Title: Momentary Blindness
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Olivia/Peter
Setting/Spoilers: Post-ep fic for "Firefly."
Summary: didn't exist. Olivia goes to check on Peter.
Notes: Thanks to mga1999 & Beth for read-throughs. Written to feed my own need for H/C and a bit of a break from the angsty love-triangle. :D Quotes from the book are, well, actually from the first page of the book.
Can't give up actin' tough
It's all that I'm made of
Can't scrape together quite enough
to ride the bus to the outskirts
of the fact that I need love.
- Neko Case, Middle Cyclone
Sometimes, she's still surprised by things that happen in the lab.
But items are in new places. Shifted. Changed. Light comes through the windows at a different angle, and her mind has to fill in the gap of a season; she'll watch patterns on the floor when she thinks no one's looking, trying to force herself into the present. An early-morning revelation pointed her in the direction of lost time, and she hates seeing herself as one of the people she's devoted her life to helping, but there's no other sane way to deal with it.
Olivia sees herself as a time traveler, one that wasn't missed because she never left in the first place.
She needs time and distance but doesn't dare take either. The looks she gets, the guilt written in not one but two pairs of Bishop eyes, drive her to decorate her desk with things that make her smile. She knows they hesitate to be around her at times, that there's a decision to be made when she's ready to run out the door after a lead, and while she knows it's because of her own reaction, no girl likes being cut that way.
She runs a hand through her hair, pulled up high in a pony tail, and thinks of all those strands that were pulled into place, woven together. The whole thing boggles her the way things only seen in hindsight can, when she's seen the finished tapestry, though part of her knows Walter's seen more than any of them. Two years ago, she would have demanded he explain himself, tell her why he didn't report contact with the Observer, but now, sitting on her couch, Olivia is simply too tired to do much of anything.
Wine swirls in her glass, momentarily turning everything a dark, sickly red. And then, it's clear again.
She watches the wine for a moment, then shifts her focus. The book sits on the table behind the couch, magnified by the glass, an absence of color in her neutral, pleasing living room. Curiosity grabs hold of her, and she shifts and reaches for it, settling back into the pillows. With one hand, she opens the front cover and reads through what's there, trying to get a sense of how much the words aligned with the Peter she knows.
Right there, on the first page, she reads:
RISKING
Sometimes it seems to me that in this absurdly random life there is some inherent justice in the outcome of personal relationships. In the long run, we get no more than we have been willing to risk giving.
LOVE
Love is more than simply being open to experiencing the anguish of another person's suffering. It is the willingness to live with the helpless knowing that we can do nothing to save the other from his pain.
She flashes on the lab, on holding him as the last tremors shook his body and he relaxed, spent, head on her knees. And how, for that one moment, she didn't exist.
A check of the clock reveals the latter side of midnight. Olivia grabs her coat on the way out the door.
The street is quiet, porch lights blazing into a crisp winter night, halos formed by cold air near hot bulbs. The air is always quiet in the winter, eerily still, as if, for three months, Boston is stuck in a snow-globe. As a child, she love it - would stand outside and let herself be so still, the only sound she could hear was the tiny puffs of her own breathing. And then it was gone, replaced by a new city, climate, and less magic.
Olivia checks her watch, bouncing on her heels on the front porch, and runs a hand over her hair. Maybe she should turn back, go home and read the book or go over paperwork due in first-thing. Suddenly, Olivia feels silly, confused, and hollow all at once, vulnerable and out of place.
But she can't keep hiding, keeping her distance. It isn't helping, not anymore, and if she's being honest with herself, there's a large part of her that cares, immune to logic and stubbornness.
So she knocks.
The loud click of the door being opened echoes through the crystal silence, a woosh of warm air escaping to swirl around her. At 1am, Olivia's faced with Walter in a robe, white socks pulled up high on his calves. He beams, as only he can at an unexpected visit, and ushers her inside.
"Olivia!" he exclaims, then seems to remember something. He speaks softer, "What a pleasant surprise. Are we needed for something - "
There's a hint of lemon on the air, flour, and she grins slightly at the scent memory of her grandmother. "Are you baking lemon squares?" she interrupts.
"Yes! My own modified recipe, of course," Walter says, then adds, conspicuously with a wink, "Don't worry, no hallucinogens. I only add those when baking for myself."
Olivia follows him to the kitchen, taking in the chemistry set covering the island, beakers holding liquids of different colors that throw off the overhead light. A pot on the stove, an earthy scent mixing with lemon. Walter hums as he checks inside the oven, doing a tiny hop as he carefully closes the oven door.
"Almost. Just needs a bit more browning along the crust." His muttering makes Olivia think he doesn't remember she's there until he turns around, thrusting red licorice into her face. "Red vine?" he asks around the one he's already chewing.
