Chapter 2
Peter's sure Olivia and Nick are taking the scenic route to where ever the hell their home base is. Normally he'd approve of the caution, but after forty hours he can feel Olivia's irritability no matter how tightly he guards against her or how she walls herself against him. This sensitivity is new—he's been trapped with Nick for just as long and is doing just fine keeping him out—and it pisses Peter off. No one's supposed to be able to get this close to him, and she's in his head without either of them fucking trying. The only thing Peter can figure is that his defenses are compromised because he spent his unremembered childhood as Olivia's partner. Whatever the fuck that means.
Nick's got the patience of a saint, maintaining an even temper through the first thirty-five hours, but even he gets edgy during the home stretch. Peter only knows it's the home stretch because anticipation starts seeping through with the irritability, not because Olivia—or Nick—has told him anything.
At least Nick's been talking at all. Olivia has barely spoken to him since they started this God-forsaken little road trip, mostly reducing her communication to glares with the occasional snapped order to break the silence. She's a champion at ordering him around, too.
Involuntary incarceration in an SUV has given him plenty of time—too much time—to study this woman he's suddenly been chained to. He's determined that Olivia counts to calm herself—cars, sign posts, ways she's going to eviscerate him, who the fuck knows. It's a silent count, but by now that doesn't matter, since it pulses through him in tandem with her aggravation. He's going to hear that count in his dreams—has been on the occasional catnap—and it pisses him off that he can't even escape her in sleep. She's also determined to hate anything he likes—be it music, food, or choice of conversation topic—is a demon behind the wheel, and refuses to let him drive. He'll have to understand her a hell of a lot better if he's going to maneuver his way out of this one, but right now he's too completely fucking fed up with everything to do with Olivia Dunham to fucking care.
Nick pulls off the highway near Chicago, drives down tree-lined local roads and into the very picture of a suburban neighborhood. "Home sweet home," he sighs. "About fucking time."
He turns into the driveway of an two story brick bungalow snugged into close quarters with a line of similar houses, parking beside a late model green Chevy Cavalier. A few anemic evergreen shrubs line the front of the house and the lawn is the unappealing yellow-brown of grass in the last throes of winter. Nothing distinctive, nothing too out of place.
Peter's out of the back seat before the vehicle is shifted into 'park', surveying the area while stretching out the inevitable kinks from being shoved in a small space for so long. Looking around confirms what he saw on the way in: it's a suburb, just like thousands of other suburbs surrounding hundreds of cities. He shakes his head. "So the suburbs of Chicago are the fashionable location for assassins of a shadowy terrorist organization?"
"Good central location and near a major metropolitan airport if we need to get somewhere quick." Nick moves to stand beside him. "It's a nice neighborhood. Quiet. Friendly, but not pushy. C'mon, let me show you the house."
Peter glances sideways at Nick, whose small smile and slowly relaxing tension show how glad he is to be back, and follows him inside. The scuffed floors are of some dark wood; a living room with an overstuffed couch, chairs, and television are to one side of the entryway, a dining room with a dusty table and chairs on the other. In front of him, a steep and narrow staircase leads to an upper level. The place looks comfortable and lived in, with a throw blanket over the couch, small knickknacks scattered on the shelves, and books everywhere—lining the bookcases, stacked on the floor, piled on tables.
Not the paramilitary installation he'd been expecting, but a home, with Peter about to play the role of the barely welcome house guest. He hasn't stayed in a place that looked this comfortably lived in since his father died.
He'd have preferred the isolated compound and the austere little cell he'd been envisioning.
"Kitchen's in the back, bedrooms are upstairs." Nick gestures towards each with a casual wave. "Basement's outfitted with weights, punching bag, and a sparring mat. Third bedroom's free, at the front left of the house; stuck a bed in there when we knew we were retrieving you. Jones' people will send out your stuff in a few days. Let me know if you need anything else."
Olivia brushes past them, scoops up the backpack beside the door. "I've got class. Nick?"
"I'll keep an eye out."
"Good."
Peter watches her head for the car before asking, "Class? Like, going-to-school type class?"
"Our orders are to blend in and look normal when not on assignment. According to her, college is normal."
