A/N: Four months ago when I wrote this part's first draft, I was bothered by the fact that it was a lot shorter than all the other chapters. Fast forward four months and about 12 drafts, it has now become the longest part of this story. I hate myself, but hopefully, you guys will enjoy it haha.
As always, thank you for sticking around :) Please forgive my ridiculous typos, I'm tired.
SHIVERED BONES
IX.
Olivia may have miscalculated how long it would take her to get back to Boston once she left Massive Dynamic.
She certainly hadn't factored in the fact that spending half an hour making various phone calls would result in her attempting to leave the city at one of its busiest hours.
Is everything alright?
This text from Peter, received a few hours later as she finally approaches Boston, causes her to curse under her breath, her apprehension growing. He wouldn't be asking this particular question if he hadn't already made it to her apartment, when she obviously hadn't. She had dreaded this might happen ever since she realized her trip back would take longer than anticipated.
As she had feared, the long hours spent alone in her car had been tedious; she'd barely managed to escape New York that she was already regretting choosing to make them spend the night at her place instead of his. What good could come from forcing them both in a place she knows he would rather avoid?
Got stuck in traffic, she answers simply. Be there in 10.
Nine minutes later, she's parking in front of her building, feeling more and more unnerved by the fact that she did not get any time at all to do some of the things that needed to be done. Beyond some necessary tidying up, she could have used one or two shots of whiskey before he arrived.
She smells the food as soon as she steps into the hallway, before she even spots him; he's leaning against the wall near her door, a take-out bag at his feet. Despite her nervousness, her heart leaps at the sight of him, her insides twisting in an odd combination of nerves and relief, along with that embarrassing hint of giddiness she's been feeling for most of the day. That particular feeling turns into a delicious ache somewhere in her chest when their eyes meet and he smiles at her.
By the time she's walked the short distance to her door, though, anxiety has already taken over. "I'm really sorry," she says, the tension clear in her voice, now keeping her eyes and focus on her key-chain. "I made a few phone calls before leaving Massive Dynamic and ended up stuck in rush hour traffic."
She does not elaborate on those calls. Although she does plan on telling him about her talks with Broyles and Rachel, she figures Peter will not mind not hearing about the short conversation she had with Lucas, whom she'd called out of guilt more than anything else. She'd wanted to apologize for the abrupt way she'd left the previous evening, also aware on some level that if not for him and his brother's wedding, last night and today would have had a much different outcome.
She didn't say any of this to Lucas either, realizing that her ex-boyfriend could do without these details as well.
"Don't worry about it," Peter says, and his voice is low, non-threatening; she knows from his tone that he's caught up with her state of mind, but it does little to calm her nerves. She keeps avoiding his gaze as she opens the door at last and lets them in.
The moment she turns her lights on, her uneasiness worsens, taking in the various messes she left behind before her trip to New York. She's never been 'neat', but these past few weeks, she'd put even less care than usual in keeping her apartment clean, preferring to avoid the place altogether instead.
Of all the things she wishes she'd had time to clean, though, her couch ranks first; still covered with sheets and pillows, it stands out like a sore thumb. When she throws a sideways glance at Peter and finds him staring at her makeshift bed, the look on his face confirms that he's figured it out.
Now feeling beyond flustered, Olivia's mind scrambles for a way out. "Uhm, why don't you bring the food to the kitchen," she tells him, sounding as tensed as she feels.
"Sure," he says, keeping his voice soft, and somehow, it makes her feel worse. She's too flushed and uncomfortable to even dare meet his eyes.
He got the message, though, quickly leaving her side, walking to the kitchen while Olivia leaps into action, attempting to tidy up the place as fast as possible without looking frantic. The sheets and pillows are the first to go, throwing everything on top of her washing machine; her insides twist again at the eerie feeling of déjà-vu she's now experiencing, unable not to remember the cleaning-spree she went on only weeks ago. She decides to cut this one short as soon as that thought enters her mind.
The situation does not improve when she leaves her bedroom and walks back to the kitchen, just in time to see Peter opening one of her cupboards. Judging by his startled expression, he'd expected to find her plates in there, not glasses.
"Try the one on the left," she says, attempting to keep her voice casual, in spite of the hollow feeling in her gut. "I moved a few things around."
For a moment, Peter doesn't move at all, and the silence that settles between them is thick and suffocating. He closes his eyes, then, clenching his jaw, and Olivia knows he's cursing himself for this display of familiarity he's not supposed to have.
Hoping that walking away and giving each other another minute to recover from this will help, Olivia leaves him be and goes to her living-room, turning her stereo on. The music isn't loud enough to drown any conversation they may have, but the noise might make the silences more bearable.
Once she goes back to the kitchen, however, it becomes clear that no amount of background music will be enough to ease the tension that has taken over them both. While she was busying herself with the radio, Peter has taken a seat at the table, letting her know without a word that he won't touch any more of her things unless instructed to. Elbow on the table, with a hand to his mouth, he's running a finger over his lips, over and over, a sign of intense discomfort she recognizes all too well.
