling and she can't be frustrated anymore. "Thanks for coming back."
His smile gets a little smaller, sadder. "Thanks for having me back."
She reaches across the table, taking his hand, and he squeezes hers between both of his. She has no idea what he did in California for three months, but she doesn't really care. He seems different, yet the same. Same haircut, same suit, same voice. Different eyes. Different smile. Like something had been both broken and healed and he had run ten thousand miles for it. But that wasn't her business, it was her business to have him on the straight and narrow, back home where she could keep an eye on him. When had she turned into such a mother hen?
"I want you to be my lead copywriter on this," Don says, interrupting her thoughts. "No one else. Only you."
"Really?" Peggy blanches. "Are you sure?"
"Positive." He takes a mouthful of coffee from his cup and swallows it, wincing at the taste. She wonders who made it, or if he made it himself. He puts the cup down and pushes it away, just in case it tempts him again. "I also want Stan on it."
Her heart does a little roller-coaster loop-de-loop around her throat. "Okay," Peggy nods, a little too quickly, as if to compensate for her split hesitation.
"Will that be a problem?" Don asks pointedly, holding out his hands for her answer. Peggy makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat, scoffing at his suggestion, narrowing her eyes that he even had to ask.
"No, don't be ridiculous."
Don smiles, satisfied. "Okay."
Marsha finds them just after 9:20, sticking her head in the doorway apprehensively. "Meeting in 10."
Don distinguishes his cigarette by flicking it into his forgotten coffee cup. "Thank you, Marsha," he says in dismissal. Peggy rolls her eyes at how he speaks to her secretary as if she was his instead. But he's already standing, rebuttoning his jacket, straightening the notes he's drawn up. She tries to listen as he goes over their game plan one more time, but all the secretaries are gawking as they walk through the hall to the elevator. She nods at all the right parts, but now she's getting nervous. This could turn into a disaster. She had no idea if Stan was right about Don and Hobart, maybe she was about to get her ass handed to her.
The executive conference room is already packed to full capacity, but two slicked-up Accounts men immediately stand when they enter, offering their seats. Peggy spies Stan near the back of the room, a cigarette hung out of one side of his mouth, looking unimpressed. He gives her a slight nod, the tiniest hint of a smirk at one corner of his beard. She shakes her head once in a silent reply, trying not to look back, smoothing her dress as she takes the seat next to Don. Stan's presence calms her nerves - even with 30 other people in the room, and a conference table and five men in suits between them. With the exception of her few months at CGC, Stan had been present at all her internal pitches of the last five years. She glances over at Don, who is sucking on a new cigarette, seemingly cool as a cucumber. But she can see the tiny tremor in his hand as he brings the cigarette down to exhale.
It's almost 6:15 on the Friday before Halloween, so Peggy figures there's a good chance that most of the Art Department will have already snuck out. It's quiet on 14 as she walks down the hall, only in stocking feet, her heels in her hands. Despite their massive success in the Creative meeting earlier in the day, Don had gone home precisely at 5pm, leaving her to pick her jaw up off the desk.
"See you Monday," he had said, squeezing her shoulder.
"Yep," Peggy had replied after a second, giving him a smile. "See you Monday."
"Go home, Peggy." And then he vanished from her doorway in that familiar way, swish of trench coat and fedora, somehow still stuck in the 50s, yet belonging in the 70s. The day had been a blurr, stream of papers and memos, eager copywriters lined up to offer their availability on the bergoning campaign. News had spread like wildfire through the office.
Don was back. Don was back and Coca-Cola would never be the same. They would be a brand, an emotion. A whole lot of emotions, not just a fizzy drink.
She had intended to call Stan at that moment, as Don's coattails disappeared around the doorframe. Maybe to flirt, or maybe to ask him to come up, or maybe just to hear his voice. It would only take a minute to read what McNeil and Tony had hopefully handed to her an hour ago, and then she would go to Stan. Her fingers itched to exercise her trusty red grease pencil. And so the next time she looked at the clock it was 6, and even the copy floor was quiet.
Hesitantly, she pokes her head through the senior studio door. It's in its usual state of organized chaos, piles of tracing paper and used charcoals, campaigns organized by the size of the reject pile. Stan is sitting at his drafting table, a deep frown on his face as he works, not even noticing her as she glances furtively around. "Stan," she whispers loudly. He glances over, looking at her like she's certifiable.
"What are you doing?" he sighs, leaning back on his stool. "George is gone."
"Are you sure?"
"Do you see him moping behind me?"
Peggy steps into the studio, still not quite convinced. She avoids a Pollock look-alike paint drip beside Charlie's desk, placing a hand on Stan's shoulder as she leans in and kisses him lightly. It feels immediately comfortable, as if it had been 3 years, not 3 days. Stan picks up the phone as he turns back to his desk, his fingers and forearm stained silver from the stack of drawings on the light-table. "What's Don's extension again? I can't remember what he said about those footnotes-" He shuffles his papers around as if looking for the answer, the phone receiver cradled between his face and shoulder.
"Don left."
"Yeah, ha ha."
"No, he left."
"What, to get food?"
"No." Peggy raises her eyebrows as if they're discussing a sordid secret, placing one hand on her hip and leaning the other into the table's edge. "For the weekend."
