Olivia's eyes burned; she ran her fingers through her hair in a halfhearted attempt to pull herself further back from the edge of sleep and the nightmares that waited for her there. She could feel a strain in her lower back and a tightness in her neck: the result of 3 hours sitting on the floor, back propped against the wall that stood opposite to Henrietta's bedroom door. She could tell by the height of the moon out the south facing window that it was close to dawn. Soon the room would be painted in a warm pink that would slowly blossom into a pale yellow. At least somethings hadn't changed.
She had assured Peter that she would be fine and had wanted to check on Etta. Upon reaching the bedroom, however, she had found herself unable to take those last steps to the door. He hadn't come after her; Olivia wasn't sure whether or not she had wanted him to.
Her eyes roved over the door with a gaze that was at once leisurely and measured; it was painted some off-white that reminded Olivia of the stain she'd made when she had spilled coffee on her favourite white shirt a few days before she'd been ambered. It was chipped away in various places to show the cheap pale wood that lay beneath. Old and uncared for, like everything she'd seen since awakening from amber. The juxtaposition between dirty and broken impoverishment and futuristic technology was jarring... as was the air. She felt it more outdoors; it was heavy-making every breath a bit of an effort- like the very atmosphere was against them. Another gift of the observers' presence. So far Etta had been the only hope she'd seen: the only light in this tremulous future. She did not care to admit even to herself how much she was clinging to that light like a tether.
It had nearly killed her, seeing Etta torture a man, steal precious years of his life, years away from his loved ones. Olivia and Etta both should know the pain of lost years. And then there was the resignation in her voice when she talked about how it was just how things were. Olivia wanted to scream; she wanted to cry; she wanted to take Etta in her arms, and she wanted to grab onto her shoulders and shake hard. She wanted to tell her about timelines and erasing history and crossing universes; she wanted to show her just how flexible life was. Just how capable it was of change, and just how quickly luck could change. If her daughter truly believed she was weak and soft they really needed to sit down and talk about her past, about the story that resulted in bringing Etta into this world.
Olivia had killed her stepfather; she'd watched people she loved die in front of her. She'd dealt with an alternate version of her parading around in her job- waking up next to Peter every morning in her place. She'd found a way to rebuild her relationship with him only to have him erased from existence, and finally -most recently –she'd brought him back into existence from a shimmering blue light, and then saved two universes and had a beautiful daughter. All of this only to miss out on her entire childhood, become estranged from Peter, and find herself incased in amber. No. Weak wasn't really accurate. What Olivia was...
What Olivia was...was a vase that had been glued back together too many times. The pieces fitting together a little less each time it was put back together.
She was looking for a reason not to be Broken. The fact that she was still fighting, that she was still breathing... but, perhaps -in a way- without knowing the reasons behind it, Etta did understand. She'd let the loyalist free, and Olivia didn't think it was just a gesture to appease her. But she wasn't sure what it did mean.
When Etta had left with the loyalist, Olivia began preparing the words in her mind, trying to figure out what ground to stand on. She still felt like the mother of a small child, but she was dealing with a capable and unfamiliar adult. Oh there were definitely moments, brief seconds where this grown woman with her baby's sky blue eyes would do something so achingly familiar that it caused her breath to catch in her lungs, only to be released when the moment had slipped past.
The subtle quirk of an eyebrow that she and peter had spent hours cooing over, the one that Peter said reminded him of her. Or there was the way she had the same crinkle in her forehead when she concentrated: the same one she'd had at 14 months, trying to figure out one of the many puzzle toys Walter had made or purchased to stimulate her mind. And she'd had that little one-sided smile since she was three. Part of her wanted to talk to Peter about it, if only out of desperation to get the words out of her own head. But she didn't really know how to talk to Peter. No. That wasn't true. It was too hard to talk to Peter.
Their conversations were achingly easy: the rhythm of it falling back into place as if they hadn't been separated for – well months to them and years to the rest of the world. But the familiarity did the opposite of providing comfort; it churned far too much nostalgia and sentiment within her for her to focus on the task at hand. So she'd kept conversations to a minimum. This meant they were mostly catching each other staring periodically throughout the day. That look of love she used to bathe in every sunrise in their home, that warmth that used to soothe her pain after a rough case, it was now mixed with regret, with longing.
She knew he was sorry, and she could quite easily understand his unwillingness to give up the search for their daughter. It was certainly something she had debated again and again, despite how set she might have appeared to be. And she could clearly see the question he dare not ask scream behind his eyes every time she let their eye contact linger, "We have her back! Why can't we move forward together again?" It was true, and it was magnificant.
They had their daughter back. They had their daughter back. They had their daughter back. It had become a mantra of sorts, one she'd find herself whispering aloud during the rare moments of stillness. It was an unconscious way to soothe the anxiety that always threatened to swell within her since that day at the park.
But Olivia had given everything to save the world and she failed. And there was a small part of her- a small part that just would not be silenced- that thought they'd failed because Peter wasn't by her side. They'd always succeeded when he was, even against the most ridiculous odds. And as much as she wanted to let go of it, for their daughter and for him, she wasn't done being angry...the wound was too fresh and she couldn't trust again so soon. Oh she still trusted him with their lives, but not with her heart.
"Momma?" A voice husky with sleep yet alert broke through Olivia's musings. Even though she'd been staring straight at the door, she'd failed to see it open. Her eyes rolled up the pajama-clad frame to land on long blond hair and familiar sky blue. Her eyes trailed along high cheekbones, down the strong line of a jaw. Her mind kept comparing her imaginings of what her adult daughter might look like with the reality. It was like seeing an actor portray your favourite book character. It's never quite what you'd imagined, sometimes for better other times worse. She took in the small elegant nose that very much resembled Rachel's, and the gentle slope of lips the she knew to have come from Peter. She'd forever committed their shape to her detailed mind.
"Momma?" Softer this time, now imbued with hesitancy and concern. The warmth of the tone did more to shake Olivia from her thoughts than the moniker. She looked up and allowed her lips to curl into the hint of a smile. She took the offered hand and rose to her feet. She'd deal with Etta first, then Peter. One Bishop at a time.
Let me know if you want a part two where Olivia and Etta talk. My muse loves feedback.