A/N: I have a slightly unhealthy obsession with season 2 P/O. The premise of this fic was, "What if I rewrote most of season 2, but with Peter and Olivia being actively horny for each other much earlier than on the show?" Some things don't change I guess. This starts right after episode 2x05, Dream Logic, so not long after Charlie's death.
GRAVITY
And then I looked up at the sun and I could see
Oh, the way that gravity pulls on you and me
CHAPTER ONE
This is not Peter's smartest idea.
Despite his above-average intellect, few of his ideas actually are smart—not in the strictest sense of the term.
His presence here tonight has little to do with rational thinking, though, and everything to do with gut instinct. It's the result of weeks spent on the sideline, not intervening, trying to stay in his place.
When Walter decided to knock himself out with a cocktail of drugs so potent he probably won't emerge from it for twelve hours, Peter took it as a sign from the universe, rarely being given that kind of opportunity to sneak away from his father.
Still, by the time he's approaching Olivia's door, his conviction is waning a bit, especially when he becomes aware of the loud music playing inside her apartment, the thumping bassline vibrating through the walls.
Not the kind of stuff he'd ever imagined she listened to.
Despite this oddity, he's already struck by déjà-vu; just two nights ago, he'd stood in front of her hotel room, knocking as he is now—although he's pounding more than he's knocking, hoping to be heard over the music.
He may have done something similar earlier this week, in Seattle, him doing it here in Boston, going to her home, is much more of a risk. For as much as Olivia loves to show up to their place unannounced, usually in the middle of the night, that's not something Peter typically does, not part of their dynamic.
He's stepping out of line by his presence alone, disrupting their status quo.
That's why when the music stops and he gives the wood three softer knocks to confirm she did hear someone at the door, Peter braces himself, ready for all kinds of reaction from Olivia, from confusion to annoyance.
No amount of bracing could have prepared him for the sight of her as she appears when the door swings open.
She's out of breath, her flushed skin layered with perspiration, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a tank top—all black, of course. Her hair is up in some kind of messy bun, strands of it having escaped its confines, sticking to her sweaty neck.
Olivia looks as startled by his presence on her doorstep as he feels by the mere state of her.
Thankfully, he's got years of experience in the art of controlling his outward reactions. "Bad time?" he asks, casually enough.
She purses her lips a little at his question, which has a clear, obvious answer, but this shadow of a smirk tells him she's more amused than annoyed.
"Just blowing off some steam." Her hands have come down to her hips, already adopting a more Agent Dunham stance. "What's up?"
Peter has no doubt that in Olivia's case, her 'blowing off some steam' meant she'd been in the middle of a workout routine that came straight from her toughest FBI bootcamp. At least it explains the music.
Despite those glaring reminders of who he's talking to, Olivia having naturally assumed he came here for work related reasons, Peter is struggling to see her as a federal agent at that very moment.
She's still catching her breath, her entire body radiating heat, looking unusually small—yet anything but weak.
Peter prides himself on his ability to perform well under pressure, good at improvising on the spot, but as it is often the case with Olivia, the way she unsettles him is so different from what he's used to, he keeps on fumbling more with her than with anyone else.
Still, Peter smiles. Not his 'cocky, smartass' smile, going for something he hopes looks more coy than boyish, holding up what he brought along with him.
For the first time since she opened the door, Olivia's eyes leave his, darting down to look at the small whiskey bottle. It's brand new, and not cheap, something he knows she can tell, one of her eyebrows rising in question as she meets his eyes again, her chest still heaving a little, pink cheeks glistening.
In that instant, Peter feels…tall. And a bit like an idiot, equally annoyed and taken aback by how rattled he is by the way she looks, when he really shouldn't be.
He's seen Olivia in her underwear. He'd seen her in her underwear barely two days after she blackmailed his ass out of Iraq.
That was months ago, though. He's seen her in quite a few different states since then.
Supposedly dead on the pavement, for example, only five weeks ago. That'd been topped by the following hours, during which he'd been made to believe she was gone for good, kept 'alive' by machines that were hooked to her broken body.
And only yesterday, he'd seen her at the verge of tears, grief oozing out of her in waves, something he never thought she'd allow him to see.
Peter is a smart man, but he is still just a man.
