Fringe fic: Okay
Okay
Peter/Olivia | PG | 1,300 words | Set before 3x04, "Do Shapeshifters Dream of Electric Sheep"
Written for my kissbingo table, prompt "face: forehead." Thank you to musesfool for the beta.
Peter considers himself a fairly easygoing guy, acquainted with the ways the world (more than one, even) can screw you over, but he tries not to linger on the unfairness of it all. You might as well enjoy what you can while you can.
But he's getting pretty sick and tired of getting knocked out or drugged or mind-whammied or held at gunpoint, tied up or strapped down, waking up in the rank chill of a warehouse or a basement or some dingy rent-by-the hour room or a clean place with elite medical equipment shining under the fluorescence because some wacko decided yet again Peter's brain is there for the plundering. Yeah, and he'll skip the part where Walter seems a bit too eager sometimes to stick electrodes to his temples or put a nest of metal wires over his head, because that's completely, totally different. That's not the same at all as getting kidnapped every other week (like Walter kidnapped you -- no, not the same thing).
Maybe the every other week thing is an exaggeration. Every other month, at least.
There's a metallic, sour taste in the back of his throat, duct tape holding his wrists against the vinyl arms of a chair. The unyielding nature of the surface beneath the soles of his shoes means concrete.
Peter's head is too heavy, as are his eyelids. Hot annoyance goes through him, at the very fact that he's been drugged (yet again, although this is only the first time since he's been back from the Other Side so maybe the count starts over fresh), and because being drugged is so damned uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and inconvenient, considering that he's duct taped to a chair, which never means anything good, and that he needs to get out of there.
His vision's a little blurry, but the pale squares of windows emerge, high up near the ceiling, the quality of the light washed out and dirty, probably because the glass is covered with grime. The fluorescent lights hanging from chains over his head were probably installed before Peter was even born, the bulbs dark.
The someones who shoved him into the van don't seem to be anywhere nearby, although they could be in another room and might hear if he makes too much noise trying to escape. It seems unlikely they'd leave him unguarded but maybe they thought he was so zonked out of his mind that he posed no escape risk. The thought isn't encouraging. His head hurts, the ache in rhythm with his pulse, and he swallows a few times against the sour taste in his mouth while his vision clears further.
He pulls against the duct tape, which stretches but doesn't tear. He gives it another go, tugging until his biceps and lower arms hurt from the strain. It's just tape for god's sake, he should be able to tear it. Well, it's duct tape, and everyone knows duct tape is its own miracle of science, but still.
He tries a third time and the room starts to spin.
"You need to find something to cut it with," Olivia says.
Peter blinks. The room stops spinning.
"Hi." Olivia gives him one of her little half-smiles. Her arms are folded as she looks down at him, feet apart in a ready stance.
"Olivia," he says, and exhales with relief.
The navy slacks and jacket she's wearing, the crisp white shirt, are out of place against the grime. Her smile vanishes into a tight expression of worry, crease forming between her eyes. "Peter, you have to get out of here before they come back."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
She moves closer to him. "Don't go to sleep."
"I'm not planning to."
Olivia kneels in front of him, hands covering his and she looks at him so intently, with a note of reproach, that he gets it. "Oh," he says, his heart going a little faster with disappointment. "You aren't actually here."
She shakes her head.
"So I'm hallucinating?"
Her fingers are warm on the back of his hands. "I'm really sorry." Her voice has that catch in it, the one he had to learn to listen for.
"Not your fault. It's my hallucination."
"Peter." She draws in a slow breath, ponytail falling smoothly over her shoulder as she leans in. "You know I'd get you out of here in a second, you know that, right? If I could?"
"Always," he says. "If you were really here."
"Right."
Olivia's going to be there, probably any minute now, gun drawn and yelling orders; Peter figures this is his brain giving him the preview.
"What if she doesn't get here on time?" Still with that intentness, like every cell of her body hinges on getting him to hear what she's saying. She ducks her head a fraction. "She's not me."
There's a scratching noise from behind him. The chair legs scrape against the concrete as Peter jerks.
"Easy," Olivia says, her hands moving off of him. She stands up in a fluid, slow straightening of her body, gun aimed over Peter's shoulder.
Her shoulders tense, then release as she lowers the gun.
"What is it?" He tries to turn.
"A rat. It's running off that way." She jerks her head. "It's gone."
"So if I'm dreaming, or hallucinating, or whatever, is there actually a rat? Or did my brain make up the fact that you saved me from a rodent? Did I dream the rat?" He probably sounds kind of stoned -- maybe he is stoned. Peter has no idea what was in that syringe.
