3. Aqua Regia
Walter wiped his forehead on his patterned button-down, smearing it with brown earth and sweat before he tossed it up, out of the hole. He set to work again, hauling dirt up in the scoop of the spade, flinging it out of his way. The efforts were smooth and mechanical, even a bit rushed, as his aching back protested his labors and his hands stung with splinters.
He liked the smell of the earth, rich and damp, and he had long before passed the depth of earthworms, which he had spent a good while cutting in half with his shovel, before feeling horribly guilty at his own actions. Bright green flecks of severed grass blades littered the off-rectangular hole now and again, and Walter sometimes saw how many he could manage to scoop up in one toss. His feet were freezing against the recently exposed sediment, while the back of his neck was slowly burning under the harsh ways of the sun. The hole was as deep as his shoulders, he had yet to reach his goal, and he'd been working on it for a good two hours.
Peter watched his father over the short-lived plumes of dirt arching up from the hole every now and again, observing the splotches of earth gracing the pure white of his under tee. There was room in there for the both of them, but Walter had made it fairly apparent from the start that he had wanted to do it himself. Peter had thought it best to leave him to his intentions, and only casually asked, after the seemingly endless duration of silence, "Is Olivia coming?"
Walter paused, like a gear jamming in his mechanical motions, and stabbed the shovel into the dirt sharply as he continued, "What is that supposed to mean, son?"
"I only meant that-"
"Are you asking if I've forgotten her, is that it? Is that what you're playing at?" Walter stood up strait, the shovel clenched in his dirty hands as he glared up at his son. He still felt exceptionally unthreatening, from his lowered position in the ground.
"Walter, that's not what I meant. You know what I meant, and don't get so defensive," Peter replied firmly. He knew that there was a certain amount of firmness he had to use, with Walter, "You don't have to be paranoid at me."
Walter tuned his gaze to his own muddy shoes, biting the inside of his cheek as color swept over his features.
"I know you love her," Peter completed, his voice softer.
Walter shook his head, and returned to his work, "No. There isn't a word for what we are."
xXx
He would have passed off their interaction as absinthe, he'd done such things before. Had it not been for her phone call, some time afterward, he would have accomidated her in considering it a forgetful occasion, had she wished it. But her questions were not even that- they sounded like cold demands. As if he owed her the answers.
Walter answered obligingly.
He had been napping with his candy on the narrow window seat in the hotel room when the actual desk phone gave a chime. The sheer strangeness of it had been what had woken him, as nearly all communications for him arrived in person, or via Peter's cell phone. Walter had removed his face from the glass, rubbing drool from his flattened cheek as he moved for the phone, lifting the receiver, "Hello?" he had rasped, trying to swallow back his cottonmouth.
"Do you know where I live?"
"I beg your pardon? Who is this?" But he had already registered her voice. She knew he had, or simply decided not to answer.
"Come over."
He was quiet for a few moments, "Why?" He asked at last.
Olivia had chuckled, "Are you scared, Walter?"
"No."
Truthfully, he could not remember how he had ended up at her apartment. He could have walked, she could have made him wait in the rain to pick him up. All he could remember is finding her door unlocked and letting himself in, dripping on the wood floor as he shrugged off his overcoat and smeared rainwater from his forehead.
"You're a horrible liar," Olivia chuckled from the hallway, her hands in the pockets of her bathrobe, "but you called my bluff. I thought you wouldn't come."
"I considered it," Walter answered, "I considered letting you get angry, standing you up. I imagine you would have hated me for at least a little while."
"I already hate you, Walter."
"I realized that, as well. My actions would have proven pointless."
She smiled- without the absinthe, but the effect was the same. It was a look that Walter did not like in the least, without the proper aide of his narcotics, "Go home," she murmured.
"No."
"Then come here."
"No."
"You're stubborn. If I wanted a weak attempt at rebellion, I would have called someone with a little more backbone. You're pathetic- I can see right through you."
"You're childish. A little girl thinking that just because she doesn't care for consequence, she can treat her life like pretend, like people are dollies. It's disgusting and sad."
She kissed him and tugged him into the bathroom. The air was a nagging kind of muggy, the white of the porcelain unpleasant to his irises, and his sights found comfort in the shade of her skin. The stiff bandages around her wrists scraped against the back of his neck as she pressed him, fully clothed, into the uncomfortably hot water in the bathtub, the rainwater tinting it a slight shade of sallow.
The color of cowards.
"How would you kill yourself, Walter?" Olivia asked, climbing in after him, discarding her cotton robe. The dark stains of bruises shown faintly on her shoulders, proof of his previous misdeeds.
"Overdose," He answered immediately, inhaling the steam permeating from her skin like a zest.
"Why?"
"It's not as easy as it seems. I've been trying for years. And you, agent Dunham? Still by the blade?" he caught her wrist with a mocking smirk at her failure.
Olivia wrenched her arm from his grip, and forced his head under the water, one hand over his lips, the other crushing his trachea. The base of his skull collided with the bottom of the tub, his vision flashing, and Walter immediately gripped the side of the tub, his wet hand slipping as he thrashed slightly.
Her grip loosened only minutely, and Walter discovered her motive.
Hot damn.
He opened his eyes under the surface, staring up at her wavy reflection, the hot water stinging the inside of his nostrils. A small trail of bubbles escaped her fingers, working their way to the surface. His hands found her hips, and he felt the water slosh as he pulled her closer. The wet ends of her tresses clung to his face as she allowed him to rise, never pausing for a breath as he caught her mouth with his own.
"I'm a cop," she sighed against his cheek at last, "I'll shoot myself."
xXx
