Disclaimer :
No copyright inFRINGEment, only the content & story are mine.
Olivia Dunham, Peter Bishop, Astrid Farnsworth, Walter Bishop, Phillip Broyles, Charlie Francis, Nina Sharp, etc. etc. are to Fox.
Any original characters are mine. ; D
Fog trailed through the crisp night air, chilling the residents of Boston to the bone. Olivia Dunham, one of them, wraps her arms around her body, shivering as she opens the door to her apartment, and as she steps into the flush of warm air that says 'home' to her senses, she does not unwrap her torso from her arms' embrace. Stopping to carelessly toss her keys to the foyer's table and to shrug off her jacket, Olivia leans against the wall, sagging. Hugging at herself, she slides down to the floor and sits, bundling her knees close to her chest, ragged breaths finally coming, ripping out of her body. Holding them in all day had been difficult, but she'd done it before. Harder still was hiding it from her colleagues… No, her friends. Seeing her disheveled appearance and more finicky and nervous atmosphere the entire day, Astrid had asked her how she was. Snipping back a "Fine," that held no emotion, she managed to go about her job, avoiding concerned glances from Walter and Peter's frustrated glare.
Now that she was alone, the events of the day washed over her, and as her sobs subside into snuffles, she rises from the floor and heads into the kitchen, one arm wrapped protectively around her abdomen as the other searched the cabinets for what she needed. Ah, here it was. Whisky, not the best thing for her at the time, but it would do. Pouring herself a shot glass full and downing it, she repeats the motion several more times before hiccupping herself into a stupor. Olive, you're so stupid, she thought bitterly. How could you miss those clues… So obvious now, now that you lost her. Poor girl, you didn't give her a chance, did you? You've lost others before, but this was just careless on your part… Trailing off, her mind grew muddled as her throat burned a few more times.
Deciding that was enough, she moved from kitchen counter to bedroom, not bothering to change out of her traditional black pantsuit and pale blouse, falling instead on her bed, curling into a ball and clawing a sheet over her head. Darkness washed over her, and she fell asleep, unconscious of her whimpers that sounded through the night, subconscious mind still abusing her over her failure.
It was early in the morning. About three, he estimated, as he passed through the streets, impervious to the cold. It didn't matter, he wasn't here to go to a nice warm home, he was here to enter someone else's. Brows furrowing as he squinted away the glare of the streetlights, he recognized his victim's number. Looking around to be sure, he found the regular FBI-issued black SUV, and padded quietly up the steps leading to the apartment. Flicking his beady eyes around to make sure nobody else was present, he jiggled open the lock within a few seconds, obviously a seasoned professional. Entering, he did not flick on any lights, even though he was confident that if this woman was awake, he could still murder her. Coldly, he recalls the layout of her house and walks through it, making his way to the bedroom. From the cast light filtering through the windows, he notices her laying there, so vulnerable.
She looked so vulnerable, this Olivia Dunham. It was months after her accident and she was fully healed, but by the deep rivulets on her face, he could tell that mentally, she was in pain. Oh well, not any longer. Tilting his head, he walks around to the side of her bed, wondering what to do next. Of course he knew, but it wouldn't harm him to check this place out, would it? Silent feet moved around and he looked at her from behind, chuckling softly in a voice he knew shouldn't wake her. She's pretty, huh. Looks more like someone well-suited for any job but her own. Too bad, if she had been a fashion model, we wouldn't be having this problem. He thinks to himself, wondering where he would be if he hadn't decided to take this job. Probably back in some dinky hotel room, but at least it was better than here, he had to be getting back to the shitty hotel room he had taken out for tonight. Standing there, an eerie silhouette, he flicks his coat aside and draws his gun.
Flashing her green eyes open, Olivia keeps breathing steadily. Her head hurt, Damn hangover. But the more immediate problem was this shadow of a man casting over her prone figure. Mind racing, she became aware of a large object pressing into her hip, her own firearm. How grateful she was to have not changed out of her clothes. Assessing the fact that this man wasn't pulling his own gun, not yet, she notices his hand moving to his side, and instantly whips over in a flurry of sheets, drawing her weapon and firing in the direction she knew him to be. Trembling for several seconds after she shot, and not from the gun's retort, she hears a thud and knows that the assailant was dead. Shivering, she crawls to the foot of her bed and peers over, disgusted at the mess she is presented with.
