"Many warriors of the inevitable confrontation are among us now. But before they can be considered Soldiers, they must first be regarded as Recruits. And the expectation is that they shall be unwilling."
It's not possible. No goddamn way.
"YOU PASSED" the wall taunts her.
Without a second thought, she pulls out her phone and dials Peter. "Still want that drink?" she asks without greeting.
"354 Rutherford," is his reply. Then the line goes dead.
When Olivia walks through the door at the address Peter gave her, the first thing that hits her is the music. Jazz from a white baby grand in the corner, and breathy lyrics from a woman at the microphone a foot away.
A piano bar? Seriously?
She spots him in a corner booth, already nursing a half-empty glass of what looks to be whiskey. A second glass sits untouched in front of him.
He looks up, finding her eyes immediately, like he could sense that she had just walked in. He smiles, a grin that's warm, friendly and open but at the same time reserved and unsure. She doesn't read in to it, and doesn't smile back.
She walks over to the booth and before she even sits down, throws back the contents of the second glass. He watches with wide eyes and mouth agape, before signaling the waitress for another.
"Wanna fill me in?" he half-laughs.
"In a minute," she whispers hoarsely. The waitress comes back in almost no time at all, two new drinks on her tray. Peter downs the last contents of his own glass before setting it at the end of the table. Their fresh drinks replace the empty glasses, and the woman's gone.
Olivia picks up her drink and tilts it back, just slightly more than needed for a normal sip. A third of the liquid's disappeared down her throat when Peter blinks.
"Okay," she sighs, setting the glass back down. "So first, Jones has escaped from the hospital."
Peter opens his mouth to speak and Olivia puts up a hand. "Don't ask how, I don't know. Second, he left behind a message."
"To you?" he asks quickly.
She nods. "'You passed'," she says. She takes an uneasy sip.
"Hell, 'Livia," he sighs after a long silence.
"It was written across the damn wall like some big joke," she says quietly, but not whispering.
He watches her take another sip, and she feels his gaze burning into her.
He shifts in his seat, swallows a quick sip, and clears his throat. "Olivia," he starts, and the way he says her name makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but tonight is a win. You saved hundreds—thousands—of lives tonight, including ours. I say take what you can get, and celebrate." He tips his glass in her direction.
"At a piano bar?" she asks skeptically, a smirk playing at her lips.
Peter grins. "Stephan isn't half bad. He's not as good as me, but he's not bad."
"And the woman?"
"Charlotte. Now she's a different story, and one I don't enjoy telling." He tilts back his glass. "This bar has sentimental value. I used to play here."
"Really?" she teases. "Girls must have been all over you."
He shrugs, "Not as many as you'd think."
She drops the subject, and notices just a hint of red in his eye.
"Were you here before I called?" she asks.
He laughs sardonically. "Just because you didn't want to come and drink with me didn't mean I couldn't."
She nods, and slowly rolls her glass between her palms, the condensation making them cold and damp. She replays the events of the day in her mind, and it makes her stomach turn.
Peter eventually notices her trance, and lays a hand gently on her wrist. Her hands stall, and she slowly meets his eyes.
On the surface, there's the alcohol, there's his own memories of the day, there's gratefulness for being alive. But there's something else hidden there, something underneath. A concern for her well-being, a level of attraction that may even go beyond the physical.
It makes her pulse thrum a little quicker under her skin, and she worries that he'll feel it beneath his fingertips.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks slowly. "And, seriously, don't say you're 'fine'."
She can't fight the minute smile his words elicit. "I'm just a little overwhelmed, I think. You know, developing superpowers and saving the world were not on my to-do list for today."
He chuckles softly. "I thought saving the world was on our to-do list every day."
"Yeah," she whispers, acutely aware that his hand is still on her wrist. He makes no move to remove it, and she realizes that she doesn't seem to mind.
He starts to pull away, but his fingers linger on her skin a second longer, the ridges of his identity brushing the back of her hand. Her phone rings in her jacket pocket and she tenses, surprised.
She pulls away and digs for her cell. As she does, he says, "But you have to admit, the superpower thing could be pretty cool. And it might come in handy someday."
"Hello," she answers, smiling at him.
"Agent Dunham? Nina Sharp." Olivia's smile falls. "Hand's back to normal."
Peter watches her intently as she replies, "Well, good for you."
"I was curious about that question you asked, whether there were other places where Cortexiphan was tested."
"Yeah," Olivia confirms nervously.
"There was, as it turns out, a second clinical trial, though much smaller than the one in Ohio."
"There was?" she chokes out. Peter's gaze holds hers, and her chest tightens.
"Yes, in Jacksonville, Florida, at a military base."
It's not possible. No goddamn way.
"Agent Dunham?" she hears.
She swallows hard. "Thank you very much for calling."
"You're very much welcome, have a good night." There's a click, and Nina Sharp's gone.
Not likely, she thinks.
"You look like you've just spoken to a ghost," Peter says, and she remembers that not long ago she had been—but that was different. "Who was that?"
"It's nothing," she whispers.
"Are you sure? Because that didn't—"
"Peter, please," she pleads, eyes closed.
And he doesn't ask again. He only nods.
They finish their drinks in silence. The waitress returns.
"Another round?" she offers.
"No, thank you," Peter tells her, not taking his eyes off of Olivia, whose head had fallen into her hands with her elbows propped up on the table.
The woman takes their empty glasses and leaves them again.
When Olivia finally looks up, Peter's still watching her. She smiles, it not reaching her eyes, and asks, "You need a ride?"
Peter's hand comes up and rubs roughly over his unshaven scruff. "Uh, no. It's fine. I'll get a cab."
