i really love this story. It allows me to really stretch how beautifully i can write things out. Thank you everyone for the amazing comments and reviews on it because they mean alot to me! I'm having fun writing this because i can further explore a relationship betwee two characters. i'm feeling smutty so smut with e in here (yes i lied) anyway i'm continuing, AND IF YOU DIDNT SEE there is a new chapter of oh olivia up.
summary: getting closer mean bleeding more
K+ or T or M i can't really remember.
i own just the typos.
She watches the fabric of his shirt and sheets turn colors slowly. He is lying perfectly still and his breathing labored and it is the third shirt that he is staining, the little fibers changing from a dyed blue to a bloody red, his white sheets smearing and changing to pink and then a dark red, nearly black. She should peel them back and strip him of his shirt, help him to clean up and then throw his clothes in the wash, but she knows that when she returns from all that he will have already ruined another shirt and another pair of sheets.
When it starts to dry he moves, a rough grunt as he struggles to sit up, peeling away the sheets with a hiss of air through his teeth. She doesn't know why put she pushes him back down by light butterfly pressure upon his shoulders and he opens his mouth to say something.
"I've got it Peter," she whispers in one quick breath. Her words are soft and warm, full of the emotions he swears are bleeding out of him right in front of her because he's just feeling cold again. She lifts his shirt and heads to the bathroom coming out with a wet towel. She perches herself on the side of his bed like a blue jay on a window and in a bitterly sweet motion she cleans his oozing wounded stomach.
"Olivia," he says when he notices that she will not look at him. Her whole body stiffens and shakes, the slight tremble of her cascading blonde hair just slightly noticeable and Peter reaches for her, reaches to touch her cheek. And she reacts violently.
She shakes her head away from his hand, her fingers leave his skin as if she were almost in a trance that allowed her to touch him and she feels her whole body jolt with electricity. She will not allow him to touch her, not now, not ever. She finishes dabbing his wound clean and stands. She is shattering, she is so close to it and she will not let him do it. He opens his mouth again but she flees.
The only sound left is the reverb of the shut door.
Olivia is a bomb
A perfect and pleasantly simple time bomb in a box wrapped with steel wrapping paper and tied shut with diamond ribbon, resoundingly beautiful and wickedly strong. Inside she is a pool of unstable and volatile chemicals, sloshing around like a bucket too full of water, waiting to burn and spark the awaiting powder below. And if that weren't enough her heart is molded from C4, packed and ready to explode with just the right trigger wire.
That wire is held (and pulled) by Peter.
She wanders around the house because she pretty much lives there and she feels the pull on the wire, the explosive inside her itching to be lit and released in an inferno that consumes her insides. She'll feel that tug if she wanders to far into an area, she feel it when she stares at family pictures of a son that isn't him and she feels it every time she leaves the house. Peter is still far to weak to be allowed out of his bed and yet she will not see him, just like before. This time it is not anger or shame that stops her, but fear. She is afraid. What if, what if he no longer wants her?
She has not gained any weight. She still loses the pounds and it isn't until she stands in his bathroom looking at her self in his mirror that she really sees how skinny she is. She traces her ribs and counts them as a water droplet drips down from her wet hair, dipping in and then rising back out each time it comes down her skin. It crosses her front and curves over her hip in the same motion a wave makes. She watches for another one, only to see that this water droplet is different. Filled with salt, the path is traced from her face down her thin neck and straight down the middle of her breastplate, an abnormally parallel line that runs down the middle of her skin perfectly.
Silently she climbs into Peter's waiting arms, folding her body against his chest. He knew she would come to him.
She felt strangely excited, a bubbly boiling giddy pot of melting goo in her stomach that leaves her on a strange high. She feels like a teenager with a molten core each time he is around, each time he limps into the kitchen or living room or wherever she happens to be at that time. She loves to feel his eyes against her skin whenever he thinks she doesn't know it, and she secretly smiles behind his back. She doesn't know it yet, but there is always an impending doom over the horizon. But for her it hasn't show its ugly head.
"Olivia?" Peters voice draws her from staring at the stitches on his should that have begun to ooze. Her eyes flick up and meet his, two pools of pleasantly green seas and she gives him a shy grin and shakes her head.
"You're bleeding again."
She feels brave and brings her hand up to touch his shoulder, the pressure making him hiss through his teeth but she holds it there, letting the feeling of his blood seep onto her velvet fingertips. He brings his hand up to cup her face and right there, the look on his face, that is the warning sign that everything will spiral away again. The sign is nestled between the furrow lines of his brow, written in his confused gaze and it reads warning!
"Olivia, you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
The glass that separates them could not separate the seeping and bleeding coolness that is invading the observation deck. He looks so calm and composed outside and she knows, knows that is not the case. Or at least she wants to believe that is the case. It frightens her, his cool body posture, the way his arms rest on the table and the agent opposite him is touching the photos and showing him. Peter doesn't flinch and her brow furrows because she is so confused. Who is this man?
"Can you tell me, Mr. Bishop, your relationship with Mr. Herring?"
"I-" he starts and inhales "I don't know him."
"You have no relationship with him?"
"No."
"Where did you meet him?"
"I just found him," Peter says and Olivia is holding her breath. She has never heard this story before. She wants to know.
"Why did you kill him?"
There was a silence and she watches and Peter just stares at the man. He looks toward the observation window and she shivers under his gaze.
"Because I could."
"Why did you lie to them?"
She is fumingly angry but her voice is a whisper. She is a sweet contradiction, her body pressed tightly against his as she whispers venomous words into his ear. She makes no attempt to untangle from him. She has found that the pain is equal whether her face is pressed to his bare chest or if it is pressed to the pillow of her bed. His fingers are soothing over her silken hair and her hands are wrapped around his waist like he is a giant teddy bear.
I can't tell you the truth," he murmured into her hair and she feels the sting in her eyes.
"Why?"
"Sometimes it's better this way," he responds, but instantly regrets it. She freezes at his words, the tears now hot and invading her eyelashes, threatening to tickle his flesh.
"When?"
"Now, sweetheart," he murmurs as he feels her white hot tears burn his flesh, "The truth will only just break us more."
That was the truth.
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