A/N: Sorry for the delay, I've got the next chapter that will be up ASAP to make up for my lazy updating. We're starting to head into M territory soon, so beware. I'll label it for safety. Enjoy!
They've traveled the distance of sixteen city blocks before Peter has to screetch to a halt, pushing Olivia away so he can throw up in a dented trashcan that sits abandoned outside an old bookstore so it avoids splattering over her.
"You okay?" Olivia asks between sucking the air in gratefully, trying to give him some room to finish emptying his stomach. Peter heaves a few more times before he's able to pull himself upright. His throat burns and he's seeing little pops of color from the pounding migraine that's increasingly worsened around the fourth overturned street sign they passed without slowing down.
"Yeah," he huffs as another dry heave racks his chest, "Just give me a second." He tries to focus on the decapitated doll head in the trash that he hasn't sprayed as a focus point to keep him grounded. After a few more false-starts, he's able to stretch and wobble away from the stench of his own vomit.
"Sorry," he tells her, wiping his mouth ruefully with the back of his hand as he pads over to where she's standing guard. She's looking past him toward the shop: windows bashed out and the insides darkened. She gives him a little quirk of the mouth, brushing off his apology.
"You think there's anything left in there?" She juts her chin toward the building. Peter turns back to squint an eye at it, considering.
"You in the mood for some light reading?" He says tersely, but instantly regretting the harshness of his words.
"You really want to go through that again?" He settles on, thinking back to the too close a call and feeling the shiver at the thing that tried to dig into Olivia. He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, trying to casually scope out the extent to the injury to her neck. He's half-dreading that her eyes will roll back and she'll transform in front of his eyes.
"It's not that bad." She says stubbornly, his innocent look not unnoticed.
"We should let Walter look at it." He says evenly, already taking a step in her direction.
"I wasn't bitten." She challenges, and he knows that, of course he knows that. She'd already be gone by now. The idea unsettles him, a bone deep fear that he doesn't want to have to come to terms with.
"You probably have to get a Tetnus shot." Peter jokes lightly. Olivia buttons the collar straight up, covering the evidence with an irritated face, already heading to the direction of the building without meeting his eyes. He lets a sigh ripple through his chest before following.
Her step is tinged with an edge he hasn't seen in a long time, not since the first time he laid eyes on her in Iraq. Her stride is purposeful, strong and a slight bounce in the curl of her hips. It's exactly as he remembers it, he remembers with a flush.
The book store is in far better condition than either could have thought from the outside: the heavy frames of the bookshelves large and mostly upright, magazines and abandoned books covering the small space of the floor like a rug. There's an old stone fireplace against the side of the room, mostly covered in winding spider webs with two overthrown leather chairs on their sides in front of it like the furniture forts Peter used to make when he was a kid. They spread out, on high alert; Olivia leading with the lead pipe toward the back as Peter waits upfront to keep watch.
He looks out one of the shattered windows into the vacant streets, taking in the vastness of destruction that surrounds them. It isn't that surprising that the store withstood the majority of rampage, literature wasn't exactly a commodity in war. He almost half expects tumbleweeds to bounce along the street like in the old Western movies.
"Hey, come take a look at this." Olivia calls out to him, her voice excited.
Peter makes his way past the counter that holds the already gutted register, finding her lingering in front of a closed door.
"What is it?" Peter asks, watching as she kneels down to peep through the key hole. It's old fashioned, brass handle and she rummages through her pocket for her key pick as she replies casually, "That's what we're going to find out."
She hands him the pipe as she makes work on the lock, craning the pick one direction, then the other before she hears the click. Peter watches on, impressed.
She'd make a good crook, he thinks with a half-amused smile.
The door creaks open as it swings inward, revealing what hides behind the oak door.
Both Peter and Olivia share the exact same looks of confusion. It's a janitor's closet. Stacks of old toilet paper and random cleaning supplies lean against the shelves.
"Why would this be locked?" Peter asks the question they're both thinking.
What they were hoping to be a locked cellar hiding medical supplies or canned food. Olivia squeezes in feeling along the shelves, hoping to find something useful. Her fingers skim across the back wall and she stops. The wood feels wrong; her fingers bending the giving wood. She pushes, and the whole back wall turns. She takes an alarmed step into Peter, who catches her by the arms.
"That was…unexpected." Peter notes in her hair.
There's a small stack of stairs leading downward, they take them cautiously until they're met with another closed door, Olivia taking the handle and swinging the door open.
It turns out to be a small, renovated bunker; probably once an old servants' quarters and obviously being well maintained by the looks of it. There's not much space but well used, a small cot with tucked bedding; a small modest dresser and the same leather chair in the corner that shines warmly against the wooden paneling of the room, an armful of books stacked neatly in the middle of the cushion. There's a smaller version of the grand fireplace that Peter saw in the main room, charred logs and ash telling him that this place hasn't been abandoned for long.
Olivia's explores the room as Peter hangs back; not trusting the idea of wanting to disturb anything, feeling like they've wandered into someone's hideout.
"Look at this," She calls, fingering through the hard spines of the books sitting on the chair as she passes; "Someone was living here."
Olivia casually moves around the room, fascinated that anything that survived the Great Fall to be remarkable. The books are thick and leather-bound. They're obviously well loved.
"I don't think we should be here." Peter says, letting himself in and closing the door behind him. He's exhausted, hungry and just a little on edge from the events of the day. He doesn't find the route interest that Olivia has in the room. He's not primed to find out who is habituating this place or what they'd do to keep it secret.
"What if it's another survivor?" She asks, tracing her fingers around the small knob of a door she's found. She's a single, fine point of electricity. She's exhilarated; there could be more who's survived that isn't undead or Resisters.
"We haven't had much luck with those." Peter retorts sarcastically, crossing his arms across his chest as he tries to keep the trickle of uneasiness under wraps. He really would rather be at the lab. Even Walter would be a welcomed sight.
She shoots him a look before twisting the handle to the door, feeling a rush of excitement as the room opens up before her. It's small bathroom with an attached shower and a toilet. There are towels folded neatly on a rack below the sink and she's suddenly deliriously happy. He watches her disappear into the room without moving from his spot at the threshold.
"What is it?" Peter asks curiously as he follows her in. She's got the glass door opened, the hot water tap turned on and the shower head springs to life, filling the room with the heat from the water. The lead pipe tings against the linoleum as it slips from his fingers.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Peter mumbles under his breath, crowding his way in to feel the steam against his skin. Her smile is miles wide, letting the hot water collect in her palms and spill over the sides. She doesn't care that it's soaking through her jacket because she's got her whole arm in the space of the shower stall. It feels better than amazing. It feels for the first time like hope.
She feels Peter crowed in behind her, crowding the space and she can feel his excitement radiating from his chest onto her back. The steam on his face is soft but aggressive, warm licks of heat raking down his neck and flooding his chest. He mirrors her, touching the steady stream of water and letting it prove it's real.
"This is…" he starts, not really sure what he wants to say to a shower. He feels her grin beside him, her fingers blocking most of the downpour of water over his.
"Yeah. Dibs." She says, and he can't help but laugh.