Everything in his body language screams of how uncomfortable he feels, and how he probably wishes he was anywhere but here. Olivia has to fight the sudden urge to walk to her bathroom and hide in there herself; this was a terrible idea. They haven't said more than two sentences to each other in the past ten minutes, barely even able to look at one another.
She's nothing if not resolute, though, and she's decided on making this work no matter what, even if it means she has to pretend the ghost of her alternate isn't right here with them.
"You bought Italian," she eventually says as she gathers everything they need in order to eat, desperate to find something to say, anything to break this silence.
He doesn't even meet her eyes, accepting the plate and silverware she's handing him. "Yeah," he says, scratching at his stubble. "I got it from that restaurant, down the street. Walter and I ate there once."
And then, silence. Something soft yet upbeat is playing in the next room, a song that rings of sunny days and happiness; the contrast between that melody and whatever is going on between them is so obnoxious that Olivia wishes she'd never turned the music on.
Even after she sits down opposite him and they've put food on their plates, they don't talk. They're not eating either. Less than two minutes of this agonizing silence go by before Olivia's resolve breaks.
For better or for worse, that ghostly presence will have to be addressed.
"Peter," she begins, putting her fork down and looking up at him, hesitant to go on. So far, he's been keeping his gaze down on his plate. He's also been chewing on the same bite of pasta for the past thirty seconds.
When he raises his eyes to meet hers, finally swallowing, the way he grimaces makes it look like he just swallowed something very sour. Once again, she's getting all of his signals loud and clear, from his heavy brow to the tensed way he sits, or how she knows he's forcing himself to hold her gaze right now.
After the day they had, this is both unbearable and unacceptable.
She shakes her head a little, pursing her lips. "Look," she says. "I know you don't want to talk about this any more than I do but…" She sighs, taking a steadying breath as she scratches her temple with a nervous hand, all too aware of how his elbow is already back on the table, knuckles to his lips.
"We both knew this would be…awkward," she continues, cringing a little at this understatement. "The thing is, being here has been difficult for me ever since I came back. No matter how many things I moved around or replaced, I just…"
Her eyes have stopped on her couch, which stills stand out to her, no matter how bare it is, now. When she meets his eyes again, she knows he's followed her gaze. There is no point in pretending he hasn't figured it out. "You've seen the sheets," she says. "I haven't slept in my own bed in weeks, that's how wrong this place has felt to me. And now, with you here, it just-"
She lets out a quivery breath, unable to put it into word. As she expected, Peter doesn't react well to her admission. She senses as much as she sees that sickening guilt taking over him again, coming out of him in waves; he looks defeated, and she's not surprised by what he asks next.
"Do you want me to go?"
Once again, his tone is soft and kind; understanding. Above all, he sounds resigned, as if he's already heard the answer, having somehow managed to distance himself from her, even though none of them has moved.
Olivia shakes her head, slowly, holding his gaze. "No," she says. "I want you to stay." And she means it. "I want us to, to move on from this, I really do. But I can't– I don't think we can make it work here, if we just pretend nothing happened. I know I can't," she repeats, shaking her head again. "So…I think we need to talk about it. About her."
Hearing her say that she doesn't want him to leave doesn't seem to appease him at all, now cornered into focusing on something he's ashamed of. She knows what it must be costing him, not to leave the apartment anyway.
But Peter doesn't leave. He drops his hand instead, straightening up a little and swallowing hard as he gives her a small nod. "Alright," he agrees, his voice too throaty, now.
From the way his skin has become even paler, he seems to understand where this is going. Olivia might come to regret digging and prodding, considering she's not eager to hear any detail of any kind concerning whatever the two of them did in her apartment for eight weeks, but not knowing anything is worse.
She's spent too many sleepless nights on that couch, imagining it all, making herself sick with shame, embarrassment and jealousy, her head filled with countless scenarios; she'd been unable to stop herself from tapping into her alternate's memories, a little too aware of what kind of lover she must have been with him.
These same scenarios are swirling in her mind, tonight, making her feel the way she always feels whenever she compares herself to this other woman; inadequate.
Another few seconds of silence follow as Olivia tries to collect her thoughts, her heart thumping hard. "I know that you've spent time here, and that you stayed over" she eventually says, keeping her tone low and soft; the last thing she wants is to sound accusatory.
This is not about blaming him for anything, not anymore, not now. She's forgiven him, and he knows that. What she needs is…closure.
"I know you stayed over," she repeats, "but…when exactly did you start…staying?"
When he answers, he does it quietly. "About…a month after we came back from the Other Side. She…We–" He sighs, falling back against his seat. "We were just 'dating' for the first few weeks or so. She seemed to want to take things slow and I didn't–" he stops again, swallowing almost convulsively this time. Talking about this seems to be causing him physical pain. "I didn't want to pressure you into anything," he says, dejected.
Olivia nods, offering him a painful smile, because she gets it. "When you started…coming over, were you here every night?"
He shakes his head. "No."
