A/N: This takes place after 2x10 'Grey Matters'. Both Peter and Olivia struggle a bit in the aftermath of what happened with Newton.
GRAVITY
CHAPTER FOUR
There used to be a time when the simple act of cleaning and reassembling her gun would help clear her mind to some extent. Olivia long ago learned the importance of taking good care of her firearm, and has made it a point to thoroughly scrub it afterward every time she fires it in the line of duty.
Her relationship with her gun has changed somewhat since her accident.
Even though her movements are back to being as swift and assured as they were before she came crashing through that windshield and hit the ground head first, the memory of how shaky her hands had been only weeks ago is seared into her brain, briefly overlapping her vision every time she handles her weapon, especially its magazine.
She's done with everything else, tonight, only needing to reload. It's missing two bullets, from the two shots she fired.
It should have been three.
You saved Doctor Bishop's life. That's something too, because despite what you think, you made a rational choice, not an emotional one.
Olivia wants to believe Broyles's words, but she's aware that the man's faith in her is a bit immoderate at times. She also suspects he's not above lying to her on occasion, when her spirits are particularly low.
Given her ever-growing list of failures these last few months, she cannot see another reason for his continued encouragement. As she reminded him after the whole Laston-Hennings Cryonics debacle, she'd been pulled to another universe to be warned about Newton, to stop him from opening a door between their worlds.
But the more she tries stopping him, the further Newton gets from her, always two steps ahead, gaining ground and information at a pace she cannot keep up with, stumbling every step of the way, bending under pressure.
For the first time in weeks, her fingers shake a little as she inserts the two missing bullets into the magazine, too aware of their weight against her fingertips, of the fact that one of those should be lodged into Newton's skull, the way she'd lodged one into Charlie's.
Olivia finishes reassembling her gun with a few decisive clicks, before putting it away. Within moments, she's heading for the kitchen, going straight for her glass cabinet. She grabs her whiskey bottle, next, which she'd never put away the last time she used it. She'd wanted to do that from the moment she entered her apartment, only stopping herself because she was reluctant to indulge yet again in this vice of hers.
Now I know how weak you are.
The drink she pours herself is too generous, but she's past caring. Heavy glass in hand, she's about to leave the kitchen when her eyes fall on her discarded phone, on the counter. The screen is cracked, a result of Newton carelessly dropping it to the ground after hanging up on her, earlier today.
The device might actually be more damaged than she initially thought, only now seeing a couple of notifications, a missed call and a text message. Even through the cracks in the screen, she sees that both are from Peter.
Nothing urgent, his text reads, which he'd sent five minutes after the missed call, more than an hour ago. I'll see you in the morning.
He would indeed see her in the morning, in less than twelve hours at this point—unless new horrors sprang again in the middle of the night, as they often do. Despite his reassurance that the call wasn't about anything urgent, she's already grabbed her landline phone, pressing the third number.
As she waits for him to pick up, she carefully sits on her couch with her glass, although she's yet to take a sip from it. Somehow, drinking whiskey when she's about to talk to Peter feels a little too on the nose.
"You didn't have to call back," he says in way of greeting. "For a moment there, I actually thought you might be sleeping."
Against all hopes, Olivia feels herself smiling a little. She almost replies something just as cheeky, only to find that she doesn't have it in her to banter, right now.
"Sorry to disappoint," is all she manages, not trying to conceal the weariness from her voice. "I'm not even gonna ask why you're not sleeping."
Even through the phone, she can hear music playing in the background on his side of the line.
"Yeah, that's not happening any time soon, if it all, tonight," he says, just as wearily.
She hears something else, then, some buzzing further in the distance.
"Is Walter…baking?" she deduces from the noise.
"Describing what he's doing as 'baking' would be pushing it. He's got ingredients, and he's plugged in most of the appliances we own, but it's…well. Chaotic is one word for it. I offered to help, but after getting snapped at three times in less than five minutes, I started feeling like I was ten again, so I retreated. I've now taken refuge in the stairs, and all I can do is hope for the best."
