so I've been stuck on this chapter for a long. freaking. time. also...I guiltily admit that I wrote the final two chapters before writing this one. I had to get it out of my system. they need some revision, but they're done...
this chap is more set-up than usual, but I am trying to lay the groundwork for future scenes - for the most part, where Olivia's comfort zone lies, and when Peter starts really pushing the boundaries, which approaches are going to earn him the 'you're a dead man' retaliations...anywho, enjoy. and as always, reviews are love...
Ch.4 – Trust
"Here we go."
Olivia straightens in the passenger seat, taking one last cursory glance in the mirror.
"Showtime."
If at that exact moment someone flipped a switch in a dank apartment in Manhattan synchronicity might be suspect, because the woman who steps from the SUV is beaming and bubbly, each stride a sophisticated swing of sultry curves. Her fiancée has clean money written all over him, and looks like the better end of every good business deal in the past two years.
If they were posing as anything less, he'd be ashamed.
The moment his arm snakes around her waist, hand perching precariously low on her hip, she shoots him a dubious glance.
"Trying to make it look realistic," he squeezes through a twenty-volt smile.
"You're a lying son of a bitch," she manages between bubbling laughter and faux waves to undercover agents modeling as people she pretends to know.
"Good girl. You are a quick learner."
For whatever reason – because kicking his ass right then and there would probably blow their cover, he assumes – she frosts him with a terse smile and lets it slide.
A sinister text message only half-jokingly reminds him she knows where he sleeps at night, and black-cat curiosity simply has to know what will happen if he keeps pushing buttons.
He pulls out all the stops: holds the door for her and takes her coat, guides her to their table – his hand has wandered its way to her lower back – and pulls out the chair for her. When he leaves to find them both a drink, she mulls over how pitiable her situation must be that it takes a con working the room to have a man treat her like royalty.
"Oh, sweet-heart."
The sing-song tune doesn't hide the familiar sarcastic bite, and it puts her on edge. He's enjoying this far too much.
"That had better be the only pet name you invent for the evening," she mutters as she glances up. Standing before her with a glass of champagne in each hand, suit crisper than fresh snow, clean-shaven and expression so smug she thinks his ego might float him away on the breeze if she lit a match, he's the portrait of big money.
"I contemplated 'sugarplum', but I'm well aware of the danger you've got tucked into that garter." As he hands her a drink and seats himself beside her, he adds "and I don't just mean your legs."
If a discreet kick to the shin hurts him any, he's very good at hiding it.
"And 'sweetheart' is my favorite, after all," she murmurs acidly.
The warning may as well be in black and yellow tape across her body.
He scoots imperceptibly away from her, making a mental note that the only time stilettos feel good is…never.
"I'll keep that in mind, darling."
Inevitably the successful entrepreneur and his ravishing fiancée are forced to mingle with guests not carrying standard FBI badges under their lapels. Peter talks divisive politics amongst the cigars while Olivia dives head-first into Prada and popular gossip. Initially indifferent to the conversation taking place before her, she finds herself pleasantly intrigued when these powerful women begin talking politics of their own – both foreign and domestic – and listens intently as they share stories of raising children and raising husbands amid media slander and gender bias. She learns quickly that at least a third of the women here are on the guest list of their own distinction – successful business women, elected officials – and their husbands are the ones tagging along. Feeling confident among women of stature and in her own success as a career-woman, she suspects she'd feel even more at home if she'd walked into this party as FBI.
Peter isn't faring nearly so well.
When the men begin discussing their collections of expensive cars and Peter's thoughts take a crooked turn – he's memorizing who brought what car to the party, where they parked, and formulating how each car can be torn apart for a flawless hotwire job – Olivia mercifully appears at his shoulder to deliver him from temptation.
One arm draped over his shoulder, she quietly leads him away.
"You look a little distracted."
Frustration settles into a mild hum as he reminds himself with a silent mantra that Peter Bishop doesn't crash gala events and trade expensive cars in mob circles anymore.
"Ten more minutes and you would have been politely asking me to hand over my consultant credentials."
Her stomach twists a little at the myriad of possibilities that statement implies.
"Your last soirée didn't involve making charity donations, I take it."
"My intentions were admittedly less than chivalrous."
She shoots him an earnest, warning glance, voice all but a whisper.
"The time to revert back to more…colorful career choices was several months ago, when you said you were going to leave, before I handed you those credentials. Don't swan dive on me now."
He doesn't look her in the eye, doesn't say a word but he nods. She waits as he closes his eyes a moment, takes a deep breath. When he does finally look at her, she can see the spark returning to the static blue of his eyes and the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I believe we still have a criminal to catch."
"Peter…" she lays a tentative hand on his arm, and the question is all to clear.
Can I trust you?
He squeezes her hand gently.
"I've got your back."
Hazel eyes scrutinize him carefully, reading over every line and detail in his face, and he thinks that among her strange assortment of gifts, 'human lie detector' might fall unnoticed somewhere between freakish number recall and turning off lights with her mind.
After a few moments her posture relaxes and her expression softens, and he swears he catches a fleeting glimpse of what trust looks like in the green highlights of her eyes.
"Let's get to work."
...and as a sign of good faith that I won't be going on uber-hiatus again, a little teaser for your viewing pleasure:
"'I'm sorry about your leg, earlier…'
'No, I'm sorry. There are far better ways to compliment beautiful women than vulgarity.'
And here he is again, pushing buttons, carelessly scuffing the line to a blur with the sole of his shoe.
He wonders if it isn't due to the contrast to his earlier behavior - brash and uncalled for, he admits - but she doesn't push him away.
Quite the opposite.
The consultant takes a steadying breath as the wary agent softly rests her cheek against his shoulder."