Guys, I am SO sorry it took so long to update. My last week has been madness, and I went into an emotion coma after this past Friday. I don't even know what to do with myself STILL with that whole episode. Goodness, Joel and Jeff are in it to kill us violently with sex-frenzies and cuteness.
But! Here's another installment! These are getting progressively longer, something I do not intend to do ever. Usually all the things I want to put in end up just requiring a billion and twelve words slash back story. I didn't have the mental strength to finish the story I'm writing based on Leytivia's suggestion of "Wind Chimes," but it's definitely coming soon! I'm sure of it.
Well, I hope you all enjoy! Viva la Polivia, Fringe, and all related things!
Peter violently jammed the sixth button on the wall for the fourteenth time, becoming too impatient for the sluggish climb of the hospital's elevator. He was bouncing irritably on his toes and rubbing his clammy palms together, focusing on the escalating friction of his heated skin.
He should have been there.
"COME ON!" he roared fiercely, the muscles in his neck pulling tautly with the hammering tension bursting behind his temples. He was momentarily pleased that he was the only one in the lift to witness his pained outburst; but he swiftly realized that his frustration would have come regardless, arbitrary bystanders or not. His anguish was fueled by an unrelenting guilt sadistically jabbing at his heart, and it would, and could not be stopped by witnesses.
He should have been there.
When the doors finally slid open at a mockingly slothful speed, he all but smashed them down in his unstoppable quest to their other side. When he stepped out, the sterile sting of alcohol flooded his senses, burning his eyes and nose, heightening his already perfectly vibrant awareness. He looked over both of his shoulders, seeking out the information desk with an intense concentration that could have made an army lieutenant look like a flippant child. When he finally spotted the station at the far end of the right corridor, he broke out into a solid, hurried stride, his footsteps echoing like gunshots throughout the otherwise silent hall.
He should have been there.
He infuriatingly shook the thought from his mind once more as he approached the nurse's counter. She was methodically filling out some paperwork, not caring to immediately tend to his needs. Peter pressed his jaw forward agitatedly, struggling to keep his composure in a time when instantaneous response was the lone thing that could keep him from losing his mind. Resting the pen down, the nurse finally raised her head leisurely, a forced smile pulling at her thin lips; but her fake grin immediately fell when she looked upon the stern face of Peter Bishop, the hostile bitterness palpable in his locked jaw and scorching gaze.
"Could you please give me the room number of Olivia Dunham?" he spat, the resentment dripping in his acrimonious tone. The nurse paused and gulped, her obviously rehearsed demeanor cracking under the pressure of Peter's urgency. She tentatively sorted through a shuffled pile of clipboards, her fingers now shaking slightly with the burden of his insistence. When she found Olivia's records, she pulled it from its brethren with relieved anxiousness. Quickly scanning the information, she timidly looked up to him to appease his wishes.
"Um… Room 621… sir. Down this hall to… the left, and the th-third door on the right," she squeaked meekly, her gaze immediately dropping down to focus on someone fabricated work.
He nodded his head bluntly and muttered a hasty thank you under his breath as he softly smacked the desk and headed on his way. Normally Peter would have chastised himself for speaking and acting so gruffly to another human being, but he was in no mood for games. This was not a situation that had room for wasted time in any capacity; he was on a mission, and he would be damned if anything would come in the way.
He nervously scanned rooms as he passed by; the stark pallor of everything was unsettling. This calm, neutral haven held bruised, bloodied and broken people, of which had loved ones just like him being crushed with the thoughts of their deteriorated well-being.
As the numbers on the doors converged to her room Peter's pace slowed, hampered by his all-consuming guilt.
He should have been there.
His insides twisted at the thought, rancid bile licking at the bottom of his throat.
He had meant to go to work but had been caught up in the case and wanted to look over the file one last time at home, scouring the information, looking for some unseen factor. Olivia had nodded in acceptance, kissing him on the cheek from his position at the table while pulling her coat on. She had said something about being home at a specific time for dinner, a comment he nonchalantly agreed with as she walked out the door.
The man they were dealing with was of the particularly contemptible variety. A marine biologist, he was responsible for a long string of drownings whilst trying to enact his theory that humans could be mutated into water-breathers. He had an extensive history of violence and rage, taking it out on those around him, regarding them without thought. The FBI had cautioned the team of this man's unrelenting dangerousness, but Olivia and Peter had chalked it up to a warning of protocol and went about their ways.
Only when he got the call roughly an hour from Broyles did he even consider the notion that they had been targets themselves, unknowing participants in a perverted, sadistic game.