"No thank you," she replies, holding up a hand. "I actually came to see, well - you know what? I should have called." Her feet are carrying her down the hall to the front door. "I shouldn't have bothered you so late."
Her hand's on the knob when Walter says, "I'm worried, too."
It isn't the admission that stops her - when isn't Walter worried about his son? - but the way it breaks when he says it. How he seems to read her mind, to know her purpose, when all they've talked about is food. Olivia turns and nods and Walter seems to relax, no longer the lone one to bare it.
"I don't know why the Observer went through all this just to save my life," he admits, voice strong in a moment of perfect lucidity - he reminds her, for a second, of what he might have been. "Don't get me wrong - I am grateful - but every time he shows up - "
And then he's just Walter again, eyes shining with unshed tears.
"I almost lost him again."
She takes his arm and starts to lead him through the house while saying, "I know, Walter, but it's okay." They're about to round the couch when he pauses to looks up at her.
"But what if next time it isn't?"
It's a question that's haunted her for months, a pessimistic taunt her mind teases her with. For all their luck, good or bad, she knows they have yet to see the worst of whatever's coming. But her thoughts are cut short as, when she tracks Walter's hand to the robe's tie, where he nervously rubs the fabric together, Olivia spies a pair of sock-covered feet hanging over the couch's armrest.
She's close enough, now, that she can see over the back of the couch, and finds Peter sleeping there, one of his arms hanging off the side, fingertips brushes the rug on the floor, hand slack, subtly curled. There's no anger on his face, or fear, or anything, really - it is calm and smooth under the blue plastic ice pack resting on his forehead that's listed to the center of his forehead. His face turned into the cushions, and an edge of the bump on his head can be seen in the light spilling in from the kitchen.
Beeps jump into her reverie - beside the couch, Walter jumps, features horror-stricken, and scuttles for the kitchen.
"Walter..." groans Peter from the couch. His voice is low and rough from sleep, eyes squinting in the dim light.
"That's a pretty big goose-egg you've got there," Olivia observes with a smile. There's a flash of confusion, and then cloudy blue eyes are blinking up at her.
"That's what happens when your head slams into the floor," he replies smoothly. "I've got to say, out of of all the things that have happened to me in the lab, this may be the most painful. And it isn't even Walter's fault."
"No?" Olivia rounds the couch. "Wasn't it his - "
Peter interrupts her with a wave of his hand. "While Walter's habit of mixing experiments with edible food is regrettable, I think I've lived with him long enough to know better than drink something from an unsealed container."
"That's true," she half-laughs, wrinkling her nose. "How are you feeling?"
"Before or after all the talking?" he asks. Peter closes his eyes and rubs them, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, still a bit cranky," he adds with a sigh. Turning towards her causes the ice bag to slip off and fall to the floor; he sweeps the area with his right hand, but Olivia's already bending down, and her fingers brush his for a moment before she grabs the bag and straightens up.
"I think you get a pass," - at Peter's grin, she adds, "Just for tonight, Bishop."
"Have you seen the size of the bump on my head?" he shoots back, eyebrows raised. "It's got to be good for at least another day."
But Olivia's watching his face, thinking about how easy conversation is between them, has been all day. His face is free of the guilt she's become used to seeing, the confusion and hurt.
And maybe she's had enough time for herself to start thinking about everyone else.
Olivia taps his legs and sits in the space he creates.
"Maybe," she gives, eyes now on the bag in her hands.
A yawning silence settles over them, punctuated by Walter's ministrations in the kitchen; clangs of metal against metal, dishes, and glass being pushed around. The tune he hums drifts in like from a dream, nonsensical notes that sometimes catch a popular tune. Then, just as suddenly, it's gone.
The ice bag is cool in her hands, but not cold - half the contents have melted and slosh around as she plays with it's shape. She feels rather than sees Peter shift, legs stretching and moving, trying to find a comfortable position. He settles, finally, but groans, and Olivia's been injured enough times in the field to sympathise. He'll be sore as hell in the morning, no matter how many Advil he takes, and sleep may only come if he adds a few Benadryl to the mix.
She's reminded of grabbing his legs and trying to hold them steady as his body shook, thrusting and shaking as she hoped the needle didn't break off in his thigh.
"I know that look," he says, and a glance at his face shows closed eyes.
"You're not even looking at me," she smiles.
"I don't have to," replies Peter. "I heard you and Walter earlier."
"And here I thought we were being quiet."
Peter laughs, just a little, a strained sound. "Walter is incapable of being quiet." His hand searches out one of hers still holding the ice bag, and cracks open his eyes. "I'm fine, Olivia. A little sore, but that's part of the job."