She easily pictures him sitting in the middle of that staircase, a spot she guesses he chose because it's further away from the kitchen and its many noises, while being close enough for him to leap into action at a moment's notice.
"That bad, uh?" she asks quietly as she distractedly puts her glass down on her coffee table without drinking from it, sitting more comfortably on her couch, tucking her legs under her.
"He's…frazzled and crazed." Peter's voice is lower, strained with fatigue. "Too many drugs in his system today, not to mention poisonous neurotoxins and antidotes. Whatever they did to him with those missing pieces of brain tissue also seem to have unearthed a side of him I did not exactly miss. I'm sure it's temporary, once his brain 'heals' itself again, but overall, he's not that pleasant to be around right now."
From what I know of your father, going crazy made him a better person. It certainly made him a better father.
Silence stretches on the line as Olivia remembers her own words, which she'd said to him earlier today in an attempt to soothe him and his guilt.
Although it's not really silence, of course; on top of the music and the buzzing, loud tapping has joined the mix.
She sees Peter as he must be, sitting alone on those steps, feeling as tired as she feels, maybe even as conflicted, even if it's not for the same reasons. She's beating herself up for letting Newton go, while Peter seems to be struggling with a version of Walter he spent years despising, maybe even fearing, no matter how relieved she knows him to be about his father surviving today's ordeal.
Her next words slip out before she can think them through.
"Do you want some company?"
She feels herself blushing, glad that he cannot see her—although she gets the feeling he can, the way she knows he's smiling before she hears it in his voice.
"Are you offering to willingly come suffer Walter's wrath with me, at 10:30 pm?"
This isn't exactly what she's offering, something else she suspects he knows, her face burning, now.
"Well, you know," she says, trying to sound casual. "Today just wasn't exciting enough."
He lets out a tired, soundless chuckle, still not declining her offer.
Olivia would never have suggested this a month ago. Just last night, she suspects he would have immediately declined, too. But today has been hell, for both of them. As far as she's concerned, Olivia is dreading the hours ahead, the voices in her head always louder in the thick of night, when they've already been so deafening, tonight.
"You really don't have to," he says quietly, which almost sounds like a yes to her. "It is late."
It is, yet she doesn't care, not really.
She's offering to join him in part because of that choice she made today, when she'd let Newton go and run back to him and Walter, swayed by the sheer panic in Peter's voice as he begged her to help him.
I chose my friend over my responsibility.
She hadn't meant Walter.
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
…
By the time Olivia arrives, Walter's vinyl is playing for the fourth time in a row, the music blasting through their kitchen.
Aware that he would probably not hear her knocking, Peter had told her to just help herself in, only now made aware of her presence by the familiar tingles that prickle at the back of his neck.
He turns to find her standing just outside the kitchen, looking all kinds of unsure—and very much like someone who left their home after 10:30 at night, her hair down and a little unkempt. From what he can see of her, most of her body concealed in the coat she's wearing, she's in jeans for once. He suspects she's not wearing her typical work blouse under there either.
Peter forces himself not to bluntly stare, giving her a smile he hopes is reassuring instead. He knows he can't hide how tired he is, but his gratitude for her presence alone is real, already feeling better just at the sight of her.
Walter hasn't noticed her at all. He's in front of the stand mixer, the way he's been for the past five minutes, both hands pressed to the bowl as the device mixes a concoction that is beyond salvageable. His eyes are closed, loudly humming the song currently playing through the kitchen.
It's the calmest he's been in over two hours.
Not wanting to risk triggering another mood swing, Peter carefully extracts a couple of beers from the fridge before looking back at Olivia, who's been watching his movements from the doorway, her lips slightly pursed. He tilts his head towards the living room without a word, soon leaving his father to his hypnotic humming.