Olivia's looking at him like she isn't quite sure what to do with him. "Listen to me. Listen. You can't sleep. You have to wake up and get out of here."
"Yeah, I know, I tried."
"Try harder." The words snap out of her, clear as clean glass. "Find a sharp edge. Do whatever you have to do." She's kneeling again, the gun back in the holster. "Peter. Don't sleep." Her hands go up, palms on either side of his face, her skin roughened in places, soft in others. "Find an edge and cut yourself free and get out of here." Her eyes are level with his and he feels a flash of something that's almost like homesickness, a hollow spot in the middle of his chest because he hasn't seen her. Not since he got back from The Other Side, even though he just left her not three hours ago, a little too quick to smile and a little removed in ways this Olivia never was. Their eyes aren't quite the same.
"Wake up." Her lips press against his forehead and she says the words against his skin. "Wake up, Peter. Please."
He blinks and he's alone.
Peter has the feeling he might've blacked out there for a moment. The traces of words, fingers against his skin, ghost at the back of his mind.
No more passing out, he can't afford that. The thing to do is to find something sharp he can use to cut himself free. Over there, under the row of windows to his left, shards of glass cover the floor. He missed them earlier because they've been there so long they're covered in a film of dust, almost invisible in this dim light.
Leaning forward, he plants his feet firmly on the ground and pushes until he's hunched over with the chair off the ground. Christ, that hurts. He also feels a little dizzy still. Peter walks one step at a time over to the glass, thumps the chair back down.
Oh, he so doesn't want to do this.
Find a sharp edge.
He takes a deep breath and lurches his body hard to the side. The chair tips, finally, bringing him down hard on his shoulder. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then scooches himself across the floor until he can grab a piece of glass.
It doesn't take long to work himself free. He spots a guy wearing a black leather jacket in another room. He's talking on a cell phone, gesturing with his gun -- hired muscle, Peter guesses. Moving at a crouch, he goes deeper into the warehouse, finds a door, gets outside, the daylight sending another stab of pain through his head, and finds a payphone three blocks away (the bastards took his cell, of course).
He calls Olivia, who says "I'll be right there," relief firm in her voice.
Peter waits in a tiny roadside diner, drinking hot coffee, trying to get his hands to stop shaking. He puts his fingers to his forehead, thinking he feels lingering warmth there.
~end
Peter/Olivia | PG | 1,300 words | Set before 3x04, "Do Shapeshifters Dream of Electric Sheep"
Written for my kissbingo table, prompt "face: forehead." Thank you to musesfool for the beta.
Peter considers himself a fairly easygoing guy, acquainted with the ways the world (more than one, even) can screw you over, but he tries not to linger on the unfairness of it all. You might as well enjoy what you can while you can.
But he's getting pretty sick and tired of getting knocked out or drugged or mind-whammied or held at gunpoint, tied up or strapped down, waking up in the rank chill of a warehouse or a basement or some dingy rent-by-the hour room or a clean place with elite medical equipment shining under the fluorescence because some wacko decided yet again Peter's brain is there for the plundering. Yeah, and he'll skip the part where Walter seems a bit too eager sometimes to stick electrodes to his temples or put a nest of metal wires over his head, because that's completely, totally different. That's not the same at all as getting kidnapped every other week (like Walter kidnapped you -- no, not the same thing).
Maybe the every other week thing is an exaggeration. Every other month, at least.
There's a metallic, sour taste in the back of his throat, duct tape holding his wrists against the vinyl arms of a chair. The unyielding nature of the surface beneath the soles of his shoes means concrete.
Peter's head is too heavy, as are his eyelids. Hot annoyance goes through him, at the very fact that he's been drugged (yet again, although this is only the first time since he's been back from the Other Side so maybe the count starts over fresh), and because being drugged is so damned uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and inconvenient, considering that he's duct taped to a chair, which never means anything good, and that he needs to get out of there.
His vision's a little blurry, but the pale squares of windows emerge, high up near the ceiling, the quality of the light washed out and dirty, probably because the glass is covered with grime. The fluorescent lights hanging from chains over his head were probably installed before Peter was even born, the bulbs dark.
The someones who shoved him into the van don't seem to be anywhere nearby, although they could be in another room and might hear if he makes too much noise trying to escape. It seems unlikely they'd leave him unguarded but maybe they thought he was so zonked out of his mind that he posed no escape risk. The thought isn't encouraging. His head hurts, the ache in rhythm with his pulse, and he swallows a few times against the sour taste in his mouth while his vision clears further.