Stan looks up at this, blinking, no smart quip on his lips. He shrugs, tossing the phone back to its receiver, and gives a skeptical chuckle. "Well, shit." He scratches his beard with the eraser end of his 6B. "He banged your door down at midnight because he couldn't wait six hours to come in to work, but now it can wait three days until Monday?"
Peggy laughs, hoisting herself up to sit on the desk next to him, crossing one leg over the other. "We needed to get it on paper. Maybe he thought he'd forget it. I mean, he did just save his career." She nods, not really to Stan, just to herself. "Are you almost finished? I'm starved."
He puts the pencil down, looking up at her and laughing. "Did I walk into the Twilight Zone? SC&P's two biggest workaholics clocking out before dinner?"
Peggy makes an annoyed sound with the back of her tongue against her cheek. She looks at him in a challenge, eyebrows set defiantly. "Well, are you coming or not?"
Stan is still grinning at her. "I like it when you're bossy." His palm circles her ankle, her bare leg, leaving a streak of graphite up her calf, around her knee.
"No, you don't," she laughs as he places both hands on her knees, dragging her seat to the edge of the table and then sharply tugging her down into his lap. His thighs are hard, muscles tensing as he brings her closer, wrapping his arms around her bare legs, his fingers skimming under her dress. It should've been easy, all she had to do was lift her hips up and reach for his belt. It wasn't as if she had never thought about it, never fantasized him bending her over his desk, maybe the conference room table, SC&P's Creative Couch. They had had so many opportunities, all those late nights, sharing an office for all those years.
But she thinks of Stan and Wendy Gleason, caught in this same position, each too high and too close to notice Cutler's giggles and her disgusted scoff. It had hurt, at the time. He actually hadn't wanted her, he just wanted it. She shouldn't have even been hurt, there had been Abe. But then, there hadn't been Abe, there had only been Stan, kissing her neck, her mouth, wide hand on her back. Blood and smoke and Mountain Dew.
She had spent two years rehearing him and Wendy, that sound their bodies made together, his breath on some other girl's throat. She had been irritated, and embarrassed, and jealous without even realizing. She's not even sure Stan remembers Wendy, their tryst on the couch. He probably didn't remember Peggy mending his arm, or protesting against his legs, letting him kiss her, that soft touch of his moustache on her lower lip.
A soft whine hitches in her throat, and her hands fumble with the buttons down the front of his denim shirt. He responds instantly, as if unsure up to that point if she would actually commit. His eyes are a bit hazy as he pulls his mouth from hers to find the zipper on the back of her dress, his thick fingers deft, pulling it down in one zip, and up over her head in one swoop. She barely realizes he's unclipped the front of her bra, that she's a thin piece of fabric away from being completely naked in the office.
Not that she was so innocent. She had just been so naive, letting Pete Campbell have her not once, but twice. She had already gained 10 lbs when he had pushed her onto his office couch that early morning. She had blamed her cherry danish habit.
"Peggy." Stan's voice is thick, bringing her back, his gaze down as she settles into him. His belt is cold against the inside of her thigh and she steadies her palms against the width of his chest, gauging his reaction. She loves that look on his face, that sound in his mouth, as she tries to replace that old memory with this new one.
November
They spend Halloween night in an underground theatre in the East Village, where The Damned was playing on a non-stop rotation with Butch Cassidy. Peggy thought it an odd combination, but Stan seemed unconcerned, and handed over a dollar to the waify girl standing behind the glass booth, her eyes faraway. The seats were mostly empty, the air hazy, and Stan lit a joint as she put her feet up on the seat infront of her, opening the box of Red Hots she bought at the cornerstore. A young couple a few seats over, a few more rows down, were obvious about it. Blatant. The woman was backlit by the screen behind her and Stan had slouched in his seat, scratching his chest with a stoned grin, watching them. Peggy had watched them too, fidgeting a bit in her seat, sharing Stan's joint as she leaned against his shoulder. He drank half her Cola.
They left halfway through the second movie, had sex against the wall in the nearest bathroom: her heel against the toilet, one hand gripping the sink, the other twisting in his hair. In another circumstance, it would have been crude, but it mostly felt good to be wanted, loved like that.
She had been to his apartment before, close to Union Square, back when it was little more than an unwilling one-bedroom. She and Ginsberg had dropped him off one night, Ginsberg doing most of the leg-work, she almost as drunk as Stan. Back in the last days of Sterling, Cooper, Draper, Pryce. A woman's touch was evident now, even if the woman was gone. The walls were painted, moldings retouched, window coverings replaced with shades, and when she got a drink of water, there was a set of complete dishes, even if some of the pottery was chipped. When they showered in his blue-tiled, surprisingly clean bathroom, the soap dish had a porcelain sparrow carved in its edge.
The night is cold, and they sleep under the heavy, colourful quilt on his bed. She can't imagine Elaine stitching it. She mostly imagines Elaine as a Marilyn.
The Grace Church bells start ringing at 8:30 and Peggy lets out a soft complaint. Stan's breath is heavy on his pillow, not quite a snore, his mouth open. It's just barely light out, and the dawn softens all the deep lines on his face, playing tricks with the silver hairs in his beard and at his temple. He opens an eye, somehow feeling her gaze, and a crooked smile twists through his moustache.