Having shot him through the eye, and having the bullet enter his brain and blow back to lodge in her wall, she covers her mouth to stifle a gasp as gooey fluids seep out of his skull. Mixed amongst the red blood and other matter, silver glints at her, and she recognizes it as mercury. She widens her eyes upon seeing the three-pronged holes in the roof of the shifter's mouth, and scrambles away from it, revulsion and fear obvious on her face, back against the headboard of her bed as she picks up her cell phone, dialing the man she knew would come to her aid.
It was a heavy ringing tone that was piercing his ear at this hour. Not an alarm, not Walter doing something asinine, but a cell phone. Grunting, Peter raises his arm and slams it down on the phone, fingers wrapping around it as he brings it to his face. Olivia… he thinks. Huh, she seemed so disturbed today after we lost that girl, maybe she needs something. But at this hour? Damn her, I don't sleep enough already. Still, if she needs me… his thoughts trail off and without another moment, he unquestioningly flicks open his phone, and says, "Olivia?" perhaps a bit too curtly. Frantic breathing sounded on the other side of the phone and he sits up, flinging his legs over the side of the bed and haphazardly throwing in his shoes. Peter knew this wasn't a case now, and he flung a shirt over his bare chest and jeans over his boxers, rushing to the door. He didn't bother to tell Walter he'd be going out – the old man would be fine one night without him. Olivia still hadn't said anything; only bother to whisper one word –"Peter." Quickly, he snagged his keys and rushed out the door, so flustered he forgot his coat, but not feeling the crisp night air on his face. As he opened the door to his car and started the engine, he said, "Olivia, I'll be right there." And snapped the phone shut, grinding the car's gears and speeding off to her place.
It would only be a ten minute drive, but it gave him enough time to worry. Perhaps it was her stepfather, or maybe she was just scared. He knew Olivia was strong and independent, but he knew that she was a person inside of her tough exterior, and he was worried. Brow furrowed, and he analyzed the situation for the duration of the ride, not bothering to turn on the heater nor the radio – unthinking of his environment as he sped through the streets, carelessly flicking his car door shut as he arrived at her home.
Jogging to her building, he leaps up the steps and in through the entryway, door ajar. He wondered as to why, and as the scent of blood hit his nostrils, he closed it behind him. He hears a noise in her bedroom and flicks on the lights, seeing her saucer-wide eyes, not relaxing when she saw it was him and not another shifter that had entered her home. Quivering, she steps gingerly out of her bed and up to Peter, shock still evident on her face. She edged close to him, clutching at his arm as she says, "Peter, he just came in. I was asleep… He just came in and stood there. Th-the shifter drew his gun, but, but I shot him. It's a shifter, Peter. It's a shapeshifter." Her words almost incoherent as the stress of the day and night's events played on her brain and voice.
Peter knew that he should check out the body to confirm her suspicions and to call others over here, but he knew that Olivia needed him more at this point. A dead body could wait. Wrapping the arm she hadn't claimed around her shoulders, he presses her close to his chest and she buries her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso. He pressed his cheek to her blond tresses, and whispers to her, "Hey… Livia, it'll be alright. See, I'm here, and it's gone. Don't worry, you'll be alright." Repeating his last phrase several times for emphasis. Grateful, she raises her head to look at him, not releasing her pain in the form of tears, but rather just clinging to him, needing the comfort he offered.
Offering him a tentative smile, she releases him from her grip and sniffs once, saying, "Yeah, Peter. I guess so… I'll call Broyles." She watched as he grinned back, then went over to the body, opening its mouth to confirm their suspicions. Sighing, he stands up and gingerly avoids the pool of mercury and steps near the doorframe as Olivia hangs up on Broyles after he says he'd send a team over. Knowing they had a few minutes before there would be agents swarming Olivia's house, Peter glances at the half-empty bottle of whisky on the table and sighs, knowing he would need to talk to Olivia. She stood, looking down at the body with an expression of nothingness on her face, she slid back behind her mask, only to be startled out of it when Peter put his hand on her back.
