A/N: I am working on a few things (as in, literally working on 3 different stories at the same time because why not). Until then, here's another ficlet, set mid-season 2 (*cough* whatliesbelow *cough*), BECAUSE SEASON 2 P/O.

PEACE OFFERING

Olivia rarely closes her office door, her way of letting them know when she welcomes visitors, and when she does not.

The door is closed today, has been for a while. Peter has come to the conclusion that she has done so to muffle the sound of Walter's music, trying to get some work done.

His father has been in a mood, lately. When he's not fretting over him and his wellbeing, he goes into one of his frenzies, roaming the lab or their house, agitated and unstoppable, rambling about everything and nothing, insisting that David Bowie must be playing at all time. Loudly.

Astrid left a while ago now, and Peter cannot blame her. He would leave, too, if he wasn't handcuffed to Walter in every aspect of their lives –although he knows that thought to be somewhat hypocritical and unfair. While a year ago, he still regularly felt the urge to escape Boston and the very, very strange life he had come to have here, he hasn't daydreamed about pulling a disappearing act in a long time. Part of it is because of the odd yet satisfying bond that has been forming between him and his father.

The other reason for his newfound appreciation of the sedentary lifestyle is currently hiding in her office.

Because she is hiding, that much is obvious. She's been avoiding him for the past two days, ever since he came back to work; the music just gave her an excuse to keep her door closed.

Peter stands in front of that door, now, far from being intimidated by it; he's familiar with Olivia's doors. And walls. And moats. It's all about being bold enough to go for it anyway, or being patient enough to let her bring the drawbridge down on her own terms.

Today, he's going for it.

Having tucked a few boxes of Chinese food under one arm, he uses his free hand to give the door a couple of good knocks, opening it without awaiting a say-so. Olivia barely glances up at him over the rim of her glasses as he enters the room, quickly closing the door behind him. The office is remarkably well insulated, David's voice now a distant, subdued sound in the background.

Even as he comes to stand in front of her desk, she keeps on going with her writing. She has used a pencil to entrap her hair in a messy bun, and a quick look down confirms that the top buttons of her blouse are once again undone, letting him see probably more than she'd like from that angle. His gaze doesn't linger there for long, just like his mind doesn't linger on the thought of how soft her skin must be, used to pushing those away.

These days, he doesn't even need to be around her physically to find himself consumed with the thought of touching her, in any way she would let herself be touched. While he is only human and will sometimes (often) let the fantasies unfold when he's alone –and preferably in bed, he does his best to keep his mind clear when in her presence. Respect or self-preservation?

Probably a bit of both.

Right now, he simply stands there, patiently waiting for her to focus on him. When she finally does, raising her head, her green eyes briefly meet his from behind her lenses, before she shifts her gaze down, eying the boxes in his hands. Her mouth purses with the slightest of frown, bringing her eyes back to his.

He smiles, shrugging a little. "Peace offering," he says in a casual tone. "Mind making some room?"

He sees the way her frown becomes more pronounced for a moment, before her eyes fall back upon her desk, taking in the mess of papers that covers it, as if only now realizing how much she has spread out. She's taken aback, a predictable reaction, and that's fine. He gives her the second she needs to collect herself; soon, she's moving documents and folders around, freeing just enough space.

"I wasn't aware we were at war," she replies then, just as casually, with a hint of fake amusement that doesn't fool him.

Peter chooses not to say anything to that, putting the boxes down instead, before walking to the side of the room to grab the extra chair, bringing it in front of her desk and sitting opposite her. Even though he decided not to speak, he does bring his eyes back to hers, merely smiling a little, his way of reminding her they're both well aware of what she's been doing –avoiding him.

Plus, there is always this silent dare going on between them, to see how long they can hold each other's gaze before one of them folds. It only takes a few seconds before a soft blush begins creeping up her face, her cheekbones turning pink, and he allows himself to think how it makes her look even lovelier than usual.

That's another thought he pushes away, though, because it would be way too easy for his mind to come up with a few scenarios that would have for only purpose to leave her entire body flushed, from head to toes.

They avert their eyes almost at the same time, having dared long enough for now. Peter briefly busies himself with opening up the containers, while Olivia shuffles a few more papers around. He grabs the box of fried noodles and starts eating without saying a word, not encouraging her to eat either. All he can do at this point is hope the smells might wake up her stomach, and make it protest over the fact that she probably hasn't eaten anything all day.

