a/n: thanks to Doc for being a slave driver to get this thing out on time :)
They hunker down together, shoulder to shoulder eight miles from the Harvard grounds as they watch the group of shapeshifters shuffle through the path they've just vacated, barely breathing and stone still. There's about eight of the shapeshifters traveling together, mismatched in ages but all with the same drooping dead eyes and bloodied clothing. As many times as she's seen them, the disjointed way their bodies move unnerve her more than their rotting faces.
Olivia can see the gears grinding to a stop in Peter's mind, watching him watch them with a thinly veiled look of surprise and horror.
"What?" she whispers beside him, the anticipation rattling her. He faces her then, eyes wide as he works through whatever he wants to say. He looks like the giddy thirteen year old she imagines he once looked like.
"They are traveling together," he murmurs almost to himself, eyes shifting from her face to the feet of the dead shapeshifters, his face alight with discovery so palpable she finds it hard not to feel his excitement, even if she doesn't understand it. Her face must spell her confusion, because he scoots a little closer, pointing through the brush line from where they're hiding, one hand gripping her thigh and tilting his chin close to her cheek and she has to suppress the grin that's threatening to break.
"See, look how they're grouping together," he says excitedly, "Walter was wrong; they're not nomadic beings. They're instinctive—traveling as a pack. Just like last night."
Olivia feels the frown start as she realizes what he says. "They're what? Migrating? They're like birds?" she asks incredulously. Peter's face is wistful, like they're not talking about zombies. He looks exactly like Walter when he gets nostalgic and that's a little too weird for her to handle.
"This isn't good news." She concludes after a moment, seeing the plan set out for them become exponentially more difficult.
"No, no it's not." He agrees as he taps her shoulder to get her to move as they backtrack through the field when the pack disappears beyond the tree line. He's lost in thought, the new pipe Astrid made laying where he left it; scanning where the pack disappeared and feeling Olivia's eyes along his back.
"You don't think we'll actually catch one, do you?" she says and can already see she's right from the way his back ripples as he tenses.
"We'll get one." Peter replies casually, already sweeping by her to start back down the path.
"But you don't think it'll do any good then, is that right?" she feels the little threads start to weave together as she focuses her thoughts out loud.
"It won't do any good." He emphasizes, continuing to put space between them.
"But before you said—" she tries as she jogs behind him to catch up with his purposeful strides.
"— I know what I said." He snaps and she stops.
"This changes everything, doesn't it?" she asks.
He stops too, eyes refusing to find hers. Debates lying.
"Yes." He answers simply.
"So what do we do?" she says then, ready for the next step they can take. Peter's look is hard and firm set. It makes her stomach fall. There is no next step.
"Nothing," he says already pushing past her back toward Harvard, "it means everything we've learned up until this point has been useless. It's over."
"So," she says heatedly, "that's it?" she's reeling with disbelief.
"Congratulations, you were right. There is no surviving this." He answers gravely, his mood blackening the entire area surrounding them. She can almost see the ripples of his temper pulsing off him in hot waves. She's off and after him in a heartbeat, stopping him with two hands pushing firmly against his chest.
"You're not planning on taking Walter to Massive Dynamic." He doesn't correct her. Her hands burn through the fibers of his coat and he wishes that he could offer her some sort of hope, something to hang tight to, but there's nothing left. He pictures the fat shapeshifter closing in on her from last night before her explosion; why he was so much more terrified than before at the dumpsters.
"It's the apocalypse," he reminds her gently, throwing her words back at her but not pulling away, "there is no way to survive this." He finally does shake loose of her hands and continues on his way, feeling the little scorch marks on his shirt.
"Where is this coming from?" she asks suddenly, eyebrows pulled together. His sigh high and dejected.
"We're not going, Olivia. I'm not taking him out into this." He says calmly, arms wide into the expanse of what used to be Boston to better emphasize his point. "How many close calls do we have to have to realize we're nowhere closer than we were before?"
She knows he's talking about her, and it vibrates deep in her skin.
"This is about last night?" Olivia shouts as she meets his long strides," why don't you come out and say it already and not hide behind this protecting Walter bullshit." she snarls. When he doesn't retort, she feels it. She knows it's because of her. Peter's chin presses against his chest.
"What if the fire hadn't happened?" he asks as he turns to her, eyes a clear and angry blue. Olivia's mouth opens to argue but he cuts her off.
"It did happen," he challenges her, "whatever inexplicable or fucked up or utterly ridiculous reason why it happened, rest assured it did happen. I watched you set that thing on fire." His hands are wild; punctuating his words with angry gestures. "And as terrifying as the idea of you being capable of reducing one of them to ash with your mind, it doesn't compare to if it you hadn't."