"She make you go to class, too?"
"She makes me register. Occasionally I show up." Apparently the tour of the house is finished, because Nick thumps down on the couch and grabs the remote from the coffee table. "And we're not assassins. Or terrorists."
"No," Peter says, mocking. "You're soldiers on the side of the angels fighting a war against another dimension."
"Yup."
"Bullshit."
"Believe what you want." Nick shrugs, then flips on the television and holds up a Nintendo 64 controller. "Golden Eye?"
Peter settles beside him on the couch. "Badass soldiers play video games?"
Nick tosses him the other controller and offers up a cocky grin. "Badass soldiers kick ass at video games."
~***~
Video games quickly become ritual, a form of bonding between him and Nick. Although Olivia still barely acknowledges Peter's alive, she thaws enough to blitz in occasionally, grab a controller long enough to frag both their asses, then whirl out. Nick observes, amused, that she's only deigning to play the games she knows she can kill them on.
He and Nick talk more words in an hour than Peter generally trades with Olivia in a day, and when he airs his frustration with his current lot in life he finds Nick a sympathetic ear to vent at. Peter watches to make sure he doesn't reveal anything too incriminating, but he keeps up with the sarcastic commentary about the joys of involuntary incarceration.
Besides, they would expect him to protest being here. They'll be more suspicious if he doesn't.
"She doesn't want me here," he mutters a week in, after Olivia once again abandoned them for class without a word towards Peter, although her displeasure at his presence came through perfectly clear. It's not that he cares, not when he returns the sentiment tenfold, but he has to live here and constant exposure to her keeps him twitchy.
"Probably 'bout as much as you want to be here," Nick answers without looking up from the screen or letting up from mashing buttons.
Distracted, Peter's swordsman dies a bloody death, efficiently killed by Nick. Tossing the controller to the coffee table, Peter shoves himself upright and paces from one side of the room to the other. Practically the boundaries of his life, these days. "So why the fuck am I here?"
"Following orders. Liking them's immaterial. Besides, our superiors have good reason." Nick glances at Peter, then back at the TV. "You really don't remember?" It doesn't come out quite as casual as Nick probably intends.
Peter debates, decides the information is nothing they don't already know. "Bits. Mostly, no."
Nick shakes his head and sighs. "No way you can understand, then."
"I understand I'm tied to her and don't even know why. Or even how."
"Trust me, she's as thrilled about it as you, and she doesn't have holes in her memory. You piss her off. She..." another glance, and Nick fidgets a moment with the buttons of the controller before continuing, "well, she doesn't do well when her patterns are disrupted, which your being here does."
Peter raises his eyebrows. He wonders what Nick's game is. Nick is on her side, Peter doesn't doubt that, but more and more Nick's been sounding like he's trying to elicit enough understanding to mediate a truce. Maybe he's as tired of living in the middle of an undeclared war as Peter is, or maybe Peter is just being played. No way to be sure, not when he has no idea what Olivia and Nick are capable of and if he can trust his ability to tell their truths from lies. "Do you spend your life making excuses for her?"
Nick shrugs. "You're stuck with us. I'm just giving you a heads up." He glances in the direction Olivia went, then back at Peter. "She doesn't precisely dislike you, y'know. She just doesn't know how to deal with you."
Peter leans against the arm of the couch and shoots Nick a look of disbelief. "Really? Because she does a pretty damned good imitation of not liking me."
"Her first impulse is to shoot things she doesn't like. She hasn't shot you yet."
"She wants to."
"No. Well, maybe. But give her time, she'll warm up once she gets used to the idea."
"From Arctic to just cold?"
Nick snickers, but looks vaguely guilty about it. "She's not that bad."
"To you."
Nick doesn't deny it, just shakes his head and goes back to the game.
~***~
It's two weeks before Olivia decides to stop ignoring his existence. She stalks into the living room and, hands on her hips, surveys Nick and Peter through narrowed eyes. "Have you two been doing anything other than sitting on your asses in front of that television?"
Nick smirks, not looking away from the screen. "Sitting on our asses in the kitchen."
"Or lying prone on the bed upstairs." Peter gives her a toothy grin since it generally pisses her off. "Been doing that for seven, eight hours every night."