"Did she…did you ever spend the night together at your place?"
Again, he shakes his head. He looks positively greyish, now. "No."
She nods, too fast, pinching her lips. "Do you ever–"
But she cannot bring herself to finish this question, to say these words, even if it's the only thing she truly wants to know, in some twisted way. She can't do it, though. She can't put them both through the embarrassment of hearing her ask if he ever finds himself comparing them, in every way two people can be compared.
Peter seems to understand what this is about, though. He leans forwards again, their gazes locked; he's too pale, his features strained, but his eyes are as intense as they were a mere hours ago, when they were still sheltered from the rest of the world, ignoring whatever had happened in the past, or whatever might happen next.
"Olivia," he says, reaching across the table for her hand, slowly, as if half-expecting her to retreat; she doesn't, letting his fingers close around hers. "I meant what I said last night. She was never really…there, with me, not the way you are. These past twenty-four hours with you…I feel closer to you than I ever did with her in two months."
She holds his gaze, seeing nothing but sheer honesty in his eyes. And in that instant, she knows he would answer every single one of her questions, no matter how inappropriate or painful they might be, no matter how much they make him dwell on his mistakes.
He would answer them all, because he wants them to move on from this, too, proving once again that he wants to help her heal, even if it causes him to bruise in the process.
It becomes so clear to her then, that she doesn't need to talk about this anymore; she never needed to. Everything she needs to know is right here in his eyes, and in his presence by her side, on her side.
She nods again, then, more slowly this time, giving his fingers a squeeze. He squeezes back, silently agreeing to close this particular subject.
"So," she eventually says on a much lighter tone once they've released each other's hand. "How's Walter?"
Peter's face breaks into a beautiful smile, as relieved as she is to be moving on. "He's fine. He was disappointed to hear I was only stopping by, but oddly enough, he cheered up right away when I told him I would be spending the night with you."
"Oh really?" She smiles back, feeling even better when she watches him pick up his fork and dig in, his appetite apparently returning.
" Oh really," Peter confirms, grimacing a little. "He actually had a victory dance prepared. Nothing pretty."
After that, the mood becomes almost comfortable as they eat and talk, making a conscious effort to keep the conversation light, both drained by the way dinner started. By the time they're clearing up the table, Olivia feels physically tired as well, which, considering the day they had, is to be expected.
As she begins to wonder if Peter will expect them to resume their day's activities, uneasiness takes hold of her again. They might be doing their best to move on, she knows he's done more than sleep in her bed in the past, and she's not sure how she's supposed to deal with that particular information at the moment.
"Hey," she quietly calls him out as he finishes putting their plates in the dishwasher, and he straightens up, raising an eyebrow in question. "Is that okay if we just…sleep, tonight?"
In spite of herself, she feels her face getting warmer, flustered all over again. She's not embarrassed by the topic itself –they're past being prude with each other. What she is is frustrated, by this whole situation, wondering if they'll ever catch a break.
But his gaze remains soft as he stares at her. When he reaches for her face, the feel of his fingers upon her skin makes her realize they haven't touched since they left New York, with the exception of that small hand squeeze earlier. His hand on her face feels familiar and comforting; safe.
She instinctively leans into him, then, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his chest, feeling his lips on the top of her head. He responds to her embrace by enclosing her into a hug that is as tender as it is tight.
"Sleep sounds good," he says into her hair.
As she sinks into him and feels the tension leave her body at last, she also realizes that this is what they needed all along, this quiet intimacy.
Minutes later, they're getting ready for bed, and she cannot believe how natural it feels. There is something ridiculously pleasing and calming in standing next to him in her bathroom, sharing the same sink as they brush their teeth. Such a coupley act should feel odd and unfamiliar; it feels delightfully normal instead, and she loves it. She loves it even more when Peter notices her amused smile at the sight of his foam-covered mouth, which leads to a couple of toothpaste-tasting kisses.
Whatever discomfort she dreaded she might feel upon being back in her bed never comes, soothed by his presence alone; she doesn't miss the irony in this. Once they have settled down, snuggled up under the covers with her nose pressed to his neck and their legs entangled, she feels comfortable enough to tell him about the calls she made.
"I called Broyles earlier tonight," she whispers. "I've got the week off work."
After a pause, she feels his arms tighten around her, his warm breath once again in her hair. "That's good," he says, almost casually.
That delicious ache in her chest is back, loving him a little more for pretending this isn't a big deal, when they both know it is. It makes the next thing she wants to say even easier.
"I called Rachel, too," she continues, matching his tone. "Ella's off school this week, so I'm going to go spend a couple of days with them once she comes back from her dad's." After another pause during which her heart speeds up a little in spite of herself, she adds: "I was thinking…maybe you could come with me?"
He's quiet and still for another second, before he moves, lessening his hold on her and shifting their bodies so that their eyes can meet. There isn't much light in the room, but that is all she needs as he brings their faces closer together, bumping her nose with his, and she buries her fingers in his hair.
"I'd love that," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.