When Olivia had parked at Harvard, intending on a brief stop into the lab to consult with Walter on any new findings, he made his ferocious attack. His car streaked across the parking lot at an insurmountably reckless pace, unnoticed by Olivia as she frivolously checked her phone. When his car smashed into hers, the several thousand-pound SUV had been thrown to the air as easily as a pancake during breakfast, leaving a long trail of glass shards and mangled metal in its wake. Thankfully the onslaught was at Harvard, allowing for a throng of unsuspecting students to silently witness the event, and subsequently call upon help at its horrifying conclusion.
Thankfully.
He swallowed helplessly as he reached the door, standing in front of it numbly. He stared at it hard, like it was a cryptic puzzle, or it had just spontaneously caught fire. All that separated him from her now was three inches of pine wood, and the thick, blame-filled air around him. He took a deep breath in, seized the cool brass of the door knob, and slowly pushed open the door.
The sight on the other side was heart-wrenching, and he felt the prickle of tears in his eyes begin instantly. His breath hitched as he excruciatingly soaked in the sight of her.
Olivia lied there, swathed in a sea of standard-grade, cotton sheets. Her form was curling into itself, hugged against the rails of the bed like a terrified child. Her face was a network of already forming dark bruises, punctuated by crimson scratches and lacerations. Her forehead bore a particularly horrid bruise, already bright red and tinged with a constellation of burst blood vessels, a butterfly-bandage sealing a monstrous gash from its irrepressible oozing. Though her face had been wiped clean of blood, it still marred her hair line, a burgundy crust clinging to the hair at her temple. Her lip was split at the side, a purple haze radiating from the cut. Her skin was flushed of its usual glowing luster, an ashy hue contrasting the agonizingly bright wounds. Her hair had been pushed to the side, displaying a soaked bed of gauze wrapped gently around her collarbone. Her robe hung clumsily on her body, the plain design scornfully conflicting with her angry contusions. Her right arm was wrapped in a vibrant blue cast, clunky against the frailness of her body. Her brow was furrowed as she slept, a distant pain plaguing her subconscious; her shallow breathing ragged as she struggled with hidden adversities.
He slowly slipped off his peacoat and rested it on a close-by chair. The television quietly hummed as he looked on, a happy family laughing over some stereotypical sitcom shenanigans. Their freed manner and happy demeanor pulled at his thoughts, teasing him in this morbid scene. He jammed at the power button on the television bitterly, finding solace as the screen faded to oblivion. He then cautiously lifted a chair and placed it right next to her bed, positioning it towards her. Sitting down carefully, he made sure not to cause any unneeded noise. His hands rested strongly on his thighs, gripping his knees forcefully as he looked at her.
A wave of nausea and contempt crashed over him, his thoughts betraying him. He had promised to himself a long time ago he would always protect her, and until this point, he had done a thorough job. But, like a fool blinded by ambition, he had let his constant guard lax in the wake of scientific inquiry and paid the price dearly, the evidence of his indiscretion lying limply before him.
He reached out then, softly grabbing Olivia's left hand. Her skin was as cold as ice, causing his to erupt in uncontrollable goose bumps. He wrapped his long hands around her free hand, encircling it protectively as he tried to allow his usual warmth flow into her frigid skin. He brought her hand to his lips, lazily lingering on her knuckles as he closed his eyes.
"I'm so sorry, Olivia," he repeated in a whispered mantra, his throat thick as cotton with choked up emotion. At his words, Olivia flinched slightly, shifting slowly in her bed as the sheets rustled around her. Peter's head snapped up quickly, eyes popping open at the alarming sounds he had not expected. She moaned slightly, the severe pain and agony unmistakable in her voice. She turned on her side even more so, until she was completely facing Peter, her cheek nestled softly into the hospital-grade pillowcase. His brow creased in interest as he watched her alter her position. Then, her eyes opened lethargically, sleep apparent on her worn features. Her green irises looked directly at him, rimmed with a dull hue. When she recognized it was him, her mute expression shifted. Her lip started to quiver marginally, as her lips drew up and tears started to form in her eyes.
"Peter… I'm. I'm so, so sorry. I, I shouldn't. I shouldn't. have, have left t-t-this morn-" she tried to yelp but Peter cut her off, gently pulling her into him, wrapping his arms around her fragile body. He whispered softly into her hair, comforting her through choked sobs. Her unburdened arm listlessly came up, as she weakly fisted at his shirt, feebly pulling at the fabric for comfort. He tenderly laid her back down in her bed as her crying slowed, her eyes now tinged with teary sorrow. He wiped away at her tears with his thumb gingerly, making sure not to disrupt the landscape of discolorations on her face. He brushed a soaked strand of hair away, pushing it behind her ear lightly. She had stopped weeping, all but for some uncontainable hiccupping. He decided then to speak.
