A/N: Find the crack.
NORTHWEST PASSAGE
II. FRANKLY, MY DEAR, I DON'T GIVE A DAMN
"Peter, you don't have to do that."
He doesn't look at her, still crouched on the ground, busy picking up the biggest pieces of her broken lamp, putting them in the bag; he'd waited until she was seeing the officers out of her apartment to go get one from her kitchen, aware that she would never allow him to stay if he asked.
"Walter's plans for us tonight is to watch 'Gone With The Wind'," he replies, keeping his eyes and focus on his task. "I like my classics, but believe me, I'm in no hurry to head back there."
He feels Olivia's gaze on his neck, fighting against the near–magnetic pull of it that makes him want to turn around and look at her. This is the only way she'll let him help her: by not giving her a choice, while making it sound like she's rescuing him from some dreadful fate by letting him stay.
Eventually, he feels her moving closer to him, her movements quiet and subdued. When she lowers herself to crouch at his side, a waft of smells reaches his nose; there is a tangy, sweaty hint of fear and adrenaline that has overpowered whatever deodorant she uses, also accentuating that scent of hers. Unfortunately, it's a smell he's come to recognize, as this is not exactly the first time he's by her side shortly after one of her near-death experiences.
And yes, he does hate that he can think of it as a regular occurrence.
There used to be a time when that particular smell wouldn't have made his throat dry up and his heart beat yet a little faster, very much aware of her proximity. Not much he can do about it; he's used to ignoring the different ways she affects him physically.
He wants to take a real look at her, see how she is, but she'll kick him out if he starts fussing over whatever injury she sustained. They work in silence instead, finishing clearing up the remains of her lamps, before moving on to the other room to take care of her broken table.
Officially, he stayed to do just that –help her clean up the mess she and James Heath made. Unofficially, he stayed for her, worried by the somewhat glassy look in her eyes, and a quietness that seemed excessive, even for her.
Silence never used to be a bad thing between them. Those quiet moments often meant a variety of things, but until recently, he'd never known silence to be so awkward.
Ever since that brief lapse of judgement in New York, when they could have kissed but hadn't, interacting with her has been like walking on eggshells; except that these eggshells are bombs that can only be turned off with your mind (hers, specifically), and where any one of them blowing off meant having her retreat farther and farther away from him, until it eradicated any progress they've made these past six months.
It's been less than two weeks, yet he feels like she's slipping away with every passing day.
He's become quite good at reading her and her body language, but he finds himself at a loss as to what to do to keep her from shutting him out completely. He'd hoped that his speech about not wanting to compromise their little 'family unit' would ease her concerns, but her silence and tense demeanor tonight says otherwise.
He meant it, though.
Just months ago, he'd learned what it felt like, to lose her. He'll do just about anything never to experience that feeling again. She's the closest friend he has, the closest friend he ever had, and if keeping her in his life meant burying his feelings for her, so be it.
She's worth the heartache.
His good intentions are nicely put to the test the next time she gets up. She must have done so a bit too quickly, and whatever head injury she suffered might be worse than he thought, because she loses balance as she raises to her feet.
Fortunately for her, Peter's reflexes are good, standing back up and grabbing her shoulders within seconds, while she shakes her head, trying to blink the dizziness away.
"You should sit down," he says, sternly.
She shakes her head again, in negation this time, eyes closed. "I'm fine."
Irritation and worry flare up in his chest. He's come to almost despise those two words coming from her. "Liv –" he starts with a hint of impatience, before stopping himself.
She's reopened her eyes at the use of the nickname, both aware that he's never done so before. She doesn't seem bothered by it, though, curious more than anything else, her eyes slightly blurred from her recent dizzy spell.
He's still holding on to her shoulders, using this opportunity to give her a better look over. When his eyes travel back to her face and stop on the red mark on her forehead, a bruise already blooming beneath the skin, he sighs in frustration.
"Peter," she protests, aware of his focus. "I'm f–" But she's cut short when he brings his hands to her face, his fingers gentle as he makes her tilt her head this way and that.
He's noticed that she's stopped breathing, but he pretends not to notice when she lets the air out a bit shakily.
"How did that happen?" he asks, matter-of-factly, genuinely worried now, keeping his eyes on her bruised forehead, hoping it will help her relax.
"Uhm," she says, before clearing her throat, letting herself be examined. "Front door. He slammed it in my face."
Peter sighs again, finally stopping his inspection, but not yet taking his hands away from her, bringing his gaze back to hers.
She's not unaffected by his touch and proximity, which makes her awkward behavior even more puzzling.
