A/N: Little drabble to keep me sane through the infuriating baby-gate. Post Jacksonville. I'm disappointed that they never really told us anything more on Peter's sketchy past, and I decided that that Big Eddie is after something a little more dangerous than money.
Rated M for safety: O/P will be dealing with some pretty shitty stuff.
"Olivia—stay with me."
Trying to stench the blood flow as it seeps through his fingers seems like a losing battle. He can smell the metallic odor wafting up and it makes his stomach churn, but he has to keep calm—he needs to think; he can find way out, but he needs to figure it out fast.
Leaning over her rigid body on the cold concrete of the floor frightens him, mind racing furiously on how to stop the growing pool of blood as it bleeds freely out of the gunshot wound in her left shoulder. Soon it's spilling out onto his hands and all he can do is wish Walter was there because he'd know what to do.
She needs medical attention; he knows that much—she's losing blood at an alarming speed and it won't be long before she goes into shock and by then there would be nothing he can do to save her. He has precious minutes to staunch the bleeding and get them the hell of there.
There are no windows in the room but he knows exactly where they are and that frightens him slightly more than the fact that Olivia was slowly bleeding out in front of him. Their only chance of escape is through the bolted door he can't open—they're fucked.
"Olivia—wake up, stay with me." He leans all his weight onto his flattened hand, knowing he's probably hurting her but deciding she'd forgive him if she survived.
When she survives, he corrects—as he feels another twang of terror wash over him.
When her eyes roll back he grips her chin hard, pulling her face to regain her focus, leaving little smudges of blood on her cheeks. "C'mon Olivia, you've gotta stay awake," he growls angrily at her, leaning into the rage rather than being crippled by the panic.
"Peter?" She whispers, eyes fluttering open and a sheen of sweat covering her pale face. Her eyes crinkle a little as she looks at him, her chest hitching distinctly like something she sees alarms her. Like somehow she sees him differently and he mutters a frightened "What?" because even as she lays there dying, he still needs to know what she's thinking.
But he can't dwell on it because he feels her chest jerk as she coughs; a wet, gargling sound that makes her choke like she's swallowed water. Peter feels a new surge of panic as she struggles to breathe, shifting his body to lift her head to try to open her air passage but the coughing doesn't stop. He lets go of the wound to swipe his fingers through her mouth, feeling more sticky wetness there. She coughs; little raindrops of crimson spilling onto her chin and on his already tarnished hands and he feels like a little boy lost—because he knows what this means:
There's liquid in her lungs.
She goes limp in his arms—eyes rolling back and her head heavy in his hand.
Time had run out.