Peter takes a step forward, red faced and bursting at the seams. Olivia doesn't move, refusing to hear what he's really trying to tell her. She's not a liability, goddamn it; she doesn't need to be protected.
"But Walter said—" she pushes, taking steps toward him. She feels like a broken record, asking the same questions she already knows the answers to.
"Walter's barely lucid half the time," Peter's voice is thunderous, rising higher with each passing moment. "You think he's going to be able to make a two week trip to New York? On foot?"
Olivia balks.
"How do we know Massive Dynamic survived this at all?" Peter asks angrily and she does finally step back.
It was never a question. She'd never even thought of them not surviving. She feels the cold push in on her on all sides, slicing through her jacket and biting at her skin. She feels herself spinning out of control; hot burning heat bubbling up her chest and suddenly she's blinking back angry tears as he walks away.
"You asshole!"
The words blurt out suddenly and with such force they stop him dead in his tracks. He turns slowly to face her again, eyes wide in his shock, eyebrows sky-high.
"What?" he asks disbelieving, taking in her reddened cheeks and fluttering eyes.
"Are you crying?" he asks terrified, his tone is verging on disbelief. He's seen her go up against a band of Resisters, pipe a zombie in the brain and light a motherfucking shifter on fire with her mind, but he's never seen her cry. Not as completely unguarded as she is now. She might as well have been tap dancing.
He resists the urge to step away when she barrels toward him, shaking the earth as she stomps to the place he's frozen to.
"You asshole!" she shouts again, laying both hands flat on his chest to shove him hard. "You gave me hope again. Made me believe we could survive this, could fix this!" the anger stings and he stumbles backward, utterly shocked by her outburst.
"Olivia, there is no fixing this," he shouts back, shackling her wrists with his hands as she continues to shove at him, "there is no hope." The words sound foreign in his mouth, but he shouts them anyway, feeling an odd relief of finally letting go of hope. It's an odd rush, giving up, and he's glad he finally says them out loud.
"Why does this change anything? Because we see one group of them and you're suddenly giving up?" She's wrenched free of his hands to pace back and forth on the path, raking her hands through the hair that's come loose from her ponytail. Peter stands frozen, his black hole deepening at the sight of her coming unhinged. His hands stay in front of him, ready for her to charge and tackle him. His eyes search around them wildly, looking for any signs of danger as his partner comes apart.
"Because everything we thought we knew about them is wrong—I was wrong. It's over." His voice is lowered, approaching her like a frightened animal, knowing she can be much more dangerous than she lets on. She swivels and he doesn't see the wild swing of her right hook, but goddamned does he feel it whenit connects with his jaw. He staggers backward before leaping forward, floored on instinct and grabbing her in engulfing big bear hug to keep her from taking another swing or setting him in fire.
He holds tight, her anger sagging against him, the wet choking sounds lost against his chest but he won't pull away because he can still feel her fury radiating in every direction and he has a strong desire to live. He wants to say something scathing, something to make up for the stinging jaw, but he can't bring himself to do anything but hold her.
There's a gurgling in the distance and the sound of footsteps crunching against the dry ground and he freezes, squeezing her tight and waiting to hear it again. She's about to say something but he cuts her off with a curt noise in his throat and her eyes widen when she hears it too.
"Fuck," Peter mutters against her temple, trying to strain his hearing over the sounds of her labored breathing. His heart flutters wildly in his chest as he tries to discern dangerous sounds from normal ones. There's more dry creaking and it's definitely from their left, so he grabs her arm and drags her to the right, not giving a damn if she's over her temper tantrum or not.
He pulls her down into the bushes with him, feeling her stiffen as he drops beside her, wrapping an arm over her back to keep her still. She probably still wants to murder him, but she's smart enough not to try it right then.
"Where is it?" her voice is husky and thick, but he doesn't need to answer when they both see the shifter break through the horizon and stumble into view. It's a female, this one, and has been turned for a while from the looks of it: the place where her nose should be is just an empty hole on its dead face, the whites of teeth poking through where her lips are missing. She's mostly naked, the filthy remnants of a pair of pants still around her waist and the rotting parts of her skin flaking away and hanging loosely off her shoulders.
It looks around blindly, cloudy eyed and mouth snapping as it drags itself along suctioning air in through the cavity of its nose and Peter's stomach lurches as she twists her head in their location. He hears Olivia's breathing pick up beside him.
"Get ready," Peter says softly; ready to yank her up with him. She's coiled against him. Ready.