"Olivia, you did nothing wrong. You did what you normally do, getting the job done efficiently and effectively. I messed up today, Olivia, not you. I am supposed to keep you safe and I let a mad man make a shit show out of you, and I can't express in words how apologetic I am for that. I know you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself, but I've always tried to be there when you couldn't, and today I failed. I failed you."
She cringed at his words and an unspoken pain that swept across her body, her face contorting. When it had subsided, she reached out to his hand and covered it, her hand trembling slightly.
"Peter, I, I understand. But, it wa-wasn't your f-f-fault. You cou-couldn't have done any, anything to stop that man. He was going to come after us, no matter if we were alone… or, or separate. Don't… don't beat your-yourself up. At least, you're. You're here now and, and that's all I need," she explained exasperatedly, the string of words obviously taxing to her in her current state. He shushed her sympathetically, guiding her to lean back onto her pillows completely. He stood slightly, leaning over to tendering place a kiss on her temple, as Olivia closed her eyes and leaned into his touch as she sighed slightly. Having chosen to limit her words, due to their wholly exhausting usage, Olivia pointed to her cast. Peter looked at it, then back to her, slightly confused.
"How long is that brick gonna' be on your arm?" He asked quizzically, looking at her inquisitively.
"Six to eight weeks," she croaked out, her voice breaking with fatigue.
She then nodded to her bedside, trying to pull Peter's gaze to it. Normally she would have done something like this herself, but she was utterly drained, and decided to trade her pride for some help. Peter followed her cues and looked at it, scanning its contents. There were some small containers of non-solid foods, medical supplies, and a marker. He pointed at the food, figuring it was the most logical choice. She delicately shook her head.
"Marker," she said quietly, her tone slowly losing its intensity.
Peter instantly knew what she wanted. He chuckled a little and grabbed the marker. He uncapped it as she offered up her arm, gradually raising it to rest on the tray.
He pondered for a second, thinking about what to do. When an idea finally came to him, he raised the pen to the cast and began his creation, inspiration streaking across his face. He drew it in a place so that, in her current position, Olivia could not see its rendering. She craned her neck interestedly towards him, but found that her efforts were futile.
"You know, butterflies have twelve-thousand eyes. Thousands of little lenses, all trained to give a grand scope of the world and its surroundings," he said smoothly, never looking up from his drawing. His hand floated methodically over the cast, drawing flawless curves and lines.
"It's not even the sheer gorgeousness of their ornate wings, or their gentle but purposeful fluttering across the world that truly makes them beautiful. They live their lives as soldiers, dutifully caring out their pollen-toting purpose day in and day out, so that plants can live to see another day. They live a life of selflessness, constantly working towards the preservation and betterment of their surroundings. They unceasingly put themselves below others, and fight a never-ending battle with evolution to make their time on Earth count. They start life as pupas and caterpillars, rising from the ashes of hampered, struggle-filled beginnings to emerge as conquerors so they can spread their gifts and exquisiteness to the world. That's what makes them beautiful." His hand stilled, and then fell as he capped the marker, sliding it back to its spot. He looked at his work, cocking his head to the side to examine it properly. Only when he nodded in approval did he look up to Olivia, his adoration tangible in his features.
"And what a lovely specimen you are," he said, a smile stretching across his face.
Olivia pulled her substantial arm back to her, stirring with excitement. When she twisted her arm slightly, the picture materialized in all its splendor. He had rendered a black and white butterfly, its wingspan splayed out magnificently, emphasized by wonderfully done and intricate detail. Olivia beamed to herself as Peter leaned forward, delicately kissing her cheek. She rocked with his touch, allowing the moment to linger.
When his lips receded, Olivia closed her eyes and slid into her bed more comfortably. Her head cocked to the side, allowing her to face him even in her sleep. She felt his fingers glide up the fabric of the sheets and intertwine with hers; she grinned to herself and relaxed before allowing sleep to flood her senses, as she contently slid into slumber.
fin!
Uhhhhh huh. Yep. So that. Review mayhaps if you are up to it, because it's always nice to know if what I'm doing is good, bad or ugly. Or some other kind of monster in-between. Have a splendid Valentine's Day, or something! Maybe order some Damiano's and watch cheesy horror movies, eh? Eh? Why not.