A/N: Apparently, I am completely hopeless and cannot stop writing about P/O. As if this fic wasn't already big enough, I made it even bigger. Right now, I'm guessing 9 parts, since I have part 8 and half of 9 already written, but who knows. I most definitely don't at this point.

I want to thank you all so much for your reviews on the previous part, you guys are the sweetest :') So here. Have more smut. And fluff. And a bit of angst too because…well, this is my fic.

SHIVERED BONES

VII.

Peter wakes up confused.

His sleep had been deeper than it had in weeks, and trying to regain consciousness from it feels like moving through fog. Despite his disorientation, he knows something isn't right long before his brain fully reconnects with his surroundings.

Olivia takes another sharp breath against him, the sound loud, panicked. As he feels her muscles twitch where their bodies touch, it all comes back to him, where they are, and what must be happening. She's having a nightmare, a particularly unpleasant one at that, for it to be physically disturbing her sleep.

Peter moves away, just enough to look at her, barely feeling the stiffness that has settled in his muscles. Her face is constricted, her head jerking, each of her following intakes of breath short, distressed. Instinctively, he wants to hold her to him, to comfort her and warm her up, aware that she's shaking again.

He moves off her instead, pushing himself up on his forearm, hovering over her, the only contact between them being through his hand, already back on her face.

"Olivia," he calls her out, his voice soft, just loud enough to wake her up.

As he hoped, she breaks free from her nightmare, her eyes suddenly wide opened. He recognizes the panic that swirls in them, similar to the one he'd witnessed only hours ago, back in that elevator. With his hand still on her cheek, he leans down, bringing his face closer to hers, their eyes locked.

"It's alright," he whispers, his thumb moving upon her cheek, soothing. "You were dreaming."

Already, her panic is fading, only to be replaced by a familiar pain as she understands what happened, soon closing her eyes again. She's the one reaching for his face, then, pulling at him, and he doesn't need more. He finally lowers himself, gently pushing a knee between her legs, leaning his forehead against hers and letting his warmth envelop her.

"Peter…"

His name escapes her lips in a defeated sigh as she lets go of his face to slip her arms under his, clinging to him, their legs now entangled, trying to bring him closer. Pressed together as they are, he feels the strength of her tremors, aware to some degree that he's shaking, too, as if his body is only now realizing how cold they've become, lying on the ground for a few hours without any kind of cover.

Her exhales remain too shallow against his lips, although he knows her shortness of breath isn't caused by panic anymore. He raises his head to look at her, meeting her eyes again, and sure enough, the pain is still there. She looks so tired, almost numbed, powerless against her own mind refusing to let her rest.

When Peter lowers his face again to kiss her cheek, his lips lingering on her skin, Olivia has to close her eyes, tightening her hold on him, as if the feel of him could rid her of her shadows. She'd thought he might, for a while, so comforted by his presence and loving touch.

She was just abruptly reminded that these things don't work that way, and she only has herself to blame for this lapse in judgment. She's seen too much, knows too much, to allow herself that kind of wishful thinking.

She should have expected something like this to happen, for her mind to trick her, to put her back in the Room in her sleep, the way it always does these days. No matter how appeased she'd felt upon drifting off, considering the way her psyche had snapped in that elevator, she was bound to experience some kind of repercussions, the unavoidable ripples of yet another mental breakdown.

She feels numb, now, the way she's felt so often these past couple of months. This numbness is different, though. It isn't rooted in coldness anymore, coming from the hurt now growing inside of her, from the suffocating realization that no matter what happened tonight, or how safe she feels with him, she isn't any less broken because of it.

The feel of him does help, though, the knowledge that he's here with her, against her. She's given him another proof of how damaged she is, yet he hasn't gone anywhere, holding on to her instead, attempting to soothe her without words, his breath slow and comforting upon her face.

When he begins to move again, pushing himself off her, she's reluctant to let him go. She releases her grip on him anyway, still feeling too numb to do much else, until he grabs her hands.

"C'mon," he says softly, helping her to her feet. "Let's find a bed."