Looking back up at him, she tilts her head slightly, wondering what it is he wanted to talk about, knowing but not willing to discuss it with him. Nevertheless, he opened his mouth and said in a soft tone, "Olivia. None of this is your fault, you know that, right?" he is given a small nod in return as her eyes flicker downwards. "Hey, look at me." He says, placing a hand on the side of her face to tip it up at him. When she didn't shrink away, he continued, "Come on, you know you can't put that past me. You shouldn't blame yourself, Olivia. I didn't notice the signs, hell, even Walter didn't know. You can't blame just yourself for her death, just think about what we accomplished – we found a cure for her, at least… The three others that were given the serum were saved." He says, but can't help but have his mind flicker back to her body… It was destroyed, the drug that some disgusting excuses for human beings had given that girl… Damnit, they had been too late, but couldn't Olivia see that the three others would have their bodies slowly decay, too, if it hadn't been for them? No, she had to focus on the negative side of it…
She glances up to meet his blue eyes, and lets out a sigh, her soft breath hitting his neck. Setting her mouth in a tight line, Olivia says, "I know. But I know how long that poor girl suffered while we dawdled uselessly. And she was a child, Peter! A child… Only two years older than Ella…" she trails off, and Peter understands why Olivia had been that upset. He had seen Livia with her niece and knew that the woman had a soft spot for children, and wondered how long Olivia had been feeling that way. Since yesterday, of course, but… Why hadn't he seen it earlier? Why hadn't he done something about it? Peter cared deeply for Olivia, and he couldn't stand seeing her beat up like this. Exhaling slowly out of his nostrils, he steps forward to close the gap between them, but mid-stride, the door flies open. Several armed men with bulletproof vests enter the house, yelling at the pair. Instantly their hands go up, and when recognition flies across their face and they straighten, Olivia's vulnerability is gone, and she flashes her badge, motioning for them to enter her bedroom. Peter trails behind, and she stops to order the men to bring the body to Walter's lab in Harvard, knowing they'd do a perfect job of cataloguing and analyzing the scene.
Peter looks over to her, and knows that although she wouldn't sleep again tonight, he decides to offer his home for her to stay in. He and Walter had recently moved to a house in Boston, fairly close to Harvard, and much better, more private, than the hotel room they had shared prior. "Olivia," he says, reaching out to trail his finders along the wrinkled fabric of her coat's arm, "Would you like to stay at my place tonight?" he inquires, omitting the 'our' for reasons unknown to his conscious mind, but his subconscious knew perfectly well that he didn't quite want to mention that Walter would be staying in the same house as them when he had Olivia over.
She looks up and meets Peter's blue eyes, nodding before glancing away to the team. "Let me get a bag ready… I'll be right there, we should take my car." She says, gesturing towards her keys. No words of thanks would exit her lips, the unspoken endearment of herself to him was known to both of them and didn't need saying. Snatching a black bag, she stuffs another suit into the bottom, grabs her toiletries and night clothes, and heads back to Peter, who was twirling the keys from their loop as he leaned against the entryway. A soft smile twitched her lips upward as she watches him open the door for her and they head out to her car. Climbing into the passenger's seat without the usual protest of who would drive, she waits for the heater to turn on as he starts the car, letting out a huff of air as they begin to roll off. It was cozy in the car, and she laid her cheek against the cool glass, exhaustion lowering her eyelids. Normally, she'd be awake and alert, assessing and contemplating the situation, but she knew that with Peter, she'd be safe. He would protect her, as he always seemed to do.
When Olivia didn't say anything, he peered over at her, noticing her closed lids and slightly agape jaw. It had only been five minutes, and they were nearly at his place, but she seemed deeply asleep. Smiling to himself, he didn't have the heart nor the wont to wake her when he knew she already got too little sleep. With the soft grin still playing on his lips, he parks the car outside his house, glancing at the clock. 3:37 it read, only a half-hour had passed between the assailant entering her house and her being asleep now in her car. It didn't feel like that, surely, and he knew that she wouldn't thank him for it later, but he leaned back in his seat before reaching over and tenderly brushing several strands of hair from her cheek, sitting back to watch her subtle breathing.
