title: awash in limbic tides
rating: strong PG-13 (for imagery and one swear word!)
pairing: peter/olivia
summary: The nightmare is still there, the edges less defined but not translucent, and she hates that it hangs over her, can barge in and disturb this moment - doesn't she deserve some time to herself?
notes: written ages ago as the original opening to my conman!peter fic that, after I continued writing, didn't fit anymore. Naughty 4-am fic with my favorite OTP.
"It is that flat and spectral non-hour, awash in limbic tides.."
Pattern Recognition, William Gibson
The house can be drafty at night.
Sitting at the kitchen island, Olivia sips from a mug of tea, watching lights from outside play through the white gossamer curtains of the small window over the sink, reflections from the street out front pale by the time they reflect and inch toward her fingers. She follows them, her eyes cast at the worn surface, air cold and dark around her.
She should really go back to bed.
Except she can still see the edges of a fading nightmare when the counter goes dark between passing cars and shifting moonlight, and knows she'd be doing the same thing upstairs; tracing patterns on the ceiling while counting steady, sleepy breaths.
You'd be warmer, she thinks, and smiles at the thought.
And yet, Olivia doesn't move. She listens to the old house, the way it creaks in the breeze, how the air moves through it. She likes it, here, where there's history to the walls and a sense of controlled chaos among the stacks of books and science journals, discarded mugs and odd bits here and there. And photos. They stand in dollar-store and vintage frames all around the house, faces smiling out at her through time, the eyes less haunted. At times, Olivia can feel a ghost in the house, the hole in the family, and skirts around her.
Olivia wonders about her, the face in the photos, that easy smile she recognizes. Neither Bishop has spoken about her past small anecdotes or short memories, their eyes often sad, and Olivia can understand that, understand why, after hearing Walter's great confession.
Having lost her own mother, Olivia gets the heavy silence.
Tea long cold, she slides off the stool and rounds the counter, pulling open the nearest drawer. It holds folded newspapers and various books; she grabs a pencil and sudoku book and makes sure to quietly close the drawer before returning to her perch. The first half of the book is finished, numbers marked with quick scrawls confidently in pen, so she flips to the back where four bold black stars warn her of the difficulty in crazy, made-up terms.
"Try me," she mutters to herself. Peter may enjoy the crossword, completing it by the time she's finished a quick breakfast, but Olivia's a sudoku girl. Working with numbers has always come easily to her, and while most would be intimidated by the lack of easy puzzles, she finds the process relaxing, almost meditative.
She's halfway through the puzzle when she feels a tingle go up the back of her neck, a niggling in her mind that rises and causes her to raise her head and look around. Peter stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed.
"I woke up and was missing something," he comments when her eyes meet his.
"Couldn't sleep," replies Olivia.
He pushes off the frame and walks towards her, hands resting on her shoulders only long enough to brush her hair aside; he wraps his arms around her waist and plants a kiss at the base of her neck, chin resting on her right shoulder, breath hot and tickling her ear as he peers down at her puzzle.
"Sudoku, huh?" he asks.
She smiles, though he can't see it, and goes to fill in another box. "Yup. I like numbers."
"And they like you, I'm sure, but I was hoping you kinda enjoyed keeping me around."
Olivia lets out a bark of laughter and scoops her hair, now cascading down her left shoulder, behind her ear.
His response is to bury his face in her neck, his voice muffled when he protests, "It's four in the morning."
She only grins and tilts her head to the side, trying to think four moves ahead, placing mental notes on the nine-by-nine grid, waiting for more traffic to pass so she can make out the bold numbers. Peter seems content with resting his weight on her, his breath steady against her chilly skin, and she almost burrows back into his solid weight.
It's comforting, a rarity in her life these days she wants to take every advantage of, yet is afraid of becoming dependant on. Her past has taught her anything but stability, and even though their little family has been together for the better part of three years, Olivia lives in fear of it being ripped apart at a moment's notice, whether by the consequences of universe-hopping or conservative congressional panels. Shoes have been falling in droves from the sky, the second and third on the heels of the first, but this - him, the work, the lab, all of it - has yet to be truly threatened.
And maybe that's what scares her most of all.
A seven goes into a box. Olivia traces over the shape, allowing herself to close her eyes and be for just a second. Unwind. Relax.
Peter finally gives up, or gives in, and lifts his head. His thumbs worm their way under the long button-up she threw on in the dark, one hooking around the elastic of her panties, and she wonders if sleep is really what he's thinking about.
The other is drawing a lazy circle at the crest of her left hip.
But the nightmare is still there, the edges less defined but not translucent, and she hates that it hangs over her, can barge in and disturb this moment - doesn't she deserve some time to herself? When will the after effects of mind-invasion and universe-hopping and everything else just go away?
So she goes back to the puzzle. Begins the top curve of a three when she's interrupted by Peter making a marked exhale at her move.
"I don't need your help," she comments, yet her pencil doesn't move an inch.
"Obviously, you do, if you think a three goes there," he remarks.
Frowning, Olivia retraces her steps, not one to openly doubt herself. But it is four in the morning, and she's been down here for at least a half hour, and does he have to drive her crazy with such a simple move? Already she's flashing back to earlier in the night and knows what he can do with his hands alone, her body very much remembering, sending heat up through her stomach, flushing her cheeks.
But she's known Peter Bishop long enough to know this isn't simply an innocent move, and it takes an extra bit of focus to push past the sensations he's able to coax from her cool skin and return to the puzzle, now moving the three over two boxes.
He doesn't make a sound, so she taps the end of the pencil on the page and goes on.
When his other hand begins trying to warm her, Olivia looks over her shoulder, his eyes too close to make out clearly; he's a well-worn shape in shadow. "Peter, I'm an FBI agent. Do you really think you can break my concentration?"
He smirks. "Sweetheart, this is nothing."
She quirks an eyebrow, challenge accepted. In the dim light, Olivia works quickly, numbers coming easily now that she has a goal other than to fill time before the sun rose. Her strokes are sure and steady just like his, hands warm and flat against her skin as if there's no space between them, just warmth and passion and -
- the last number won't fit.
Olivia blocks everything from her mind, zeroing on the problem at hand, wondering where she went wrong - was it before or after one of his hands slipped inside her panties and splayed, wide, over the skin of her abdomen, sending a shiver up her spine? Not that she'd ever admit it, but the low chuckle brushing across her earlobe gives some indication that he already knows. He removes a hand from her skin and she already misses it, wants to reach out and grab it if only to keep it on her, but lets him, instead, pluck the pencil from her fingers.
Years after meeting him, and she's still impressed by his easy genius.
Peter erases six numbers, moves them around, and fills in the puzzle, standing so he can look her in the eye when he remarks, "Check the answers in the back if you want."
This coming from a man who computes formulae in his head, helps calibrate technology from another universe? No, she trusts his math, that's for damn sure.
He stands, right hand on the kitchen island, balancing his weight, left sliding up her body - and does he have to trail his fingers up that way? - to cup her face, fingers in her hair, and she's staring at his lips just as much as his eyes are on hers, and maybe this is what she finally needed to get some sleep.
They're inches from each other, now, when, through the cold and silent house, a phone rings.
"Don't answer it," he suggests.
"There are only two people who call this early."
"And both can go fuck themselves. It's four in the morning.'
She's ready to give-in. Willing and able, she closes her eyes and is just touching his lips when another beings to ring, filling in the gaps of silence with an equally-annoying generic tone.
Olivia opens her eyes.