Now that she's standing, she's more aware of how stiff and achy her body has become in the past few hours. She's definitely cold, too, every inch of her skin erupting in goosebumps as he leads them to one of the many doors through the semi-darkness. She follows him quietly, also aware of the stirring soreness in muscles she'd forgotten she even possessed.

She doesn't mind that ache, though, remembering what caused it, her head filling with images that are somehow equally sharp and blurry, phantom sensations rushing through her blood, making the numbness recede.

Before long, they've found a bed indeed, and they snuggle up under the thick comforter, Olivia's turn to mostly rest on him. Slowly, the warmth begins to gather up, their shared body heat pooling between linen and skin. With her nose pressed to his neck, her lungs filled with his scent, and with the feel of his heart beating beneath her palm, she finally begins to relax again.

One of his arms circles her, fingers on her lower back, his other hand slowly rubbing the arm that rests on his chest. Even when her tremors eventually subside, the goosebumps remain on her skin. Before long, his rubbing hand is creating another kind of shivers, until Peter becomes aware of it and stills his movements.

She doesn't want him to stop, though.

She's not interested in going back to sleep, anything but eager to give her mind another opportunity to bring her down when she cannot defend herself. She's more interested in the feel of him, her body fully awake, now, the numbness gone. She's as entranced by their proximity as she is by the memories of how good they'd felt, together, and how nothing prevents her from seeking that feeling again.

Peter is not encouraging anything, but he's a bit too tense; he's as affected as her by their closeness, a realization that causes a surge of warmth to flow through her entire body, the sensation soon morphing into shudders. She knows he felt them, his breathing hitching upon the top of her head, his heartbeat quickening beneath her palm.

She shifts slightly, turning her head to press her lips to his neck, mouth opened. As she lets her tongue rest lazily upon his salty skin, it's his turn to shudder. Her hand is on the move, then, making its way down between his legs, not in the least surprised when she finds him half-hard already. He swells in her hand as she wraps her fingers around him, aware of how cold they must feel upon his heat. He doesn't seem to mind, her mouth still pressed to his throat, tracing patterns on his skin as she strokes him, her grip firm, her pace slow.

His hands are moving, too; the one that had been resting on her lower back has come further down, now grabbing the firm muscles of her buttocks to pin her to his hip, one of her legs still untangled between his. His other hand is up to her head, his fingers deep in her hair, twisting and tugging as she twists and tugs, and once again, she feels the vibration of his groans before they pierce the silence. He's fully hard in her hand, now, hot and throbbing, causing her insides to quiver and clench in need.

Olivia is swift, although she keeps everything slow, slithering and shifting until she's on top of him, her legs resting on each side of him, her face hovering inches from his. She enjoys watching him as she rolls upon him, teasing, pressing, equally aroused by the feel of him as she is by the look on his face and his strangled groans. He's holding on to her hips, now, and from the way his grip continuously changes, tightening then loosening, he seems unsure if he wants her to continue.

After one last roll of her hips, she finally positions herself, bringing her face down to his. She nibbles at his bottom lip, soon replacing her teeth with her tongue, demanding entrance. He grants it to her at once, kissing her back with rousing longing, one of his hands having sprung from her hips to sink into her hair, keeping her close. She swallows his next moan and most of him as she lowers herself at last, his hand already back down to aid her movements.

She has to let go of his mouth as she adjusts herself, trying to breathe through the sensation, both her forearms on his chest, resting her forehead upon his lips. All ten of his fingers are traveling up and down her back, and even this light touch is electric. The feel of him is overwhelming, blissfully so, and she longs to be holding on to every inch of him.

The covers fall away, exposing her arching body to the night as she straightens up, pushing herself off his chest until she's straddling him, unable not to roll her hips as she does so, drawing similar noises from them both. Already, he's brought his hands to her breasts, kneading her flesh, his warm palms pressing upon her taut nipples. She throws her head back in a silent gasp, rolling her hips again, unable to breathe as the heat rushes through her, once more gathering deep within, pulsing low.

When she leans forward again, panting slightly, both her hands grab his arms. "Come up here," she rasps.

Peter does as she asks, managing to sit up after a few shifts of their legs and hips, until he's at her level. She wraps herself tightly around him, feeling the strong hold of his arms encircling her as he presses his mouth high on her collarbone, near the base of her throat. From the tingly feel of it, he's on his way to giving her another hickey, his lips only relinquishing her skin when she begins to move against him, into him.