Being confronted with Olivia's mortality a few weeks back forced him to acknowledge how much he's grown to care about her. In what capacity, that's not something he wants to focus on, not yet, as it borders on a territory that is a bit too intimidating, not to mention a big no no in their current hectic lives.
The fact remains that, in the grand scheme of things, Peter cares about her, quite a lot. And that despite the many, many walls Olivia keeps around herself at all times, he's come to know her well enough to realize that he is one of the only people with the ability to look out for her.
Especially now that Charlie's gone.
That's why he's here tonight, after weeks of being good, of staying in his lane. No matter how much it pained him, to watch her struggle to even walk, to see her be so unbelievably frustrated and vexed at her body's limitations, he'd kept his mouth shut. Almost got shot in the head once because she was that jumpy? Still barely glared at her.
But watching her struggle with the loss of her friend and partner was Peter's last straw, breaking whatever was left of his resolve.
Olivia would never be forthcoming in admitting she needs any kind of help, something he learned within two weeks of working by her side, a character flaw that has become more and more glaring as months passed, and she was pulled deeper into this mess.
There is no ulterior motive in his presence at her door but a desire to be here for her, to remind her she's not alone.
And yet, he's under no illusion that she's going to let him help at all, fully prepared to be sent away, especially when he says what he came here to say.
"You don't have to say yes," he tells her before anything else, hoping it will reduce the risk of being kicked back outside. "I just thought…maybe we could have a toast."
He doesn't say Charlie's name, yet it immediately hangs in the air, which becomes as thick with tension as Olivia's body in the next three seconds. One of her hands quickly goes up to her face, a knuckle flicking at the corner of her eye, already looking away. When her hand comes back down, she wraps her arms around herself in a different kind of pose.
The probability of her shutting him down is now extremely high, yet Peter doesn't retreat.
"Look, I know you're not too comfortable talking about this," he says, keeping his voice low, non-threatening. "I'm not gonna force you to commiserate. But I genuinely liked him, too, and there's no one else I'd rather drink with, in his name." And then, to be safe: "We can also just toast to the fact that I've finally moved out of that hotel. I genuinely forgot what it's like to have my own bedroom, and that neat little thing called 'privacy'."
She's back to staring at him, and really, he's much too responsive to that way she has of always focusing all of her intensity on him. He's particularly responsive to it tonight, still reeling from the way she looks, cursing at himself for being such a man, indeed.
Olivia's swaying almost imperceptibly on the spot as she stares and stares, her arms still tight around herself, clearly debating what to do with him.
She surprises them both by giving a short tilt of her head. "Alright," she says, her voice lower, averting her eyes again as she steps aside to let him in. "I could really use a drink, actually."
As Peter steps inside, breathing in just as he passes her, enough to catch a waft of smells that are entirely hers, he can definitely use one, too.
Or five.
…
This is not a good idea.
Olivia knows the moment she lets Peter into her apartment that she should not have agreed.
Only three months ago, he wouldn't have gone past her threshold. She definitely wouldn't have let him in three weeks ago, back when she was still a bruised, aching mess, not having any patience for anyone trying to fuss over her.
Because that's exactly what Peter's doing.
She may not see everything, like her closest friend getting replaced by a shapeshifter, she's not completely clueless either.
After more than a year spent in close proximity with Peter Bishop, spending an average of fourteen hours a day with him, she's familiar with his tells, which aren't as subtle as he believes them to be—although he tries, she'll give him that.
She's also appreciative of the fact that he's respected her need for space so far, grateful for the tactful way he's handled their partnership while she recovered from her accident, when many others would have fussed a lot more overtly. She knows it's not easy for him, to reel that side of him in.
Just like she'd told him, back in that hospital, she's aware of how good Peter is at taking care of everyone around him, not all in grand gestures either. She's lost count of how many times he's brought her coffee or something to nibble on, encouraging her to take breaks from whatever they were working on; once or twice, she even listened when he suggested that she go home to rest.
Right now, she only has herself to blame for nearly breaking in front of him yesterday, back in Seattle. Her grief had just…sneaked up on her, barely able to flee the room fast enough. Too little, too late. Peter had seen the cracks in her walls, which even now don't feel all that sturdy.
Peter being Peter, he's come to make sure she wouldn't get crushed underneath the rubble, were it to collapse on top of her.
