Well... it's not November yet, is it? This was originally supposed to be another back and forth, buuuut Peter kept going on too long, so... it's all Peter. I might write a part two for Olivia's PoV. Maybe.
You missed something about this way of life, the constant shuffle from place to place, staying at one run-down hotel under an assumed name one night and a different one, hundreds of miles away, with another false moniker the next. It makes you feel... in control. No one to call you in the middle of the night to drag you out to view some ghastly crime scene, or interrupt your weekend off, or keep you awake all night with singing and quoting off equations that no one else understands. For the first time in over a year you feel like you're your own person again. You're free.
That's what you tell yourself, at least.
In truth... It's taken you less than a week to get from Massachusetts to Washington. Three thousand miles, covered in a matter of days. And each one of those days has seen the distance between you and what you thought was the source of your problems increased, and each day should have left you more and more at ease as the grip of that life loosened its hold on you a little more.
Except all you see when you close your eyes at night is blonde hair and green eyes, and the smile that you never got to see enough in reality. And in those moments of weakness, you have to stop yourself from picking up your phone and calling her just so you can hear her voice again.
You miss her.
You wonder, not for the first time, if you've made a mistake by running away from the truth. Yes, you're angry at Walter, and understandably so, no one can deny you that. But distancing yourself from him means distancing yourself from her, and truth be told... this nomadic life doesn't hold the same allure that it once did, and you haven't even been at it a week.
Some part of you is cursing yourself for this. You were finally starting to get close to her, finally starting to crack through the aloofness she wore like a jacket, finally getting her to see you as more than just a friend...
You hope that you haven't burned that bridge. You hope that she understands that this was about Walter, and had nothing to do with her. Although, knowing her, she probably be upset that you didn't care enough about her to stay despite Walter. Oh, she'll try to hide it, try to shrug it off like it doesn't matter, but you can read her through the mask of indifference that she wears and you'll know anyway.
Part of you wishes you had just stayed.
Working that case didn't really help at all. You don't even know how man times a thought popped into your head and you turned to sound it off on Olivia for feedback, only to remember that she wasn't there with you, was three thousand miles away, and it was your fault.
You miss your partner. You really do. But maybe this is for the est. Because you obviously don't belong in this world, and never have, maybe she's just better off without you. But where does that leave you?
You stayed in Boston too long, let yourself grow complacent, content to stay in one place. This is who Peter Bishop is, a nomad who never stays in one place for more than a few weeks at a time, never relying on anyone but himself to survive.
You almost have yourself convinced of that when you lie down to listen to the CD. But you're not even done with the first track when someone knocks on the door. Housekeeping most likely, you decide, and ignore it, until the knock comes again, more insistently. Sighing, you rip the headphones off and cross the room to the door, yanking it open in exasperation. "Look, the room is fine, it doesn't need to be-"
And you cut yourself off abruptly as you realize Olivia is standing in front of you.
Broyles. You scowl, knowing that the only way she could possibly know where you were is if he told her, and since she's standing in front of you it's clear that he did. So you skip that question, opting for another that just might have as obvious an answer. "What are you doing here?"
What might've started as a smile- you feel a momentary twinge of regret for ruining it before you could see it- fades, and you watch as the obvious happiness at finding you turns to uncertainty and apprehension. She opens her mouth to answer, but you cut her off, the anger at Walter suddenly filling you and depriving you of better sense. "FBI decided that I was too valuable to let go of?" You can't help the taunting tone that creeps into your voice, trying to goad her into arguing with you.
The hurt flashes across her face at that before it's replaced with the mask that she hides behind when she's being Agent Dunham, so quickly that you almost miss it and don't have the chance to feel like an asshole.
Almost. Sometimes you wish you weren't so perceptive.
She bites her lip before she finally answers, and you try not to let it drive you to distraction the way that it always has. "I... We've been worried about you. You checked yourself out of the hospital, didn't tell anyone where you were going, you weren't answering your phone..." Her voice trails off, the uncertainty coming back, almost accusatory, as if she wants to ask you why you decided you didn't care enough to tell her but is afraid of the answer.