And she clings to him as she sets a deliberate pace, driven by the humming heat of his breath, first against her neck, then against her parted lips as he brings his face back to hers. With one arm around her waist, his other hand once again entangled in her hair, he languidly traces the underside of her jaw with scorching lips and tongue as she sways, sways, sways…

A few times, he halts their movements, the constricted look on his face letting her know he's only trying to hold on longer, for her. And so she remains still, using these instants to kiss him, deep, and long, her fingers moving through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp, wishing she could tell him not to worry so much about her, that this, this already feels better than anything.

Because there is no more worry in her mind as she merges with him, all of her shadows having dissolved under the brightness that fills her head. And she doesn't care if her relief is fleeting, if she's a fool for letting herself think that she's alright, more than alright. She's being set ablaze by the strength of these sensations he ignites in her, overtaking her body as they move together, their souls becoming indistinguishable from one another.

She doesn't care, because she deserved it.

She deserves this, deserves him, deserves every single second of bliss that eventually pours through her.

When they find themselves back upon the mattress and under the covers, spent, she rests on his chest, breathless, his hold on her making it clear he doesn't want her to move, and she gladly complies. For a while, his fingers lazily move upon her clammy skin as their breathing slows, until this caress stops, and she knows he has succumbed to sleep again. She listens as his heartbeat goes back to its steady, resting tempo, soothed by the sound.

Olivia doesn't sleep, too comfortable to take that risk, only dozing off a couple of times as the light progressively changes in the room –his, she guesses after a while. The dark, bluish light of early dawn gradually turns into sunlight, although it remains dim and grey, announcing another rainy day. There could be a hurricane outside for all she cared.

At some point, she has no other choice but to start moving upon him, though. She's been trying to ignore some specific bodily needs for a while, but her discomfort is getting too pronounced, now, taking over the sated satisfaction she's been basking into.

As soon as she slides off him to rest at his side instead, Peter stirs, instinctively tightening his hold to try and keep her close.

He squints his eyes open, looking adorably sleepy and confused. "What time's it…" he mumbles, scooching closer to her, purposefully pinning their bodies back together.

She shakes her head. "No idea. Still early."

His eyes are already closed, the tip of his nose pressed against hers. "Definitely too early for me," he breathes out, and it sounds like it won't be long before he's asleep again.

She affectionately brushes their noses together, before going back to her attempts at extracting herself from his embrace. He groans his discontentment.

"I really need to pee," she whispers, more amused than embarrassed.

He reopens one eye, as if gauging the validity of her excuse. "Fine," he concedes, finally releasing her, before grunting again. "Great, now I need to pee."

"I'll use the bathroom next to my room," she says with a chuckle, sitting up, but he makes a disapproving noise.

"Nonsense, you use mine, I'll use the other one."

He's sat up, too, and he's never been more endearing, with his bed-hair, trying to look determined despite the fact that he's still half-asleep. She has no other choice but to cup his stubbly cheek, pressing a soft, tender kiss to his lips.

"Fine," she says, letting him have this one moment of chivalry.

She's on her feet, then, feeling his stare on her as she walks to the door, well aware that she's naked –and sore, so very sore, and not caring about either.

She thought she would go back to bed after using the bathroom, not necessarily to let him go back to sleep, but as she washes her hands and gets a look at herself in a mirror for the first time in hours, she cringes a little.

Her hair aside, which is a disaster at this point, having dried off from rain and sweat, all tangled up from various activities, the remaining traces of the makeup she applied in what feels like another lifetime are the worst of it; there are faint mascara smudges all the way down her chin.

Despite it all, she still manages to look startlingly different, compared to yesterday, her face permanently flushed, it seems, her eyes wide and bright. She looks as alive as she feels.

Alive or not, she's got some pride, and in all honesty, she feels rather sticky, which is why she hops in the shower. She didn't intend on staying long, only wanting to wash off. Unsurprisingly, though, she soon finds herself entrapped in the marvelous feeling of hot water running down her body, her sore muscles particularly appreciative of it.

