Wordless
Summary: Self-hatred never had been one of his character traits. But he had found a lot had changed since Olivia had dragged him back to Boston from Iraq. OneShot, Peter-centric.
Set: Sometime in the future. Inspired by 2.11 - Unearthed
Warning: Some said my last one shot was terribly random (no accusation intended!), so I thought I might warn you. Just so you know.
Disclaimer: No copyrightinFringement intended.
The steps were light, quick, and he would have known them everywhere. Peter didn't turn around.
"Go away."
The footsteps stop, but they're already too close. He can hear her sharp intake of breath behind his back. He doesn't turn around, she is the last person he wants to see right now. And she knows it. But she also knows that she is the only person he wants to see, too, so however they got themselves into this twisted situation, she's not going away.
"You're doing it again."
"Who cares."
"I do."
He laughs bitterly.
"Who cares if you care."
She is quiet for a few minutes. Silence isn't good. Silence is scary. Silence doesn't distract. Silence forces to see. In his mind's eye, he can see it happen over and over again. He wants to run, but there is no place he can hide, not place he can bury the memory of that day. The day he killed for the first time. He would never have thought it could be so hard.
She doesn't move closer. She doesn't ask questions. She doesn't attempt to speak again. Somehow, the silence grows, expands until it threatens to overwhelm him. He has to say something, anything. Just so the images will fade, be blotted out against the sharp background of reality, no matter how hard they are edged into his memory in blood-red colors. And he has to tell her. He'll probably just burden her again, he only wants to use her as a shield against the pain and guilt he has been feeling. He doesn't care whether she will be able to carry his burden as well, not now. Not today.
I killed her.
The words leave his mouth, spilling over, gushing from him like a poisonous flood.
"I killed her."
She doesn't say anything. What can she say. He's only stating a fact.
"She was only a journalist. She only wanted to ask questions. She wasn't involved in our work. And I got her killed."
"You got her killed doesn't mean you killed her."
Olivia. His personal voice of reason. The ghost to haunt him forever.
"I practically killed her. I dragged her into this and she got killed in the process."
"Are you desperately trying to blame yourself?"
"I am the one to blame."
"And I'm the one to blame for dragging you into Fringe Division. I'm the one to blame to have not noticed John was up to something earlier. I'm the one to blame that prisoners escaped, deceivers deceived and murderer murdered. I'm at fault for not being able to protect this universe. I'm the one who's not strong enough to protect you and all the other people. So technically, it's my fault."
As always, listening to her listing her mistakes in such a calm voice, hearing the soft, almost non-detectable tone of self-hatred and self-punishment, he has to contradict.
"How on earth are you supposed to be responsible for everything that has happened so far?"
As soon as he has spoken those words, he knows he has fallen into her trap. Damn. She is good.
"You see?"
"That's different."
"It's not such a great difference. Innocent people have been dying since we started to investigate. Remember?"
He does remember, of course, but that doesn't make it better. He clenches his fists, still refusing to turn around to look at her.
"She wasn't only innocent, she was a child, Olivia. She didn't know anything about those horrors we've been encountering every day. She just was curious about what we were hiding in Walter's lab. She just bumped into us, followed us around and got killed. I killed her."
Self-hatred never had been one of his character traits. But he had found a lot had changed since Olivia had dragged him back to Boston from Iraq. He found he couldn't be the passive observer any more. She had forced him into feeling involved, into fearing, into caring. She had wiped away the mask he had been wearing, had shown him there was something worth fighting for and that the reason for their personal war in a cabinet of horror figures was for the sake of everyone, had a deeper meaning. She had wiped out his mask of a cynical con man and even though he hid behind it again and again, the material had become worn-out, paper-thin, and his refuge was claimed by reality.
"Actually, she was killed by Newton."
"I brought her there."
"She followed you there. She had every right to go wherever she wanted. She was a grown-up person."
"I should have stopped her."
"She was strong-minded. And she followed you secretly. You didn't know she was there until it was too late."
"I should have told her not to do that. I should have made clear that she was to stay away from me."
For the first time, Olivia falters. When she speaks again, her voice is very, very quiet.
"She fell in love with you. That's not your fault."
Somehow, hearing the words from her makes it even worse. And it makes him even angrier.
"IT WAS ENTIRELY MY FAULT!"
He doesn't realize he has been screaming until he hears her – he actually hears her – flinch. He doesn't care. He doesn't turn around.
"I should have stopped her! I should have pushed her away! I should have hurt her, made her run from me, made her leave again! I should have told her there was no hope, no way I would ever return her feelings!"
"Maybe you should have."
Her voice is still dead quiet.
"Would you have been able to lie to her?"
Peter is rooted to the spot, unable to move. His hands are numb; he has been balling up his fists so tightly. His whole body is numb, paralyzed by the truth of her statement. Quiet footsteps draw nearer until he can feel her hands on his back. She touches him carefully, hesitantly, afraid he will shy away. He doesn't, though, because her warm hands are the only thing connecting him to reality right now.
"I know it hurts," she whispers. "You loved her. You blame yourself for her death. But she's dead, Peter. And you're still alive."
The way she wraps her arms around him feels strange, she seems to be hesitant, but nevertheless, she tries to comfort him in her own odd way. She has found the only way to do it right, sensing he is falling apart, he is shattering, and the only thing that makes him hold together are her arms, soft and warm and comforting. He closes his eyes. Tears he hasn't allowed himself to cry come quickly. He doesn't sob, but his shoulders twitch. She still doesn't pull away. Her face is somewhere in his back, buried between his shoulder blades.
They've experienced the same pain – losing a loved person, feeling guilty – guilty for surviving, guilty for not being able to prevent what was not to be prevented, not being able to save the innocent and pure. He realizes: Olivia isn't here because she felt she had to talk to him, to ease his pain, but because she knew he was the only one who would understand what she was feeling, who was feeling the same way. They both needed absolution, they needed something, and maybe they were the only people able to give each other whatever it was they craved for. He turned in her arms and drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her as if trying to stop them both from drowning. He holds onto her as if letting go means he will die, as if she is the air he needs to breathe. Burying his face in her hair, he breathes in her scent, feeling her whole body against him.
And she doesn't say a word.