That night, they both sleep soundly.
…
The next morning, when Peter wakes up in a bed that isn't his own, the setting is so eerily familiar that he feels like he's traveled a few months back in time. It isn't only in that window streaming daylight, or in the feel of the mattress beneath him.
He's in Olivia's bed, and he's alone in it.
His mind is so shrouded with sleep that his confusion morphs into apprehension for a moment, the suffocating kind that entraps air in his lungs. His anxiety doesn't last, a noise soon making it through the fog, and he forces himself to focus on it. It is the unmistakable sound of fingers typing away on a keyboard, somewhere in the distance.
Rolling on his other side and squinting as his eyes adjust to the brightness, his gaze falls upon the digital clock on the nightstand, before taking in the small gap between her bedroom's doors, left ajar accidentally on purpose. By then, his mind has reconnected with the present, and most of his anxiety leaves him at once. Judging by the time of the day, Olivia's absence from the bed makes sense; she's not the type of person who would allow a whole morning to go to waste twice in a row.
As he rolls back over and lies spread-eagle in the middle of her bed, staring at a too-familiar crack on her ceiling, Peter's thoughts deviate again, feeling more than a little embarrassed for having believed even for a second that he was back with the wrong person. He's also smart enough to realize there is little he can do about it.
Olivia had asked him last night if he used to spend every night here. Although he hadn't lied, he hadn't been entirely honest either; once he'd started sleeping with whom he thought was her, he hadn't spent more than three or four nights in his own bed.
At the time, it had been easy to convince himself that 'Olivia' rarely was by his side in the morning because she was a light sleeper with insomnia tendencies who, on top of being an independent woman who had her own habits, also happened to have a strong dislike for inaction. After learning the truth, he had qualified her alternate's behavior as avoidance, more than anything else.
Considering he's with the right woman now and yet still woke up alone, he's not so sure anymore.
Feeling unsettled all over again, Peter extracts himself from the warmth of the sheets, running a hand through what appears to be extremely messy hair, before pushing the doors open. He spots Olivia at once, curled up on her couch, laptop balanced on her knees, a few files lying opened around her.
She must have showered a while ago, judging by her drying hair, only wearing a black robe and her reading glasses. There is nothing special about the scene or what she's doing, but she looks so herself right now that it is enough to settle his nerves.
After spending a proper amount of time watching her, he decides to make his presence known. "This might come as a shock to you, but most people who take time off from work don't actually use that time to, you know. Work."
For the first time since he joined her, she turns her eyes on him, peering at him over the rim of her glasses.
"I'm not working," she replies, matter-of-factly. "Just catching up with the news. I've been completely out of the loop these past couple of days."
Peter remains silent, choosing to give her a pointed look instead, eyeing her work files scattered all over the couch, before meeting her eyes again, and she purses her lips.
"Oh, shut up," she breathes out, already looking back at her screen.
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't say it very loudly."
Grinning a bit too widely, he makes his way to her. There is no room for him to sit, but he cannot care less, leaning down to kiss her cheek; he lingers in the fresh scent of her shampoo and soap, and in that something else that is entirely hers. As he nuzzles the side of her face, she brings a hand up, weaving her fingers through his hair, her touch distracted, yet undeniably tender.
Pulling away, he spots her empty mug on the coffee table. "Need a refill?"
She flashes him a quick smile, shaking her head, her mind still obviously focused on whatever she's been doing. "I'm good. Help yourself, though, there's a fresh pot in the kitchen."
That is what he does, after making a brief detour by the bathroom first. Once in the kitchen, he finds where she's relocated her mugs after only a couple of failed attempts. As he fills one up with warm coffee, he forces himself not to let the faint discomfort he feels at being here escalate again.
His brain doesn't give him much of a choice, though, now remembering how he had come to know her kitchen so well, that one morning he decided to bring 'her' breakfast in bed. He had added milk to her coffee, that day, not once thinking about how odd it was that she didn't like it black with one sugar anymore.
Reluctant to let his thoughts continue down that road again, Peter grabs his mug and walks back to the living room, coming to stand behind the couch instead, looking down at Olivia's screen. "Need any help?"
"Uh uh," she declines his offer again. "It's probably just a wild-goose chase anyway. I was reading an article earlier, and it brought back elements from an old cold case of mine. Something just…clicked, you know? I'm just trying to figure it out."
He smiles, as always fascinated by the way her mind works. He would have been happy to spend the next hour or so standing there, drinking his coffee while watching her 'do her thing', staring at her profile more than at her computer screen.
But she frowns, then, cranking her neck to look up at him, as if only now realizing he's been standing there the whole time. "You can sit down, you know."
He chuckles. "I don't want to disturb your workspace."
She purses her lips. "The armchair's quite comfy," she says, indicating it with a tilt of her chin, her gaze already back on her screen. "It's a bit hard for me to concentrate with you peering over my shoulder."