She becomes aware of Peter's presence in the room moments before he knocks gently on the glass door. Apparently, he did so more to announce himself than to ask permission, as a few seconds later, he's stepped inside the small stall, just as she begins to shampoo her hair.

She smirks at him, ignoring the way her heart is already beating faster at his proximity. "I figured you'd be going back to sleep," she says, her voice deliberately casual, if not a bit cheeky. She's missed being able to tease him. "Isn't it too early for you to be up and about?"

He's joined her under the spray, wrapping her in his arms. "I was missing you," he replies simply, and as he tightens his hold, it becomes obvious that it definitely isn't too early for some parts of him to be up.

"Indeed," she says, her smile widening. "But just so you know, I'm not a big fan of shower sex."

He chuckles. "That was the farthest thing on my mind," he says, his lie blatant against her hip. "Although I'm very curious to know what you have against shower sex."

He's moved his hands up to her hair, shoving hers away to replace her in rinsing the shampoo off. He takes his time, massaging her scalp, and his skilled fingers upon her skull feel as wonderful as the rest of him does against her, both her hands having fallen upon his chest. She forces herself not to close her eyes and let herself be carried by his touch.

"It's just...very unpractical," she finally answers, still trying to keep her voice casual, in a weak attempt to hide how much he's affecting her. "And let's be honest, water? Not exactly the best lubricant."

He chuckles again, his eyes crinkling affectionately. "You say the sweetest things."

She makes a face. "This can't possibly shock you. I'm not exactly known for being sweet."

He has let go of her hair, encircling her in his arms again to pin her more fully to him, his eyes darkening. His smile changes, too, becoming…hungrier. "I'm definitely not shocked that you would be so practical about this, no," he says, his voice lower, too. He leans down, then, bringing his lips close to her ear. "I'm pretty sure I can find some parts of you that will taste sweet, though."

Olivia bites down on her lip at this double entender. His hands are moving again, shamelessly cupping her buttocks to press her more firmly into him, and the hot feel of him is all kind of distracting.

"Is that a dare?" she asks him, then, a bit breathlessly, meeting his eyes again with a raised eyebrow. He merely smiles back with his own cryptic little smirk.

She really doesn't think much about shower sex, thanks to a couple of dreadful attempts with past lovers, but she's not against everything that can be done in there either. She's quite certain that, with the right preparations, Peter would even make her change her mind about the whole thing; they both love a good challenge.

If anything else, the intimacy of it is more than pleasant at the moment.

As if to prove it, she's grabbed the soap bottle, pouring a good amount of it in her hand, soon lathering him with it. Her fingers travel over toned muscles and softer flesh, tracing the apex and curve of his ribs, inducing shivers beneath his skin. She loves the feel of it, the feel of him reacting to her, loves knowing that his body is as hopeless under her touch as she is under his.

Peter brings a hand to her face, tilting it upward so she will meet his gaze again, and as he leans down to kiss her, sensually sucking her bottom lip between his, he makes it clear he couldn't care less about hygiene right about now. She slips an arm around his neck to pull him down and closer, always closer, deepening the kiss as her other hand keeps on moving upon his soapy chest, not exactly intent on washing him either.

That becomes more than obvious to him as well when her fingers find their way back down between their bodies, soon grabbing the length of him. Moments later, he's pushing them forward, until she's firmly pinned to the wall, trapped between warmth and cold tiles.

With both his hands entangled in her hair, he responds to her stroking fingers with fervent kisses that are nothing short of breathtaking. She knows just how affected he is by her incessant caress when he becomes unable to kiss her, letting go of her mouth to rest his forehead against hers.

"Uh, what happened to 'no sex in the shower'?" he manages to ask, his voice husky, his eyes tightly shut.

"Well, this isn't exactly about me, is it?" She replies, keeping her own voice purposefully low and tantalizing as her thumb draws circles over his tip, causing him to shudder and moan.

He leans more fully into her, thrusting into her touch. He splays one of his arms over the wall, the other one slipping around her waist, clinging to her and croaking her name directly into her ear as she resumes her movements, his nose buried into her wet hair.