She taps her foot, not amused, although her irritation isn't strong enough to push through the tenuous mental walls they've started to assemble against each other. She glowers at Peter and growls, "We're responsible for making sure your training is up to speed. Downstairs in five so I can see how much work this is going to be."
Peter waits for her to clear the room and head into the basement before turning to Nick. "She serious?"
"Not always." Nick sighs, perching the controller on the arm of the couch. "But yeah, we are supposed to be overseeing the holes in your training."
"What fun. Not only am I trapped here, but I get forced workouts as well." Peter rolls his eyes and slumps down, head tilted back against the pillows.
"Eh. You might be able to weasel them down to a couple days a week, if you keep under her radar. But not if you piss her off now. Better do as she says."
"Like you always do?"
"Do you really think crossing her is a good idea?" Nick gives a mock shudder and a sly grin.
"Personally, I consider pissing her off a plus."
"Braver man than I. Or stupider. Not really sure which, but I'm leaning towards stupider."
"I'm sure you'll find out which soon enough." Peter pushes to his feet, glances back at Nick. "How screwed am I, really?"
"Depends on how pissed off she is, but I'd say pretty damn screwed."
"Lovely." Peter shakes his head and heads down to his doom.
He's only poked his head down here once, on one of his earliest scouting expeditions to pace out the boundaries of his cage. The wood paneling makes the room dark, a trick of perception rather than reality since the room is brightly lit. Heavily curtained windows high on the walls let in no sun to supplement the overhead lights. Mats line the entire floor, weights on one side, empty space on the other, with a punching bag hanging from the rafters dividing the sides. Olivia is across the room, stretching, and Peter stops for a moment to study how flexible she is.
And fuck, but is she ever.
"Waiting isn't going to make it any easier," Nick murmurs, slipping past him. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she doesn't hurt you. Much."
"Yeah, like that's gonna do any good." Peter edges across the room, pausing before reaching the mat. Olivia impatiently gestures him forwards. Her stance looks casual at first glance, but the slight bend to her knees and her lightly fisted hands suggest otherwise. Peter steps onto the mat, ready for anything but staying well out of reach.
He forgot how fucking fast she is. He barely has time to blink, and he's staring up at her, the back of his head throbbing from where it hit the mat. "Fuck."
"Again." There's nothing he can read in her eyes or voice, nothing but calm in her mind. Even the irritation from moments ago is gone, probably appeased by the thought of giving him a concussion.
He considers not sitting up, but since she probably won't let his being prone stop her from beating on him he heaves to his feet and prepares to be dropped to the floor again.
She circles him this time, throws a few punches and watches him block them. He turns with her, not letting her out of his sight and keeping out of her reach except when she closes. Even her touch against him when she lands a blow isn't enough to give more than the quickest of glimpses into her head, and unlike anyone else he's tangled with there's no connection between what she does and what she feels.
After the third unsuccessful attempt to brush against her mind, she snickers. "You think I spar regularly with someone who can poke through my mind and don't know how to keep my opponent from reading me?"
"Would have been nice."
Tilting her head, she studies his struggle to counter her random flurry of punches and kicks. He feints left, punches, and she shifts out of the way despite looking like she's barely paying attention to what she's doing. "You use that trick as a crutch. Expecting to get a preview of what someone will do and use it against them. We'll have to break you of that habit; too damned many times something like that could be turned against you." She's talking more to herself than him, or maybe to Nick, who's watching from the sidelines. It's probably even true, but it's fucking annoying to hear her exposing his weaknesses.
The fight keeps on like that, her every move designed to dissect apart the faults in his response. She barely pulls her punches, keeping out of vital areas but landing blows that vary from stinging to fucking painful. Probably monitoring his tolerance for pain along with every other fucking thing.
He grits his teeth and thinks of it as one more reason to hate this whole fucking situation.
After half an hour of playing the cat to his mouse, she declares Peter barely competent at hand to hand, then drags him out of the house and to a private gun range a half hour out of town. Nick tags along—whether voluntarily or by unspoken command, Peter can't tell—and keeps up a string of dryly entertaining banter throughout the drive.
