Olivia/Peter fanfic (post-Finale): In Reverse (parts IV to VI)
A/N: I'm posting part IV, V and VI :)
Previous parts: I. // II. // III.
IN REVERSE
IV.
Peter closes the microwave's door a little too forcefully, making the entire house shake as Olivia would say. He can immediately hear her voice in his head.
'Could you stop blowing off steam on the appliances? We already had to replace the dishwasher last month because you keep on using your feet rather than your hand to close it.'
But since she's not here at the moment and that is precisely the reason why he's being a little too rough, he ignores that wise voice and tap the buttons just as harshly. It's late, he's hungry, and another glance at his cell phone on the counter tells him that she hasn't sent him anything. Her last text he's received over twenty minutes now was saying 'Be home in 5'. Of course in Olivia's workaholic mind, five minutes often turns into twenty. Or forty. And he's used to it, used to ordering dinner and having to reheat it an hour later when she finally arrives.
Except that today isn't a good day. It never is, never will be, and she knows it.
Yet, she's late.
As he starts pouring another box of cold Chinese food into a dish, next on the line to go into the microwave, he tries and forces himself to calm down, perfectly aware of the fact that his irritation is pointless, and that Olivia isn't doing this on purpose. She knows what day it is, and it isn't her fault if she had this big meeting all day in Philadelphia. But when he's irritated, he gets very self-centered, and when gets self-centered, he likes to have his wife around.
Great. Now he sounds like a male chauvinist even to his inner self.
Before his mood can deteriorate even more, he hears the front door open behind him, along with the sound of her voice, and he turns around to see her come in, arms full with files, earpiece on, in the middle of a conversation.
"…tine's day's in three days, if he wanted to be romantic, he would take you out to a fancy restaurant."
He watches as she skillfully gets rid of her right heel with the help of her other foot, sending it flying on the side, clunck, causing her to lose a few inches in height and still managing to keep her balance even with her arms full as they are. She quickly does the same with her other shoe, clunk, and he can't help but clench his teeth a little, knowing that he will be the one picking them up later.
"I'm not being pessimistic sweetie, I'm being realistic," she continues, now dropping the pile of files on the coffee table, before starting to unbutton her jacket.
Doing so, she finally turns around to face him, offering him a sweet, teasing smile. Despite his bad mood, he's powerless when it comes to her smile and can't help but give her a small smile of his own.
"Listen, all I'm saying is that receiving that kind of message at that time of day has 'booty call' written at the end of it, in not so small letters."
As she drops her jacket on the couch, she makes a face, as if her interlocutor -who he's pretty sure is Ella- has just screamed in her ear. "What?"
She joins him in the kitchen, still focused on her conversation though, and he watches almost amused has she makes another face. "Excuse me? Ella Dunham, how old do you think I am, exactly?"
She faces him and shakes her head in disbelief. "What about having it?" She crinkles her nose, clearly amused by whatever reaction she's getting from her niece, and for the first time of the day, Peter relaxes a little, offering her a smile that is much more sincere. "Hey, you're the one who called me."
She comes closer to him and pushes herself up on her toes, obviously awaiting her greeting kiss, but before he can gives it to her, she moves her head away with an amused frown. "Since when am I the person to call when it comes to relationships?" She puts her hands on his chest, distractingly, before looking up at him again with a smirk. "Ah, but you know, most of the time, I think Peter and I are just a fluke." He gives her a kiss then, nipping slightly on her bottom lip to prove just how much of a fluke he is, and he feels her smile against his lips.
She forces herself to move away though, still listening to Ella; she dips a finger into the cold dish of boneless spare ribs, before bringing it up to her mouth to get the sweet sauce off her finger. "He knows. He heard me, he's standing right next to me." She licks her lips and looks at him again, her face breaking into another soft smile. "Yes, I'm pretty sure he still loves me."
He frowns, tilting his head from side to side as if unsure, and as he turns to the microwave to get the food out, she playfully slaps his shoulder. "Okay honey, gotta go, my man is starving. Do whatever you want, just be careful okay?" She chuckles. "I was talking about you not getting emotionally hurt, but that too, yes. Love you too, bye."