The least she can do is show him that she's fine. Which she arguably could have done without letting him inside her home, but Olivia's not infallible either.
He'd brought her whiskey.
Still, she keeps her distance after closing the door, the tension currently crackling between them not entirely innocent—something else she's well aware of after spending so many months with Peter.
At times, he seems to have enjoyed purposely upping that tension, staring at her so bluntly with a hint of his cocky smile that he might as well have held up a sign that said, 'I believe we have chemistry.'
Olivia's thoughts on chemistry these days are along the lines of, nope.
Given how her latest and most disastrous relationship started because of chemistry, it will never be a good enough reason for her to let it control her actions again, not if she can help it. She might go as far as admitting that she's come to like Peter too much as a friend to risk jeopardizing what they have over something as trivial as compatible pheromones.
God she spends way too much time with Walter Bishop.
Following that train of thought, Olivia asks what needs to be asked: "Who's with Walter?"
She's grabbed the towel she'd hung on one of her chairs, dabbing at her neck to dry off the sweat that has gathered, there. When Peter doesn't immediately answer, she turns to face him again, finding him staring at her alright.
It's nothing like the way he used to stare in the early days of their forced partnership, though. There's no trace of that small, cheeky smile, not actually trying to get a rise out of her, this time.
Right now, Peter is just staring.
Not entirely consciously either, judging by the way he suddenly blinks and averts his eyes, taking a few steps in the opposite direction as if for good measure, apparently interested in looking through one of her bookshelves.
"Walter's with Walter," he answers to her books, his fingers trailing over their spines. Olivia uses that opportunity to hurriedly dry off the rest of her skin, swiftly pushing away the fleeting, intrusive image of his fingers trailing her spine. "He's in Lalaland 'til morning, I figured it was safe enough. I left the same note in five different places around the house, including inside the fridge, telling him where I am, in case he wakes up before I get home."
While she listens to his answer, she's also wondering what the hell she should do, next.
Shower and get dressed again, concealing herself under three layers of clothes the way she usually does? Kick him out of her apartment, pretexting she's much too tired for a night cap, after all?
She goes for a third option instead, swiftly walking to her kitchen. The faster they have their shot, the faster Peter will accept that she is fine and call it a night. Why she even let him in is beyond her. After the day (week) she's had, she knew better. She's made enough questionable decisions in her adult life to know most of them happen when she's particularly vulnerable.
Which she most definitely is, tonight.
As much as she tries, she can't stop thinking about what happened in front of that cemetery, about that message she received.
You're gonna be fine.
Despite everything Olivia has seen and done in the last year, she doesn't believe in ghosts. But she has experienced enough to accept that some things just…are, that they have no explanation—none that she can grasp, at least.
She never fully understood how she could see John standing in her kitchen doorway weeks after his death, just like she will never understand how circling a couple letters on a few business cards could end up spelling exactly what she needed to hear, today.
Her grief won't disappear with a snap of her fingers, though, no matter how many ethereal messages she receives from the beyond. That's why she'd started working out as soon as she got home from the cemetery, the adrenaline that had flooded her blood at the unexpected reveal having turned into restless energy.
She'd hoped that exhausting her body would help her find some sleep, going harder at it than she had been able to in weeks. Her doctor would have disapproved, having strongly suggested she waits at least two months before resuming such activities, but does she ever listen?
If she could survive a fight to the death in a dirty alley with a shapeshifter wearing her partner's face, she could handle a few pull-ups.
It's only been a few minutes since she stopped working out, her body cooling down, yet she knows she's going to feel it tomorrow, maybe even regret it. Right now, she's mostly regretting the fact that it has indeed drained her, making her feel that much more exposed. She should really tell Peter to go.
He didn't just show up to check on her, though. He claims to be here to honor Charlie, and she actually believes him.
After grabbing two shooters from her kitchen, she makes a brief detour to pull a wrinkled shirt out of her dryer, swiftly putting it on. She doesn't bother buttoning it up, only wanting the extra layer to chase the chill away—and to stop parading around in a tank top.
Her efforts are only mildly successful.
While she does feel warmer, the look that crosses Peter's face the moment he takes her in lets her know that the loose, disheveled shirt is not going to help dissipate the tension.