Stirring slightly, Olivia moves her head and glances over at Peter, who at the first sign of her motion, reached out to take the keys from the car, shutting it down. She glanced at the LED screen, reading the time. 5:13, it read, and she wondered how it had only been a few hours since she had killed the shapeshifter. Had she fallen asleep, though? She remembered the whole ride here, so perhaps it was just her eyelids being closed for longer than a blink. Peter stepped out of the car, still smiling softly, and opened her door for her before heading up to the home's door. Olivia glanced up and down the street, craning her neck while still trying to keep warm, and Peter's brow furrowed. He didn't like seeing her like this. So… scared. It wasn't his Olivia. Opening the door with as much stealth as he could muster, he beckons for her to come before turning on a lamp. "Walter's still asleep," he says, pointing down the far hall to an entry that seemed to ooze black. "So try not to wake the poor old man up." He said, not wanting Walter to spoil this with some uncomfortable innuendo about Olivia staying here so late at night.
Watching her as he stepped further into the home, he shoots her a look, inquiring as to why she seemed to stand so stock-still in his foyer. She takes a few tentative steps before glancing around several times, then takes a gulp of air. Not wanting to seem frightened, she said, "Peter…" and swallowed her pride, needing this more than her dignity. "Can you turn on some more lights?" she asks, and he nods, deciding not to offer her a grin. Olivia didn't like pity, as he was aware of on many painful occasions.
Stepping forward, he illuminates the room with one flick of a switch, then steps forth into the kitchen to turn on another. Doubtful that she'd want to sleep, especially with the two hours she just caught, he asks, "Want some coffee?" and gestures at the coffee pot, which remained cold and empty until she nods in response, following him into the kitchen, and watching as he grabs the grounds from a cabinet and dumps them into the maker, followed with some water. Pressing a button, he turns it on, and shifts to lean against the counter, watching as she did the same to his left. Turning his head to look at her, he sees her looking back.
There was no awkwardness in the air, for the two of them were used to such silences, but the tension crackled intensely between them. Olivia needed comfort, she needed to be held, to break down, and to be cared about, and Peter longed to be that person, but too many things stood between them. But perhaps, one day, they could tear all of those barriers down. His eyes filled with care and hers with hurt, and she says, "Peter… I'm sorry. I didn't know who else to call. After Charlie, I jus-… I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake you." And is rewarded with an incredulous look from him.
Stepping forward to look down at her, Peter says, "Why the hell would you think that? Olivia, none of this is your fault. And as for waking me? I was already awake, and knowing that I couldn't have been there…" he is tempted to say 'for you' but decides against it, "Well, that would have been terrible for me? Alright? Now just try to forget, this whole day has just been…" he trails off, and watches as she smiles.
With the grin twitching at her lips and what she wanted to hear from him heard, she says, "Then thank you, Peter. For being there." Simply, the hidden meaning and emotion behind her words obvious to him. The coffee pot shrieked, and the tension dissipated as he took it out of the maker.
Snatching some mugs, he looks over at her and pours before offering her one, rich and black. "Good. Now we both know that Broyles will want us in bright and early tomorrow, so we might as well just watch a movie." He says, smiling at her. "Now I know you don't have the best taste in movies, but we're at my house now, and I have some good ones." He says, and exits the room, Olivia smirking at his comment and not wanting to be alone, so she follows him without protest.
It was morning before he knew it, the clock reading 9 straight up as he opened his eyes, wondering where he was. Neck hurt, and as he lifted an arm from the armrest to rub it, the events of the night came rushing back to him, and he glances down to see Olivia's head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist as she sat on his couch, feet curled beneath her. A broad smile fell across his face, and his mind seemed to feel… victorious, if that was an emotion. But quickly, he tried to rationalize it, and decided slipping out of her arms was the better option. Knowing nothing had actually happened last night, but that the two of them had fallen asleep before the end credits had rolled, she must have shifted in the night to rest against him, instead of against the opposite side of the couch. Trying to rise softly, he places his hand under her head as he slipped out from under her and tried to place it gently on the sofa cushion. He stood and padded softly away to try to go get Walter, but when he glanced back, her green eyes were watching him, curiosity playing on her face. Smirking at her, he quips, "We fell asleep, doll, I don't think we even got to see the end of the movie." He says, frowning slightly before the smirk returns as she sits up, her expression mirroring his own. "Oh, and you drool."