"You hog the covers," he mumbles, voice cracking.
"Well, you hog everything else." Peggy rolls over onto her other hip and his hand easily finds the front of her stomach, pulling her back flush with his chest. His thumb lightly skims over her hip, finding that second set of little silver markings. She can't tell if it's curiosity or absent-mindedness, that his fingers keep returning to those spots. His hand stills after a minute, his breath long on the back of her shoulder, and she drops into a moment's light doze.
"Did he know?" Stan asks quietly, and she feels the movement of his mouth in her hair. Her eyes open again and she thinks she reads his subtext as, Was it Don's? But of course he didn't think of her.
"After. It was the best decision." She places her hand on his forearm, drawing it further around her into an embrace, her breast filling his slack palm. Part of her is annoyed that he's choosing this time to have this conversation, to ask the question she knows is coming. But mostly she feels it will be a relief, to have him know, now that Pete is in Kansas and she doesn't have to look at him every day. Because even though he had learned to be less cruel, even became a sort of friend, it was hard to forget. Despite what Don had told her.
She waits for Stan to ask her, but he doesn't, his mouth busy at her neck instead. He's hard against the small of her back, has been even when she thought him asleep. But her stomach flutters uncomfortably and it bubbles up in her throat, the words, so she says them aloud, both harsher and softer than she meant to. "Pete's."
The second he goes still she fears her heart will explode. They lie in stunned silence for a very long second until she can speak again. "Stan?"
"I… I did not see…" Stan shifts behind her, pressing her onto her back so he can lean up onto his elbow and stare down at her. She can't quite determine the expression on his face, somewhere between disbelief and anger. Maybe a smirk. "You mean Pete Comb-over Campbell, right?"
"I'm sorry, do we know another mutual Pete?" Peggy replies sharply, hurt at his tone, even though she's not sure what she was expecting. Oh, that's nice, Honey. I'm sure he was a good lay.
Pete had been a terrible lay, too fast and sharp and selfish, even though she hadn't realized at the time.
"So. You 'followed your heart' with Pete Campbell?" Stan leans back against the wall, scrubbing his palm over his beard. "Jesus, fucking Christ." He reaches to the side table and grabs a half-empty carton of Chesterfield Kings, forcibly smacking the box against his hand until one falls out. He lights it with a heavily scratched Zippo, his face vanishing into a puff of smoke and sunlight. Peggy stares at him, getting angry, mostly at herself for telling him.
"Fuck you." Peggy throws back the layers of blankets, the cold air hitting her instantly as she leaves the warm bed. She only has one foot on the hardwood when his fingers close over her wrist.
"Hey. Peggy! That's not-that's not what I meant…" Stan finishes in frustration, sighing heavily. She glances over her shoulder at him, tears of embarrassment stinging her eyes. "Come back, I didn't mean it like that…" His grip tightens and he tugs her backwards, her knees going weak as she unwillingly falls back against him.
"It sure sounded like you meant it like that," Peggy scowls, impatiently wiping her lower lids with her thumbs. She snatches the cigarette from his mouth, taking her own deep inhale. His arm slips around her shoulders, his face close to hers, his lips warm and beard soft as he kisses her cheek. She curls her hands in between their chests and he tugs the cigarette back, tossing it into the ashtray next to the lamp, covering her tense fingers with his free ones.
"Sorry, Honey, I didn't mean it like that."
There's not even any jest in his voice when he says it. Honey. Like the colour of the backs of his hands. She is silent, not sure if she's still angry or sad, watching Stan's chest rise and fall with his breath, the smell of the unfiltered smoke. He strokes her neck, shoulder, down her arm, back to where her hands are balled in front of her heart.
"I didn't love him…" She lets out a shaky breath. "It was just a crush, in my first few months at Sterling Cooper. It was only twice."
Stan is frowning at her with dark eyes. "How did he not notice you were pregnant? I mean, I know Pete's a yahoo, but c'mon."
Peggy laughs, fidgeting against him, dropping her hand and playing with the light hair in the center of his chest. "No… I just got fat," she giggles, nervously, embarrassed. "I didn't really look pregnant." She gives a slight eye-roll at the memory. "They all made fun of me…" She looks up to see the flicker of guilt cross his face. He had made fun of her too. Not for being fat, but for being stiff, naive, mouse-eared, Don's favourite little puppy - always nipping at his heels.
"Forget all that," Stan says, sighing. "Everybody does shitty things." He tugs at the ends of her hair as he kisses her, running his fingers through the strands as he flips her down, onto her back, rolls her up onto one hip. That heavy arm of his wraps around her back, forearm pushing on her spine, her chest pressing into him. His tongue tastes of sleep and tobacco, but Peggy's sure that hers does too, so she wraps her free arm around his neck, separating her legs and hooking one thigh over his hip, clinging to how sincere he sounded.
Monday had dawned crisp and sunny, and Peggy knew that nothing could ruin the morning. She had woken up early, before her alarm clock went off, stretched her legs as she minded the cat curled up at by her feet. Her body ached in all the right places: along the column of her neck, down her spine and around her ribcage, that crease where the inside of her thighs met her body.