That is confirmed a second later when his gaze travels up to meet hers, and a different kind of warmth begins to stir beneath her skin, taking its roots somewhere…low.
She averts her eyes first, decidedly walking to her table, almost slamming the shooters down.
"Let's drink," she says, a bit too enthusiastically given the reason behind their drinking.
And yet, as she says this and refocuses on Charlie, she imagines how he would be smirking right now, watching her getting flustered for no good reason, remembering the one and only time Charlie had brought up the topic of Peter without bringing it up at all.
It had been shortly after that hybrid creature had decided to use Charlie as its 'host' for its offspring, Charlie still recovering in the lab. She can't remember much of the conversation she had with Peter over the phone, but he'd said something amusing enough for her to be still smiling by the time she hung up.
Charlie had smirked a little, the way she imagines he'd be smiling, now.
"What?" she'd asked.
He'd merely shaken his head a little. "Just be careful, kiddo."
She'd dismissed it, of course, going as far as pretending he'd not said anything at all, the way she often did, not just with him. The topic itself didn't even really matter.
It was simply another reminder of how much he'd paid attention, and cared.
The memory dissolves away, as does the fleeting vision of him at the corner of her eye, replaced by the harsh reality of his death, expulsing any kind of warmth from her skin. She feels sucker-punched by the equally vivid memory of 'Charlie' with a bullet hole in his head, a bullet she'd put there.
Peter is barely done pouring whiskey into the shooters that Olivia grabs one of them. She doesn't even wait, bringing the glass to her lips before tilting her head back, swallowing the mouthful of alcohol in one swift go.
As she does so, the liquor rich and smokey on her tongue, she notes how this whiskey is way too fancy to be used to throw back shots, a thought that is as pointless as it is irrelevant.
When she lowers her head and looks back at Peter, he's watching her with a bit of a scowl, although she's pretty sure there is a hint of endearment in his gaze.
"I don't think that's how toasting works," he points out, a bit too casually.
She slams her glass back down on the table. "That one was just warm up."
Apparently hearing a silent dare in that statement, Peter grabs his own shot and downs it just as fast. He then diligently fills up their glasses again, and they both hold them up.
Despite herself, her heart has sped up a little, her thoughts already back on Charlie, reluctant to meet Peter's eyes and let him see just how raw she feels.
There is a moment of silence, not exactly meant to honor her dead friend; she suspects Peter might simply be waiting to see if she's going to say something.
When she doesn't, unable to, he steps up, as she knew he would.
"To a good man."
Almost against her will, she stops staring at their drinks, her eyes meeting his, finding the same gentleness in his gaze as there was in his voice, causing her throat to clench. The lump lodged in there makes it impossible for her to repeat the words, not managing more than a pinched, sad smile, and an almost imperceptible tilt of the head.
They drink in perfect synchronicity.
The alcohol is still making its way down to her stomach, the sensation warm and familiar, when Olivia grabs the bottle, unwilling to let her thoughts focus on Charlie longer than necessary, dreading what she might say, or how she might react.
"Almost forgot how friendly you can get with a whiskey bottle."
Peter's teasing comment doesn't stop her, pouring them a shot that is somewhat more generous than the two he poured himself.
Raising their glasses again, Peter also raises an eyebrow, letting her speak this time.
"To you never again having to wake up to the sight of your father naked," Olivia toasts.
Peter's face breaks into a genuine grin, the kind that causes the corners of his eyes to crinkle, followed by a soft chuckle that warms up her chest more than any whiskey.
"I think you underestimate my father's love for 'a good breeze across his genitals'—his words, not mine. But here's to hope," he toasts back, quickly followed by the two of them downing their third shot in about as many minutes.
Even as he does so, Peter knows he needs to slow down. Actually, stopping altogether would be the wisest thing to do, here.
Olivia can hold her liquor, she's proven that much a couple of times already. And while he's no lightweight, he cannot rival her when it comes to this. He's already starting to feel the effect of the alcohol seeping into his blood, aware that it won't be long before it starts affecting his brain—and everything his brain is supposed to control.