"We can get it," she argues.
They don't get an inch off the ground before a gunshot rings out and the shifter's head explodes in front of them, dropping forward and splattering the ground in blood. Olivia pulls back, trying even minutely to distance herself from it—from the thought that this one used to be human.
"Gotcha!" coos the boisterous voice through the distance, the strong baritone of a man in his fifties. He comes out of hiding, the shotgun cocked over one shoulder as he struts to the mutilated corpse of his kill, the smoke twisting out of the gun he's holding. His belly hangs precariously over the belt of his camouflaged pants as he bends over to kick at the shifter with a foot to twist it face up.
Olivia's back is shaking from being so rigid, she's given herself a migraine from the anger she felt not moments ago. She wants to be back at the lab, back at home, anywhere except for here.
"Still think we should run?" she whispers as the man drops to go through the pockets of the woman, feeling Peter's disgust at what they've witnessed. He shakes his head, his lips on his chin low as he grimaces. His breathing stops when the man stands, looking in their direction through the barrel of his gun.
"Shiiiiiiiitt," Peter hisses, the crunching louder as the man's feet carries him closer to where they're hiding and Peter knows for sure that they're sighted.
"Come out, come out wherever you are." The man's singsong voice is sinister and frightening; the little hairs on Olivia's neck tingling. The gun swings at them, settling in on where they're hiding. Peter's got a tight grip on Olivia, digging his nails in painfully like he's trying to press her through the dry dirt of the ground but she doesn't make a sound.
Peter looks around for a sturdy weapon, not daring to try to pull the crowbar from his belt. He spots the thick line of the dead tree branch that's within arm's distance and weighs whether to make a grab at it or stay stationed where they're at. He doesn't get further than that before the end of the gun is pointed down on them and the sound of the man's dark chuckling fills the dense air.
"Come on out, beautiful," the man says through dead teeth, as the branches are parted with the barrel of the gun of the bush they're behind. Peter's hand clamps down on her wrist letting her know silently she's not going anywhere. The gun's cocked and pointed; the yellowed smile growing as Olivia stares down the barrel to the bloated face of the bearded man.
When she still doesn't move he tacks on impatiently, "that wasn't a request."
Peter's skin crawls, pushing himself to stand but the man's gun swings to him to stop.
"Not you. Her."
"I don't think so." Peter spits back but Olivia's already rising beside him despite the nasty glare he's giving her to stay put. He knows that Olivia won't listen to him, not even now. The gun's pointed away from his chest back to hers as she stands and Peter's eyes narrow on the quirked line of the man's face and his hands shake in anger.
"That's a good girl." The bearded man laughs and something cracks in the air around them.
The temper rages inside Peter and he reacts more so on pure instinct than sense, flying out to grab the branch and has it swinging before the gun has a chance to take aim, knocking it sideways and a shot fires blindly to their right. The man's voice is loud in surprise as the gun clatters out of his hands and he takes a step toward Peter. Another heavy swing and Peter connects with his face, the sickening thud ripping through the silence as the man drops to his knees before stumbling forward into the brush at their feet.
Peter's arms stiffen when he realizes what he's done, holding the bloodied branch limply in his left hand. Olivia's beside him, grabbing his arm to move it as he stares dumbly at the man dead at their feet.
"Run!" she orders, dragging him with her, waiting for more of them to pop out from all sides. Peter's shocked face stares at her so she takes a fist full of his collar with her as she runs. The branch falls silently beside the body and he's able to work his legs enough to follow, tripping as they sprint away from the blood that's slowly running through the dirt. The scenery goes by in a blur as they run, Olivia never letting go of Peter's collar as they run like holy hell as far away as quickly as possible.
The only thing Peter can concentrate on is the way Olivia's hair billows out behind her as she runs, the sickening fury he felt watching the gun pointed at her and the unrelenting desire to go back and continue to beat the lifeless body of the man where he lay.
After a stretch of blinding moments they scatter to a stop, far enough to hope they're not followed; but further away from the safety of Harvard.
"I killed him," he heaves through wet breaths that wrack his chest. He looks up and Olivia's leaning against a tree, her face red; bright. "I didn't mean to, I thought..." he attempts to explain but he's feeling dangerously lightheaded. Her pink face sparks something in his chest and he throws caution to the wind and hopes that she won't take another swing at him. It's twice now that he's almost lost her and he's sick of it.
He stomps over to Olivia and clasps her face in his hands, crushing her face against his before she has a chance to say something that might stop him. Her lips are frozen for a startled second before opening and matching his frenzy.
