A/N: Here we venture into what I consider to be CiderApples' territory, so let it be known that this has been inspired by her incredible work. Thank you all for reading this far! I'm really pretty happy with this chapter, so enjoy.
Olivia didn't wake up until after the others had left. Peter sat down on the floor beside her and leaned back against the sofa, watching her slow return to consciousness. Eventually she opened her bright green eyes, quietly looking over at him through a haze of sleep. The day had done her good—the dark circles under her eyes had lightened, and she'd gotten some color back, but most of all she'd lost a bit of that anxious pinch to her face. It relieved him more than he could say. She'd come back to them incomplete… as haunted as she'd ever been, before. Broken, even (he hated to think it—his chest tightened in anger, and he gritted his teeth; soon). But the day had given him hope that she would overcome it, in time. Peter inclined his head, murmuring, "Hey". She put a hand over her face and yawned, then stretched and sat up a little.
"Hey. How long did I sleep?" Her voice was a little groggy.
"Several hours. How are you feeling?" She frowned slightly at his answer, probably feeling guilty for sleeping through the day instead of spending more time with Rachael and Ella, and then hesitated at the question for a fraction of a second before she raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
"Peter, I'm fine." She was a good liar, but she was also predictable. Peter shook his head. She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.
"Uh-uh, you hesitated, which means that it is time for Señor Percocet." To his surprise, she didn't argue. He retrieved the bottle from the nightstand in her room and went to fill a glass of water in the kitchen.
"Where is everyone else?" She called after him.
"They went across the hall to watch a movie in Rachael and Ella's room. Something about dinosaurs. Walter promised to save us some Junior Mints." Although the likelihood that they'll survive the entire movie is questionable.
"Ah. Ella loves dinosaurs. I loved dinosaurs, too, when I was little."
"Yeah, me too. My favorite was always Deinonychus. You know, the one with the big claw?" He made a claw with his free hand, and she wrinkled her nose, smiling.
"Really? I was always a t-rex kind of girl." Peter chuckled. I bet you were. Olivia lifted her face to look at him as she took the glass and the pills. "Thanks." Peter dropped his chin to look at the carpet. Of course, sweetheart. She tossed the pills back with a big gulp of water.
"Are you hungry? I think we have enough pancakes left to feed a small country… The other option is delicious, nutritious freezer pizza." He pulled the box out of the freezer and looked at the ingredients. "Mmm, this one has at least five ingredients that are also components in shampoo and fabric softener. How much do you want to bet Walter picked this out?" He held the box up and raised his eyebrows at her as he jiggled it a little in the air. Olivia looked at him and smiled a bit as she rolled her eyes.
"Pizza sounds good." She shifted on the sofa, leaning back. "Can I have a beer with it?" Her tone was wistful. Peter shook his head.
"Not on those drugs, you can't." She frowned a little, making him wonder if, had she been able, she'd have just gone for the fridge herself. He tossed her the TV guide and set the oven to preheat. "Your choice, but just so you know, I refuse to watch anything with Nicolas Cage in it." She laughed—she actually laughed, and he reveled in the sound of it—as she flipped the guide open and turned the tube to, of all things, the original 1939 version of Stagecoach. He stuck the pizza in the oven, set the timer, and got a beer for himself and a soda for Olivia out of the fridge. She'd unbraided her hair and it draped over the arm of the couch as she reclined, sipping her root beer, legs stretched out. Peter watched her settling into the sofa, thinking mysterious, half-formed thoughts about the way the light fell on her skin and the color of her eyes, until he was interrupted by the timer. He pulled the pizza out of the oven when it was done, cut it into slices, and set it down on the coffee table. Returning to the sofa with some plates, he gestured, indicating her sprawl. She moved her good leg but before she could struggle to move the injured one he very gently picked it up and sat down with it in his lap, tucking a pillow underneath for support. Olivia looked a little surprised but eventually she put her other leg in his lap, too. He rested a hand lightly on her shin, trying not to marvel at its smooth planes, and pointed at the TV with his beer. "I didn't know you liked westerns." She inclined her head, chewing a mouthful of pizza, and licked the corner of her lip.
"I went to boarding school and the only movies the library had were old black-and-white films and PBS specials." She had tucked her root beer into the crook of her arm, and she had her plate of pizza sitting on her chest. "There's a great shot coming up—" She raised her arm all of sudden to point at a frame of John Wayne silhouetted as he leaned in an alleyway, and spilled her root beer. It had still been mostly full, making a huge puddle that soaked brownly into the sofa cushion and her t-shirt. "Shit." She muttered, moving the pizza and sitting up halfway, hands fluttering as she realized she would just have to wait for him to get something to clean it up. I'm no good at sitting around. Peter pushed her legs off his lap, gently, and went to get a dishtowel. She was generally a very graceful woman; he figured it was the meds. "God, Peter, I'm sorry." She frowned, embarrassed. He shook his head and grabbed a couple towels from the cabinet, bending to help her sop up the mess.
She looked down at the spill just as he bent over it and they bumped heads, each jumping back a little, looking up at each other. Both of them paused, startled by the proximity, and Peter felt his heart beat harder in his chest, accelerating at her closeness. She knit her brows together, green eyes wide, and he slowly let go of the towels and raised his hand to stroke her cheekbone lightly with his thumb. About seven thousand different things that he'd wanted to say to her since she got back flashed through his mind. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't going anywhere—that he would be here for her, as long as she wanted him. He wanted to tell her that he'd come back to this Universe because he hadn't wanted to be used to start an apocalypse, but that he'd come back to Boston because he'd realized that no place was home without her. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that he loved her. It took watching you almost die—twice—to make me admit that. He swallowed, unable to stop himself from glancing quickly at her mouth, torn between kissing her and pouring his heart out into her hands (they were two forms of the same thing, really).