"Used a gun in the last eleven years?" She throws the question over her shoulder as she strides inside at a pace Peter refuses to run to keep up with.
"Once or twice."
Her sharp glance is disbelieving, but she doesn't comment further, just shoves shooter glasses, ear plugs, and a Beretta into his hands and points to the target.
The weight of the gun in his hand is reassuring if not completely comfortable. As he sights down the barrel, arms still aching from the unaccustomed workout, the urge to shove that smirk down her throat by showing off nearly overrides common sense. Instead he aims the shot off center. And the next, and every one after that until the clip is empty. Not enough to seem hopeless, but enough to obscure exactly what he can do with the weapon. Reloads, and does it again, with the target fifty feet farther away.
The wrinkles in her forehead deepen with every shot, and her eyes narrow. Her suspicion tickles the edges of his mind. "That's it?"
He holds the gun loosely by his side, finger light on the trigger. "You want something more?"
"I want to see what you're capable of."
He smiles, all teeth, and shrugs.
"Fine, then. Here, watch." She draws her gun, squeezes off a half dozen shots in quick succession, then motions Nick to do the same. She's a fucking marksman. Of course she is. Nick, though, isn't much better than Peter, even if he is one hell of a lot more practiced.
After the demo, it's a repeat of the sparring match. She runs Peter through his paces again and again, corrects stance and grip and all the while analyzes his every fucking move until he's beyond ready to drop.
Olivia's lecturing him about adjusting the placement of his feet for about the hundredth time when Nick, sprawled at the sidelines, interrupts with, "Olive, you're making me tired. Not doing any of us any good at this point."
She arches an eyebrow and rakes him with a haughty glare. "Do you want to take over?"
"Sure," Nick says easily. "Not a bad idea, actually, with you set on playing the whole dedicated student thing for all it's worth and finals fast approaching."
She opens her mouth, closes it. "Fine," she says, glowering at Nick, who grins. "He's all yours. Just be sure he's making progress."
"Progress it is."
She doesn't let herself be lured into conversation on the drive back, just deposits them in the driveway and drives off. Nick looks at Peter, shrugs, and they wander back into the house.
~***~
It takes time, but Peter learns how to reduce Olivia to the faintest whisper of a prickly and irritable presence in the back of his mind. Takes a shitload of effort to keep it up on a constant basis, but it's worth it to know she's not prowling about picking up God knows what and to avoid being constantly bombarded with how little she wants him there. The new barriers will become second nature soon enough, just like the ones he uses to keep from being overwhelmed by random emotions. Of course, if she's feeling something strongly fragments still leak through, but that happens more and more infrequently as she grudgingly starts accepting his presence.
Even without the constant glimpse into her mind, it's easy to tell when Olivia isn't happy, that's for damned sure. As her overt hostility eases he learns she actually can smile—at Nick—and even approaches charming. But not around him, not if she thinks about it. Except for their infrequent sparring matches, she goes out of her way to avoid touching him. He follows suit, gladly; if he gets too close, even his best efforts can't keep her out of his head. Or him out of hers, but finding out what she's feeling generally isn't worth it.
She welcomes the same contact from Nick she avoids from Peter, leans into Nick's touch whether she realizes it or not. Peter votes not; if she knew, she would make damned sure not to let the affection be seen. Olivia considers Nick more than a partner, more than a friend; their bond is closer than most lovers Peter's seen, and it's not just because they spend so much time crawling through each other's heads.
Peter doesn't have a fucking clue how they can stand it.
Life settles into routine. Nick initiates half-hearted training sessions every few days, usually in response to Olivia's badgering. Other than the occasional reminder to Nick about Peter's training and periodic assessment of Peter's skills—usually ending with him laid out on the floor and aching in muscles he didn't even know existed—she leaves them to their own devices.
Olivia attends class regularly, Nick irregularly. Periodically one or the other disappears in response to a call on the cell phone Olivia carries everywhere, although neither of them share the details of their missions. There's an unspoken understanding that Peter will be part of it when they determine he's ready—where 'ready' means 'when Olivia is willing to have him at her back', so sometime south of never, if Peter is any judge. And he's never left alone: someone—usually Nick, but occasionally Olivia—is always there, watching him. Making sure he doesn't bolt.
