This is dedicated to Closet Nerd, who gave me the inspiration to write this and the accompanying photo (which, hopefully can be found on my profile if anyone's interested). Based off of a cut scene set during "Momentum Deferred." All feedback welcomed.
He was the first person to the scene, beating medical personnel and police but he's not sure if anyone has called them yet or he's the only one she's managed. He parked Walter's car, leaving the driver's side door open in his haste, engine still whining in exertion from being driven too hard after he got her garbled phone call. He didn't get the whole conversation, she didn't tell him, but the sound of her broken voice had him pushing the needle to the speedometer close to a hundred to get to her.
He saw the dead businessman first, chest punctured with a gunshot; already dead. He checked anyway, just to be sure, fingers pressed to the cold skin of the man's neck, already stiff and he wondered what it was he'd done.
He closes the unseeing eyes looking blankly into the thundering skies overhead.
The sky was a grayish purple as he drove. Now it's a smudged charcoal against the smoky skyline; clouds funneling angrily, threatening to break into rain with each passing moment. It finally falls in fat blobs onto his shoulders and plasters his hair to his forehead, drenching his clothing.
He saw her then, a broken doll further down the alley and he heart sank into acid. He didn't know how he kept himself from running to where she was crumpled, her black coat blanketing around her like spilt ink, her hair matted and twisted against her neck. He didn't have time to breathe, to roll the possibilities of what happened before he took off after her.
He counted ten steps, ten rounded pounds of his boots to carry him further into the belly of the alley, and a quick visual inspection proved to him that she wasn't injured, and he wanted to throw his arms around her to double check. She hadn't acknowledged him, staring straight ahead, white-faced and cheeks wet from what he assumed must be the rain.
"Olivia," he said, palms opened as he approached. Her head shook his presence away and he stopped, waited while the wind picked up speed, biting at the skin of his hands and cheeks. She twisted her neck to point down behind her and he followed her finger without questioning further. He wished he hadn't. His gut twisted and he choked when he recognized the second body he hadn't noticed before.
Charlie Frances laid spread on his back on the wet asphalt of the street, an endless void punctured between his eyes. He felt the wild terror, knew that if Olivia had called him and not an ambulance, it meant she didn't think one would help.
"Olivia," he said again, his words carried away by the wind as it howled around them.
He saw the mercury too and felt the air get punched out of his chest. The silvery fluid spread bright across the blood that covered the pebbled abandoned street where he had fallen. He knew that whatever that was, it wasn't Charlie. And he didn't have to be a genius to realize that she had killed the shapeshifter that was wearing her best friend's face, gun still clenched in her right hand.
He was drenched, bone cold and feeling every pin-drop of rain as he stood there, fists clenched and overcome with the feeling of wanting to push out of himself, to pummel his fists into something solid, let it shatter under his anger.
But it wasn't his anger to endure. And it certainly wasn't his pain.
He knew the horror of what it was like to lose a partner. Except, in his case, his partner came back.
He turned away from the body, pulled out his phone with a shaky hand and dialed, swallowing down his knotted voice.
"We can't call the police," Olivia said urgently, the first words she'd spoken, looking up at him through the downpour of rain blanketing the street.
"Broyles," Peter answered, and Olivia's face crumpled.
The conversation is clipped, sparing details he knew Olivia couldn't hear right then. They'd have a few minutes before the FBI came powering in like a hurricane to clean up and he wanted to give her a chance to pull herself together. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket to kneel down next to her, blocking her view as the cold water bit his knees. Her eyes were unfocused, dead; staring through him as she openly struggled to breathe.
There was nothing he could say that would bridge the grief he knew firsthand. So he reached out instead, taking her cheek in his wet palm. Her reaction is immediate and angry.
"Don't touch me!" she howled as she pushed Peter's hand away violently. He was surprised at the intensity of her reaction as she snarled, his left hand reaching instinctively for the wrist that still held fast her gun as she thrashed and shoved against him.
"Olivia," he barked, trying to break through her blind anguish and she froze, her eyes glued to the gun like she'd forgotten it was still there. Her hand opened and the gun clattered between them as the sob broke loose of her chest and she collapsed.
He pulled her in, muffling her against his shoulder, his hands buried into her hair. Her cries are messy, feral and foreign against his ears. He'd never seen her so abandoned before; even when John died she kept a cool exterior, the walls building up around her. Those walls were crumbling down and he felt his heart break for her.
"It wasn't him," he repeated over and over again, even though he knew it made no distinction to her. There was no room for hope. If Charlie's form had been taken, it meant he was already long since dead. Her cheek is soft against his unshaven jaw, her lips buried into his neck. He wondered when it was that Charlie was replaced, how long they'd been deceived by the shapeshifter, felt the guilt of not seeing the deception earlier.
"How long?" Olivia mumbled against his collar, her breathing evening out, trying to get it together before the cavalry roared in.
"Not long," he answered, his shoulders hunched against the blast of the wind, trying to shield her from the brunt of it. She's shivering against his chest, and he pulled her closer, flushed against him and snaking his arms around to envelop her wholly.
"How did I not know?" she asked.
"How could you?" he said instantly, his lips against her forehead, tasting the salt of the rain. "It's not your fault." He added. The wail of the sirens told them that backup wasn't far behind. He didn't release her though.
Olivia twisted in his grasp, face pushed up against his and he tasted the rain on her mouth too as she pushed her lips into his. It was unexpected, and for a moment he thought misunderstood her relationship with Charlie, but this wasn't the pain of a jilted lover. It was her last friend on earth. He understood the feeling.
He wasn't sure how to properly respond, but knew well enough this was a very bad idea, but he let her kiss him anyway, and he drank her in and swallowed her pain as her fingers scrabbled into the fabric of his jacket like he was the only thing left on earth.
Knowing Olivia, he knew that wasn't just a metaphor. He let her test his durableness through the chasteness of the kiss, and like that, he changed. She became important. Her pain became his pain. He wondered if it had been there all along or if he was just seeing it for the first time now.
The coming wails became more distinct, and Peter knew they had only moments. He pulled Olivia back, cupped her cheeks in his hands and looked hard at her, squeezing too tightly because he didn't want to give her up.
"It's gonna be okay," he said as the first SUV skidded into the alley. He ignored it, feeling the rain drench down his back and pooling into the spaces between his hands and her cheeks. His mouth is lingering with the taste of her mouth and the soft tang of the rain, and he knew he'd go to sleep that night with the taste still there.
"We're in this together." He told her firmly, the doors to the SUV's opening and clapping shut like thunder as men in dark suits and FBI attire emerge. She nods once before gripping his arms and letting him pull her upright on shaking knees, letting her find her own weight to stand. His arm holds firm around her shoulders, just in case, as the team ascends on the place like well trained ants, their faces blurred in the downpour of rain.
"Peter?" she said beside him, not mentioning his awkward embrace. She didn't throw him off like he expected, allowing him to support her. She doesn't look at him, instead focusing on the scene unfolding around them.
"Yeah?" he whispered over the downpour.
"Thank you for coming." She said softly, still looking straight ahead, back straightening.
"You're welcome." He answered simply. But for the life of him, he didn't know what it is she was thanking him for. He held tight and waited, barely feeling the sting of the rain as it fell anymore.