He turns around to put the bowl on the counter as she navigates around him to put the other dish in the microwave, setting the timer on. "Sorry it took me so long to get home, there was a collision on the way, the road was blocked and I had to take to the longer way."
"I figured," he lied, offering her a tight smile, before starting to pour some of the warm food on their plates.
Silence falls, the only sounds in the room being the buzzing microwave and his spoon scrapping the bowl. His tension is back, now, tensing almost every muscle in his body. And he knows what she is going to say even before she speaks behind him.
"Did you get the mail?"
Another spoonful of rice, cliiing. "Nope."
It is ridiculous of course, because he has only postponed the inevitable.
She doesn't add anything, and he keeps his eyes down as she makes her way out of the house again to go get it. And he stands there, now immobile, hearing the front door close again as she comes back in. Seconds later, she's sliding it on the counter in front of his eyes, just when the microwave goes off behind them.
Beeeep, beeeeep, beeeep.
He finds that sound ominous.
He doesn't look at her as his fingers grab it, and he tears the envelop open. He has learned through the years that it is better to do it fast, like ripping a band-aid off. It doesn't make it any easier, but at least that way he can go back faster to pretending nothing has happened.
And there it is, obnoxious and mocking.
As he stares at the number written in bold, his heart starts to pound against his ears, his chest constricting painfully. And the beats aren't just a thumping sound anymore, no, they are a raging scream, and the word they shout is the same, always the same.
killer…killer…killer…killer…KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER!
He rips it in half without even opening it. Rips it again. And again, until the paper is too thick for him to continue.
So he plunges his hand into the sink shredder and drops the pieces in there, and as soon as his fingers are out, he turns it on. The sound is loud and abhorrent. He keeps the shredder on, long after there is nothing left to be shred, and the appliance cringes and protests, and he thinks for a moment that he wouldn't mind putting his heart in there if it can make it stop. Make it all stop.
Olivia makes it stop.
Her fingers pushing his away gently, she switches it off. His ears keep on buzzing though, and his heart keeps on thumping. And he feels her body behind his, her lips on his shoulder.
He knows she wishes she could say something, do something. But they also both know there is nothing that can be done. She has tried every attitude, years after years, and it never really helps.
So she remains silent but here, her body warm against his back, her lips soft on the tensed muscles of his shoulder blade, and one of her arm comes around his waist to rest her palm upon his pounding heart.
"Come on…" she says softly against his shirt. "Let's eat."
And that is what they do.
(February 2026)
V.
Peter is stirred from deep sleep by some sort of stinging sensation on his ear.
As his mind becomes more focused, he realizes that what he feels are teeth nibbling his earlobe. And it's far from being the only thing he feels. There is the soft brush of her hair on his cheek tickling him, the definite presence of bare breasts pressed against his chest, and when he breathes deep, her warm scent invades his sleepy mind.
With a small growl, eyes still closed, he wraps his arms around her and rolls them over so that she's on her back again with him half lying on top of her, his face pressed hard into the crook of her neck. He could very well go back to sleep right there without ever knowing why she woke him up in the first place; her palms on his back make him feel safe, and her 'morning' scent is honestly his favorite fragrance. She smells so warm; she smells of dreams and home.
But she has other plans in mind.
"We have a problem," she whispers in his ear.
He really doesn't see what could be wrong right now. Actually, if they could stay like this all day (or week), he wouldn't mind at all.
"Mmmmwhat…" he mumbles against her skin as her fingers distractingly run over his back, making him shiver.
"Well, my inner clock and the fact that I am wide awake tell me that the sun should be rising right now but…look out the window."
He opens his eyes and raises his head to look at her, his mind still foggy, suddenly remembering where they are. He stretches his neck to look behind his shoulder at the large window.
Outside, the sky is still dark, way too dark, and the dim light permeating the room possesses this peculiar quality that he has always associated with rainy days.