"What's your sister's social security number?" He asks her, more softly.
She blinks up at him, before breathing out the string of numbers with ease.
"Why?" She asks then, frowning a little.
"Just making sure your brain's still working properly."
Her frown deepens. "You don't know my sister's SNN."
He gives her a cocky smile. "I do now."
Her face begins to soften, then, as she offers him her first real smile of the evening, if not of the week, the kind that reaches her eyes and soothes her worry lines. The kind that causes his insides to ache. It'd been a while since she'd let him see this side of her, almost miraculously drawn out tonight.
And then, the softness is gone, replaced by something else. That same something else that's been pulling her away from him these past two weeks, ever since Massive Dynamic.
The way they're now standing is almost identical to the way they stood, back then. And just like she had that night, when she averts her eyes, her gaze moves down, lingering on his lips.
It takes all of his willpower not to pull her to him.
He lets her go instead. Because he'd told her he would not jeopardize this.
Olivia seems a bit taken aback by the sudden distance between their bodies, her eyes now cast to the ground, a deep blush creeping up her face.
"I'm gonna go," he says softly. "I'll call you in a couple hours, to see how you're feeling."
She merely nods, not even protesting, and that alone tells him she's already retreated, the way Olivia does.
Two weeks ago, he would have offered her to join their movie night. Two weeks ago, she might even have accepted. Two weeks ago, they wouldn't have been avoiding each other's eyes while silence settled uncomfortably between them.
But that was two weeks ago. Peter doesn't understand what's going on, but he understands enough to know when not to push.
That's alright.
After all, he's still number three on Olivia Dunham's speed-dial.
As long as she keeps on calling, he will keep on coming.
...
In the seventeen days since Peter left Boston, he's received sixteen missed calls from Olivia Dunham.
And that's not including the few that followed his immediate departure.
She calls every night, sometimes a bit early, sometimes a bit late, but she calls. His phone vibrates, until the call is sent to voicemail, at which point the device goes silent again. She never leaves a message.
Technically speaking, if he'd behaved like a proper fugitive, he would have ditched his phone on his way out of the hospital. Technically speaking, he would have gotten rid of his credentials as well.
Yet again, if you're being finicky about this, technically speaking, Peter shouldn't be alive and in this particular universe, so really, technicality can go fuck itself.
The point is, he still has his phone, and Olivia has been using it to try and reach out to him, while he ignores her. By now, he doesn't know if she's really expecting to talk to him, or if she's just checking to see if his line is still active. Not that he cares either way.
On his first three nights alone, which he'd spent cloistered in a motel only twenty minutes away from his old house, he'd not only nursed his broken (trust) back, but quite a few bottles of bourbon as well.
As a personal rule, Peter had always tried not to get shit-faced when feeling miserable, a side-effect from having spent most of his formative years looking after a depressive mother with a small drinking problem; he'd learned first-hand that it never solves much of anything. He'd found other ways to escape his own brain and reality, like the rush of the con. Pretending to be someone else altogether worked pretty well for a while.
Until recently, the only other time he'd gotten drunk out of misery in the past ten years had been after watching Olivia fly through the windshield of her car and lie presumably dead on the pavement, before being told she was indeed brain-dead.
Obviously, she does not have the best kind of influence on him. Refusing to talk to her is wise.
He doesn't want to talk to her.
He doesn't want to talk to her, doesn't want to think about her, and he certainly does not want to feel anything for her.
When his back had stopped hurting enough for him to be able to sit behind the wheel of a car, he'd spent most of the following nights driving, as well as sober, sleeping during the day – or trying to. He'd ignored all of her phone calls then too, telling himself he did not care.
He did not care, he did not care, he did not. Care.
Unfortunately, when you spend most of your waking hours driving, it gives you an unlimited amount of time to think about all these things you don't want to think about. While his feelings for Olivia certainly aren't on top of the list of fucked up things he's been brooding over since the bridge, she's occupied his mind.
A lot.
Peter refuses to think about her, yet he thinks about her every goddamn day. Partly because she calls every goddamn day.
He's well aware that he not only left Walter when he left Boston. He also left her in the midst of an impending universal war. After spending so many months acting as her support system, he's more than a little conflicted about it all.
At least, his unexpected involvement with the Noyo County's police department turned out to be a good distraction. Now that he's done as much as he can for them, though, it's time for him to pack up and go.
He doesn't get far.
...
In all honesty, Ann Mathis has had enough with the FBI.