Most of the water is falling on him, now rinsing him off as it flows down, but she doesn't care, kept warm by his quivering body, not to mention that heat swelling underneath her skin with every passing second and every sound he makes, entranced by the pleasure she's giving him, not merely teasing anymore, well intent on seeing this through.

Lost in this misty daze, she's almost forgotten that he has a say in this, and finds herself quite surprised when he suddenly moves. Pushing himself off her, his hand goes down so that she will release him. Within moments, he's turned the water off and left the stall, taking her with him.

He grabs her face with the same frenzy, his lips nothing short of crashing upon hers, entrapping her in a mind-numbing kiss. His hands are down, then, grasping and pulling upward until he's picking her up; she instinctively clings to him as he walks the short distance back to his bed, dripping water as they go.

He puts her down on the mattress, right on the edge of it, not giving her a chance to move. Already, he's kneeling between her legs, his hands pressing upon her thighs to keep her there, and she has rarely seen the blue of his eyes so dark. She has very little doubt about what he has in mind for her with that look on his face and in such position, the mere prospect of it flooding her insides with heat.

She honestly doesn't need any foreplay, though, not after the way she successfully worked them both up in that shower, once again craving for the feel of him.

"Come up here with me," she says, breathless, her hands covering his, trying to get him to release her. She's not trying hard.

He lowers his face instead, pressing his lips to her inner thigh. "Uh uh," he refuses, the sound coming from a low place in his throat. It reverberates through her, so close to that aching part of her that it sends a premature jolt of pleasure up her spine, like he probably intended.

His hands do move, then, pressing, massaging, grabbing. By the time he's bringing her legs over his shoulders, his hands slipping under her as his breath slowly scorches the inside of her thigh, she's officially given up the fight, having fallen back upon the mattress, her chest heaving in anticipation.

She should feel cold, still layered with droplets of water, hundreds of them, if not thousands, her body exposed to the chilly air. But as he sucks at these droplets covering her sensitive skin, she feels feverish instead, already burning from the inside out.

And even as the first of many, many moans to come echoes in the room, her flushing body writhing at the feel of his mouth now sucking at much more than droplets, she cannot quite understand how the tables have turned so drastically in such a short time. She really should have expected it, though.

She had dared him, after all.

…

When Olivia wakes up, her first semi-coherent thought is that it must be much later in the day.

The light in the room has changed from grey to bright, irrefutable proof that she's been out for a while, and that this day turned out to be not so rainy, after all. The second thing she notices is the smell.

Something delicious is being cooked nearby, and suddenly, she's ravenous.

When she stretches upon the bed, quickly realizing that she's alone under the covers, it becomes clear who's responsible for that wondrous smell –the same man who is responsible for everything wondrous she's feeling at the moment. She honestly cannot remember the last time she had slept this well, actually slept for several hours, a dreamless, restful slumber devoid of any nightmare.

She has to give it to him, he is one dedicated, skillful man.

After they'd abruptly put a halt to their showering, Peter had apparently taken it upon himself to find most, if not all, of her erogenous zones. He had been in no hurry, stimulating as many of them as he could, in turn or several at once, until he'd managed to make her come no less than three times (maybe four...she hadn't been exactly coherent by then), at which point she had fallen into an orgasm-induced coma.

Even now, hours later, she feels blissfully boneless, her every muscle relaxed. The last time she'd felt something remotely similar, she'd been pumped with psychedelics, and even that sensation didn't really come close to the high she's currently experiencing.

She feels like she's taken a very unique kind of drug, already in need of more; hopefully, the sight of him will be enough to appease that craving for now.

She probably would have stayed in bed a little while longer if her stomach hadn't growled obnoxiously, reminding her that she's starving, not to mention ridiculously thirsty. When she finally makes to leave the bed, she spots the full glass of water Peter has placed on the nightstand for her, grinning foolishly at the note he's put next to it. All it says is 'Drink up', but, always the romantic, he's replaced the i's dot with a little heart.

After another mandatory trip to the bathroom to clean up and try to do something with her hair, beyond disastrous at this point, she grabs a shirt from his traveling bag. She puts it on, ignoring the fact that she was unable to stop herself from briefly bringing it to her face first, breathing in his scent, succeeding in making herself feel even mellower. She doesn't bother putting anything else on, aware that the shirt isn't likely to stay on for very long anyway, finally leaving the room to look for him.