He also keeps his eyes down on the food he's picking at, knowing when to back off, aware that she's a bit too tensed on her side of the desk.

Because more often than not, even though there are times when she needs him to push, it's almost always wiser to wait it out. Push a little too hard, and she retreats completely.

"How are you feeling?"

Her question doesn't surprise him. It doesn't matter that he's been back at work for two full days, or that despite her best efforts, they've interacted quite a few times already. What matters is that it's the first time they're alone since he's been back.

When he meets her eyes again, she looks sincere; elbow on her desk, her hand is up to the side of her neck, fingers playing distractedly with a strand of escaped hair.

He offers her another smile. "I feel human again," he answers, and his relief is real.

Walter may have found a cure that prevented him from dying by spraying his contaminated blood all over whomever was around to receive it, he still had to ride off the illness that came with the infection. Not a pleasant experience.

"I do not recommend getting infected by a seventy-five-thousand-year-old flu," he adds. "It's not as edgy as it sounds."

She barely smiles, and he can't blame her for not being amused by his lame attempt at being humorous. The untold hangs between them, now, the tension in the air thickening. With that photographic memory of hers, he has no doubts she remembers it all, but he wonders if she realizes how well he remembers it, too.

His memories of that day aren't exactly clear, yet they are…sharp. When he focuses back on those couple of hours after getting infected, what he remembers most is heat. Like every single cell in his body had been burning, burning, burning, and the only way for him to appease that scorching heat had been to find a way out of that building, no matter how.

He'd spent three days in bed, afterwards, entrapped in a feverish dreamscape, unable to break free, and Olivia had been in every vision, every hallucination.

Because the other thing he remembers most about that day is her. Slamming her against the hood of a car, against a wall, hard. That day, he'd learned firsthand just how good a fighter she was. One of the bruises she'd given him still hasn't completely faded from his flesh, even after more than a week. He hates to think about the bruises he had to have left on her skin, wondering if they're still healing, too.

Even though she'd assured him she knew he hadn't been himself, Peter knows part of the reason why she's been avoiding him is because of what happened in that parking garage. But it goes beyond that, too, even if he can't quite explain it; that pensive little line between her eyes makes it clear.

He gives her another look, then, tilting his head slightly, eyes barely narrowed, the least intimidating way he knows how to ask her what's on her mind without actually asking anything.

She replies just as wordlessly, shaking her head a little, her fingers now playing with her ear, seeming to be battling with herself. Eventually, she simply shrugs a shoulder a bit stiffly, pursing her mouth again. "I'm glad you're okay," she says, quietly, if not awkwardly.

This must be the third or fourth time she either asks about his wellbeing or comments on it, in that uncharacteristic shy way of hers. He always finds it strange if not a bit fascinating, how she can be so straightforward and decisive when it comes to her job, yet becomes almost paralyzed with dread whenever she has to let herself be vulnerable.

And just like that, it finally dawns on Peter, what she's been trying to tell him.

I was worried about you.

She had worried about him, enough to willingly step back into a building full of deranged and murderous people, yet again risking her own life, for his this time –among others. Olivia isn't a woman of many words, but she is a woman of action.

In this particular instance, her actions spoke volumes.

And so, with a small nod of his head, Peter smiles again, his softest smile yet today. "I know," he tells her, his voice nonthreatening, his way of letting her know he understands.

Their eyes are locked again, always daring a little longer, the air filled with all these things they're not saying. Soon, the blush has returned upon her skin, never having left completely. The warmth spreads, until both her cheeks have darkened noticeably; even her breathing seems a bit shallower.

When she eventually moves her eyes, it's not to avert them. They settle down on his lips instead, and his entire being begins to hum, taken over by a different kind of slow rising fever.

Until the door opens up behind them and David Bowie's voice fills up the room, efficiently putting an end to the moment.

'THOUGH NOTHIIIIIIIING WILL KEEP US TOGETHEEEEEER, WE COULD STEAL TIIIIIIME, JUST FOR ONE DAYYYY'

"Son," Walter laments, reproachfully. "You took all the spring rolls."

A/N: Not sure I will post anything else before the holidays, so, have a great week everybody, and don't forget, reviews make me cry happy tears! :D