He falls back against her with another growl, grumbling against her neck, and she chuckles softly, curling her fingers in his hair. "Didn't you check the weather before you planned this romantic escapade?"
He pulls away slightly so he can look at her; there isn't a lot of light, but his vision is adjusting already; besides, he knows her so well by now that he can pretty much draw out in his mind every expression she chooses to display just by the way she speaks or breathes. Kind of.
She's smiling softly, clearly amused, and he cannot resist a tender smile of his own. "I didcheck. I guess the weather really is unpredictable at this time of year. So much for our beautiful sunrise."
She scooches even closer to him, until every inch of their skin that can touch, touches. "It wasn't exactly a waste of time either," she whispers teasingly, before she turns her head slightly to look up. He mimics her, and their gazes meet in the mirror overhead.
His face breaks into a grin as they both remember quite clearly their late night activities, and his heart simply melts when she starts to blush, biting her lip, before she hides her face into his pillow. Even after all these years, he finds it incredibly endearing how she gets almost embarrassed every time she gets a little wild. And of course, he loves the fact that he manages to get that side out of her more often than not.
His fingers find her cheek, his index sliding under her chin to make her turn her face, tickling her slightly. She looks at him, smiling. He loves how young and care-free she looks during those fleeting moments when they don't care about what is out there, when they allow themselves to forget about the vortexes, about Amber Protocols, about the daily loses.
It is only the two of them, ridiculously enjoying each other like teenagers, instead of acting like the forty-something year old adults they really are. And to prove it to her and to himself, he captures her lips with his, then, his fingers finding their way into her hair to bring her face closer and give her the good morning kiss she deserves to get.
He loses track of time, loses track of everything that isn't her, her sweet lips and her soft skin, her sighs and her shivers, her body warmth and her scent, always her scent.
They ignore the world crumbling around them, and yet, he very well knows that this doomed life they are living is the reason why things are the way they are. He has heard that people get bored after a while, that marriage ruins relationships that everything gets dull and irritating in the long run.
And he wonders what the hell they are talking about.
He feels like they are living at the edge of a dark abyss, one of those twirling vortexes swallowing everything around them, and the only reason why he hasn't been sucked in yet is because whenever he feels like he's tripping, all he has to do is hold out his hand and he knows she will grab it.
The Earth quakes beneath their feet, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally, but they keep each other steady.
At the moment though, it is his whole body that is quivering, entranced by the feel of her, and he has no doubt about where this is going. That is until she abruptly lets go of his mouth and stops moving so deliciously against him. And though his mind is now fogged for a very different reason, he understands what this is about even before he opens his eyes; he has somehow noticed how the light has changed around them, even behind closed eyelids. Olivia reacts the way she always does.
A little too passionately.
She lets out a joyful 'Oh!' before she rolls out of the bed, stealing the sheet in the process, ignoring the fact that she's leaving him completely naked and exposed in the middle of the bed by doing so. She roughly wraps the linen around herself as she makes her way to the window, stopping only inches away from the pane.
Having suddenly lost her body warmth -and her bodybody, Peter feels very cold; but he's smiling as he reaches out to grab the comforter they had thrown on the floor hours before, covering his shivering body. His eyes fall back on Olivia, then, as she lays one of her palms on the window, clearly lost in the view.
The sky is mostly still dark with clouds, but the grey sea has opened up to reveal a sun bravely fighting to get his light and warmth out there.
He doesn't have a view of the entire city from the bed, but he knows Olivia does. He doesn't care, his eyes traveling over the pale skin of her back, the sheet only covering half of her perfect buttocks. Her hair, dishevelled and gorgeous, starts to glimmer with this new found light.
"The sky isn't bleeding, here…" she whispers then, more to herself than to him.
'The Bleeding Sunrises'. That's how people call the way the sky breaks into different shades of deep red when the sun rises over New York, these days. At first, some thought it was pretty.
Now, everybody knows it is simply their world letting them knows how much it bleeds every morning.