The elevator is empty as she presses the button for 18. She sighs, tucking her hand in the waistband of her skirt, hesitantly pressing her fingertips where Stan had kissed her stomach, and then a bit lower where she could practically still feel it, the hot heaviness of him. The high-pitched chirp of the elevator announces a stop at floor 5.
"Oh, come onnn," Peggy whines, flicking her sunglasses from the perch of her forehead to the bridge of her nose. She fidgets with the Del Monte folder she took home sometime last week, then promptly forgot about when Stan had found his way into her bed, and she into his. With the exception of their stoned theatre outing, they had spent most of the weekend horizontal: having sex, smoking grass, listening to every album Stan owned. Quicksilver. Crosby Stills Nash. The Band. Richie Havens. Peter Paul and Mary. They had argued for an hour about Puff, the Magic Dragon. They had hashed and rehashed every element of all their campaigns, yet didn't really get anywhere, too much whiskey, too much smoke. Stan's plants were named Woodrow and Albert; Peggy pointed out that they were actually females. When she had left after supper the night before, he had made fun of her.
You better not be going into the office.
Don't be such an ass.
I love you, even if you're a workaholic.
That's why you love me.
Ted stares at her from the other side of the elevator, standing with his new secretary. Peggy can't remember her name. Mary? Moira? Miranda? She's a young, eager girl, earnest almost to a fault. Like Peggy was a decade ago, although with a much shorter skirt.
"Uhh…" Ted awkwardly smoothes down his moustache, glancing between her and his secretary, who has stepped into the elevator with a shy smile at Peggy. "I… forgot my coffee. I'll take the next one." He goes to take a step back but his secretary laughs, flipping her curled ponytail.
"You're holding your coffee, Mr. Chaough. Come on." She holds out a hand to keep the elevator door open and Ted bedgrudgingly steps into the lift, giving his paper cup a traitorous look. He nods stiffly to Peggy, trying to manage a smile, but it showing as a grimace. She replies with only a nod, not budging from her stance in the middle of the elevator, letting him shuffle beside her. His secretary hits the button for 19.
"Thanks, Carol," Ted sighs.
Peggy glances at him from behind her sunglasses. "Nice morning."
"It is." Ted takes a skulky sip of coffee.
"Did you have a nice weekend?" Carol asks her ernestly, reminding her a bit of Meredith, Don's old secretary. She turns large brown eyes on her, waiting for a reply.
Peggy smirks, then bites the inside of her cheek to keep the flush from staining them. "Very nice, actually." The elevator chirps again and the doors open at the 18th floor. She offers a smile to both Ted and Carol, stepping onto the landing and not bothering to wipe it off her face as she heads down the hall.
Her office isn't the same as she left it on Friday. She lifts her sunglasses up to stare in confusion at the second desk that has been crammed against the wall, the stack of cardboard boxes blocking the path to her desk. "Unbelievable," Peggy mutters. She leans her head back, yelling over her shoulder, "Marsha! These were supposed to go to E1726, not E1826-"
Marsha's heels immediately click hurriedly down the hall, and she comes to stand behind Peggy nervously. "Actually…" She's holding a pink memo in her hand. "I'm sorry, Peggy, I just got the message from upstairs. They're a bit short on space, what with the flooding on 17… the new freelancer for the Coca-Cola account is sharing your office-"
"What?" Peggy squints at the boxes, her brain not quite catching up with Marsha's expression.
"Bobby in Traffic thought it would be best, since he'll only be here to work on that account."
"Oh, did he?" Peggy snaps snarkily, tossing the Del Monte folder onto the couch. "We'll see about that-" She glares at Marsha as she turns to stomp past her. But a folder on the top-most box catches her eye, nondescript, but with a scrawl of SHIT I GOTTA DO across the front in block letters. Ginsberg. Ginsberg? Her mouth is so dry.
She had asked Stan about him once, during the summer of the year before. He had yelled at her for being a shitty friend, a shitty person, for never going to see him, not once. They had been close, the three of them, in an odd sort of way, although maybe it was just nostalgia, a set of rose-coloured glasses on what had actually happened. Whatever it was, she couldn't make herself set foot on Ward's Island, not even when Stan called her out for being a fucking hinky bitch. She wrote Ginsberg a letter instead, but never heard back. Maybe he hadn't wanted to talk to her. Maybe he hated her for calling the fuzz and carting him off to the bin.
In her head, it is Stan who says that.
Marsha is still standing in the doorway, unsure. "Peggy?" she asks. "I already called Bobby in Traffic… he wasn't very polite about it-"
Peggy waves her hand to call her off, pushing the boxes a few inches to the left so she can squeeze behind her desk. She falls into the seat in exhaustion. "Forget it."
He doesn't show up until the day is almost over, knocking A Shave and a Haircut on her open door. He's gaunt, and his moustache has grown further down the sides of his mouth, almost to his chin, which only drags his face further down, his hair messy like he had been wearing a hat all day. "Hello," he says after a beat. She's still staring at him. "Fancy meeting you here." He tries a bit of a grin, but there's a twitch in his eyelid and it doesn't come out quite right.