Compared to the size of this floor, the kitchen isn't exceedingly big, Walter having chosen to go for warm and cozy instead. Olivia thinks it even has a homey feel to it, although she guesses Peter's presence at the stove is solely responsible for that, offering her his profile.

The first thing she notices is that he's dressed. Not partially dressed like her, but fully dressed, wearing jeans and a dark sweater of thin wool. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows in a way that more than pleasantly accentuates his lean frame.

Olivia wonders how it is possible for him to look even more irresistible than he's ever been until this point, but it probably has something to do with her second realization: the sight of him is not going to be enough at all.

She's always been drawn to him, but that particular feeling has become so much more intense since yesterday, it's both frightening and exhilarating. It's as if part of her now resides under his skin, as he does under hers, and these pieces yearn to be reunited.

Olivia remains in the doorway, trying to get a grip on herself and act like the grown woman that she is; she guesses it's too late for that, considering she's currently wearing nothing but his shirt, already aching for his touch.

Eventually, Peter turns his gaze from his sizzling pan to look at her, smiling in such a way that makes her think -not for the first time- that he can read her thoughts.

"Hey," he says in that low voice of his –which simply happens to be his regular voice, and god staying away is hard.

"You got dressed," Olivia responds in way of greeting, somehow managing to sound disapproving.

"I did," he says, turning his eyes back down to whatever he's cooking. "I figured not everybody in the building would enjoy the sight of my naked body as much as you do. And truthfully, I think they've seen enough of the Bishop's family jewels after Walter's latest LSD trip." He gives her a better look-over, then. "I definitely approve of your choice of outfit, though."

That's an understatement.

She looks scrumptious in his shirt, barely covering anything at all below her hips. Having –naturally, left the top button undone, most of her collarbone is exposed, revealing a few of the hickeys he's not exactly sorry he scattered across her skin. With her hair up in an extremely messy bun, she somehow manages to look adorably sexy.

Above all, she looks relaxed and refreshed, gorgeously alive. Considering they haven't done anything in the past fifteen hours but make love and occasionally sleep, he gladly takes credit for the warm colors in her cheeks.

Not that she's not making him feel just as vibrant.

"You went out?" she asks as she finally moves from the doorway, taking a seat at the island, behind where he stands at the stove.

"Does going down to the cafeteria to steal some of their ingredients count as going out?"

She lets out a small chuckle, answering with her own question: "Is it considered stealing when you're the CEO's legal guardian?"

He looks at her over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. "My thoughts exactly."

The way she's looking at him is very distracting, her chin now resting on her palm, her eyes soft, twinkling. He forces himself to refocus on the food before he lets something burn. He really is hungry; it's the only thing that had managed to get him out of bed, about thirty minutes ago.

The fact that he'd purposefully fought his initial drowsiness just so he could stay awake and watch her sleep for a few hours is a testament to how lovestruck he truly is. He doesn't care. He would have been happy to keep on doing it for a couple more hours, if hunger hadn't driven him out of bed.

She was so out, she didn't even stir when he finally left her side, quite certain by then that she wouldn't have any more nightmares this time around.

Peter grabs one of the glasses he prepared a few minutes ago, turning around to put it in front of her. "Freshly squeezed," he says with a smirk. As far as energy drinks went, orange juice wouldn't have been his first choice, but they were the only fresh fruits he could find in the cafeteria.

She gives him a smirk of her own, before downing half of it in one go. He turns back to his pan, finally getting the grilled cheese sandwiches onto plates.

"What makes those smell so good?" she asks, and she sounds as hungry as he feels, causing his grin to widen.

He has half a mind to tell her that considering they're both quite high on love hormones at the moment, she would probably find the smell of dirty socks appealing –especially if they were his.

"It's the pesto," he answers instead, handing her a plate. She frowns, having clearly never tried that particular combination before. "Trust me, you're gonna like it."

He was right, of course; moments later, she's chewing, soon making a noise that closely resembles some of the sounds he drew out of her only hours ago. "Is there anything you're not good at?" she chuckles between two bites.