She turns her head to look at him, then. Her eyes look a little too bright, even if she's too far for him to tell if it is caused by tears, or if it is simply a trick of the light. He decides that he doesn't really want to know.
"You don't want to watch?" She asks softly, before her eyes are drawn back to the sun.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't move either, his eyes drinking her in.
He knows he has the best view any man could ever wish for.
(November 2025)
VI.
Olivia never was a neat person.
She isn't exactly messy either, nothing near the level of messiness his father could reach when in one of his 'moods', anyway. But cleaning definitely isn't one of her strong suits.
'Give me a gun, not a broom,' she told him once when he suggested that maybe she should throw away some of the coffee cups getting moldy in her car. It is therefore safe to say that of the two of them, Peter is the one doing most of the domestic work around the house, when they are not busy stopping the world from dying too fast.
Every once in a while, though, they end up doing chores together during quiet Sundays, putting the music loud in the living room, songs that Ella always used to call 'Oldies' while rolling her eyes, if she were there to witness it during one of those weekends she spent with them as a teenager. She used to say that the sight of them regularly stopping their scrubbing and mopping to swirl around the room cooing over each other was slightly nauseating.
"She's just jealous," Peter would whisper in Olivia's ear, which often caused her to chuckle against his shoulder, earning them another disgusted growl from Ella, who was assigned the dusting of the globe, since she had been the one offering it to them.
When they had unwrapped it, years ago on Christmas morning, they had shared a look, both clearly agreeing on the fact that it was the ugliest thing they could ever receive to decorate their living room. But Ella had been grinning so happily and excitedly, and it had been her first Christmas without her mother, so they had both grinned back and hugged her. Peter had then spent over an hour just sitting with her and telling her all about the things he had done and seen in different parts of the world, pointing the locations out on the globe, Olivia watching them dreamily, chin in her hand, the other one holding a glass of whiskey of course.
As the years passed and Olivia's work became more and more time consuming, those moments became rarer, and Olivia didn't get any neater either. That's why he has always found it strange how, when particularly restless or distressed, she goes on a cleaning spree, and he had better not help or intervene.
Hair pulled into a tight bun, she goes around the house, straightening things out, changing the sheets -even the ones from the guestroom that nobody ever really used anymore, reorganizing and moving furniture around.
Today is one of those days.
Even though it's the middle of December, the air is thick and sticky, humid and warm, the sun low in a greenish sky. Peter would love nothing more than to sit outside on the patio with a good book and let his mind go blank while enjoying the tranquillity, especially after the bustle of those last few days, but his wife has other things on her mind. And when she's cleaning of her own accord, he knows things are bad.
He lets her be for a while, pretending to be reading a science report sitting at the counter, though keeping an eye on her moving form. He finally intervenes when he notices that she's rearranging the books that were neatly organized in front of the window. She's turning them over, piling them up.
"What are you doing?" he asks curiously, frowning, and she doesn't even turn around, focused on her task.
"If it looks like I'm rearranging these books, then I guess it means I'm rearranging these books," she answers quite drily.
Pursing his lips, he stands up and makes his way to her; he's not upset by her sour mood -he's been living with a woman for over thirteen years now, he knows about sour moods. But he doesn't like seeing her so tense, knowing that she's most likely beating herself up over something she can't change or has no control over. He comes behind her and wraps his arms around her waist.
"Peter, I'm busy," she sighs, and even though the A/C is on in the room, the humidity that has taken over the city today still impregnates the house and their skin. He feels the slight dampness of her top tank under his palms, tastes salt on her neck when he presses a kiss there, ignoring her protests.
"Your new organization is questionable, honey, I thought I would stop you before you start turning the couch upside down." He knows she could, if she set her mind to it.
"Haha," she says humorlessly, trying to get away from his embrace, and he swiftly lets her go, watching her as she takes a few steps away. Eyes closed, she brings a hand up to her forehead to wipe the sweat off her brow, looking defeated. As always, he wants to immediately wrap her in his arms again, but he knows his boundaries.
"What's wrong?" he asks instead.
She sighs another defeated sigh, her hand falling at her side, shoulders slumping. "What are we doing, Peter?" she asks softly.