"The job? I don't know what that means anymore," Olivia admits. "I mean, our lives are so twisted up with this - this war and these people - terrible, sadistic people who twist science for their own gain like they don't know any other way to go through life."
She's breathing hard by the time she finishes, surprising even herself with how much she's admitted, at the rage inside her. She'd love nothing more than to shoot Walternate in the head, get rid of the poisonous roots that have infected an entire universe, but as Peter's hand tightens around hers, she can, on some level, understand him.
Hadn't she crossed to another universe, fought herself, and struggled through losing her mind for the person here, lying on an old couch?
What is it about Peter Bishop that causes such blind devotion?
"We'll stop them," he speaks, voice hard and tense. "I don't know the answers - actually, it seems the more we learn, the more we don't know - but what I do know is that you can do anything."
And as he speaks, Olivia realizes how much she's missed having Peter on her side. She settles into it, knowing that long before any of this, they were friends.
He shifts again and sighs. "You'd think I'd be used to sleeping on couches by this point in my life."
"What do you say we get you to bed?" she offers, patting his chest. He winces slightly, trying to hide how tender he is from the Observer's weapon.
But then the mask slips back on and he smirks. "Sweetheart, if you wanted to see my room, all you had to do was ask."
"That's it," she mock-explodes, standing. "You can carry yourself upstairs." She gives a wry smile, half-ready to follow through on her threat from three years ago, and puts her hands - fisted - on her hips. She can see his thoughts pass across his face, and in that moment, as he realizes what he's said, Olivia can tell he never called her that.
He sits up on one elbow, eyes almost rolling for a second, and blinks.
"Sorry, I don't really know where that came from."
He's scared - scared she's going to leave, or get angry, and flinches before she even has time to figure out exactly how she feels. It's clear where it came from, and while she can be happy she never came to the Bishop household, the fact that she's caused such a reaction in him clarifies how he must have taken her anger - her revulsion and despair over not him, but the whole situation - and how crushed.
"It's okay," she says.
"You don't have to say that for my benefit."
"Not everything is about you, Peter," she shoots back in a flash of anger.
His brow furrows as he struggles to sit up on the couch, and it takes a minute for him to get his bearings, hand gripping the armrest with white knuckles as his legs swing over to the floor. There's a vacuum where his typical smart-ass remark would be.
To say he was surprised she was here would be an understatement - in fact, when he first heard her talking with Walter, Peter was sure his father had slipped something into his soup and he was hallucinating. Being able to work together was one thing, but she'd made her position blatantly clear, reminding him why being honest came difficultly to him; in the end, nothing good came from it.
Except maybe something good could, when striving for a more that surface relationship. He'd long realized there was no angle to play here, nothing to gain that was worth subterfuge, then escape.
Despite very strong inclinations to cut and run.
"Okay," he says, then swallows again, "Maybe I should just stay here tonight."
She relaxes, slightly. "Stop being such a baby; it's only a concussion."
"It's not just that," he groans, "because I'm no stranger to head injuries." Olivia raises her eyebrows, and he smiles. "Another story for another time."
His flops back and lets his head fall on the back of the couch. This is just wonderful - there's just no salvaging this situation, is there?
"You still with me?"
He feels the couch dip next to him and a hand awkwardly pat his knee before deciding to linger.
"Either Walter dosed me or I hit my head harder than I thought," he mumbles. Even his voice is too loud, bouncing around his skull.
"Probably a combination of both," Olivia agrees. "Think you can make it?"
He knows she's expecting an answer, but right now, it's taking a considerable amount of self-control to keep the overwhelming scent of Walter's latest culinary creation from twisting his stomach, so he gives a little moan instead.
She seems to take that as a yes, though how is lost on him, the train of thought loosing cars as it speeds down the rail, and the couch moves as she stands. A year ago - hell, three months ago - he wouldn't even entertain the idea that she'd leave him on the couch, but now, now he has no idea. With all that's happened, both blatant and surmised through logic, Peter is often left reeling, sliding into the slick charm of a conman with ease, a mask he sculpted through childhood and wore when things get too complicated.
But whatever emotion that caused Olivia to write him off a week ago has either cleared or sunk farther into the sand, because her small, soft hands grasp his wrists and, when he cracks his eyes open to slits, she's standing over him, smiling through resolve.
Does he sicken her that much?
She's helping him, though, which is more than can be said of Walter, who fed him and, yes, checked him over, shining a flashlight in his eyes and making bombastic medical leaps, but has decided the best way to make him feel better is through food. Which, if Walter was truly thinking, only works on a 10-year-old who's mother has given him something for his stomach.
"You ready?" she prods, tugging gently on his wrists.