"Hello." Peggy stands, smoothing the front of her dress and squeezing past her desk to stand in front of him. She smiles lightly and he nervously plays with the end of his plaid tie, watching her carefully as she holds out her hands and leans in slowly to hug him. "It's good to see you, Michael."
"Y'know, I'm not a china doll. You ain't gonna break me." He gives her a lame pat on the back as she retreats, trying to hide her embarrassment with a smile, a shake of her head.
"Of course not. How are you doing?"
He gives her a percursory glance. "Well, I have 500 milligrams of chlorpromazine coursing through my veins, if that's what you mean," he replies, a hint of sarcasm to his voice, but mostly just same old Ginsberg. "Your hair looks pretty - you don't look so much like an old lady now."
Peggy sighs, her eyes flickering upwards in a half-roll. "Thank you," she says, letting it go. "So where were you all day?"
"Oh, I just got here." He puts his leather folder down on her desk and immediately starts pushing it backwards.
"Ginsberg! What are you doing?!" she squawks, her hands flying to her ears to hide the sound of her desk banging against her chair, sending it flying into the wall.
"What? We gotta move all this stuff around…" He pushes her typewriter desk closer to the window, and she tries not to think of Stan. Mouth. Hands. Back. Tongue. "You don't want me encroaching on your precious elbow room, now do you? Peggy? And -Jesus, what the hell is that?" He's staring at the old painting above her couch, still hosting the Halloween decorations she had stuck on its glass pane a few weeks ago.
"It was Cooper's. Roger gave it to me."
"Oh. It's great. Truly."
They rearrange the office (their office), and Peggy only wants to strangle Ginsberg twice. She has to get rid of one cabinet to fit his desk in the back corner, and Marsha and McNeil push it down the hall for Maintenance to carry off. He rambles as he unpacks one box, leaves the other three in a semi-neat pile by his now-desk, sets up his lamp. Peggy is already on her second rye, and she giggles as she watches him from her own chair, having wrangled her desk back to its original spot.
Marsha buzzes her on the intercom. "Status meeting with Mr. Draper in his office in 10 minutes."
"Status meeting? At 5:30?" Ginsberg blanches, checking his watch. "You're half-drunk."
"No," Peggy protests, even if it might be true, swatting the air between them as she leans in to reply to Marsha. "Thanks, Marsha. You can go home now."
When they meet Stan going up in the elevator, he doesn't look surprised to see Ginsberg. They crack a joke at her expense and she stands in a huff with her hands crossed over her chest. Stan lifts a hidden hand and flips the back of her hair between his fingers, and Peggy crosses one ankle over the other, trying to ignore him. And when they walk into Don's office, he doesn't so much as blink an eye. Apparently she was the only one kept out of the Ginsberg loop, and she was the one who had to share an office with him for the foreseeable future.
"Looks like the band's back together," Don smiles as they all take a seat. Peggy spends more time watching than she does speaking. Coke is McCann's most important account, yet half of the creative team assigned to it are now certifiable, and she and Stan aren't much better. Stan is also silent from his perch on a chair, puffing on a cigarette as he takes notes, his foot circling across his knee. They had been so busy during the day that she hadn't seem him, not even for lunch, not even a phone call. They were always so busy at McCann, and it was difficult to keep in touch on different floors. She hated being on different floors. It felt like taking a creative step backward, after being joined at the hip at SC&P.
Although now that they were sleeping together, it might be better that they're on different floors. She hadn't been as easily distracted before.
"Peggy? Anything you'd like to add?" Don asks pointedly, interrupting the latest Ginsberg diatribe, which involved how Coke was brainwashing the country's youth.
"What? Oh, no." She shakes her head quickly, not quite meeting Don's raised eyebrows.
"Well, this was… unproductive," Don says, tapping his fingertips together in annoyance.
"I gave you 10 lines!" Ginsberg protests.
Don ignores him, standing up instead. "I want 20 lines - good lines - by Friday. And Stan, 20 panels. And get those two other bozos on the copy-"
Peggy blinks, surprised, and wobbles a little as she stands. "You mean McNeil and Tony? You want me to brief them on Coke?"
"Yes, but only as much as you have to."
Peggy scowls as she starts following Stan and Ginsberg from the office and into the half-lit hall. It's after 6 and her stomach rumbles unhappily at her diet of Canadian Club and half a sandwich. "Peggy!" Don calls after her and she pauses in the doorway, glancing back. That look on his face says, get your ass back in here. She sighs, seeing Stan glance over his shoulder questioningly, and she rolls her eyes at him before turning back and shutting the door. Don is back behind his desk, pouring himself a drink, then offering one to her. She nods, suddenly feeling a little too sober.
"I'm sorry about that… " Peggy says, carefully cradling her drink, sitting down into one of the upright orange chairs opposite him. "It's been a crazy day… I mean, a little warning next time you dump Michael Ginsberg into my lap might be nice." It comes out bitterly, and Don watches her, not speaking for a minute.