Peter's entire body tenses before his eyes even stop on the armchair she just mentioned. Within seconds, his discomfort is back, anything but faint now, as another set of vivid memories impose themselves in his mind, unable not to recall the hours he spent paralyzed in that chair, or how he ended up there in the first place.
"You gonna come after me?" She had asked him, standing in front of him in Olivia's Northwestern shirt, her gun pointed at him, her aim steadier than the look in her eyes. "You gonna kill me?"
Needless to say, Peter has no desire whatsoever to sit in the damn thing, ever again.
Even though he doesn't say a word, doesn't make a move, as if paralyzed again, Olivia seems to sense a change. When she looks back at him, she gives him an odd look, somewhere between concern and confusion.
"What's wrong?" She asks.
"No, I'm gonna get answers. If I find out that you did anything to Olivia, then I'm gonna kill you."
Peter shakes his head, swallowing hard. "It's nothing," he says, but his voice is too hoarse.
He can't fool her.
Even if she hadn't possessed that uncanny ability of hers to connect things together, his demeanor would have been a dead giveaway. He sees her glance at the armchair again, feels himself tense even more, and when their eyes meet again, he knows something in her mind has clicked again.
After a long stretch of silence, Olivia moves. Without a word, she closes her laptop and sets it aside, before turning around, kneeling on her couch to face him. He avoids her eyes, keeping his gaze down on his coffee. He's unable to look at her, dreading whatever she might say next.
She's going to ask about it, the way she'd asked about his relationship with this other her during dinner. And while part of him understands why she needs some answers, he doubts he will ever be able to talk about that particular night with anyone, least of all her.
What she says instead takes him by surprise.
"I'll get rid of it," she tells him, her voice flat but decisive. "The armchair," she adds.
The fact that she decided not to ask questions doesn't make him feel better; this whole situation is too messed up for him to feel better in any way. He closes his eyes, shaking his head. "You don't have to," he says, and his voice remains too low. "It's fine."
"Peter," she protests with a hint of annoyance.
"It's fine," he repeats, a bit louder, although he still cannot meet her eyes. "It's just a chair."
"Sure," she says. "And that elevator the other night was just an elevator."
He has to look at her, then. She is a bit too pale herself, not liking this any more than him, but once again, there is no accusation in her eyes. At that instant, she looks stubborn and fierce.
"We're both intelligent people," she says after a moment. "I realize that I probably would have to replace every piece of furniture in this apartment for you to never get triggered by something I own again. But in the end, you're right. This," she tilts her head toward the armchair without looking at it, "is just a chair. Something tangible we can get rid of. Which is why it's gonna go in the trash."
Despite her words, he feels dejected all over again. He cannot put it into words, but there is something humiliating in realizing that on the night his whole world had come crumbling down, only weeks ago, he was standing in this very room, wearing almost the exact same clothes.
She might get rid of the armchair, getting rid of his self-loathing won't be as easy.
When Olivia had first noticed Peter's reaction, her imagination had gone wild again; for one unpleasant moment, her mind had come up with all kind of scenarios depicting what he and her alternate might have done on that chair to cause him to react that way. The images had quickly shattered away, though, replaced by the very real look on her lover's face.
Because what she sensed beyond his shame was hurt, plain and simple.
That same hurt is still radiating out of his every pore. She doesn't know what happened, and he might never tell her, but she cannot stand the ache it makes her feel, hurting for him,
In an attempt to soothe them both, she raises her hands to his face, and Peter leans into her touch, closing his eyes. Just like he would, she brings her face to his, then, not saying anything else as she presses her nose to his cheekbone. He lets out a wobbly breath near her ear when she weaves her fingers through his hair, holding him to her.
The way he simply stands there, tense and quiet, accepting her touch yet not reciprocating it, says more about his state of mind than anything else. These past couple of days, he's been so supportive in helping her deal with her issues, she'd almost forgotten that he's battling with his own demons.
She has no intention of letting him battle alone, though.
Before long, she has to pull away, her glasses digging uncomfortably into her face. But when she reaches up to take them off, Peter finally moves, intercepting her hand with a small shake of his head.
"Keep them on," he says. Once again, his voice is soft, lower than usual. His eyes are darker, too.
What she instinctively understands from his request is that her alternate never wore those glasses around him. When she was living her life Over There, the Secretary may have gone as far as to put that tattoo on the back of her neck, they forgot to correct her vision, something the other Olivia had done years ago.
Olivia remembers spending a ridiculous amount of time searching her apartment for her old reading glasses, one afternoon. Her head had been aching from trying to read the blurry lines of a report on her tablet, annoyed and a bit confused by how her 'mental breakdown' could have caused her vision to deteriorate again.
There is no hint of a smile on Peter's lips as he stares at her in these glasses today, and she knows this has nothing to do with fulfilling some kind of fantasy. She is aware of the attention he's been giving her, on a mere physical level, in ways that go beyond what any considerate lover would do. He's not learning her body the way she's learning his; his focus is different, more intent, almost driven.