She wants to be left alone, to sit by Bill's hospital bed without any more interruptions, waiting for him to regain consciousness. The past couple of days have been the most insane their county has known in years –decades, even. She hadn't had to deal with that kind of fear since her early twenties, and could have done without the reminder. Unfortunately for her, the day isn't over.
The FBI agent is back; the blond, surly one.
She'd come knocking on that very door three hours ago, all business and seriousness, brandishing her badge, along with a stern expression that did not appeal to Ann's kinder side.
It did not get better when the agent swiftly told her she'd been informed that Peter Bishop had assisted them with their investigation, and that she wanted to know where he could be found now, thank you very much.
Ann had stared, briefly distracted by the old man at the other end of the hall, who'd accosted a nurse carrying a tray, apparently inquiring about pudding. He seemed jittery, and within three seconds, Ann knew he wasn't exactly...there.
"Is he with you?" she'd asked the agent.
She didn't even glance at the old man, merely tilting her head. "Yes. That's Walter Bishop."
Ann had narrowed her eyes. "I see," she said. In the past few hours, she hadn't given many more thoughts to Peter Bishop, more focused on Bill than anything else. "How did you find me, exactly?"
Another sharp tilt of her head. "I work for the FBI," she said. Then, maybe sensing Ann's growing irritation, or simply remembering local cops didn't respond well to that kind of haughty attitude from the bureau, she added, more empathetically: "I understand that your partner was injured, and I'm sure you want to go back to him. We'll leave shortly, I promise. I just...I need to know where we can find Peter." Another pause. "Please."
That had been the first crack in the woman's sullen mask, a hint of desperation in her eyes, before she covered it all up again. Ann was no FBI agent, but like she'd reminded Bill a day or so ago, she'd always been a good judge of character.
Whoever this lady was, she and the old man had something to do with why Peter Bishop had been moving from motel to motel under assumed names. From what little she'd learned about him in the past two days –and that wasn't saying much, he was very good at covering up his tracks, making himself untraceable.
For all intents and purposes, Peter was still a stranger. But he'd helped her find and capture a serial killer, not to mention saving Bill's life in the process. She owed him a debt no pen could ever repay, not even the expensive kind with profound life mottos written on them.
Ann had a gut feeling that whatever decision she made in regards to this FBI agent and 'Walter Bishop', this was the universe giving her the opportunity to repay it.
She almost told the younger woman that she had no idea where Peter had gone –which was the honest truth. Hours had passed; he had to be in another state already. In another county for sure.
But who was she to crush this person's hopes, when hope was all she herself had left, only hours ago?
"He was staying at the Northwest Passage motel, under the name Gene Cowan," she found herself saying. "I doubt he'll still be there, though. He seemed eager to leave."
There was another crack in the woman's mask –relief, as if she hadn't heard Ann's last sentence, followed but another sharp nod and a pinch of her lips. "Thank you," she'd said, and her tone was honest, as was her gaze. Then, she was gone, walking away briskly to collect Walter Bishop, who was still arguing with the nurse about pudding.
Fast forward three hours, and the FBI agent is back. Alone.
Ann doesn't even step out of Bill's room, standing her ground in the doorway as she looks up at the other woman; she's used to looking up at people, thanks to her size, and has long ago developed the glare that lets them know size isn't everything.
She has very little patience left for Clarice Starling right now, and the agent senses it.
"I'm sorry," she says with a brief shake of her head and an odd smile –odd because it's sad? "I know I said I would leave you alone but...I was hoping you'd have a minute to talk?"
Ann glances inside the room, looking at Bill, still unconscious, the beeps of his heart monitor slow and regular. She turns back to the woman in front of her, studying her more carefully. One thing she notices is that she's dropped the 'Agent on a Mission' demeanor; she mostly looks tired and discouraged.
She's reminded of Peter on their last interaction today, when he'd let go of what was left of his cocky, misunderstood, smartass attitude, and had let her see a glimpse of who he was. Kind of.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
And again, Ann's instincts tingle, adding two plus two together much faster than Peter had, when he'd deduced she and Bill were more than just partners.
She steps out of the room, closing the door behind her, eyeing the other woman. "What did you say your name was?" She asks, more amicably.
"Olivia," she says. "Dunham."
Ann nods, still studying her "When was the last time you ate, Olivia?" They can do without the formality of titles and last names; the other woman definitely isn't here for professional reasons.
Olivia looks taken aback by the question, shrugging in response.
"Come with me," Ann says with a tilt of her head toward the end of the hallway.
She leads them to the cafeteria. Ann gets herself a sandwich, while Olivia reluctantly picks one single cheese stick after Ann practically orders her to get something. As they sit down at a table, she gives her a better look over. Hospital lights are known for being unkind to people, considering most of them aren't in their best states, physically and psychologically. This is no exception.
