A/N: I am so, so sorry that this is so late! I went through a really rough patch in early February and recovering from that took up most of energy. But I'm back and, hopefully, better than ever. For all the fluffiness in the previous, there's gonna lots of super fun angst coming up (fun for me, anyway), though not necessarily in this chapter. It's kinda short and transition-y.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Duh.
Peter and Olivia aren't exactly the type to acknowledge monthly anniversaries of their relationship; neither have ever been known for being sentimental. Plus, after just four weeks, it'd be kind of (read: very) silly to rejoice over the 'milestone.' He does make her breakfast, though, and brings the plates to the bedroom. As soon as he sits down on the mattress, her eyes open, Olivia being an insanely light sleeper and all.
"Breakfast in bed? What's the occasion?" is the first thing she says, noticing the pancakes and scrambled eggs.
"No occasion," he lies, because, really, it's not an occasion. It's just a date on a calendar. "Just thought I'd surprise my wonderful girlfriend."
"Let me know if she ends up being surprised," she deadpans, pushing herself into a sitting position against the pillow.
"Will do." He hands her one of the plates, which she takes, smiling, and he climbs back under the covers next to her.
"Wait," she says, and he looks up at her. "Is the occasion Walter and our job both letting us sleep in?"
He laughs. "That's exactly it."
"Sounds like a good enough reason to celebrate for me," she says, and then pulls his mouth to hers. Even at seven o'clock in the morning, kissing her is nothing short of absolutely fantastic. Maybe someday that will wear off. Probably not.
When they finish eating, they clean up and load the dishwasher, and then shower together. Domesticity, for whatever reason, comes easily to them, a routine they didn't know that they'd always known, because it only works with each other.
They're wrapped in towels when Olivia's phone buzzes. Peter hears something about "twenty-five minutes" and there's no doubt about what's coming next. Nothing interrupts a quiet morning quite like gore and death.
"That was Broyles," she tells him as soon as she hangs up.
"I figured," he replies.
"C'mon, let's get dressed."
"Do we have to?"
"You want to go to the crime scene in your underwear?"
"As long as you are too."
She throws his shirt at him.
When Walter finds out about their relationship (they never went out of their way to conceal it from him, but they never outright told him, either), he insists on making them a special dinner at the Bishop residence, complete with kicking his son out while he prepares. Which leads to a visit from the fire department rather than a meal, something that Peter and Olivia are hardly surprised by.
Two nights later, Walter is supervised while cooking, and the dinner itself isn't too bad. Not because the food isn't good or anything, because it's actually quite delicious. Walter's questions and comments about sex are uncomfortable and leave Olivia tugging, both metaphorically and physically, at her shirt collar.
After they finish eating, Walter hastily throws dishes into the sink, claims that he helped clean up, and then rushes out the door to give them "alone time." They have just enough time to chuckle at Walter's antics before they get called to a crime scene in Worcester.
Walter pouts the entire way there.
In the week leading up to Valentine's Day, they agree that there's no need to do anything big, like the 'month-iversary' that was mentioned only in passing. Chinese food and a tacky romcom on Netflix is enough for them; both having grown up loners, February fourteenth doesn't mean too much. It's Sunday night and they're wearing pajamas, her legs thrown across his lap, enjoying each other's company. Empty takeouts boxes clutter up her living room table; they're clutching bowls of popcorn now. On screen, a teary-but-beautiful blonde begs her handsome, tortured boyfriend to take her back.
"So," Olivia comments. "That's romance."
"No," Peter corrects with an all-encompassing gesture. "This is romance."
She grins, truly and completely happy with this man and this date, and kisses him, a hand at his neck, at the beginnings of scruff on his face, tasting like salt. When they break apart, her forehead falls lightly to his.
"See?" He murmurs.
Olivia pulls his lips back to hers, and suddenly they're making out on the couch, him over her, hands greedily removing items of clothing.
Which is hardly different from any other night they've spent together.
"Maybe you have the flu."
They're both on the bathroom floor, her chin hovering just above the toilet bowl, too drained to move a single muscle. After throwing up what feels like all of her internal organs, aches roll through her body, radiating from behind her belly button. Peter hasn't flinched once in this past half-hour, holding her hair and rubbing her back (which he's still doing), comforting wordlessly. Until now.
"Maybe," she croaks, and then closes her eyes.
He helps her hobble slowly back to bed, arm around her waist. She's trying to regain herself, to not need to lean on him, but her body betrays her. She - more or less - collapses unto her mattress, pressing her sweaty face to the pillow. Peter lays down next to her, loosely wrapping an arm around her. He goes back to being silently supportive, not bothered by how close he is to someone who has some sort of stomach virus. For someone who almost died of a vague and rare illness as a child, he's got a surprisingly strong immune system, and hardly ever gets sick.
After a while, he thinks she might have fallen asleep, but then her eyes open. Well, maybe only one, because that's all he can see. The other's obscured by the pillow.
She doesn't say anything, and so he doesn't either. A few moments pass like this, and then she sits up, him following suit.
"I feel okay," she says, voice still raspy. "Better. It was probably just something I ate."
"Are you sure?"
She stretches. "I'm fine. You and I both know I'm no good at sitting around either way."
All the day, the suspicions roll around her brain and distract her from work. Her and Peter have always been safe, but that doesn't necessarily mean there's a 0% chance of what she's thinking being real. Of her being pregnant. She knows it's silly, but the thoughts won't leave her head, good and bad ones. Because she could be. She might be. It's not an impossibility.
When she gets home (alone, which is a rarity these days, but she told Peter that she was really tired and, after this morning, he didn't doubt it), she peels off her clothes and tugs on pajamas, cotton pants and a shirt of Peter's that she wore home one day, completely by accident, and just ended up keeping.
She lays down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling, an old pastime of hers. Insomnia is despicably loyal.
Fingers at her stomach, pressed lightly to the skin, she wonders. She knows this much: Peter wouldn't be a bad father. He would love his child - their child - wholeheartedly. The images come easily to her; Peter carrying his toddler on his shoulders, fascinating them with card tricks, tucking them in at night. She's worried, yes, but it's not him that worries her.
It's herself.
She turns on her side. It's just a stomach bug. Nothing more.
A/N: Again, I'm really sorry about the late update. You guys can respect when a girl needs time, though, yeah? I hope so.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!
- Ellie