He bypasses Walter's open bed, going back to his perch in the middle of the staircase, sitting sideways on one of the steps to lean against the wall. Olivia has followed his lead, for once, and she mirrors him, only a couple of steps down from him. She's still wearing her coat, although she's opened the buttons, revealing the dark blue hoodie she's wearing underneath.
Peter quickly looks away, somewhat too aware of how close they are to his bedroom.
"I feel like I should apologize for how rustic this is," he says as he skillfully pops the cap off one of the beers with his bare hand, before handing it to her. "But to be fair, you knew what you were getting yourself into."
Olivia accepts the bottle, a small smile on her lips, not quite meeting his eyes. It's the first time they drink together since 'that night', a few weeks back, but he figured this is safe enough.
This is beer, not whiskey.
"Still fancier than your old hotel room," she easily responds while he opens his own beer.
He's already smiling more than he has in hours, so genuinely appeased by her presence that he feels daring enough to say what he says next.
Or maybe he's just very, very tired.
"I'll drink to that," is what he says, holding out his beer in her direction.
Olivia looks up at him from her step, the memory of the last time they toasted together definitely hanging in the air, now. The light is too dimmed in the staircase for him to see every detail, but he's pretty confident she's blushing a little, not a sight he ever dislikes.
Never one to leave him hanging when it comes to a dare, Olivia holds up her beer, and lets their bottles clink, their gazes locked in another kind of dare. She doesn't avert her eyes as she takes her first sip, and not exactly for the first time, Peter wonders if she's aware of just how much she affects him.
He loses that round, looking away before he does something stupid, taking a long sip from his beer.
"What's he listening to?" Olivia asks after at least a full minute of what would have been a rather charged 'silence', had music not been playing loudly through the house.
"Violet Sedan Chair," he says, looking back at her. He's not surprised by her little frown. "You wouldn't have heard of them. This is their one and only album. Walter used to be absolutely obsessed with them when I was a kid. One of his tantrums tonight actually started when he realized Astrid had failed to bring him this album from the lab, due to the fact that he was kidnapped, which somehow distracted us all a bit."
He spares her the details about how properly vile Walter had gotten about it, which had triggered some rather unpleasant flashbacks from his childhood. That's when he'd actually tried calling her, to ask if she could go get the album for him—which was also the perfect excuse for him to see her, and get some kind of break from all this. When the call had gone to voicemail, he'd not insisted, sending her that quick text instead.
Peter had called Astrid, in the end, forced to accept that his father would not calm down until he had his music. As always, their friend had been a sweetheart about it, making the trip to the lab then their house in under twenty minutes.
One seething glare from Walter had been enough to make her run back to her car, not without giving Peter a look full of sympathy.
The back of his neck tingling again, Peter looks down at Olivia, meeting her eyes. Although she doesn't say anything, he sees the concern in her eyes.
"I'm fine," he tells her, sounding as tired as he feels, but he means it. "I wanted my father, now I've got my father. Which apparently falls into the category of, 'be careful what you wish for'."
Olivia's lips stretch in the shadow of a smile at this callback, which feels like it happened years ago to him.
"So I've been told," she replies quietly.
Already, her eyes are getting distant and vacant, her small smile faltering as she gets lost in thoughts; from the look of it, they are not the good kind.
Peter has been so focused on his father today that he barely had time to think about how she must be coping with everything that happened. He remembers how driven she'd been from the moment they realized Newton was behind the events they were investigating.
Olivia had done what she always does, taking on the blame for everything, thinking herself solely responsible for those shapeshifters bringing Newton back to…'life'.
Try as he might, Peter cannot regret begging her to come back and help him save Walter, even if it led to Newton slipping away again, adding to her already heavy burden. No matter how unpleasant Walter has been tonight, Peter would rather have him throwing tantrums in their kitchen than have him lying dead in a morgue.
That is an extremely selfish thought to have, though. Even for him, who's been known to get quite self-centered—not unlike his father.