"I asked for a freelancer, I had no idea he was back on the list-"
"You know what he did, right? He gave me his-"
"Yes, I know the sordid story," Don winces, waving his fingers at her. "I checked into him this morning. We had a long meeting, actually…"
"Oh, did you?" Peggy's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, how nice for you. Glad to know I wasn't included on my own account-"
"Our account," Don says, tapping his finger loudly on the table. "You know, I had to blackmail Hobart into letting me run this my way-"
This catches her attention. "You did? With what?" She giggles in amusement.
"Forget it. The point is, he's not happy I've scrapped the remainder of SC&P together. He wanted Carl's team on it-"
"Oh." Peggy takes a drink.
"Exactly." Don gives her a long look. "If we fail now, he'll banish us to the style section of Good Housekeeping for the next four years." He cracks a tight smile, but Peggy knows he isn't exaggerating.
Her heels feel a little too high as she wobbles down the eighteenth floor hall, Don having fed her three more drinks after he kicked out Stan and Ginsberg. Stan is sitting on her couch, a cigarette in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other, listening to Ginsberg hum the latest CCR single as he bangs loudly on the typewriter. Peggy sighs as she leans against the doorframe, watching Stan's pencil on his favourite Strathmore: a crude drawing of Ferg Donnelly and a big-breasted bald woman. Peggy laughs at it, only slightly toasted, and Stan looks up.
"Hey there, Chief."
"Rizzo…" She hangs off the end of the couch, leaning toward him, not sure what she wants, just wanting to be closer. His paisley ascot is loose around his neck and Peggy tugs the knot free, pulling it from his thick neck and ties it around hers instead. Its warmth lingers on her collarbones. Ginsberg glances over, then does a double-take, a look on his face that reads both confused and realized.
Stan's eyebrows rise as she flips up the end of the scarf and smells it. Smells like Stan. He grins, offering her his cigarette as well. "You and Dad play nice?"
"He's taking us off Avon. Giving it back to Ted." Peggy takes a long drag, claiming the cigarette for her own.
"What?" Stan frowns, putting his drawing pad down and trying not to look too alarmed, but his forehead gives him away. Peggy thinks that his forehead always gives him away. "Why? Sales are through the roof. Even with Joan gone-"
"He thinks we're stretched too thin." Peggy sighs. "I think he's right." She sits on the couch's arm, peeling off the black cat stickers from Cooper's painting. Her painting now. "Let's go." She tries to say it quietly, but Ginsberg's ears perk up anyway and he stops typing to look over.
"Where are you going? It's only 7:30."
Stan gives him a sharp look. "Ginso, you might have stumbled in at half past three, but the rest of us have been here for 11 hours already."
Ginsberg turns back to his typewriter. "Amateurs," he remarks. He doesn't comment on their leaving together, and Peggy isn't sure if it's because he doesn't care or doesn't notice. Even though Stan's apartment is closer, they go to hers so she can feed the cat.
"Can't it live on the rats that run around this place?" Stan grumbles as they climb up from the 81st St platform.
"I didn't realize you had moved into the Plaza," Peggy retorts sarcastically as she takes his forearm, his hand stuffed into the pocket of his leather jacket. Her nose runs in the cold air and she hurries to find the keys in her purse. She catches them easy this time, even with the whiskey fumbling her fingertips. They had avoided the topic of Ginsberg all the way down the elevator (he had kissed her instead) and all the way up the C train (there had been a trio of elderly women across the aisle from them), but when they were finally alone in her apartment (just her, Stan, and Ginger), she couldn't not bring it up. Ginger curled around her feet until she lowered the bowl of food to him. Stan was exploring the pantry cupboards, looking for his own food, and she smirked at the pair of them, both unaware of the parallels.
"When did you know Ginsberg was coming back?" she asks, trying to keep her voice innocent.
"Oh yeah, Ginso followed Frank onto 14," Stan laughs over the bowl of Life cereal he's pouring. "Some sorry sack told him 14 was the executive floor. He wasn't too happy when he found it was just the lowly art department." He has to suck all the air into his chest to imitate Ginsberg's voice. "Rizzo, where's Margaret? Get this - they're stickin me in with her. Can you believe it?"
Peggy laughs, taking the bowl of cereal he hands her, and retreats to the couch, kicking her heels off and putting her feet up on the coffee table. Stan finds one of the less-bruised bananas in her fruit bowl before he follows her, the couch creaking as he sits next to her. He flips his hair out of his eyes as he holds out an arm and Peggy settles against him, her side pressed tightly against his. She takes a mouthful of cereal. "Does he seem different to you? Ginsberg?"
Stan swallows. "Well, he hasn't cut off any body parts yet."
"Stan."
"Look, Peggy, does he seem different to you?"
"A bit… I mean, I think so. Less… Ginsberg." She worries her bottom lip with her upper teeth, thinking of all their interactions over the years. He had always been strange, but not completely neurotic. They used to have fun, in SC&P's creative lounge, poking fun at Stan or Mathis or Bob Benson, playing dirty Mad Libs with the copy Don had assigned them, or just typing in a comfortable silence. Ginsberg today reminded her more of Ginsberg then. Before the whole there's this pressure in my head, like there's a hydrogen bomb that's gonna go off-
"Less Ginsberg." Stan puts pressure on the last g with the base of his tongue. He glances over at her, his fingers twisting through the ends of her hair flip, the light calluses on his fingertips tickling the base of her neck. It makes her eyes close and she feels him munch through another spoonful of cereal. "Y'know, this stuff's not half bad. Always figured it was for little kids and old ladies."