He's mostly worried about it affecting his inhibition, much too aware of Olivia right now, standing close to him in her wrinkled shirt, more strands of hair having escaped her bun in the last few minutes. She's obviously cooled down from her workout, yet her cheeks remain pinker than usual, which he suspects is caused by both the alcohol and the emotional turmoil she's still trying to suppress, remembering how flushed her face had been yesterday when she told him about Charlie.
Actually, she might be attempting to drown her emotions, watching as she starts pouring herself yet another shot.
He almost makes a comment, maybe suggests she pace herself a little. He bites on his tongue instead; the last thing Olivia needs is him coddling her.
She's a grown woman grieving someone she loved.
He wasn't any better a month ago, getting absolutely wasted in that bar near the hospital in which she lay, presumably brain dead.
There is something selfish about him keeping his mouth shut, too, choosing to watch her down yet another large mouthful of alcohol, a bit too focused on her throat as she tilts her head back and swallows, his every nerve ending tingling when she unconsciously licks her lips afterwards.
Olivia is beautifully alive, right now, with her vice and her grief and those freckles, particularly visible tonight across her flushed cheeks.
Peter is a smart man, but he is still just a man. And Olivia, for all of her high tolerance, is just as human, having swallowed quite a large amount of hard liquor within a short time, following what he's sure had been a rather intense bout of exercising—and having without a doubt not eaten anything since they made it back to Boston.
He doesn't fuss, not out loud, but he does grab the small bottle, casually slipping it into the back of his pants, unperturbed by the way she scowls at him.
Already, there is a looseness in the way she stands that wasn't there a minute ago.
"I've got my own stash, you know," she tells him, almost daringly.
Peter smiles, even as her voice fries a few more of his neurons, sounding huskier than usual, her vocal cords just as affected as the rest of her.
"Good for you," he responds, more cheekily than he would have dared ten minutes ago. He's definitely feeling looser, too.
It must be showing on his face, or in his voice, because Olivia peers at him. "How are you getting home?"
This could be her way of suggesting he leaves her alone, now, but Peter knows better. This is Olivia being Olivia, having caught up with what they've actually been doing, worrying about his safety.
"I took a cab here," he replies with another smile, and she gives the smallest of nods.
Silence immediately settles between them as they hold each other's gaze for a few more seconds.
He almost sees the tension crawling back into her, which has nothing to do with him, Olivia quickly averting her eyes, still trying to hide in plain sight. It's as if her thoughts have already refocused on everything she clearly doesn't want to think about, now that she's lost the distraction of downing shot after shot.
That is confirmed when her tension morphs into waves of quiet pain, that same pain he'd seen and felt back in Seattle.
"You okay?"
The words leave his mouth before he can stop himself, his brain affected alright, doing exactly what he's tried so hard not to do for weeks.
He curses at himself, aware that it's a matter of short seconds before Olivia shuts him down and kicks him out. And sure enough, he sees a hint of frustration in her eyes as she looks back at him, already folding her arms across her chest again.
She shrugs, then, stiffly, her mouth pursed in disapproval. "Not really," she admits, surprising them both again, clearly peeved at herself, not him.
A few more seconds pass, Olivia having already looked away, standing tense in front of him, arms locked around herself, while Peter debates over what to do, or say.
There is an opening, there, but it's a tricky one.
"You wanna—"
"No."
He can't even pretend to be surprised.
Before he can think of anything else he could say, Olivia sighs, unfolding her arms to scratch at her temple, giving another stiff shrug, bravely meeting his gaze again.
"I'm just at a loss, here. There's no rulebook on how to cope with shapeshifters infiltrating my life, either trying to kill me, or killing my friends in order to get to me." She's getting properly incensed now, her face even redder than a minute ago, that line back between her eyes. "Things have been insane from the start, from the moment we got Walter out of St. Claire and he put me into that tank, but this…"
She shakes her head again, her face scrunched up in both irritation and sorrow.
"They murdered him, Peter. And for what?" She barely whispers her question. It doesn't make it easier to hear, the broken look in her eyes squeezing at his heart.
She doesn't give him a chance to try and say something, continuing:
"That's not even the worst of it. That thing killed him, replaced him for weeks, and I didn't have a clue."
She stops, not looking at him anymore, a hand briefly going up to her face, pressing the back of it to her nose as she breathes loudly through her pain and her guilt, shaking her head before wrapping her arms back around herself.