"I'm sorry," he says, causing Olivia to blink, turning her head to look at him. "I'm sorry Newton forced you to make that choice, today."
She's already averting her eyes again, tilting her head away with pursed lips. She gives a stiff shrug of her shoulder, but he's not fooled one second by her attempt at dismissing this. There might not be much light in that staircase, the guilt in her eyes is unmistakable.
"You saved Walter's life, Olivia," he reminds her, emphatically, and she nods her head, too fast, her face scrunching up in the kind of frustration that is once again directed towards herself.
"I know," she says, her voice a bit hoarse. "And I don't regret doing it. But I just—"
She stops, shaking her head a little again, staring at the bottle in her hand, Peter sensing the conflict oozing out of her in distressed waves.
"What is it?" he asks, just loud enough to be heard over the music.
He doesn't really expect her to share what's weighing her down even more than usual. All he can do is offer to listen.
Almost a full minute goes by, her features still twisted in distress, before she speaks again.
"He told me I was weak."
She says it to her bottle, so quietly that Peter only hears her words because he's straining his ears, like the rest of his senses, solely focused on her.
He doesn't have to ask who said that, or what it meant, a surge of hatred flooding his insides at the thought of Newton and his mind game. That information alone tells him just how smart their enemy is, and how much of a threat he's turning out to be.
Newton was only in Olivia's presence for a couple of minutes, yet he's already found her pressure points, hitting her where it hurts, where it would inflict the most damage.
Peter breathes through his anger, quickly pushing it away. The last thing Olivia needs right now is another unhinged Bishop.
He barely hesitates before moving, slipping down to be closer to her, until he's sitting on that one step that has been separating them. The stairs are much too narrow, causing their sides to be pressed together, not that Peter actually minds.
He's seeking closeness right now.
She tenses at the sudden increase in their proximity, feeling that tension where their bodies are squished together, but she makes no attempt to get away from him. Despite the conflict still written all over her face, her cheeks definitely pinker now, he suspects she desperately needs this comfort he's once again trying to give her.
"Olivia…" he calls her out quietly after another minute of 'silence', opposing a small pressure against her shoulder, nudging her.
A few more seconds pass before she dares turn her head to look up at him, still slightly below him despite their proximity. She's trying to keep some kind of brave face on, but it's quickly crumbling under his stare.
"If there is one word that will never describe you, it's weak," Peter tells her, quietly, yet adamantly.
She's anything but convinced, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. "He's right, though. I let him get away. I knew how dangerous he is, and I let him go."
"He knew exactly what he was doing, too, by poisoning Walter," he reminds her. "And by saying those things to you. He's messing with your head, because he knows you're the biggest threat to his operation. Don't give him the satisfaction of letting him get to you."
She turns her head away, lips pursed in pained disapproval, all of it still directed toward herself.
Peter doesn't really think his next move through, past being entirely rational, not with her body pressed to his, close enough for her scent to have invaded his lungs and head again.
He reaches out for her face, until his fingertips are brushing her jaw, pressing gently so she will turn her head again. He feels the shiver that runs beneath her skin at his touch, Olivia soon responding to his silent call to look at him, their eyes locking.
"My father is still alive, because you made the choice you made." His hand has moved, lightly cupping her flushed cheek, his thumb trailing the freckles peppered upon her skin. "Thank you."
When he slowly leans in, and down, he knows from the way she sucks in a breath that she thinks he's going for a kiss. He's not; not really. His lips brush her other cheek instead, and the kiss he does give her, he presses it to her warm skin, lingering there.
"Thank you," he whispers again, now pressing his nose to her cheekbone, keeping her close with that hand on her cheek, and her next quivery exhale burns the side of his face.
He's aware that he crossed more lines by doing this, but there is only so much he can bear when she's so close to him, hurting.
He's never met anyone like her, and it might honestly kill him someday, to watch her have so little faith in herself, so little compassion, when she has so much of it for everyone else in this goddamn universe.