Trying to imagine what it must feel like for him, to be with her after being with another version of her, is too unsettling –not to say disturbing, for her to think about it for more than a few seconds at a time. But even now, the unrelenting intensity of his gaze makes it clear that, no matter how often this other her crosses his mind, Olivia is the only one he sees.
After giving his fingers a squeeze, she releases Peter's hand, grabbing his mug and quickly discarding of it on the coffee table. When she turns back to him, his fingers are already sneaking into her hair, his other hand coming around her to circle her waist. As he pulls her closer, pressing her against the back of the couch, she wraps her arms around his neck, his warm breath soon pooling over her lips, forehead to forehead.
And then, he becomes motionless again; not tensed, but still, as if he's taking it all in, not quite believing this is real. She understands all too well.
Only a week ago, she had spent her nights lying on that very couch, lonely and cold, unable to sleep, convinced that the two of them would never be able to hold each other's gaze for more than a few excruciating seconds, let alone have a proper conversation.
And yet, here she is, safe in his arms, the feel of him so familiar and innate, her every cell tingles wherever his skin touches her.
"You okay?" she whispers against his lips, her fingers gently moving through his hair on the back of his head.
She feels him nod against her, feels his hold on her tightening, before he presses his mouth to hers. His kiss is soft, almost reverent; unhurried. This proximity is too entrancing, though, too intoxicating for it not to escalate, slowly gaining in heat and momentum. Soon, their embrace turns into heaving breaths and roaming hands, fingers slipping beneath fabric and inside robes, running over shivering skin.
Any odd feeling Olivia might have had the previous night regarding this kind of physicality here is gone for good. At that instant, her ghosts are nothing more than mirages in the distance, unsubstantial. She's warm, and safe, craving him.
She had forgotten how this felt like, to yearn and desire, and to know herself to be desired, so aware of her own body, and of the way it fits with his. She's never been one to believe in soulmates, but she does believe some people are more compatible than others.
Peter…she feels like she was meant for him, for his body and his skin, for his eyes and the way they so effortlessly reach down, inside, within, always finding her there. And she knows how to find him just as easily, now, as if he doesn't simply belong with her; he belongs to her, as she belongs to him, body and soul.
Even now, still clothed and with that couch between them, she feels absolutely bare, his wandering breath upon her neck igniting a slow burning fire. It will grow with each of his caresses; it will expend and consume everything in its path, until there is an inferno roaring beneath her skin, where her bones used to be.
And it doesn't matter, if all that is left of her in the midst of their passion are ashes. All it takes is the whisper of her name from his lips for her to be reborn.
…
Five minutes.
Peter was upstairs for five minutes, finishing up packing. The universe saw the opportunity, and took it.
He hurries out of his room as soon as he hears the distant knocks on the front door. He's not fast enough, Walter having beaten him to the door, his hand already on the knob.
"Walter," Peter growls, stopping midway down the stairs. His father gives him a shrewd, victorious smile, before opening the door.
Olivia stands on the porch, hands buried in her coat's pockets, looking only mildly surprised to be greeted by this particular Bishop.
"Olivia!" Walter beams, and the fact that he doesn't start bouncing on the spot is impressive.
"Good morning, Walter," she replies, warmly enough, even though she looks like she's anything but warm. She can't have been standing outside for long, yet her cheeks and the tip of her nose are already rosier than the rest of her face, the winter breeze making her hair flutter.
Her eyes shift, then, looking over Walter's head and spotting Peter, still standing in the middle of the stairs. Her eyes soften even more when she meets his gaze, as does her smile, and Peter thinks she has never looked lovelier, his heart now doing most of the fluttering.
Before they can greet each other, Walter is gesturing Olivia inside. "Don't stay in the cold, dear. Why don't you let Peter undress you, before you join us in the kitchen?"
The old man closes the door and shuffles back toward the kitchen, leaving Olivia standing frozen in the middle of the foyer, staring at what Peter knows to be his father's bare back –and buttocks, confirming that the apron is the only thing he's wearing. She looks as taken aback by the view as she is by his words.
Walter stops in the kitchen's doorway just as Peter comes down the rest of the steps, turning around to face Olivia again; the way he smiles at her makes it obvious he's high on more than happiness. "And by undressing you, I meant taking off your winter garments, of course," he adds. "I realize you probably don't feel comfortable enough to join me in Naked Tuesday yet." And on those words, he disappears inside the kitchen, giving them another gratuitous eyeful in the process.
Between her frown and resigned pout, Olivia looks particularly endearing. Granted, it might just be the beanie she's wearing, which always makes her look adorable. She turns to look up at him. "Naked Tuesday?" she asks, although her tone tells him she doesn't really want to know.
Peter smiles. "One of his many traditions, I'm afraid. Be glad I convinced him to wear the apron. Any other Tuesday, and he would be cooking while completely in the nude."
"Is that safe?" she asks, a laugh in her voice, taking off her gloves, followed by the beanie, proving that she's perfectly capable of undressing herself.
When it comes to undressing her, however, Peter is always happy to help. Not to mention that keeping his hands off her is becoming increasingly harder, his fingers now on her scarf. "Not remotely," he answers with a grimace. "It's not pretty either, but you get used to it."