He has to say something, although nothing he'll come up with could possibly make her feel better about this. He really wishes he'd not downed all those shots, a little too aware of how much more sluggish his brain is.
"You said it yourself, there's no rulebook for this," he eventually says, keeping his voice low, and understanding. "You were recovering from a serious accident at the time, and you barely gave yourself time to breathe. The last thing Charlie would want is for you to beat yourself up over what they did to him, and to you."
Judging by the way her entire body tenses, recoiling into herself as her face constricts, he hit a nerve. She takes a couple of louder, shorter breaths, in a clear attempt to control her emotions.
Not being all that successful at it, she speaks again, thickly, keeping her eyes to the ground.
"I'd like to be alone, now."
He's been expecting it from the moment she opened her door.
Still, being dismissed causes his insides to ache, aware that she wants him to go because she's on the verge of breaking, looking almost panicked at the prospect of him being here to witness it.
Definitely affected by the alcohol, he doesn't move quite fast enough for Olivia. Within seconds, she's walked to her door, opening it wide for him, her eyes still cast down.
Unwilling to cause her any more distress, he makes to leave her apartment. His chest starts to throb when he sees her face up close again, her eyes once more brimming with tears she's refusing to cry while he's here.
Now standing in front of her, feeling too tall all over again, he cannot do anything against that pull, that need to comfort her. Just like his words of concern had slipped out of his mouth, his hand is coming up of its own accord. He does nothing to stop it, the back of his nails soon trailing her cheek.
While she'd recoiled a little from his words, she's not recoiling now.
"Hey…" he calls her out softly, barely above a whisper.
Olivia lifts her head to look at him, and the sight of those tears slashes through him like thousands of tiny cuts. The moment their eyes meet, he tilts his head a little, wordlessly reminding her that it's okay. That's she's allowed to feel this pain.
That she doesn't have to be alone in this.
She seems to hear his unspoken words, a quivering breath leaving her lungs, averting her eyes as her face constricts a little more, causing a couple of tears to trickle down. When Peter cups her cheek in his hand, brushing one of those trails off with his thumb, she actually leans into his palm, almost imperceptibly.
Taking this as a sign of consent, he exerts the slightest of pull. That's all it takes for Olivia to cave, leaning forward until her forehead is pressed to his chest. There is another fleeting moment of tension in her, before he feels her slumping into him.
His hand has already moved from her cheek to the back of her neck, instinctively wrapping his other arm around her, above her shirt, trying to keep his hold on her loose, undemanding.
If she's crying, he can't tell, not that it matters. With his cheek resting on top of her head, he's focused on the feel of her breathing against him, far from being unaffected at having her in his arms, a bit too aware of how wobbly his self-control is right now, fighting against his urge to tighten his hold on her and gather her to him, as tightly as he can, so that he might soak up some of her pain.
Despite her boldest claims, Olivia isn't immune to something as simple as a human touch.
She's definitely not immune to it when it's Peter's.
Combined with that quiet force he exerts on her, may it be through chemistry or that softness in his eyes, she's nothing short of helpless in moments like this one, bending to his genuine offer to comfort her.
She could just blame it on the whiskey, having indulged a bit more and a lot faster than she typically would, but that would be hypocritical. Sure, the alcohol has loosened her, the way it always does, made her keener to let her body lead for once, instead of letting her overburdened mind be in charge of everything, but she's no novice.
Truth is, these last five weeks have been hell, as much as she hates to admit it. She could easily extend that inner thought to encompass the entirety of this past year, but she's not one to wallow—despite her behavior being the very definition of wallowing at the moment, wrapped in Peter's arms.
The aftermath of her accident had been grueling. She'd spent so much of her energy focused on her battered body, willing it to work again through the sheer power of her mind, it can almost excuse how she hadn't noticed what was going on, right under her nose.
Charlie wouldn't want you beating yourself up.
Peter's right about that, too. Her friend always went out of his way to help her, to make sure she cut herself some slack, even put herself first every once in a while. In that respect, Peter actually reminds her a lot of Charlie, so intent on reminding her that she matters, too, even if she will often go out of her way to dismiss it.
One thing is fundamentally different between Peter and Charlie, though, and she's becoming more and more aware of it with every sluggish second that passes, with her forehead and nose pressed to his chest.