He pulls away just as slowly, but decidedly, having only meant to thank her. He knows the moment their eyes meet again that it won't be enough for him, though.
Not when the darkening look in her eyes tells him it's not enough for her.
Already, Olivia is the one leaning in, their faces still close enough to only have inches to cross. Within half a second, her warm breath is rushing close to his lips as her free hand reaches up, disappearing in his hair. When her fingers tighten on it, clutching, his body breaks into shivers. She tugs, and she pulls, capturing his mouth into a kiss that is anything but hesitant.
The next few moments are an amalgam of hot breaths, tingling lips and impatient hands, making do with the odd angle they're in, still half-sitting on the narrow stairs. Somehow, both his hands find their way into her hair, barely acknowledging the cold sensation spreading over his lap, having undoubtedly spilled his beer and not giving a damn. Because he's got her pinned against the wall, scorching mouths open, seeking…finding…claiming, only aware of the music in the house now from the way the bass pulses through his bones, following the cadence of it as he kisses her deep, until she's pulsing through him, too, his insides on fire.
Olivia feels dizzy, never quite managing to get the right amount of air in and out of her lungs every time their mouths separate long enough for her to exhale or suck in a breath. And yet, she doesn't really care about oxygen at the moment, caring a lot more about Peter, and the sizzling sensations he's inducing in her, racing through her nervous system. He seems intent on making her merge with that wall she's pinned against, and she can't say she minds, the tight feel of him as dizzying as her lack of air.
Heat rushes, gathers and tugs, somewhere deep, somewhere low, as affected by the yearning in his kiss as she is by the way he groans, low in his throat, whenever her nails scratch his scalp, not quite able to hear those sounds over the thumping in her ears, swallowed up by the music as much as by her lips, but she feels them vibrating out of him.
They both hear the very loud CRASH that suddenly comes from the kitchen, though, interrupted yet again, as they always seem to be.
Peter is much more reactive than her, which is a bit shameful, considering she's the trained federal agent, but she suspects part of him is always ready for something to happen when it comes to Walter.
Walter, who is now cursing extremely loudly, sounding like he's in some kind of rage, possibly throwing utensils around. Already, Peter has extracted himself from her, half-stumbling down the stairs.
He looks as dazed as she feels, his hazy eyes finding hers, equally out of breath. His hair is a disheveled mess, and she's pretty sure it's beer dripping all over him.
"Please don't run off," he asks, his voice hoarse.
She barely manages a groggy nod that he's dashing to the kitchen to deal with Walter's latest outburst.
For at least a full minute, Olivia doesn't move much at all, sitting there on the steps, a hand up to her hair as she works on slowing her breathing. She's much too hot in her coat, her face still burning, the rest of her body hardly better. The heady smell of spilled beer makes her head spin a little again as she listens to father and son in the kitchen, not really able to decipher anything at all, the sound of their voices muffled by the music.
As the thick haze of lust starts to ebb, allowing for rationality to sneak back, Olivia has to resist the urge to get up and run indeed, only staying put because she told Peter she would.
While what happened a month or so ago was foolish, it had been at least somewhat excusable. What she did tonight is just foolish, not even able to blame the alcohol for it, having barely had more than a sip of beer each, the rest of it currently soaking her coat and dripping down the stairs.
It's not like she'd never let herself be overtaken by her desire for someone else. It didn't happen often, even before all this, even before John, but like so many people, everywhere, every day, she's never been immune to the rush of it, to the intoxicating array of sensations it made her feel. In her case, she's always been particularly appreciative of the way it essentially shuts down her brain for a little while, giving her some respite from her tendency to overthink everything.
And it's so easy, to rationalize this all over again.
She's exhausted and vulnerable, just as she was the last time. It's also been a long time since she's done any of this, her body aching for touch, for connection, for pleasure. And Peter…
Peter is an aching temptation, so unwavering in both his support and the way he clearly wants her, too.