He frowns, taking a few careful steps towards her. "What do you mean?"
She shrugs, annoyed. "This, our work, our life. We spend our time running around, but people keep on dying, the Universe keeps on crumbling. It's like we're doomed to fail whatever we try."
He knew it. She is upset about what happened, those last couple of days. He is too, of course, but he has learned long ago to distance himself as much as possible from those things they cannot change; if he didn't, he would be wearing guilt constantly, like a heavy winter coat. Yes, they are the ones who give the order to release the Amber, they are therefore indirectly responsible for the people who get stuck in it, but what can they do? Let the vortexes spread and kill more people?
He does his best to distance himself, but he knows Olivia can't. She has always worn the world on her shoulders, long before it started to disintegrate in her helpless hands, one Crack at a time.
"Olivia…" he says softly, because he doesn't have an answer to that kind of question. "It may not look like it, but we are helping."
She chuckles drily, her cheeks flushed with heat and frustration. "Who are we kidding? Look outside. It's the middle of December, Peter. Ten years ago, we were fighting the snow at this time of year. I still remember that time you broke your back shoveling the driveway, and it was what, five years ago?" As she speaks her hands move almost angrily, her eyes dark, and when he finally stands close enough to her, he grabs her fingers, stopping the movements. Looking in his eyes, she seems to deflate again. "I don't even remember what a blue sky looks like," she says in a whisper. "All we get at best is that weird, white color."
He lets go of one of her hands so he can tuck a small strand of wet hair behind her ear, his fingers then gently brushing her cheek. He lets her rant, because he knows nothing he can say will make her feel better.
But as he watches her staring out the window, staring at that rainbow sky, he silently promises her that he will show her that there are still places in this world where the sun is bright and yellow.
And though he knows it will most likely never happen again, he finds himself wishing for some snow.
(December 2024)
TO PART VII
A/N: According to my plan, there are 15 more parts to go! Let me know if you're interested XD (as if I could stop myself from writing them hahahaaa)
Previous parts: I. // II. // III.
IN REVERSE
IV.
Peter closes the microwave's door a little too forcefully, making the entire house shake as Olivia would say. He can immediately hear her voice in his head.
'Could you stop blowing off steam on the appliances? We already had to replace the dishwasher last month because you keep on using your feet rather than your hand to close it.'
But since she's not here at the moment and that is precisely the reason why he's being a little too rough, he ignores that wise voice and tap the buttons just as harshly. It's late, he's hungry, and another glance at his cell phone on the counter tells him that she hasn't sent him anything. Her last text he's received over twenty minutes now was saying 'Be home in 5'. Of course in Olivia's workaholic mind, five minutes often turns into twenty. Or forty. And he's used to it, used to ordering dinner and having to reheat it an hour later when she finally arrives.
Except that today isn't a good day. It never is, never will be, and she knows it.
Yet, she's late.
As he starts pouring another box of cold Chinese food into a dish, next on the line to go into the microwave, he tries and forces himself to calm down, perfectly aware of the fact that his irritation is pointless, and that Olivia isn't doing this on purpose. She knows what day it is, and it isn't her fault if she had this big meeting all day in Philadelphia. But when he's irritated, he gets very self-centered, and when gets self-centered, he likes to have his wife around.
Great. Now he sounds like a male chauvinist even to his inner self.
Before his mood can deteriorate even more, he hears the front door open behind him, along with the sound of her voice, and he turns around to see her come in, arms full with files, earpiece on, in the middle of a conversation.
"…tine's day's in three days, if he wanted to be romantic, he would take you out to a fancy restaurant."
He watches as she skillfully gets rid of her right heel with the help of her other foot, sending it flying on the side, clunck, causing her to lose a few inches in height and still managing to keep her balance even with her arms full as they are. She quickly does the same with her other shoe, clunk, and he can't help but clench his teeth a little, knowing that he will be the one picking them up later.
"I'm not being pessimistic sweetie, I'm being realistic," she continues, now dropping the pile of files on the coffee table, before starting to unbutton her jacket.