It's in the feel of his fingers upon her nape, seeping warmth all the way down her bones. It's in the feel of his breath upon her hair, as he inhales and exhales deeper than he should.
She knows it, because she's breathing him the same way, letting his scent invade every inch of her lungs, as comforting to her as his arms around her, and somehow more intoxicating than any whiskey could ever be.
Said whiskey is not without effect either, greatly responsible for the fact that she even allowed herself this moment of respite. It's also playing its part in the way more and more of her barriers are tumbling down, the longer she remains against him. She's letting that warmth slowly take over, not doing anything to stop it from happening…just like she's not stopping Peter from progressively tightening his hold on her.
When her hands come up, instinctively slipping inside his open jacket to rest upon his sides, his breathing hitches upon her head, feeling the muscles contracting beneath her palms. The way he shivers is involuntary, as involuntary as the way she shivers in turn, her next exhale louder against his chest.
There are a few warning bells going off, somewhere in her mind, but they are muffled, irrelevant, unimportant. Olivia has had nothing but reasons to loathe her body, recently; she should loathe it now, too, for being slowly overtaken by the feel of him.
She doesn't.
After all the pain and discomfort, still aching from her earlier exertion, she welcomes those sensations, welcomes that enticing, exhilarating warmth, the kind she's refused to herself for months and months.
Her hands begin to close into fists upon his shirt, slowly, but with a kind of intent that is unmistakable, trapping some of the fabric between her fingers. She's rewarded by the way Peter shudders again, stronger than before, sending a thrill through her spine, then her gut, realizing this is exactly what she was hoping for, a simple proof that she's still in control—of his reactions if anything else.
Her whole life might be a mess, something in her knows it cannot touch this, him, not yet at least, not while their bodies are pressed together, here on her threshold.
There is no rational logic to any of it either…only actions and reactions.
When she pulls away, just enough to be able to look up and meet his eyes, the very air surrounding them seems to quiver and quake, as if she possessed the ability to affect the fabric of it, to bend it through the sheer force of her emotions.
There is an inevitability to the way there are both caving to that pull. Peter's gaze is dark, and hazed, in a way that is not just caused by alcohol, and her insides tug again, that low pulse overruling any coherent thought she might have had.
Because Peter's face is much closer, now, and she's still not putting a stop to this, his breath warmer even than the rest of him, pooling upon her slightly parted lips, the rush of it faster with every quickening second.
He may have been the one slowly increasing their proximity, Olivia is the one bridging that last gap, pushing up on her toes, sucking in his next exhale only a heartbeat before she presses her lips to his.
The contact sends an electric current through her entire body, the hot, sizzling kind that coils in her gut. With her fingers still gripping his shirt at his sides, their fronts pressed together, she feels the echo of that current going through him, or maybe it's a reflection of her own. Semantics don't matter, not now. All that matters is that it spurs him to move, as if electrified alright.
While that hand on her nape instinctively tries to sink deeper into the mess of her hair at the back of her head, his other arm slips beneath her loose shirt, encircling her tightly to bring her flush against him. Her mouth opens at the warm press of his tongue, soon groaning at the languid way he tastes her, the sound coming straight from the back of her throat, muffled into his mouth.
She's barely in control of the way she's moving against him, her hands having released his shirt to wrap her arms around him under his jacket, anything to increase the pressure between their bodies, the slow, relentless caress of his tongue against her own setting her insides ablaze, that low pulse getting deeper…stronger…all consuming.
In another universe, Peter never comes to her door with that bottle of whiskey, losing his nerve before he even leaves the taxi, asking the cabbie to turn back around.
In another universe, Olivia doesn't go home after leaving the cemetery, driving to the Federal Building and burying herself in her work, so that when Peter does knock on her door, no one answers. In another universe, he calls instead of showing up, and Olivia tells him that she's fine, the way Olivia does, and Peter knows she's lying, but he leaves it at that.
In yet another universe, Peter thinks about calling her, even about going to see her, but he falls asleep on the couch the moment he gets home, awoken some time later by a bad dream he barely remembers.
The variables may be big, just as they may be subtle, the result is the same, each change creating a different path, as many realities as there are atoms in an unshed tear.