The only good thing about being constantly monitored is that he can't report to Jones without them knowing it. It buys him more time to figure out exactly how much information he needs to trade for his freedom and how hard it will be to dig it up.
It's weird, though; for the first time in years, he's not looking over his shoulder at every moment. There's something almost relaxing about no longer waiting for the past to catch up with him. When he lies in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling in a room that feels more like his than anyplace he's stayed in the past five years, he marks off the days until he can make his escape.
~***~
He's woken by what sounds like a screaming fight, although the voices disappear as soon as his eyes snap open. He sits up and rubs his eyes as traces of anger filter in. Olivia and Nick, engaged in some sort of argument and showing the first chink in the casual solidarity they've shared since Peter arrived.
This should be good.
He slips downstairs. He can tell they're talking about him but can't make out anything but anger and the occasional word until Nick's strident "I've told you, over and over, reported every little bit he let slip that I thought might convince you, but you just don't want to listen."
It's not a betrayal. It's not even a fucking bit unexpected, but hearing the words out loud are still a shock. "So you're reporting on me." He takes a breath, blows it out. Props himself against the doorway and crosses his arms. "Of course you are."
Nick glances at Olivia, shakes his head. "It's not like that—"
"Of course it is," Peter drawls, interrupting before the half-lie loses even that little resemblance to truth. "You're a team. Partners. Why would I expect independent thought from either of you?"
"Because you're so much better?" Olivia pulls her arm free of Nick's grasp, spine ramrod-straight. "Your only thought is how you can turn the situation to benefit yourself and how to slither your way out of it if you can't."
"Olivia," Nick snaps, his anger pulsing through his voice, leaking into the air. "For once, let it go. Leave him the fuck alone."
Olivia steps back, eyes wide in shock, a single surge of hurt escaping before she locks down all her emotions and smooths them from her face. Curious, Peter pushes at her mind, trying to see what's behind the shell. Catches another glimpse of her pain and a hint of despairing need before she shrugs him off with an ease that's infuriating.
"Fine," she says, voice empty, pivots and is out the door, out of the house.
"Oh, hell," Nick mutters. "Fuck." Peter thinks Nick's going to go after her—he sure as hell looks like he wants to go after her—but instead he shakes his head and collapses into a chair, propping his elbows on the kitchen table and burying his hands in his hair. He looks tired, expression in his eyes far older than his years. "Say it. Take your hit while you can."
"Say what? That I'm surprised? Why would I even fucking expect any different?"
"You wouldn't. You're smart enough to have considered all the angles. Just... make sure you really know what's going on."
Peter stares at Nick, but doesn't say anything, just wheels and retreats into his bedroom to lie back and stare up at the ceiling, wondering where the fuck the guilt, disappointment, and betrayal came from.
~***~
Things go tense. The easy camaraderie Peter had with Nick—false camaraderie, he fucking knew it was false, but it was something to distract him from the fact he's trapped in a situation he hasn't figured out how to win—evaporates. Now that the lies underneath his supposed friendship are exposed Peter's lost his taste for playing at it, and after a few attempts to convince him otherwise Nick leaves him alone. Neither of their relations with Olivia are any better; on the rare occasions she's in residence Olivia avoids Nick as much as she avoids Peter.
Peter puts up with the rising tension for a week before he can't fucking take it anymore. At midnight, after both Olivia and Nick have retreated to their bedrooms, he slips out the door, keys to Olivia's car in hand. The nearest bar is on the outskirts of what passes for downtown, and he holes up at a corner table to revel in anonymity and soothe his frustration with alcohol.
He's on his second beer when she walks in. She offers a friendly smile and a nod to the bartender, who greets her by name and doesn't try to card her. He can see the bared teeth behind the smile, although to anyone else her expression would probably pass as pleasant. She stalks to his corner and slips into a seat where she can see the room, the door, and him.
"A beer," he snaps in response to the unspoken accusation. He holds up the bottle as evidence, takes a long drink to wash away the sour taste of the walls closing in once again. "I can't go out for a fucking beer?"
"Sneaking out without telling anyone?"
