Title: Airway
Rating: T/PG-13
Genre: H/C, Romance, Casefic
Spoilers: None. Set between '6B' and 'Os'
Summary: During one week in February, Olivia tries to solve a case, Peter battles a cold, Astrid gets some time out of the lab, and Walter drugs someone when mosquitoes start killing people in Boston.
Hola, lovelies!
Well, here it is, the uber-long casefic I've been working on since the beginning of February. A nice long dose of Polivia inside the framework of a case. I did two weeks of research for this one, kids, so while it may not be entire possible, the theories and beginnings are there. Thank you, random issue of Popular Science, for jump-starting my muse.
Many thanks to Nikki Greenleaf for being my cheerleader through this, and Bryn for the quick beta. This fic may be posted a chapter at a time, but it's entirely finished. I love you too much to leave you hanging!
XO Kira
Chapter One
"Peter!"
The shout echoes up the stairs and right into his ears. He groans and throws an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the sunlight streaming in through his windows. Everything's fuzzy, thick, and his head is clogged with cotton balls, so Walter and everyone else can just make it through the day without him.
Which, Peter realizes as his door is thrown open by his insane father, will never happen. Walter has too wide of a grin on his face and seems to have decided on the day's outfit and breakfast, both of which he is currently wearing.
"Go away, Walter," Peter groans from under his arm.
"But Olivia has called," he replies, and adds, with a clap, "and we have a new case!"
This gets Peter to open his eyes, but only to glare in Walter's direction. "Fantastic. What is it this time?"
"Oh, well, I don't exactly know." He laughs a bit. "I have to admit, I wasn't completely paying attention; my eggs were burning."
Peter tries not to think about the state of the kitchen downstairs while he blinks his eyes awake. Reaching for his nightstand, he tries to remember where he left his phone, why he didn't bring it up with him. And then it comes to him in a swish of woozy memories – talking to Olivia on the phone while idly flipping through channels, falling asleep with the line still open, having the presence of mind to plug it in to charge before stumbling upstairs.
Sighing, he knows Olivia will be waiting for them to arrive on-scene and depending on where she is, they're either going to be on time or very, very late at this point.
Which won't happen if Walter's the one with the information. Never a day off - Peter sighs and throws off his covers.
"Did she call on my phone?" he ask as he sits up. Whoah. He does not feel well. Maybe that late night walk was a bad idea -
"Yes. It was in the kitchen."
"Did you bring it up here with you?"
"No."
Like pulling teeth. Peter runs a hand through his hair and wonders if he has time for a quick shower before heading out, but doesn't want to risk it.
"Are you feeling alright, son?"
Peter's head snaps up and he gives a reassuring smile.
"I'm fine, Walter, just fine. I'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes."
His father nods and disappears. As an afterthought, Peter shouts, "And change your shirt!" before standing and getting a start on the day.
The February day is sharp, cold, and cloudless. Olivia pulls her gloves on tighter as she crosses the street into the circus of FBI activity on the wide sidewalk outside a downtown coffee shop. The only blessing of winter is the lack of gawkers at the crime scene, and Broyles easily notes her approach.
"So, what's up? she asks. When she meets up with Broyles, they match stride up to the crime tape, which he holds up for her before passing through himself.
"Miriam Ellis, 29, came here for her morning coffee around 7:15am and suddenly, well, I'll let you see for yourself."
The body of Miriam Ellis is lying on the sidewalk outside the door to the coffee shop, mouth - if it could be called that at this point - open in object horror, eyes wide and almost completely red, pupils blown. But most of her face has been obscured by timorous growths, skin stretched and split to reveal sticky muscle and -
"What is that?" she breathes.
Fabric is ripped where more growth has gone out of control, shoes forced off her feet. There is little resemblance to a normal human shape left, and this may not be the worst mutation she's ever seen.
And that's saying something.
"According to witnesses, this happened within a 5 minute time span," Broyles says when she straightens. He looks around, then back at Olivia.
"What do we know about her?"
"She worked as a paralegal in a law office around the corner - Vincentti, Brown, & Yarles. Lived outside the city. Married. As far as we can tell, she was a normal suburbanite."
"Who just happened to have her - " instead of finishing, she simply makes a face.
Over her shoulder, Broyles nods, the tight clip of the head that signals the arrival of the Bishops. Olivia turns - it's been almost a week since she's seen either of them, and while that used to be the norm, lately, she's been used to seeing a lot more of half the team. Her eyes follow Peter as he lags behind his father by a few steps, but doesn't let her worry leak out onto her features.
"Oh, good morning, Agent Broyles!" greets Walter on his way to the body. Olivia hangs back, slowing to the crawl Peter's moving at.
"Running late this morning?" she half-jokes.
"You want us here on time, don't give the details to Walter," he tells her, eyes on the crime scene. She hates that his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. Coupled with a hat and thick scarf, Peter's hidden except for his cheeks, speckled red with cold.