"Peter, don't be ridiculous. I'll drive you, don't waste your money on a cab." She grabs her jacket, pulling it on as she stands.
He smiles and nods. "Thank you."
Bundled into their coats, they head out the door. The biting winter chill instantly hits their cheeks, painting them a rosy pink.
"So, home?" Olivia asks him outside on the street, bathed in the iridescent yellow of the streetlight above.
"Yeah," he replies, walking up beside her. She leads them down the block to where she's parked her government-issue SUV.
"I'm surprised Walter hasn't called to check up on you," Olivia admits, opening her door.
"I think he self-medicated tonight, because when I called to tell him I'd be late he just laughed and hung up," he tells her with a smirk.
Olivia smiles and climbs into her car.
The drive is mostly silent. Peter fiddles with the radio, but gives up and turns it off a few minutes later.
But, eventually, they reach the hotel. Olivia pulls the SUV over next to the curb.
"Now are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or are you going to make me guess?" he turns and says to her.
Olivia meets his eyes for a moment before she looks down at her hands in her lap.
When she doesn't say anything, Peter sighs. "Okay, fine. You don't have to tell me…"
"That was Nina Sharp on the phone," she interrupts him. "She said there was a second trial of Cortexiphan."
"Where?"
She takes a deep breath, "On a military base, in Jacksonville, Florida."
He inhales. "Come up. I'll make coffee."
"No, I should get home. Chances are there will be a new case bright and early."
"Olivia…"
"I'm okay," she insists. "Yes, Jones could be right, and yes, I suppose I could have really shut off those lights. But nothing's changed. We get a case, we get the bad guy."
"You're not sleeping tonight, are you?"
"Highly doubtful," she whispers, looking down again. "But it's not much different from every other night."
Peter opens his door and exits the car. He circles around to Olivia's side and she rolls down her window.
"Will you do something for me?" he asks, leaning in to soak up the escaping heat from the cabin.
"Depends."
"Go home and sleep. Turn off your phone, your alarm, and just sleep. You've been through a lot today. Take a day to yourself, Olivia. Or a night, at least. Please."
After a moment, she smiles. "You trying to get rid of me, Bishop?"
He grins. His hand reaches and brushes a few strands of hair from the side of her face.
And then he kisses her. His hand is surprisingly warm and gentle on her cheek, and his lips press into and move with hers.
When they pull apart, they're both quietly gasping for breath.
"Never," he whispers, dropping his hand and turning away from her. He walks up the path to the front door.
He glances back once more before he disappears into the hotel.
Only then does her heart stop beating again.
When Olivia gets home, she walks into her bedroom, unclips her gun from her belt and places it in the drawer of the nightstand.
Her jacket is already off and she sees it draped over a chair in her kitchen. Her hair has been released from her tight ponytail, shaken out and falling over her shoulders.
She stands, straightening her back. "Trying to get rid of me, Bishop?" The memory of his smile makes her head spin.
He must have been drunk. That's the only explanation, she thinks.
She drops herself onto her bed and her head into her hands. For a split second, she's back at the bar, trying to digest the information from Nina Sharp. She can almost feel Peter's eyes on her.
But when she looks up, he's not there. Her elbows don't rest on the wooden table of the bar, but on her own knees. She's home, in her bedroom, but still reeling from information she was given almost an hour ago.
"Go home and sleep. Turn off your phone, your alarm, and just sleep."
The proposition sound appealing.
She kicks off her shoes. She unbuckles and slides the belt off her slacks. She unbuttons her shirt, one by one.
It takes all her strength to walk to the closet and bull down an old t-shirt and some sweatpants.
Minutes later—or hours, she can't really tell—she slides under her bedcovers and lays her head down on the pillow. She reaches up to switch off the lamp.
She hasn't turned anything off, and knows eventually a call will wake her up. But she's sure that if she tries, she might actually get some sleep tonight.
The light flickers into darkness and she closes her eyes.
She jerks awake. Her room is dark, so it's still night. She glances at her clock.
3:11am. Great.
A noise filters in from the other room, and Olivia's body goes into panic mode. She silently reaches to the drawer and pulls out her gun. She clicks off the safety and slides her legs out of the bed.
She is silent as she pads from her bed to the open doorway.
A quick check around the doorjamb reveals nothing, so she continues to the kitchen.
Her tea kettle, which she has used once to date, sits on the stove. A mug sits on the counter, a white string of a tea bag dangling down the side.
Someone else is here.
"Hello, Miss Dunham."
She whips around, finger on the trigger.
He's seated in a chair at the edge of the living room. "I hope you don't mind, but I prepared us some tea."
"What are you doing here?"
He smiles, and it makes her feel sick. "I am here to offer you…" he pauses, as if searching for the word, "an opportunity."
He stands, her mug in his hand, the hot water of the tea still steaming.
"Sorry, not interested."
"But you haven't even heard it yet, Olivia."
She doesn't respond.
"I'm offering you the chance to become something more. Something better, stronger."
"Again, not interested."
He laughs. "Unfortunately for you, 'no' is not an option."
A sharp blow to the back of her neck knocks her to the floor. Her gun skitters a few feet away and her head feels light and heavy simultaneously.
"'The expectation is that they shall be unwilling,'" he says as her vision starts to blur. "You're going to be my strongest warrior yet."
It all goes black.
A/N: So, I know it's been awhile since I posted, but I am hard at work on this story and several others (including the Don't Go sequel and the Emilia rewrite). I'm currently on Part 3 of this story, but this is all I have typed. Off to the end of the weekend!