He never gets around to taking her scarf off, though, as her hands have come to rest on his sides, bringing their bodies and faces much closer in the process, and that is one silent call he cannot resist. He releases the scarf to cup her cheeks instead, and she pushes herself up as he leans in, meeting halfway in a greeting kiss.
Keeping that particular kiss from turning into something a lot less innocent proves to be difficult. She feels heavenly, and smells a thousand times better than the various dishes Walter is cooking up nearby –including bacon. From the way her arms are swift to come around him, or how she apparently doesn't give a damn about keeping things that innocent, she seems to share his longing.
"Slept well?" He eventually asks against her lips.
She lets out a silent chuckle, answering with a vague shake of her head. "Did you?"
"Hell no," he replies with another quick kiss, soon followed by yet another kiss, less…quick. "This 'sleeping in different beds' thing? Let's not do that again."
She smirks in agreement, unwrapping her arms from around him, and he reluctantly lets her go. He watches a bit too intently as she takes her coat off, well aware that the faint blush on her cheeks isn't caused by cold anymore. She gives him a disapproving look for making this more suggestive than it is, dropping her garments on the couch.
"Let's go find Walter," he says with his own little smirk, tilting his head towards the kitchen. "He made breakfast for fifteen people."
Her smile turns a bit shy as she nods, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her outfit is unusually casual, today, wearing jeans and a grey hoodie; Peter has to exert some serious self-control not to grab her hand and sneak upstairs with her, so that they can make up for the last twelve, atrocious hours they spent apart.
They cannot ignore the half-naked man who's humming at the stove, though, since the whole point of them having breakfast here is to spend some time with Walter. Considering they're about to leave him alone for the rest of the week, and since Olivia still seemed reluctant to spend the night at his place, they'd settled for an evening apart instead, and an early breakfast at the Bishops before they were to hit the road.
Once in the kitchen, Olivia bravely takes a seat, trying her best to look everywhere but at Walter's exposed body parts. His father is busy flipping the last of the pancakes, humming what Peter now recognizes as some rendition of the wedding march. He shakes his head in apology, handing Olivia a mug filled with coffee.
"So tell me," Walter begins as Peter takes a seat next to Olivia, resting a hand on her thigh and giving her a reassuring squeeze. "How much road are you two lovebirds planning on covering today?"
"I'm pretty sure we can tackle most of the New York state," he answers, moving his hand back to his own mug. Beside him, Olivia scoffs in her coffee, and Peter's smile widens.
Obviously, turning their excursion to Chicago into a road trip hadn't been her idea.
"Why would we waste three days doing something that can be done in one?" Olivia had asked in incredulity after he suggested it, less than twenty-four hours ago.
This discussion had taken place in her living room. On her couch, more precisely. Well, to be exact, he'd been sitting on her couch, his shirt drenched with sweat.
Olivia had been on him, for the most part, her robe hanging low on her arms, her glasses having slid precariously close to the tip of her nose. In their previous frenzy, they had knocked quite a few of her files to the ground, papers scattered all over the floor.
"Just because you somehow manage to drive almost a thousand miles within a day does not necessarily mean you should do it," he'd replied, unable not to chuckle at her expression. "Have you ever taken a road trip?" The look she gave him was the only answer he needed. "Forget I even asked," he'd said with a hint of sarcasm. "Why do something slowly when we can do it fast, right? Actually, I think we just proved that point."
Even though she'd agreed to extend their travel and take a longer road to Chicago, Peter knows she remains doubtful. The fact that she decided to give it a try at all is more than enough, though.
Right now, he watches as Walter stacks a huge pile of blueberry pancakes onto Olivia's plate, who tries to smile at the sight, and ultimately fails. "I've been meaning to ask you," Walter says. "What is your shoe size?"
She looks up from the intimidating tower of food. "My shoe size?"
"I was going to ask Astro to go shopping with me tomorrow. I want to buy you some slippers for when you stay over. This house gets quite chilly at night, I wouldn't want you to catch a cold." Olivia smiles, apparently torn between discomfort and endearment, until he adds: "You are planning on spending the night in the future, aren't you?" at which point her discomfort takes over.
"Well, uhm, yes, that's the plan," she says, keeping her eyes on her plate, focusing on the pancake she'd picked from the pile, making a show of cutting it into tiny pieces.
Walter, who has finally taken a seat opposite them, now leans over the table, giving her a sly smile, before telling her in a matching tone: "I'm a very heavy sleeper."
Her knife comes to an abrupt stop, scratching the plate in the process.
"Excuse me?" Olivia asks, her polite smile almost painful to watch.
"It's the medication, you see. They make me sleep like a rock! I wanted to make that clear, in case you were reluctant to stay over in fear of being overheard whenever you share Peter's bed."
Olivia closes her eyes, her face scrunching up. Within seconds, a deep blush is creeping over her skin.