He pulls against the duct tape, which stretches but doesn't tear. He gives it another go, tugging until his biceps and lower arms hurt from the strain. It's just tape for god's sake, he should be able to tear it. Well, it's duct tape, and everyone knows duct tape is its own miracle of science, but still.
He tries a third time and the room starts to spin.
"You need to find something to cut it with," Olivia says.
Peter blinks. The room stops spinning.
"Hi." Olivia gives him one of her little half-smiles. Her arms are folded as she looks down at him, feet apart in a ready stance.
"Olivia," he says, and exhales with relief.
The navy slacks and jacket she's wearing, the crisp white shirt, are out of place against the grime. Her smile vanishes into a tight expression of worry, crease forming between her eyes. "Peter, you have to get out of here before they come back."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
She moves closer to him. "Don't go to sleep."
"I'm not planning to."
Olivia kneels in front of him, hands covering his and she looks at him so intently, with a note of reproach, that he gets it. "Oh," he says, his heart going a little faster with disappointment. "You aren't actually here."
She shakes her head.
"So I'm hallucinating?"
Her fingers are warm on the back of his hands. "I'm really sorry." Her voice has that catch in it, the one he had to learn to listen for.
"Not your fault. It's my hallucination."
"Peter." She draws in a slow breath, ponytail falling smoothly over her shoulder as she leans in. "You know I'd get you out of here in a second, you know that, right? If I could?"
"Always," he says. "If you were really here."
"Right."
Olivia's going to be there, probably any minute now, gun drawn and yelling orders; Peter figures this is his brain giving him the preview.
"What if she doesn't get here on time?" Still with that intentness, like every cell of her body hinges on getting him to hear what she's saying. She ducks her head a fraction. "She's not me."
There's a scratching noise from behind him. The chair legs scrape against the concrete as Peter jerks.
"Easy," Olivia says, her hands moving off of him. She stands up in a fluid, slow straightening of her body, gun aimed over Peter's shoulder.
Her shoulders tense, then release as she lowers the gun.
"What is it?" He tries to turn.
"A rat. It's running off that way." She jerks her head. "It's gone."
"So if I'm dreaming, or hallucinating, or whatever, is there actually a rat? Or did my brain make up the fact that you saved me from a rodent? Did I dream the rat?" He probably sounds kind of stoned -- maybe he is stoned. Peter has no idea what was in that syringe.
Olivia's looking at him like she isn't quite sure what to do with him. "Listen to me. Listen. You can't sleep. You have to wake up and get out of here."
"Yeah, I know, I tried."
"Try harder." The words snap out of her, clear as clean glass. "Find a sharp edge. Do whatever you have to do." She's kneeling again, the gun back in the holster. "Peter. Don't sleep." Her hands go up, palms on either side of his face, her skin roughened in places, soft in others. "Find an edge and cut yourself free and get out of here." Her eyes are level with his and he feels a flash of something that's almost like homesickness, a hollow spot in the middle of his chest because he hasn't seen her. Not since he got back from The Other Side, even though he just left her not three hours ago, a little too quick to smile and a little removed in ways this Olivia never was. Their eyes aren't quite the same.
"Wake up." Her lips press against his forehead and she says the words against his skin. "Wake up, Peter. Please."
He blinks and he's alone.
Peter has the feeling he might've blacked out there for a moment. The traces of words, fingers against his skin, ghost at the back of his mind.
No more passing out, he can't afford that. The thing to do is to find something sharp he can use to cut himself free. Over there, under the row of windows to his left, shards of glass cover the floor. He missed them earlier because they've been there so long they're covered in a film of dust, almost invisible in this dim light.
Leaning forward, he plants his feet firmly on the ground and pushes until he's hunched over with the chair off the ground. Christ, that hurts. He also feels a little dizzy still. Peter walks one step at a time over to the glass, thumps the chair back down.
Oh, he so doesn't want to do this.
Find a sharp edge.
He takes a deep breath and lurches his body hard to the side. The chair tips, finally, bringing him down hard on his shoulder. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then scooches himself across the floor until he can grab a piece of glass.
It doesn't take long to work himself free. He spots a guy wearing a black leather jacket in another room. He's talking on a cell phone, gesturing with his gun -- hired muscle, Peter guesses. Moving at a crouch, he goes deeper into the warehouse, finds a door, gets outside, the daylight sending another stab of pain through his head, and finds a payphone three blocks away (the bastards took his cell, of course).
He calls Olivia, who says "I'll be right there," relief firm in her voice.
Peter waits in a tiny roadside diner, drinking hot coffee, trying to get his hands to stop shaking. He puts his fingers to his forehead, thinking he feels lingering warmth there.
~end