"It's better with chocolate milk," Peggy murmurs, opening her eyes again to eat from her own bowl.
"Now that's a genius idea," Stan laughs, putting his empty bowl down and reaching into his breast pocket for a small metal canister. Peggy finishes her own serving as she watches him shape the joint, his fingers pressing and rolling it back and forth. The lines between his eyebrows deepen as he watches it, thumbs rolling the paper inward, veins tensing in the backs of his hands. Peggy swallows the last bit of her cereal as he seals it with his tongue and sucks it into the corner of his lips, practically in one motion. There's a flick of metal on metal as he lights up, leaning back into the couch and putting his feet up next to hers, a hole in the toe of his right sock.
Peggy feels him exhale before she sees the smoke, smells it in her mouth. She takes the joint when he holds it out to her, thinking how she'd smoked more grass in the last five days than she had the last five years. "You're a bad influence," she murmurs on his shoulder as she takes a hit.
"Oh, please, this is better for you than that Canadian shit you're always drinking."
"Hey! You drink it too."
"Only with you." Stan circles his palm around her closest knee, his thumb hiking her skirt up, but making no other move.
"That's not true," Peggy sighs, taking another drag before handing it back.
"But it has a nice ring to it."
Peggy laughs as she leans her cheek into his shoulder, picturing it. "Canadian Club - only with you."
December
Peggy falls into Stan's empty seat with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest. He doesn't even glance back at her from where he's leaning over his light-table. "What is it now?" he asks tiredly. "Ginsberg still talking about those Montreal terrorists getting a free ride to Cuba?"
"No… well yes, but-" she glances conspiratorially over at George, who is seemingly innocently sorting through photo negatives. Both him and Charlie were now used to Peggy's presence in the Art Department, and they didn't even seem to mind it. She brought them the good danishes from the strategy meetings, and they didn't interrupt her when she had to vent about Lorraine or Bobby or Libby and Karen. They were even occasionally funny. "-I'm avoiding Harry."
"What?" Stan looks back at this, a half-amused look on his face, teeth clenched around a cigarette. "Why?"
"He thinks I have sway with the commercial-"
"You do have sway with the commercial."
"I know…" Peggy glances over at the back of Charlie's head. "When did Harry become such a creep?" She sees Charlie's head move as he snickers.
"About 1954," Stan answers dryly.
"I heard he was arrested in California for following Susannah York into her dressing room-" Charlie adds hopefully, turning around and pushing his glasses up his nose. He reminds her of Ed. Stan laughs loudly, George's ears turn red in embarrassment, and Peggy raises her eyebrows.
"No…" she says, smirking, even though it could very well be true. Charlie turns back around, bringing the scale loupe back to one eye and ducking his head to his work. Stan sits down in his swivel chair, running a hand through his hair as he waits for the ink to dry on his Topaz Pantyhose girl. He checks the time with a flick of his wrist, although Peggy knows it is already late afternoon. "I'm gonna take off… I can't get any work done…"
Stan doesn't look surprised, but his gaze flickers over her in mild concern, taking the cigarette from between his teeth and dropping it into the ashtray at his elbow. "Sure." His hand brushes her forearm as he leans back in his chair, turning to face her. There's a smear of black gauche paint in the right side of his beard, but Peggy doesn't tell him. He wouldn't care about it, not anymore.
"That late night last night…" Peggy shrugs, embarrassed at his attention. "And with Ginsberg and McNeil bickering upstairs all day… I'm beat. I'll work better tomorrow."
"Sure," he repeats, glancing warily over at Charlie and George, blissfully oblivious, each preoccupied with their own work. Peggy quirks an eyebrow, leaning in and leaving a quick, silent peck on his mouth. Don, and maybe Ginsberg, were the only ones who had realized the extent to their relationship, and it was easier to leave it at that. Maybe she was still stuck in the 60s, but Peggy knew the stigma of an office relationship, and she and Stan were a creative team. Copywriter and Art Director. She had a feeling that Lorraine, in all her buttoned-up, straight-backed beehive would separate them the instant she found out. McCann-Erickson was not SC&P. She would be discredited as a supervisor, and as a copywriter.
"Are you almost finished?" Peggy asks, a little too chipper to fill the empty silence that their kiss had introduced.
"Nother couple hours," Stan replies, clearing his throat of the gravel in his voice.
"Okay." Peggy gives a brisk nod, trying to be more business, less teenage girl, pushing herself from the chair.
"I'll see you at home," Stan says, voice just barely reaching her ears. She gives him a small smile as she turns to leave, bidding goodnight to each Charlie and George, who grunt in return. She's not sure when exactly her apartment had earned their joined referral to 'home', maybe around Thanksgiving, when she had blown off family dinner in Brooklyn, and Stan had somehow fit a 10 lb turkey in her oven. She had then designated him as the cook. Anita had called later that night to try and smooth their mother's ruffled feathers, but Mrs. Olsen still wasn't speaking to her. Peggy knew she wouldn't approve of Stan, even moreso than her large dislike of Abe, and she didn't have the energy for another argument. Something about buying the cow when the milk was free.