"Walter," Peter reprimands his father, appalled by his inability to be tactful, yet unable not to be a little amused by it all.
"What?" Walter asks innocently, his fork halting midair, looking back at Olivia, whose lips are now pinched, eyes cast down, and he seems surprised by her reaction. "Oh, no, no, I did not mean anything embarrassing by it, dear!" He assures her. "In fact, being loud during intercourse is actually encouraged. You see, I once proved that vocally expressing one's pleasure results in higher levels of endorphin and oxytocin."
Peter grunts, while Olivia nods her head a few times, her lips now pressed into a painful smile, having obviously given up.
"Remember, I'm not really related to this man," he tells her, now officially aggravated.
When she turns to look at him, her face is still flushed in apparent discomfort, but there is a twinkle in her eyes. "Ah, I don't know about that," she says. "I've heard you say some pretty embarrassing things."
He pouts at her, feigning indignation. "Please, there's no comparing. I've said cheesy things, there's a difference."
A prime example of that had been yesterday, on her couch, shortly before he suggested taking that road trip to Chicago.
Considering the unsettling way the day had started for him, and how it had evolved, he'd felt more than a little bemused. His entire body blissfully numbed, he'd reveled in the feel of her, over and around him as she rested against him, her slowing breath tickling the side of his neck.
Peter had felt overwhelmed, not quite sure how he'd ended up here, wondering what he'd done to be given this beautiful second chance...which had led him to say:
"I don't deserve you."
He hadn't realized how tacky it would sound indeed until she straightened up, peering at him over the rim of her fogged up glasses; the look she gave him and the way she pursed her lips seemed to say "I'll let that one slide because you're a romantic man in his post-coital state."
Back to present time, Peter becomes aware of his father's silence. Walter's previous jubilation has diminished dramatically. With his gaze down, almost shameful, he seems to have realized he'd once again misspoken.
Peter knows he meant no harm. Before he can try and cheer him up, though, Olivia beats him to it.
"Walter," she calls him out so that he'll meet her eyes, tentatively. She's still blushing, but both her voice and her smile are soft and patient. "I'm a size 10."
Walter offers her a quivering smile in response, before hurriedly changing the subject, having apparently prepared an extensive list of the many places he insists they should stop by during their trip. All of them involve food of some kind.
Once Peter finishes packing for good, they get ready to leave. As he expected, Olivia sits at the wheel without a second thought; she looks way too focused as she enters her sister's address into her GPS and starts up the car.
"You know you're gonna have to let me drive at some point, right?" he teases her after a couple minutes of comfortable silence.
She smirks, keeping her eyes on the road. "We'll see about that."
From her tone, he knows she's only teasing back, but there is a lot of truth to it, too. They've been working together for two and a half years, and he can count on one hand the number of times she's let him drive her car.
"The way I understand it, that's one of the main reasons why people take road trips together," he says, "so they can share the load. Or so I've heard."
Olivia frowns, then, finally glancing at him. "What do you mean, 'so you've heard'? I thought you were a road trip veteran."
"Oh, I've taken plenty of road trips," he says, too casually. "It's just the first time I don't do it alone."
Although she doesn't say anything to that, she turns to look at him as soon she stops at a red light. Peter shrugs, trying to make this seem less important than it is.
"Road trips were always about freedom to me," he explains. "Or about escaping specific places, really."
Or specific people.
Unless he had to cross an ocean -or a universe, driving had always been his M.O., from the moment he first left his mother and flew to the other side of the globe. There was something about the road itself, about knowing he was in charge of his next destination, of every mile traveled, all the while aware that there was an element of randomness to it all he would never be able to control.
Peter averts his eyes as he remembers the last time he'd driven away from Boston, a few months ago. Back then, he'd definitely sought to escape people more than the town itself, Olivia included.
The next time he speaks, he does it quietly, staring out the window. "I guess when you spend your life keeping people at arm's length, seeking a driving partner isn't exactly on top of your list."
He feels her gaze on him, yet she remains silent. He wonders if she's as aware as him that this is actually something they have in common.
As the silence stretches and she still doesn't move or speak, he begins to worry that he's made her uncomfortable by saying too much.
But she's reaching out for him, then, resting her hand on his. When he turns his head and meets her eyes, he knows she gets it. She always does.
A car honks behind them, the light having apparently turned green a few moments ago. Even though she flinches a little at the unexpected noise, Olivia doesn't seem to care, ignoring the impatient driver as she gives Peter a soft, reassuring smile, before pursing her lips.
"You can drive once we make a pit-stop," she tells him in that casual tone they're both so good at using, finally bringing her eyes back to the road and her hand on the wheel, "as long as you promise not to play with the siren."
She drives a hard bargain, but that is one deal he's happy to take without negotiations.
A/N: Just so you know, from what I've written of the next (and final) part, and judging by what I've got planned for it, it's going to be disgustingly fluffy (*cough* also smutty, probably maybe *cough*). You've been warned, just in case you want to preserve your teeth and choose to leave it at that. Reviews would be immensely appreciated :)