"You would have nixed the idea," he grinds out through clenched teeth. "Or forced Nick to trail along. I wanted an hour by myself. You fucking try being watched all the time, see how you like it."
"I did." Her eyes grow colder, which he didn't even believe was possible, and he has to suppress a shudder as icicles of her rage shatter against him, fragmenting into resentment and betrayal. "From nine to eighteen, and a few hours most days in the six years before that. Not that you even remember the part you were there for."
"Shit." Closing his eyes, he can almost remember cameras and scientists and hours of tests. He wants to apologize but he doesn't fucking know why, other than the simple fact no child should be treated like that. "But be it as it may, it is not my fault."
"No. You left."
"That's on Walter. I had nothing to do with it. Fuck, he made sure I didn't even remember it."
She taps on the table, a complicated arrhythmic beat. "You took my car."
"Didn't want to walk. Don't have cash for a cab." And because it would piss her off when she found out, but she probably knows that one already.
She slaps her hands on the table. "Damn it, Peter."
"What?" He raises his voice, beyond caring whether anyone would hear the conversation. "What the fuck do you want from me?"
"I don't know." She gives an irritated look at the heads turned in their direction and scowls, folding her arms across her chest. "It wasn't my idea in the first place."
"Well, don't blame me, 'cause it sure as fuck wasn't mine."
"I know that," she mutters. He stares at her in disbelief and she throws up her hands. "I do. It's just..." she shakes her head and shrugs. "I'm sorry, all right?"
"No, you're not. You just wish I was playing nice and following your people's fucking program. What the fuck is your problem, anyway?"
She stiffens and her jaw tightens. A direct hit, and he didn't even need to tap into her head to figure it out.
"Fine." She flattens her hands on the table and leans forwards. "I think you're dangerous. If the organization wanted you, they should have kept you somewhere more secure until you agreed to cooperate, then only let you out on a leash until they were sure you'd behave. Putting you into the custody of two active field agents, no matter why they thought we needed you, was stupid."
She keeps her eyes on his, her frustration prickling against him as she continues. "I don't know why you're still here, but I don't trust that you're not going to leave the second you have a chance. If that chance comes when we're in the field, you could be endangering Nick's life. And mine. And if something happens to Nick because of you, I will kill you. Not quick, not clean, but as painful as I can make it." She continues holding his eyes as she leans back and spreads her hands wide. "Happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Do I look like I'm trying to go anywhere?" Peter glances pointedly around the bar. "I could be halfway across Illinois by now. And Nick I liked, before he confirmed he was ratting me out. But I still don't want to see him hurt, even with that."
She snorts, disbelieving. "Everything I know about you says you're looking for the way out and you don't care who you hurt along the way."
"Well, maybe you don't know everything about me."
"I know as much as I need to."
Peter laughs bitterly. "Sweetheart, you don't have a fucking clue." At least he sure as fuck hopes she doesn't, or he's looking at a seriously reduced lifespan. She hasn't said anything that suggests she's caught on to his ulterior motives, but that may not mean anything. Is she good enough to be playing him? Would he be able to tell if she was?
"Fine. Whatever. Don't know, don't want to know, because I don't think you're going to be around long enough for it to matter." There's no deception in her voice, and no answer to his questions, either. She taps her fingers against the table, scans quickly through the room before meeting his eyes again. "But don't take it out on Nick. He doesn't deserve it. It was my idea to keep a watch on you, not his."
"You really think he wouldn't have on his own?"
"I think if I hadn't pushed he would have kept anything you said to himself. He's good at keeping secrets." Sounding slightly exasperated she adds, almost as an afterthought, "And he likes you, God only knows why."
He blinks at her claim that Nick likes him and that she just unbent enough to tell him so. Could be a trick to regain his trust, but as far as he can tell she hasn't been lying about anything since she came in the bar. With a shake of his head, he retorts, "Since he likes you, I'd say his taste is suspect," but there's not nearly enough bite to the words.
Her hands still and her eyes narrow. "Did you just insult me or yourself? 'Cause I'm not sure if I should laugh at you or kick your ass."
He's surprised to realize his huff of laughter is real. "Fucked if I know."