"You weren't answering," she tries. He seems to nod, his face half-turned towards her in apology, and she sighs, holding them back for a moment. "Are you still not feeling well? I thought it was just a run-of-the-mill cold."
"Is anything run-of-the-mill in our lives?" he counters, deadpan. At her lack of an answer, he moves off, joining up with his father. Olivia watches as he catches sight of what's under the sheet, and while none of them would admit to being bothered by what they investigate, she does note how he turns away for a beat before focusing on the bricks above Miriam Ellis' body.
The elder Bishop leans in, undisturbed by the poor state the body is in, more interested in what was revealed when the skin split. There's a method to his scientific inquiry, a process he goes through in seconds that take most hours. Broyles has left them to their work; Olivia remains outside, curious.
"What is that, Walter?" she asks.
"I can't be sure, yet, but I surmise that this is some kind of rogue cell growth." He pokes at one of the parts, finger squishing in. Clear fluid leaks out and drips to the sidewalk.
"And then there's that," Peter comments. "Could you at least put a glove on?"
"Oh, I doubt this is contagious, not these cells. They're perfectly healthy."
"Aside from having just busted through a woman's skin?"
Olivia frowns. "I don't understand. How could healthy cells grow like this?"
"I'll need to take the body back to my lab to test them, of course, but I believe they simply multiplied unhindered."
"Like cancer?"
Walter stands and wipes his hand on his jacket. Olivia spies Peter wincing as it does it and smiles in his direction.
"No," Walter is saying, "Cancer is the growth of abnormal cells in the body. These appear to be simply misplaced."
"From other organs? You can't just grow liver cells by themselves from, say, your forehead," says Peter. "And even if you could, not this quickly."
"A curious thing," mutters Walter. "Yes, back to the lab."
Walter's left with the body and the Boston coroner's assistants, now used to him and his love of the macabre. She hears one ask about the growths and the excitement in Walter's voice carries as Olivia enters the coffee shop.
Agents crawl amongst the fixtures, behind the counters, searching for clues, evidence. Broyles stands with another agent and one of the employees, a woman shaken in her bright, coffee-stained apron. Olivia slips off her gloves and shoves them into her left pocket, thankful to be inside where it's warm.
The place is permeated with the sweet smell of coffee. She could use a cup. Or two.
"Hello," she greets with an easy smile. "I'm Agent Olivia Dunham. Can you tell me what happened this morning?"
The woman takes a breath. "Miriam came in like usual for her morning coffee - a grande skim mocha with light whip. She seemed fine, maybe a little tired?"
"Did she say anything? Give any indication that something was wrong?"
"No, I don't think so. We're pretty busy at that time in the morning, so we didn't have a lot of time to talk," - she frowns, thinking. Then, "She did say something about going out on-site for a case, and how she was exhausted from the trip. Then she went to get her drink and...oh, God, she started screaming and - changing. She ran out the door..." The barista trails off, hugging herself. The agent near them leads her away, consoling her as best anyone can.
"We've pulled the security tapes and sent them back to be analyzed," Broyles says. "Hopefully, we'll be able to get something from them."
"What I don't get is what activated it," Peter says from beside her, his voice surprising Olivia. He's leaning against the front counter, but this isn't to give her space - without the sunglasses, she can finally see his face - bloodshot eyes, pale skin - and wonders if the counter's the only thing holding him up.
"What do you mean?" prompts Broyles.
"Something like this isn't airborne, and the woman said she didn't get her coffee. So what triggered this reaction?"
"We'll collect what we can here and send it over to the lab," Broyles replies. Olivia nods, ready to move on, and turns to leave when her boss adds, "Bishop, are you all right?"
Peter gives a half smile. "Just a cold. Nothing some Day-Quil can't fix."
"Make sure it stays that way."
Broyles moves off and pulls out his cell phone. Peter slides on his sunglasses and starts for the door. Olivia's left standing alone in the center of chaos, on the outside looking in at what's become of her life.
Aaron Ellis falls back into his chair, hand coming up to cover his mouth, jaw slack with shock. Across the desk, Olivia leans forward, elbows on her knees, small reporter's notebook in hand. She's every bit the compassionate professional, invested just enough to put Ellis at ease showing weakness in front of her. As Miriam Ellis' husband absorbs the news of his wife's unusual death, Olivia gives him a moment to take it in before flipping open her notebook.
"Mr. Ellis, can you think of anything unusual, anything at all?" opens Olivia. "Was there anything that happened in the last week, maybe, that may have stood out?"
Ellis shakes his head, still bewildered. "No, nothing. Miriam does the same route every day. Coffee, work, home. She meets with friends once a week, maybe goes out with co-workers on the weekend."
"What about errands for her job? One of the witnesses said something about Miriam going on-site for work."