Like Peter, Olivia Dunham looks like she hasn't had a good night sleep in weeks. Even though they've barely said five sentences to each other, there is an air of sadness that surrounds this stranger, a loneliness that feels too familiar to Ann, hitting home.
They're both cops. They don't need to talk about the obvious, about the fact that if she came back here after three hours, it means Peter was indeed already gone when she reached the motel.
"I don't know where your friend is," Ann says, kindly enough. "He clearly didn't mean to get involved in our investigation. His collaboration was more accidental than deliberate."
Olivia nods that fast nod of hers, not meeting her eyes, playing with the wrapping of her cheese stick, which she has yet to open. Even though she's the one who wanted to talk, it's clear she won't say much of anything unless prompted.
And so, Ann prompts.
"How long have you been searching for him?"
In other words, 'How long has he been running from you?'
Olivia raises her head, meeting her gaze, and giving her another sad smile. "Seventeen days."
"I see," Ann nods slowly, understanding her disappointment.
Given what she's seen of Peter's skills, this had to be the closest they'd been to finding him in almost three weeks. Now that he's vanished again, and after he'd found himself grudgingly involved with the authorities, they wouldn't get another chance like this in a long time –if ever.
"Miss Dunham, I don't mean to sound rude, but why did you come back here, exactly?" Ann cannot help but ask. "You knew I wouldn't know Peter's next destination, and anything you've yet to ask me, I'm sure you could have asked over the phone, saving yourself another long drive."
Nod nod on the other side of the table, one of her nervous hands briefly coming up to her face, as if to wipe her nose. Ann seriously hopes the woman is more confident when on the line of duty because right now, this is just painful. She's clearly struggling to express herself in any way.
"I just...wanted to know how he was doing," Olivia speaks to her cheese stick.
She definitely could have asked her that over the phone. But after all, Ann knew within five minutes that she's not searching for a colleague, or even just a friend.
Peter's reluctance to bring the FBI into their investigation makes a lot more sense, too. It had little to do with compromising his chances of 'getting answers', and more to do with making sure this specific FBI agent didn't show up.
Jackass.
Ann thinks about her answer, unable not to feel kind of sorry for Olivia. She had to really like this guy, to be so desperate for crumbs of information that she'd fly across the country, then drive back and forth on Noyo County roads while sleep deprived, just to talk to the last person who'd interacted with Peter.
Heck, the woman's practically counting his absence in hours.
"He was...helpful and resourceful," Ann offers, tentatively, and Olivia looks back at her. "He definitely seems to be going through some kind of life crisis, right now, his behavior verging on the paranoid. He was convinced the whole case was about him, when it really wasn't. If you ask me, it looked like he's been hurt, and now, he's just trying to cover it up. I guess you'd know more about this than me."
Olivia bites down on her lip, her eyes once again cast down. They look too bright in the harsh neon lights.
"Hey," Ann calls softly, until their eyes meet again. Her face is pale, yet her cheeks are slightly flushed. "I don't know you, you don't know me, and I can't really say that I know Peter either, or that even knows himself, from what little he's told me. But it's obvious the two of you have some unresolved business. He can't have gone that far. You should call him."
Olivia gives a vague shake of her head, pursing her mouth in a tight, one-sided smile. "I tried. He doesn't want to talk to me."
Ann frowns. "M'okay," she says, dubious, before elaborating: "Again, I'm probably out of line here, but...if you really believed that, that he wants nothing to do with you, you wouldn't have come all the way out here." Olivia looks unconvinced, but Ann once again feels a strange sense of responsibility toward Peter, for saving the man she loves. "Give it an hour or two. Go back to whatever motel you're staying at tonight, and try calling him again."
Although this earns her another sharp nod, Ann knows from Olivia's body language that this 'conversation' has come to an end.
They get up, saying their goodbyes without sharing another word, all in looks and tilts of the head, Olivia Dunham soon stepping out of the cafeteria and of her life, leaving her cheese stick on the table, unwrapped.
Shaking her head, Ann pulls out her phone without giving it much thoughts, searching for the number she added in there a couple days ago.
When she goes back to Bill's room a few minutes later after a short phone conversation, she's back just in time to see him starting to stir, waking up at last.
Ann guesses this is the universe's way of thanking her for paying it forward.
TBC...
A/N: One of the things I hated about Fringe was how much it made me care for random characters of the week. Ann Mathis is up there. I do believe Northwest Passage is a grossly underrated episode.