They stare at each other, and Peter realizes he doesn't hate her, even suspects she doesn't hate him. She's as trapped as he, and just as pissed about it.
She catches the shift of emotions—he doesn't bother hiding it, just like she probably let her frustration with their situation leak through—and the side of her mouth almost lifts in a smile. "I'm too tired to kick your ass, anyway."
Raising his eyebrows, he mutters, "Yeah, right," and is rewarded with an actual smile, one that reaches her eyes.
"I'm getting a beer," she says abruptly, pushing away from the table. "Since I'm here anyway."
He nods, sipping his own beer as he watches her walk up to the bar and chat up the bartender, returning with something from a local microbrewery.
Their silence is almost companionable, and he leaves without protest when she finishes.
~***~
Tentative peace with Nick is made by settling beside him on the couch for the first time in days. Nick gives a quick sideways glance but doesn't say anything, just passes the second controller and shifts games to something that allows them to beat on each other. They've settled back into wary banter by the time Olivia strides into the room brandishing her cell phone.
"Nick?" After a few seconds with no response, she crosses her arms, tapping her foot and glowering at him. "Nick!"
"Five minutes, I swear," he mutters, mashing buttons furiously.
She stalks to the wall and yanks a power cord out of the electrical socket—going for the Playstation, not the TV, and Peter's damned sure the choice is deliberate—and the screen snaps to black.
"Olive! Shit, I was just about to beat his ass."
She grabs a black duffle from the hall closet, and starts shoveling in what looks like half their arsenal and a ton more odds and ends. "This'll take both of us."
They exchange a look. Peter's sure there's more going on than he can see but neither are leaking anything he can pick up.
"Not a good idea," Nick murmurs. Olivia cocks her head and narrows her eyes.
Nick sighs, sprawling out on the couch, and glances at Peter.
And Peter's on his on his knees, left wrist handcuffed to the old behemoth of a radiator, with vague memories of overwhelming despair that had short-circuited his ability to resist. Nick's apologetic, Olivia impassive.
"Fuck!" He yanks, but neither radiator nor cuff budge.
She holds up the key, then pockets it and returns to packing the duffle.
"Bitch," he snarls. He should have fucking bolted across state lines, not gone out for a fucking beer. And here he'd thought they'd reached an understanding, that he could almost come to like her.
She shrugs, unperturbed, surveying him with cool eyes. He stops struggling. He's not about to give her the satisfaction. Not now. Not fucking ever.
Nick glances at him. "Olive—"
"He'll bolt." The flat certainty in her voice pisses Peter off even more, especially after last night.
Nick raises an eyebrow. "And this will convince him not to?"
"He'll be here when we get back."
"Eventually—"
"Eventually is not now."
Peter clangs the cuffs against the radiator. "Get these the fuck off me.
"You don't get a vote." She doesn't even bother looking at him, just methodically finishes packing the bag with enough supplies to take on a military base. Which, for all he knows, she might be about to do.
He sneers. "Neither does your lapdog, apparently." Tethered to the floor, he can't look down at her, but does the best he can with sarcasm and a smirk. "What, sweetheart, scared of someone else being right?"
She turns at that one, meets his glare before shouldering the bag and stalking out the door.
"Sorry, man." Nick stares after her, shaking his head. "Three or four hours, tops. This shouldn't take long."
"Goddamn it, Nick."
"Nick."
A rueful glance and shrug, and Nick follows her peremptory summons.
Peter yanks again—the cuff bites into his wrist, again—then leans back and bangs his head against the wall. Fucking untrusting, control freak bitch. She's not leaving him here, chained like a dog, just because she thinks he should stay where she fucking puts him.
He leans to study the cuffs. Double locks, good quality, secured around his dominant hand. This'll be a fucking pain in the ass.
~***~
Thirteen hours later she strides through the door, stops so fast Nick nearly runs into her.
"What— oh." Nick leans over Olivia's shoulder, blinking.
Peter tosses the cuffs at her; she catches them one-handed, eyes never leaving his. The malicious glee of catching her flatfooted, of watching her poker face fray into shock, has just ratcheted up to one of his favorite things, ever. She's off guard enough that darts of confusion whirl past her mental walls, and he relishes every moment of watching her flail for solid ground.