He's not eating yet, too busy watching her, aware that he's got a ridiculous smile on his face, and not caring much. "Crossword puzzles," he answers simply.

She makes a face. "I thought you were a genius."

"I am a genius," he replies with extreme cockiness, knowing it would make her smile; she doesn't disappoint, the sight of her smile creating the nicest kind of ache in his chest. "It's not that I can't do them," he explains. "I can do pretty much anything if I set my mind to it. I just have no patience for word games of any kind, and am therefore terrible at them."

"Well, I happen to be very good at crosswords," she says after swallowing another bite. "We'll make a good pair. You can be in charge of cooking from now on, I'll take care of the New York Times."

She says this so naturally, this mention of them as an item, without a hint of hesitation, it makes his heart feel about a thousand times bigger in his chest. As he stares at her, hoping she can see in his eyes how much this means to him, the colors in her cheeks darken, her smile turning a bit shy, and he has never loved her more.

"Sounds like a plan," he eventually says, warmly, finally grabbing his sandwich and (briefly) interrupting his staring, not wanting to make her feel self-conscious.

They eat in silence for a while, the comfortable kind, simply enjoying each other's company without feeling the need to talk, a trait that is inherent to their dynamic. Just like he loved watching her sleep, he wants nothing more than to keep on watching her eat, now. She seems to be genuinely loving her food, a sight he's certain he never witnessed until today.

Olivia rarely eats, and whenever she does, she usually makes it look like a chore she's only agreed to do because, annoyingly enough, her body requires to be fed on occasions in order to survive.

There is something nudging at him as he eats, though, something he's been turning around in his head ever since he found himself back in the elevator on his way down to the cafeteria.

Once in there, no matter how relaxed he felt at the time, he couldn't help remembering everything that had happened the previous night, mainly Olivia's panic, and the revelations she had made about what was done to her on the Other Side.

He'd thought about having to wake her up from her nightmare, about all these little signs that showed how affected she still was by her trauma, aware that he was only seeing the tip of the iceberg.

He had just come to a decision about what to do (or attempt to do) when she had joined him in the kitchen; as he finishes his sandwich, Peter guesses there is no point in pushing off this conversation any longer.

"So," he begins. "What's next?"

She'd been lost in her thoughts, now bringing her eyes and focus back on him. She arches an eyebrow with a faint crooked smile. "We go back in there?" She suggests with a tilt of her head towards the other rooms, beyond the kitchen.

He chuckles, trying not to get too distracted by the way she's now staring at him, well aware that she's serious. So is he. "I was actually thinking a bit further ahead," he says.

She shrugs. "Well, next, we go back to Boston. I have to be at work tomorrow morning."

Peter keeps himself from grimacing, scratching his stubble with a nervous knuckle. No matter how much he does not want to make her feel uncomfortable in any way, he knows what he's about to suggest will probably change her mood drastically. He's determined not to back down, though, not before he's said what needs to be said.

"What about…taking a few days off work?"

Olivia halts her chewing, frowning at him. "Why would I take a few days off work?"

He does his best to keep his face and voice relaxed as he says: "You haven't actually taken any time off since you came back. I thought now was as good a time as any to give yourself a break."

As he expected, her entire body language changes within seconds. She straightens up, her face closing off, dropping the last of her sandwich onto her plate. Her mouth purses as she gives him a disgruntled look. "You sound just like Broyles," she says, in a tone that makes it clear she didn't mean it as a compliment.

There is a heavy pause, then, and Peter almost feels the shift in her, hears the pieces coming together in her head, and his insides twist. Olivia has always been too good at this, at connecting information, putting them together.

She's doing it right now.

Understanding flashes across her face, and he watches with growing apprehension as her expression changes, going from slightly annoyed to offended and hurt.

"Wait," she says, her voice already lower. "You've talked to Broyles, haven't you?" Before he can even begin to formulate an answer, she keeps going, half-raising a hand, looking at him as if he had insulted her: "That's why you started following me around everywhere I went. Did he ask you to tag along so you could keep an eye on me and give him full reports on how I'm doing on the field?"