"'Livia—" He breathed her name, watching her expression. He didn't want to spook her. Her eyebrows knit together as her green eyes flicked back and forth between his. She looked nervous, uncertain.
"Peter, I—I don't know how to do this," She said it like an apology, a request for guidance, not an admonition. Her brow wrinkled further; her face was full of unspoken sorrow. But she was trying; he could see it in her eyes. Her gaze flicked down to his mouth, and she inhaled shakily, making his decision for him. Stroking her cheek with his thumb, he leaned in even closer—their lips were just centimeters apart, now, and he could smell her plumeria shampoo and feel her warm breath on his face—and he whispered,
"Don't worry, 'Livia." Then he covered her mouth with his, pouring his heart out through his open lips as he kissed her deeply, ferociously even, gripping the t-shirt fabric at her waist tight in his right fist as he cradled her head in his left palm. She had a hand at his neck and she buried it in his hair, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss. Her other hand was pressed against his chest, and he knew she could feel his heart racing beneath her palm as they kissed until they were breathless. When he finally had to take a breath he pulled back, their brows just touching, wanting to see her expression as they breathed in tiny gasps together. She met his gaze, looking up from her hand over his heart.
"Peter," She whispered, sending chills over the back of his neck and down his spine. The dishtowels lay on the floor, forgotten, as the root beer soaked quietly into the couch. He was still leaning toward her, helplessly snared by her gaze and her breath and the taste of her lips, and she drew his face down to hers, pressing her open mouth into his, returning his kiss with even greater urgency. He spread his fingers over her ribcage, wanting to memorize its arc and curve, feeling her rapid, shallow breaths fill the space within.
Gently, he knelt in front of her on the couch and she leaned back, pulling him down so that he was kneeling over her, supporting himself on his hands and knees as he carefully avoided bumping her leg. He slid his hand down her ribcage, feeling her waist, gripping her tightly—almost too tightly—as though he was afraid she might suddenly disappear. He pressed his lips to her jaw, just underneath her ear, and she arched her neck as he worked his way down, groaning softly in the back of her throat. She still had one hand on his neck, and she slipped the other one under the edge of his t-shirt, pressing her fingertips into the sensitive skin at the small of his back, raising goose-bumps at her touch. He nuzzled her shirt collar aside and kissed the point where the tendons of her neck joined her clavicle, eliciting a new set of sounds from her throat that made his heart pound even more wildly under his sternum as his blood rushed and bubbled through his veins and made him feel lightheaded.
Pressing his face into her neck, he inhaled deeply, shivering as a wave of need washed over him, blurring his senses, making it difficult to focus. He twisted his fingers into her hair as he touched his lips to her neck again, biting and licking, and she arched into him, moaning, pressing her breasts up against his chest. He could feel her nipples through the thin fabric of their t-shirts and another, more intense wave of need drowned him, making him grip her waist even more tightly as he pressed himself into her and she pressed back, clutching him to her with her palm at his back, digging in with her fingernails.
He raised his face to hers and kissed her again as his heart pounded in his throat, wanting desperately to drink her in, to climb into her skin. Answering him in kind, she drew him to her roughly, pulling his hair as she bit his lip savagely, and he groaned aloud into her mouth. He felt her lips form his name against his own. "Peter—" Shuddering, unable to control himself, he ground his hips into hers—and froze as a quiet hiss of pain escaped her lips. He backed off quickly and sat up, instantly feeling horrible as he realized he'd forgotten himself and pushed his leg into her injured thigh.
"Fuck, 'Livia, I'm so sorry—" He shook his head, hands balled into fists, furious with himself.
"Peter, it's okay, I'm okay—" She tugged on the bottom of his t-shirt, trying to pull him back in, but he wasn't having it. His jaw worked, ticking. He exhaled forcefully, thoroughly disgusted with himself.
"No… no—I don't want to hurt you." They sat together for a minute, quietly, breathing hard. "I'm sorry," He said again, dropping his chin as he frowned. He picked the towels off the ground and pressed them into the sopping couch cushions, refusing to meet her gaze. Root beer had soaked its way up the entire right side of her tee. "Here—I'll get you something different to change into." He dug around in his backpack and pulled out a t-shirt. Apparently no one had thought to tell Rachael to bring some extra clothes for Olivia with her when she came down on the train. Peter wouldn't have had clothes with him, either, except that before they'd left he'd grabbed the small bag of clothes and toiletries that he kept at the lab (frequently things at the lab got messy… frequently things at the lab got downright revolting). He pulled out a soft, faded-blue t-shirt and handed it to her, still frowning as he turned his back to let her change (he was too disgusted with himself to even think about peeking). Calm down, it's okay, she's okay, she's tough... Jesus, fucking-clumsy-ass. Inexcusable.
He stood there with his hands balled at his sides, mentally berating himself. Their freezer pizza lay abandoned on the coffee table, cold. Eventually he felt a light touch on his back. She'd scooted to the end of the couch and was calling him back to her, smiling ruefully. He'd half expected her to be angry—not because he'd bumped her leg, but because he knew she didn't want to be treated as fragile. "At least sit with me, then." He sat back down on the couch, stiffly, and she snuggled against him, moving the pizza to the floor so that she could prop her leg up on the coffee table. "Come on, Peter, I'm okay." He exhaled, willing himself to let it go, and put an arm around her. Then he impulsively kissed the top of her head, forcefully, and she exhaled and leaned into him more heavily. I love you, 'Livia, he thought, a little sadly. I'm afraid I'm not very good at it.
They sat together and watched men on horseback race across the screen, lit together by its flickering light.