She tries to hide a yawn, waiting by the elevator with her wool coat over her shoulders, purse clutched to her ribs. She's not all that sure how she made it through the Del Monte pitch with less than 30 minutes sleep. Ted had warned them at yesterday's lunch that the Head of Advertising had changed his mind about the fruit cocktail, and wanted the pineapple version instead. Stan had nearly thrown Ted through the executive conference room window - she had seen the vein pop in his neck - but he had nodded and glared across the table at her instead. Maybe he was glaring at the way she had laughed at Ted's lame joke about Del Monte and Sunkist walking into a bar. She knew Stan had made the connections. Her and Ted. Ted and California. Her and the coffee machine.
Tuesday morning's great.
He had locked them in her office afterwards - Ginsberg was only working three days a week - and finally made good on her typewriter table. Marsha had probably heard them, despite Stan's fingers stuffed in her mouth, but hadn't said anything when she had brought in coffee and sandwiches on her way home for the evening. Her eyes had darted to the couch, the chair, Ginsberg's desk, but Stan had ignored her from his perch by the window, sketching in the last of the day's natural light. It had taken them nearly 16 hours to finish the work, and she had power-napped on her couch while he inked the new panels.
She isn't sure if her back is sore from the couch or from Stan's fingers on her spine as he pushed her back on her typewriter. She'd had to retype the memo after.
Peggy doesn't wake when the front door opens and closes, or when Ginger lets out a yowl as someone steps on his tail, or the bathroom faucet runs on and off. She wakes when the other side of her bed drops down as Stan falls next to her, sighing heavily. She can barely read her bedside clock in the dark room, but it's sometime around midnight, and she rolls over to look at him, the mess of his hair outlined by the light from outside.
"Did everything turn out okay?" Peggy asks, her voice cracking from sleep. "It's late."
"Roger's back." Stan drags his fingers through the back of her hair as he leans in and kisses her. Peggy can taste his latest cigarette on his tongue, but she isn't as easily distracted.
"From France?"
"Mhm… with Megan's mom in tow."
Peggy's knees knock against his as she squirms, the tickle of his beard on her neck, the rough pads of his hands on her arms, skimming over the lace of her nightshirt. "So there was no problems with the artwork? Frank signed off on it?"
"Jesus, are you serious?" Stan groans, his laugh strangled with irritation. He drops onto his back, scratching his chest, the scritch of his short fingernails on skin, even though Peggy's eyes can't focus enough to see it. "Topaz is fine. Both Frank and Don signed off. Roger pinned me down in the elevator, asked a favour."
Peggy flops onto her back too, staring at the ceiling as she chews on her lip. "I hope you milked him for all he was worth," she says dryly.
Stan chuckles, that rich laugh that makes her chest tight and that spot below her stomach hurt. "All nine hundred dollars of it. And two hits of acid."
Peggy laughs, rolling against him, glad for his warmth. "What was Roger doing with LSD?"
Stan's eyelashes brush her forehead as his head tilts to her. "You're such a square."
She grunts in indignation, lightly smacking her stomach with the back of her hand. "I am not." She circles her palm lower, dropping it beneath the blankets bunched at his waist and he exhales loudly, his torso shaking at the contact. Sometimes it's hard to even believe it, that she's with him, that she loves him. She hadn't realized that she had wanted him, too guarded at her job, always trying to assert herself as a capable copywriter first, woman second. Back then, in the times of hotel rooms and Joey Baird, and his thick skull in a crew-cut and his thicker legs in flood pants, Stan had treated her as a woman first, copywriter second. It had left her with fingernails dug into palms, a sharp tongue, and a neck crick from all the eye-rolling.
Neither of them had mentioned their naked Waldorf stand-off after that weekend. She had made one smart remark, and Joey had given her a shockingly knowing glance, cutting through all their sexual tension before they even knew what it was. And then Joey was gone, somehow keeping their secrets, even when she had given him the perfect opportunity. He could've embarrassed her, but instead he had collected his box and left.
Stan had been right. It had given her a smug satisfaction to win, to unnerve him like that. She had noticed the way he looked at her, had seen how his body reacted, despite his denial. If she had caved first, would it have been the same? Would the shame have chased her out of SC&P? He had known how to cut an insult, and she'd been on the sharp end of his teasing for months after their Vick Chemical stalemate. They had both mellowed out, in different ways, over the years. Maybe they were the only ones left standing, after everyone else had gone. His cousin had died, Elaine had left him, she left her baby, Mark and Abe and Ted left her. SC&P had used them.
Stan's fingers are tight in her hair, on her neck, his knees digging into her stomach as they push up, his feet searching for the flat plane of the bed. "Get up." She hardly has a say in the matter, his hands dipping under her armpits, easily pulling her chest back against his. Warm mouth, that heavy full feeling as she presses her hips down, his rough palms wrapping around her back, drawing circles along her spine.
The phone in the kitchen rings, sounding so loud and so quiet, and it's easy to ignore it for once, barely an interruption.
A/N: Oh, hello. I tried for so long to avoid writing Mad Men, but I love Peggy and Stan. Oh well.