You sigh heavily, knowing that you're slowly losing your grip on your anger, because she has nothing to do with it and you can't stand to see her like this. "Maybe I didn't want to be found." You step aside, gesturing for you to come into the room, knowing that you're going to have to tell her the truth for her to understand. "You might wanna come sit down for this."
She hesitates before she steps over the threshold and into the room, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking up at you. "Peter, when are you going to come back home?"
The door latches shut behind you. "Home," you scoff, shaking your head. "Boston hasn't been home since I was a kid. Maybe not even then." You can't miss the hurt that flashes across her face again. "This is is gonna sound crazy, Olivia, but Walter, he-"
She cuts you off, her voice quiet, but firm. "I know what Walter did. I know everything."
Your forehead furrows into a frown, and you stare at her, unable to process this information. "What? How?"
She bites her lip again, looking down at the floor as she gathers words to say. "That night after Jacksonville, when we went out for drinks... You glimmered." And suddenly you understand the worry and uncertainty etched across her face, because she's afraid that now you're going to be angry with her, because she knew, and didn't tell you.
You can't decide whether or not she's right. "You knew?" You breathe, turning away from her and rubbing a hand across your face. "You knew, and you didn't tell me?" The anger creeps back into your voice, unbidden.
"I didn't know how! What was I supposed to say, 'Hey, your father kidnapped you from a difference universe when you were a kid?' It's not exactly the kind of conversation you have over coffee." The tinge of anger in your voice is enough to bring her out of the shell of apprehension she's been hiding in, and there is fire in her eyes and steel in her voice as she continues. "I'm sorry. But I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want to lose you." She is on her feet now, staring you in the face, and her voice is no longer the quiet almost-whisper it was when she knocked on your door.
You look her evenly in the eyes, yours narrowing slightly. "So you know where I'm from, know how I got here. How can you ask me to come back to Boston, to spend every day with him, when you know I don't belong there?"
"Because I refuse to accept that. You do belong there," she hisses. "You belong in Boston, you belong in that house, you belong in the lab working all of these crazy cases that we call a livelihood." Her voice rises as she ticks off each one, the determination in her eyes making them practically glow, until she's practically yelling at you.
Two can play at that game, you decide, and you lean closer to her, scant inches between your faces, and you let the anger out. "How can you possibly say that? When you know what he did, know where I'm from? How can you say that I still belong there?"
And finally, her self-restraint snaps and she yells back at you. "Because you belong with me!" No sooner have the words left her mouth than her eyes widen, as she realizes what she just said, and she freezes, afraid to move and shatter this moment.
But that admission of need is exactly what you needed to hear, and it leeches the anger from you, and suddenly you can't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all of this. Neither of you have moved, mere inches still separating your faces, and ever so slowly you start to reach up, afraid that if you move too fast she'll run away. "'Livia," you whisper, inching even closer to her. "If you don't want me to kiss you, you'd better tell me now."
And when she doesn't move, doesn't say anything to stop you, you do what you've wanted to do since Jacksonville- hell, before Jacksonville- and tangle your hands into her hair and cover her mouth with yours.
This... this is what you've been missing. The feel of her mouth against yours, how she tastes of coffee and some spice that you can't identify, the way she melts into your hands and slips one of hers to the nape of your neck, her fingers toying with your hair. This is perfect. You could do it forever.
The need for air, unfortunately, drives the two of you apart, gasping for breath, and you untangle one hand from her hair so you can wrap an arm around her and tug her closer to you. And then you just stand there like that, trying to wrap your head around what just happened, that you actually got to kiss her, that she wanted you to.
She laughs suddenly, and you pull back far enough to look down at her. "What?"
She looks up at you then, and smiles, and your heart skips a beat. "Now will you come home with me?"
And suddenly you're laughing too, and you kiss her again, because you can. "Yes, you beautiful idiot, I'll come home with you." And you kiss her again, and again, and again, until you're both breathless and laughing even more.
And Boston will be home again, you know, and you'll belong there, because she'll be there.