He nods, a bit glum, and helps her as best she can. Olivia lifts easily, bringing him shakily to his feet in one swift motion, and her hands slide up to his shoulders to keep him from tipping. The room swirls, colors blending, and he clenches his eyes closed, breathing through his nose, in an effort to even things out.
If only it worked for everything else.
When he feels confident he won't puke all over her, Peter opens his eyes and tries on a smile. Olivia gives him one back, and he's pleased to see her eyes crinkle just a bit - smiles look so beautiful on her, and yet he doesn't see them very often. At least not on her, and he feels a bit of self-hate at the thought of the other smiling while having drinks or dancing to music.
If life was fair, he'd be able to separate it all, disconnect from the emotions he felt so fully and sharply and allow the anger to take over. Yet he's left with those lingering after effects of a relationship gone sour, those sparks of happy memories that pierce your heart because they're tainted with what went wrong. How do you explain that? How do you make someone see that left-over feelings have nothing to do with choice?
When his feet feel solid under him, he steps back, the couch hitting his legs reminding him there's no more room for retreat. Standing has his head pounding, blood rushing through is veins a loud, banging bass in three-quarter time - maybe six-eighths, where even the most gentle of notes seem out of place.
Without a word, Olivia wraps an arm around his shoulders, his sliding across her waist, and doesn't this feel weird and familiar at the same time? She takes the slack off his tired, aching muscles with their built-up chemicals and spent stretches, leading him around the couch and toward the stairs.
The light in the front hall is on, momentarily blinding him.
The going is slow, his limbs slow to react to his orders, feet lifting at their own pace and not the one he's outlined for them. Olivia's patient, though, helping him along, and soon they're stepping up onto the landing and turning into the hall.
"So, which is yours?" she asks. She's so close he can smell her, and that, combined with her holding his weight, his hand around her waist, fingers aching to touch the skin beneath her t-shirt, makes him more dizzy than the bump on the head and foreign substance working it's way out of his system.
He motions with a hand. "There. I'm going to warn you, it isn't very impressive."
Her laugh cuts through the staccato beat in his head. "I've always wondered if you're as messy here as you are in the lab."
"Me? I'm not the one who leaves food next to experiments and then wonders why people can't tell them apart."
The door's open, and she helps him through. He manages the last steps to his bed on his own and sits on the edge, head bowed. Running a hand over his face, he remembers he should shave before falling asleep, because he has a feeling that once he's out, he'll sleep for a week and would only wake up looking like a mountain man.
Olivia stands near him, then begins wandering around the room. His desk is a mess of papers and books, notes scrawled in the margins with a quick hand. She picks one up and turns it over, reads the cover, and smiles.
"This is pretty advanced stuff," she notes before putting it back down. "It's always amazed me at how quickly you can pick things up."
"Gee, thanks," Peter says from his perch on the bed.
"No, really," she continues. "I mean, it took me weeks to get through the forensics book I was reading, and even then, I found myself asking questions. But you," she shakes her head, fingers running over the clippings on the wall above the drafting desk, "you just get it."
"And here's where I tell you I never had to study for exams," he replies. His eyelids feel heavy, almost as heavy as his head, and he stretches out, head on the pillows, and watches her.
"Is this you?" she laughs, pointing to the framed soccer photo.
"Unfortunately, yes. Walter found it in one of his boxes and decided to hang it in here."
"You were adorable. What position did you play?"
It takes a moment to remember. "Forward."
She turns toward him, framed by the sloping eaves of the roof. "It's kinda hard to picture you playing sports," Olivia says, nose wrinkling.
"Don't tell me you believe that stereotype that smart guys aren't athletic," he moans, "I may not be as in shape as you, Olivia, but I can hold my own. It's not pleasant, being the only kid with an inhaler at a game."
"You? Really?"
"I grew out of it," he says offhand.
"Now there's the stereotype. You just don't want to admit it."
Peter yawns and snuggles into his pillows. "I have a reputation to uphold."
"Sure," she snorts. Then: "It's sweet that you let him hang the picture."
He nods, letting his eyelids fall. Everything feels like it's floating on the other side of a veil, a sheer curtain between him and the rest of the world. His mind feels isolated and involved, a contradiction that can only be solved with sleep.
He floats as the covers are tugged from under him, are pulled up and over, and lets himself fall.
"Goodnight, Peter," she whispers in his ear.
He wishes she'd kiss his forehead.
Olivia tries to be quiet as she descends the stairs, hands in her pockets, a smile on her face. She feels removed from it all - the complications, the revelations, the threats over their heads - and is trying to capture it in a bottle for later, harder days.
Walter stands beside the stairs nibbling on a lemon square. He holds one out, and instead of declining again, she accepts it and takes a bite.
It's sweet and sour and perfectly delicious.