He hadn't heard anything until the last moment. Trying to think of nothing but caught by images of oranges and meetings that mean nothing and ineptitude, an absence that might never be amended, he'd missed the approach of the unidentified figure, and at the sound of the yelp, it's all he can do to keep from cursing aloud (keep it quiet, keep it unreadable; get your bearings before letting anything out at all). The noise is jarring. Where's it coming from? What the fuck is going on and who the hell else is in the office right now, is there someone in the office there must be, but why didn't he hear, why is anyone, what, what...
Calm down. Calm down. Someone else is in the office. That's all. It isn't that much of a surprise. And it sure as hell isn't the end of the world. He thinks vaguely that it's maybe Peggy, probably Peggy; she still hasn't lost the fire that draws long nights and handwaves sleep in favor of pursuing an idea (still hasn't lost the fire of ideas, maybe never will; there's something indomitable about Peggy). Or it's a member of the cleaning staff.
When he finally takes a look at the person responsible for the yelp, he starts visibly. What Don sees is wide eyes and disarray, shock wound with (is it?) weariness and something hunted, and for christ's sake, he's half-undressed. Of course it would be Ginsberg. Of course. "Jesus."
Don has scarcely spoken with or even seen the man since... Since the encounter in his office. Since Ginsberg had spoken too far and the questions the implications had begun to crush too close. (Don has thought about those words heard echoes from the conversation - what was spoken or what he'd thought, he doesn't know and cannot sort the remembering - and none of it is any clearer, only keeps gnawing gnawing into him evading any grasp or silence. Now he feels them nip with renewed vigor, carrying a cold wave of dizziness, something akin to wistfulness, something akin to fear.)
It hadn't been necessary to speak with Ginsberg. And from what Don had heard - not that he'd been seeking information, not that he'd been concerned, of course not - Ginsberg hadn't been particularly eager to speak with anyone. It seemed that Ginsberg had been uncommonly silent. The partners had noted it (Cutler appearing moderately pleased), and Peggy had made a remark in passing, something about wondering whether she should say something, what she should say. Don hadn't known. Don hadn't wanted to touched the subject. Ginsberg would be fine.
Would he be? Whatever 'fine' meant. The silence has been disconcerting in its way, and coupled with what Ginsberg had said in the office, with everything that had hung unsaid...
Don breaks himself out of the thought, straightening and keeping his gaze steady. There's nothing to do now but move into this. Don't think about it. Don't think about what could happen (standing on a precipice); it will be a brief encounter, nothing more.
no subject
Calm down. Calm down. Someone else is in the office. That's all. It isn't that much of a surprise. And it sure as hell isn't the end of the world. He thinks vaguely that it's maybe Peggy, probably Peggy; she still hasn't lost the fire that draws long nights and handwaves sleep in favor of pursuing an idea (still hasn't lost the fire of ideas, maybe never will; there's something indomitable about Peggy). Or it's a member of the cleaning staff.
When he finally takes a look at the person responsible for the yelp, he starts visibly. What Don sees is wide eyes and disarray, shock wound with (is it?) weariness and something hunted, and for christ's sake, he's half-undressed. Of course it would be Ginsberg. Of course. "Jesus."
Don has scarcely spoken with or even seen the man since... Since the encounter in his office. Since Ginsberg had spoken too far and the questions the implications had begun to crush too close. (Don has thought about those words heard echoes from the conversation - what was spoken or what he'd thought, he doesn't know and cannot sort the remembering - and none of it is any clearer, only keeps gnawing gnawing into him evading any grasp or silence. Now he feels them nip with renewed vigor, carrying a cold wave of dizziness, something akin to wistfulness, something akin to fear.)
It hadn't been necessary to speak with Ginsberg. And from what Don had heard - not that he'd been seeking information, not that he'd been concerned, of course not - Ginsberg hadn't been particularly eager to speak with anyone. It seemed that Ginsberg had been uncommonly silent. The partners had noted it (Cutler appearing moderately pleased), and Peggy had made a remark in passing, something about wondering whether she should say something, what she should say. Don hadn't known. Don hadn't wanted to touched the subject. Ginsberg would be fine.
Would he be? Whatever 'fine' meant. The silence has been disconcerting in its way, and coupled with what Ginsberg had said in the office, with everything that had hung unsaid...
Don breaks himself out of the thought, straightening and keeping his gaze steady. There's nothing to do now but move into this. Don't think about it. Don't think about what could happen (standing on a precipice); it will be a brief encounter, nothing more.
"What are you doing here?"