"You picked the lock," she says, voice small.
"Easier than dismantling the radiator." He'd considered that, just for the hell of it, but then he'd have to put the damned thing back together. He pushes off the couch and swaggers into her personal space, making use of every inch he has on her. "Looks like someone didn't do her homework."
Nick slips past them, drops the bag in the corner, and leans up against the wall with his arms crossed. His expression is impassive, but his eyes are bright and amused.
Her eyes flick down, study the cuffs; she rubs her thumb idly over the lock. "You didn't leave." Her eyes rise back to Peter's and her head tilts. "I was sure you'd leave."
"And I said I wouldn't. Besides, you'd track me down." Not the only reason, but part of it. The part he's willing to share, anyway.
She shrugs in acknowledgement, but her brow is still creased. She glances at Nick, who grins.
"Told you."
"Mmm."
"You should listen to me."
She raises her eyebrows.
"Might be nice if once in a while you realize I have something valuable to say."
"Don't push it." But she gives Nick that small smile, the one that reaches her eyes and brightens her face. It fades as she glances back down at the cuffs.
Peter expected her to be pissed, not curious and baffled. It disconcerts him, so he pastes on his best knowing smirk. "Next time you want to cuff me, ask first." He fills the words with charm and sex, and accompanies them with a lecherous appraisal up and down her body. Not a hardship. Not a hardship at all.
She freezes, head lowered, looking up at him with wide eyes. He's sure she'll rocket from startled to pissed off, wants her pissed off, but her eyes warm and her lips curve upwards. "I'll remember that." Her voice is low and throaty, spiking an entirely unexpected bolt of lust through him.
Oh, holy fuck.
There's an extra swing to her hips as she saunters off, and against his will he follows the movement until she turns the corner, imagines their sway as she jogs up the stairs.
Nick moves to stand beside him. "As good as that look is on you, you might want to pick your jaw up off the floor."
"Just when I think I know what to expect from her." Damn, but her legs are long. And her ass looks great in those pants.
"Don't even think about it," Nick says, but from the angle of his head, Peter bets he's thinking the same damned thing.
Peter shakes his head and laughs. "Nothing in the world can stop me from thinking."
The look Nick gives him is unimpressed edging into dangerous. Maybe even a hair possessive. Or protective. Hard to tell with Nick, what with his emotions bottled as tight as Olivia's. Two months and Peter still doesn't know if there's anything more between Nick and Olivia than a very close friendship.
Doesn't matter. Won't matter. He does not care either way.
"I'm not stupid." Peter shrugs. "Or crazy." Getting involved with her would be both. Getting attached—to either of them—would be worse. He's gone as soon as he's figured out how to extricate himself.
"She's playing you."
Peter snorts. As if he wasn't quite aware of that without Nick's little heads up. "I just didn't know she was that good."
"You have no idea."
Peter looks at him sharply. Could be a double meaning. Could be nothing. Nick's expression gives away nothing.
Derailing that chain of thought, he asks, "Three or four hours?"
"Things went a little weird. And we didn't cause it," Nick says with a snort, starting to unpack the bag. After a moment Peter helps, coiling rope that had been shoved into the bag haphazard and looking in askance at cans of green and blue spray paint he was pretty damned sure hadn't come from the house. Of course, he was chained to a fucking radiator at the time, so he might have missed something.
Finally, when Nick doesn't add anything, Peter prods him. "Define 'weird'."
"Guy went invisible."
"Huh." He blinks, considers. Wonders how they dealt with it. Might explain the spray paint, actually. "Do things like that happen often?"
"More than you might expect." Nick shrugs, then looks up with a grin. "You'll find out."
"Really."
"We start training runs tomorrow, see how you handle being in the field."
Peter tosses the last of the miscellaneous crap in the box and shoves it back in the closet, then turns to Nick. "Seriously?"
Nick gives him a shit-eating grin and thumps him on the back. "I finally managed to convince her it was beyond time, although the fact that we could have used another empath to track the target did help considerably. You still being here when we got back sealed the deal. Congrats, man. You just graduated into the big leagues."