"Yeah," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Yeah. Her boss called on Saturday, asked her to drive out to Medfield to take care of something. She didn't seem happy about it, but I thought it was just because it was the weekend." He frowns, then leans forward. "Did something happen there? Is that where she was - you said she was infected with something?"
"Uh, we don't know the specifics yet, Mr. Ellis," Olivia says, her head slightly turning to face Peter. He doesn't give her anything to go off of, and she quickly returns her attention to Ellis. "Do you have the address of where she went to?"
"No. But she did put it into her GPS."
Something for them to follow up on. Peter slips out the door and pulls his cell phone from his pocket, dialing Broyles. If the senior agent isn't still at the scene, he can at least get someone to pull the data off Miriam Ellis' GPS while processing the car. Halfway through scrolling to the number, Peter begins to feel a tickle at the back of his throat, and while the phone rings, he swallows it down.
He's halfway through explaining things to Broyles when the tickle comes back with a vengeance, tripping him up as he tries to speak. He clears his throat and grimaces as it grows more uncomfortable, and it's only through stubbornness that Peter stumbles over the last few words and disconnects before being overwhelmed by a coughing fit. It has him doubled over, hands on his knees, phone on the ground where it slipped from his fingers - his chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, but can't - just feels that tickle and his lungs trying to escape up his throat.
And then, when he's beginning to feel a bit dizzy, a hand lands on his back and rubs it in circles. Maybe it was clearing up on its own or maybe it was helped, but his breathing begins to clear. Peter leans against the wall and tilts his head back. It doesn't help that his nose is congested; he can feel the blood pulsing in his head, a steady thump thump, as he tries to suck in some air.
"Hey, Peter," he hears Olivia whisper from beside him. "Here."
He cracks open his eyes to see her holding out a water bottle, cap already removed. He takes it, their fingers brushing, as he does, and downs half the bottle.
When he regains his breath, he hands it back and says, "Thanks."
She seems to be studying him, deciding if she should say anything. The look in her eyes – so familiar from a childhood of illness – is a big part of why he's stayed quarantined in the house for the past week, content with phone conversations.
"Are you sure you're feeling okay? Maybe you should go home, get some rest."
"The last thing I need is to spend time at home," he replies, trying for a grin. After a few clear breaths, he pushes off the wall and rubs his eyes. "Broyles is having someone pull the GPS data and sending it to Astrid at the lab. Did Ellis have anything to add?" He hopes she takes the bait, goes for a change of topic before either of them go into concern; he's had enough of that in his lifetime.
Olivia seems to pause for a beat, considering her options before jumping right in. "Nothing much. His wife complained of feeling under the weather, but they thought it was just a cold."
"They're going around," he observes, pushing open the door and holding it for her. Olivia passes through and gives him a bit of a smile, but it's gone by the time he catches up to her in the elevator lobby, where she's already putting on her gloves. "So what do you think happened here? She would have mentioned if someone approached her in Medfield, right?"
"Sure," Olivia shrugs. The elevator arrives and she steps in, set in glowing amber tones by lights reflecting off paneled walls. Peter stands there, drinking in the sight, before clearing his head and stepping in next to her.
She presses the button for the lobby.
Astrid makes a face as Walter cuts into the tissue growth. It reminds her of coral reefs, all random angles and variable bonds, with holes worn by fish and plant life. Walter, as usual, is intrigued, lucid as he examines the newest oddity to pass into their lab. And, per usual, she's standing at his side, wondering what the hell they've stumbled into this week.
He finishes his incision and turns to her - Astrid is one step ahead of him, and as soon as he opens his mouth, she says, "Get a dish for a sample, yes."
"You're a bright young lady, Astrid," he says, gleeful, smearing the sample into the plastic dish. "Now, we need to get under this mess to see the state of her original structure."
"You want to cut all of that away?" she asks. Almost as second nature, she caps the dish and writes on a small label on the top 'Abnormal Cell Sample' in neat, block handwriting. Walter's still fond of labels, and often makes them in several languages when significantly altered, making Astrid glad she has a firm grasp of several he uses.
"Yes!" he grins. "In order to know the damage caused, we need to get down to the basics."
"But isn't that what killed her?"
"Killed her? Goodness, no! Cell growth causes illness, yes - look at cancer - but only after a prolonged period of time. This woman was killed by something else. I theorize that whatever caused this growth is what killed her, but only as a by-product of the molecular process."
Which means, yes, they are cutting everything away. With a sigh, Astrid goes to find the larger plastic storage containers, stacked neatly from when she washed them after the last case with larger biological evidence, estimating how many she'll need. Behind her, Walter continues to work, the soft sounds of rock filling the cavern-like laboratory, the air almost thicker with the notes.
"Miss? Come here for a moment," he calls, holding an arm. Astrid smiles - at least he didn't give her another name - and puts the containers down on a nearby counter before joining Walter at his side.
He holds the arm out to her, a latex-covered finger pointing to something on her skin. Astrid frowns, and leans in closer.
"Is that a mosquito bite?"