"I don't want you to die in this," he admits against her lips, but it sounds more like a plea when he pulls back enough to talk. The force of the kiss startles her; it's fevered, charged and infinitely angry. She feels his hot breath against her mouth as he continues to try to talk and she waits wide eyed and breathless waits for him to continue.
His forehead dips against hers and for a moment it's their shared, labored breathing that fills the soundlessness of the air around them, Peter's actions shocking him but not enough to release her from the safety of his clammy palms. Olivia deliberates for a moment, searching his eyes for something he can't place before reaching up with her chin to place her mouth back on his and the world burns around them.
His lips match his desperation, filling her with his euphoria as he clings to her like she's the last breath of air on earth. She scrambles to meet his fervor, raking hands over his back as he pins her to the bark of the tree as he tries to cover as much her body with his as possible. She can feel him spiraling out of control , lets him dig his fingers into her to prove she's still there, that she's still alive because she knows it's important to him right then.
"I'm not going to die," she says breathlessly as he sucks hard on her neck, a sharp pain as he bites and she pulls him closer in response. "I'm not going to die. We're not going to die." She amends and repeats those words like if she stops he will too. And she doesn't want him to stop. It's not long before she's struggling to get his jacket zipped free so she can touch him, feeling the wave of relief as he pulls back to let her.
He's practically growling as he paws through the fabric of her jacket and shirt, his hands gliding, scratching, digging into her skin. He's high on endorphins, spinning wildly and blood pumping like cannons through his veins as he spreads his fingers over the skin of her stomach, slipping under the fabric of the bra that earns him a low, throaty sound and a charged kiss in retaliation when he molds his hands to the expanse of her breasts.
Before, in the bunker, he was all questions and tentative kisses; here he's angry, aggressive and bold—and fuck did it turn her on. She's minutely aware she should be concerned for him, checking him for shock, knowing that he's probably not in his right mind at the moment. But the moment his head lowered and his mouth found the spot on her neck with his tongue all thoughts halted and she could barely contain herself from the explosion she's sure is imminent.
Peter's not sure exactly what's fueling him at this point, the heavy dead-set feeling of almost losing her twice within hours draws from him a violent, heated reaction that makes him want to claw open her skin and lose himself in her entirely. He tastes her, drinks her in, seeking from her what he couldn't ask for before, encouraged by the way her breathing is high and unsteady, feeling her fingers on his belt, working through the front of his jeans and he finally finds her mouth again.
His actions aren't graceful, but nothing about them could ever really be described as such. His jeans are pushed down to his knees before his hands skim over the fevered swell of her hips to help shimmy her out of her own. He's got manic hands and shaking fingers, bracing her against the tree as they twist and squirm to put him in the right place, Olivia gripping his shoulders to let Peter hitch her leg around his hip, feeling him grip her thigh too hard, his other hand crushing her face to his. She makes the mistake of looking at him then, his eyes a clear and undiluted blue and looking at her so intently that she wants to look away, but his eyes roll back then when she feels him push inside her and it's like the light of the universe switches off.
Olivia doesn't realize how close she already is until he pulls back and rocks into her again, his face dropping to the crook of her neck and the difference in sensation is shocking her into awareness of his every thrust: this isn't stress relief, or casual we might die sex, but something different; volatile and powerful—and that possibility scares her. He's got her hair fisted tightly in one hand, the other pulling her knee higher up his back and she knows he's close; the sounds escaping from his mouth are low, furtive; possessive. He chokes on her name, sandwiches it between invectives that shouldn't be such a turn on, but every drawl and every push of his hips puts her closer to the edge. The dead bark is scraping the tender exposed skin of her back, but it's lost under the haze of his teeth skimming the line of her jaw and she's so close that she clasping him tightly to her, holding on for dear life as the white light overtakes her.
Peter feels her go rigid, clutching him, and he lets himself follow, throwing himself into the sensation of her, the hiss silent against his neck as she comes, and it's the tipping point he needs to be blinded by the waves of pleasure, words rolling off his tongue and into her skin, branding her as he lets it beat through his chest, trying to cling to the feeling for as long as possible before it ends.
They're left with the same heavy breathing, his forehead tucked against her throat as he tries to come back to himself, letting her hands draw firm circles in his back, soothing him as he gasps for air. When he can finally feel his toes again he pulls back to look at her, his eyes heavy but alert, a grin creeping to pull up the corners of his mouth as he steals another kiss before she's coherent enough to notice.
"Thank you," Peter mumbles against the slope of her chin, sensing her confusion as she fights for feeling again.
"For what?" she asks.
"Not setting me on fire."