Just from the way they'd kissed and how it seems to have awakened every last inch of her, only craving for more now, more of his touch and more of his smell and more of his skin, she knows how well they would fit as lovers, in every way that matters, and part of her longs to confirm it.
She forces herself to get up instead, feeling flushed all over again, pitifully grabbing their discarded bottles and setting them upright on one of the steps, not really able to do anything about the rest of the mess.
What she can do, however, is make sure she doesn't mess up the rest of her life again by letting her body ruin what has been the most genuine and meaningful friendship she's had in years. Already, her anxiety and shame regarding Newton and everything it entails has resurfaced and taken over, all too aware that things are only going to get worse.
She's self-aware enough to realize she needs Peter by her side, as selfishly as someone can need another person. She cannot stand the thought of risking ruining things between them for the sake of what…hormones?
If anything else, Walter's untimely outburst also serves as a reminder that this is way more complicated than just the two of them. Peter's father is part of the unit, one way or another, a definite complication—something Olivia might never dare say out loud.
She feels for Peter right now, she really does, having to care for Walter the way one would care for their child, except that in this case, the child is an elderly, arrogant genius with literal brain damage.
Olivia doesn't know how she would fit in that equation, if being part of it is even an option, not entirely sure that she could or should be. Although they never mention it unless cornered into doing it, she has not forgotten the fact that Walter conducted experiments on her when she was three.
All of these thoughts make sense, too, and she focuses on them as she waits by the front door, paying a little more attention to what's going on in the other room. From what she can hear—or no longer hear—Walter seems to have settled down again, at least to some degree.
When Peter eventually emerges from the kitchen, he seems to be dragging himself forward more than walking, as if exhaustion was pulling on every single one of his bones, a matching look etched on his face.
And just like that, rationality suddenly seems futile and irrelevant, compared to the ache in her chest at the tired sight of him, different from all these other aches.
This one makes her want to walk to him and wrap her arms around him, just as he would wrap himself around her, only wanting to hold him, and to let him hold her.
Olivia pushes the urge down.
She can't let herself be weak again.
By the time Peter comes to a stop in the foyer, a safe distance away from her, the resigned look on his face tells her he's deduced enough from the way she's holding herself to know what she's going to say—or not say.
She opens her mouth, but no word comes out. Her heart, which had slowed down during her time alone, has already sped up again at his mere return.
"I know," Peter says, coming to her rescue as he always does, his soft, tired voice barely audible over Violet Sedan Chair, continually blasting away without a care for what's going on between them. "Still not our smartest move."
Olivia purses her lips, unable to hold his gaze, chin dropping to her chest as she sways a little on the spot, giving a small shake of her head. One thing for sure, she is not proud of herself for leading him on like that.
He might be patient and understanding, he is only human, as human as she is, and she's afraid she's quickly pushing him to his limits.
"Can we at least agree to skip the part where you pretend not to be avoiding me for a couple of weeks?"
Although there is the faintest trace of humor in his words, he mostly sounds weary. And yet, when she forces herself to meet his eyes, all she sees is that same understanding. That, and warmth.
Always so much warmth.
"I can work on that," she says with a sharp tilt of her head, her voice too thick.
When he simply stands there, afterward, actually shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans as if in restraint, Olivia knows she will have to see herself out.
Just as she knows that if Peter were to move closer to open the door for her, she might just let that pull win again. Let him press her to that door the way he'd pressed her to the wall.
They've always been good at communicating without words, and right now, eyes locked, unblinking, they are saying quite a lot without saying anything at all.
Olivia forces herself to break eye contact and to open the goddamn door, letting a rush of cold night air in, prickling against the heated skin of her face. She dares another glance his way, even opening her mouth again, without success.
Peter doesn't come to her rescue this time, simply holding her gaze.
His stare follows her out, and all the way home.