In this particular universe, Peter comes over with a bottle of whiskey, interrupting Olivia in the middle of her workout. She lets him in, and they drink, just enough for those walls to weaken.
Just enough for him to see the cracks, and to slip in. Sooner than he does in most universes, later than he does in a couple others.
It creates a ripple, a chain of events that cannot be stopped, like tumbling dominoes.
They are stopped tonight, though, at least for now, as one of her neighbors opens their door and steps into the hall, a large trash bag in hand.
The sounds jolt them both back to their senses, Olivia slipping out of his arms faster than she'd downed any of those shots. Peter isn't quite as efficient in regaining his cognitive functions, his brain still overtaken by her, her, her…his lips tingling in the aftermath of this kiss, tasting her whiskey on his tongue.
By the time he blinks, breathes, and refocuses, she's moved, not away away, but enough for his frame to conceal hers from the peeking neighbor—who knows exactly what he's interrupted. She's also back to standing inside her apartment, just beyond that threshold, while he stands outside of it.
Only by inches, really, but the message is clear enough.
She's clinging to her door, half-leaning against it. Her cheeks are even pinker than they'd been when he first showed up, her breathing just as sporadic, and her hair has half-fallen out of her bun.
All he really sees is the look on her face, though, almost panicked, visibly shocked about what just happened, unable to look him in the eye.
"Peter, I—" She stops, her face constricting in pained distress, still not looking at him, her words coming out hoarse, almost hushed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."
He could have smiled, if he'd felt like smiling, anything but surprised that her first reaction is to assign blame, onto herself of course, as if he hadn't been an equally active and willing participant. He truly doesn't feel like smiling, though, doesn't feel remotely interested in teasing her about it either.
Truth is, he's still very much affected, his blood rushing through his veins, against his ears, and in other parts of him that are aching for her, drunk on the feel of her.
Her anguish trumps it all at the moment, urging him to reassure her. If blame had to be assigned, it would be on him. He encouraged her to drink, knowing that she was vulnerable, only to fully take advantage of that vulnerability the moment he felt her waver.
Still, this isn't about blame, from anyone.
"Olivia." He calls her out softly, his own voice lowered. When she dares meet his eyes, he smiles a little, reassuringly, shaking his head. "It's fine."
She offers him a pinched smile of her own, the sad, conflicted kind, followed by a small shake of her head. "I just…can't do this."
He nods this time, understanding. "I know. Not that I have any expectation, about anything." When she merely avoids her gaze and swipes at the corner of her eye with a knuckle, he continues: "This was just the whiskey, Olivia. Too much whiskey, too little sleep…and maybe that tank top."
He was hoping for a smile, a more genuine one, maybe. He's still not surprised when she doesn't give him one, although she does meet his eyes again, a hint of gratitude mixing with her embarrassment.
He's not being entirely truthful either, something they're both aware of. They don't discuss it, not even now—especially not now—but there is a reason why they caved in to that pull.
They caved to it because it's there. Because it's real.
But she can't do 'this', and she means it. He's not sure he could do 'this' either. All he knows is that her distress about their lapse in judgment is as real as that pull.
Olivia is grieving, and vulnerable, and he will not be that person, taking advantage of it, of her.
"I'm gonna head home," he says, as non-threateningly as he can, Olivia no longer looking at him.
She barely nods her head, her lips pursing a little again, back to swaying almost imperceptibly on the spot, just like when he first arrived. "Should I…call you a cab?"
He shakes his head. "I'm good," he answers with another small smile she doesn't see.
He won't be calling a cab, needing the long walk home to clear his head—and to calm down.
Unable to leave without making sure she's not going to spend the rest of the night beating herself up over this, on top of everything else, he says her name again.
"We're fine," he insists the moment she meets his eyes, using her favorite word. "I promise. Alright?"
She gives the smallest of nods. "Alright."
He forces himself to move, ungluing his feet from the ground, before turning around. He senses Olivia's gaze on him as he walks away from her, the back of his neck tingling, the sensation quickly spreading through every inch of him.
The first domino has already fallen.
TBC...
A/N: I plan on exploring most episodes at least up to Jacksonville (skipping a couple), changing things a bit since in this version, they're going to be more…uhm, handsy? How it will impact some of the bigger plot points…only time will tell. Rating will go up.