Peter knows how much she's going to dislike hearing the truth, but he decides right away not to lie about this. "It wasn't like that," he shakes his head, trying his best to sound soothing, but she's incensed, now, having averted her eyes, her breathing too loud, too shallow, her entire body tense and rigid. "He was worried about you."

Unfortunately, this truly seems to be the last thing she wanted to hear. She's back on her feet in a flash, having jumped off her seat, her eyes shooting daggers as she shoves a hand in front of her. "There is nothing wrong with the way I do my job," she states, firmly.

"I never said-" he tries, but she cuts him off.

"What the hell were you expecting, Peter?" she asks, or rather demands, her eyes and nose scrunched up in anger and hurt. "Did you really think I would just take the week off, so that we could play house in here, while you magically 'fixed' me?"

"Olivia, stop." His voice is much louder, this time.

He's not mad, far from it, but she's so livid, he has no other choice but to meet her in her intensity for a moment in order to get through to her. It seems to work, enough for her to let her hand fall. She keeps on glaring at him, though, quickly crossing her arms in a defensive posture.

"This has nothing to do with me," he continues, more softly, shaking his head. "I think it would be good for you to take some time off, not because you're doing anything wrong right now, but because you're human, and people do take breaks from their jobs on occasion. You don't even have to include me in any of it," he adds, truthfully. "You could…I don't know, you could use that time to go visit your sister in Chicago, for example."

He had hoped to calm her down with that suggestion, thinking that the prospect of seeing her family might help her see the benefits of taking a break.

Peter certainly did not expect what happens instead.

Her angry flush begins to recede, and he realizes at once that he's unintentionally struck a raw nerve. Within seconds, all colors have gone from her face, replaced by that ghostly pallor he'd hoped never to see again.

Olivia is not looking at him anymore, her eyes now worryingly vacant, all traces of irritation gone, as if they were never there in the first place. Her entire demeanor has become sickeningly familiar, going back to the one she'd displayed so often since her return.

And it's almost sickening, the way this suffocating numbness is always there inside of her, ready to take over at a moment's notice, making him ache for her all over again.

Although he hopes she'll prove him wrong, Peter instinctively understands what this is about.

"Olivia?" He calls out softly, but she doesn't meet his eyes. "Have you talked to Rachel or Ella since you've come back?"

Her eyes remain glassy, staring at a point in front of her.

"No," she eventually answers, her voice as vacant as her gaze.

Peter fights his need to walk around the island and reach out for her, aware that physical contact probably is the last thing she wants or can tolerate right now. But his heart beats painfully fast inside his chest, thumping loudly against his ears. The sight of her with that empty look in her eyes is unbearable, especially compared to the way she looked mere minutes ago.

He wants to kick himself for being the cause of this abrupt change in both her mood and demeanor, for having nudged and pressed where she hurts. Yet, ultimately, he knows this is necessary, unavoidable.

She can't keep on burying it all inside.

Her sister and niece mean the world to her. It's one of the very first things he had learned about Olivia; not about her as the skilled FBI agent, but as the person who hides beneath the armor. His heart squeezes painfully at the thought of her deliberately, or unconsciously, keeping herself from reaching out to them, in fear of what might have happened during her absence.

"They weren't around at all during these eight weeks," Peter eventually says, keeping his voice low and soft. After another few seconds of silence, he cautiously adds: "And…I really don't think she went to see them either."

At the mention of her Alternate, which comes with the inevitable reminder of the weeks he spent with her, Olivia's eyes aren't so vacant anymore.

Her face constricts slightly as she meets his eyes, causing his insides to clench. Her lips curl in one of her tight, painful smiles, and she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.

"I can't do this," she finally whispers. "I…" she brings her fingers to her face, pressing them to her lips, before she raises both her hands in front of her, having already averted her eyes again. "I have to go."

And on these words, Olivia retreats, leaving the kitchen.

A/N: Hello, my name is Ambre. One of my favorite hobbies include turning fluffy goo into angst goo. I can't help myself. Ah well.

I might be able to post the next part during the weekend, but who knows with me. I do hope you've enjoyed this one though :) Don't forget the reviews, it's my birthday week! :'D *shameless emotional bribery*