Doing so, she finally turns around to face him, offering him a sweet, teasing smile. Despite his bad mood, he's powerless when it comes to her smile and can't help but give her a small smile of his own.
"Listen, all I'm saying is that receiving that kind of message at that time of day has 'booty call' written at the end of it, in not so small letters."
As she drops her jacket on the couch, she makes a face, as if her interlocutor -who he's pretty sure is Ella- has just screamed in her ear. "What?"
She joins him in the kitchen, still focused on her conversation though, and he watches almost amused has she makes another face. "Excuse me? Ella Dunham, how old do you think I am, exactly?"
She faces him and shakes her head in disbelief. "What about having it?" She crinkles her nose, clearly amused by whatever reaction she's getting from her niece, and for the first time of the day, Peter relaxes a little, offering her a smile that is much more sincere. "Hey, you're the one who called me."
She comes closer to him and pushes herself up on her toes, obviously awaiting her greeting kiss, but before he can gives it to her, she moves her head away with an amused frown. "Since when am I the person to call when it comes to relationships?" She puts her hands on his chest, distractingly, before looking up at him again with a smirk. "Ah, but you know, most of the time, I think Peter and I are just a fluke." He gives her a kiss then, nipping slightly on her bottom lip to prove just how much of a fluke he is, and he feels her smile against his lips.
She forces herself to move away though, still listening to Ella; she dips a finger into the cold dish of boneless spare ribs, before bringing it up to her mouth to get the sweet sauce off her finger. "He knows. He heard me, he's standing right next to me." She licks her lips and looks at him again, her face breaking into another soft smile. "Yes, I'm pretty sure he still loves me."
He frowns, tilting his head from side to side as if unsure, and as he turns to the microwave to get the food out, she playfully slaps his shoulder. "Okay honey, gotta go, my man is starving. Do whatever you want, just be careful okay?" She chuckles. "I was talking about you not getting emotionally hurt, but that too, yes. Love you too, bye."
He turns around to put the bowl on the counter as she navigates around him to put the other dish in the microwave, setting the timer on. "Sorry it took me so long to get home, there was a collision on the way, the road was blocked and I had to take to the longer way."
"I figured," he lied, offering her a tight smile, before starting to pour some of the warm food on their plates.
Silence falls, the only sounds in the room being the buzzing microwave and his spoon scrapping the bowl. His tension is back, now, tensing almost every muscle in his body. And he knows what she is going to say even before she speaks behind him.
"Did you get the mail?"
Another spoonful of rice, cliiing. "Nope."
It is ridiculous of course, because he has only postponed the inevitable.
She doesn't add anything, and he keeps his eyes down as she makes her way out of the house again to go get it. And he stands there, now immobile, hearing the front door close again as she comes back in. Seconds later, she's sliding it on the counter in front of his eyes, just when the microwave goes off behind them.
Beeeep, beeeeep, beeeep.
He finds that sound ominous.
He doesn't look at her as his fingers grab it, and he tears the envelop open. He has learned through the years that it is better to do it fast, like ripping a band-aid off. It doesn't make it any easier, but at least that way he can go back faster to pretending nothing has happened.
And there it is, obnoxious and mocking.
As he stares at the number written in bold, his heart starts to pound against his ears, his chest constricting painfully. And the beats aren't just a thumping sound anymore, no, they are a raging scream, and the word they shout is the same, always the same.
killer…killer…killer…killer…KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER!
He rips it in half without even opening it. Rips it again. And again, until the paper is too thick for him to continue.
So he plunges his hand into the sink shredder and drops the pieces in there, and as soon as his fingers are out, he turns it on. The sound is loud and abhorrent. He keeps the shredder on, long after there is nothing left to be shred, and the appliance cringes and protests, and he thinks for a moment that he wouldn't mind putting his heart in there if it can make it stop. Make it all stop.
Olivia makes it stop.
Her fingers pushing his away gently, she switches it off. His ears keep on buzzing though, and his heart keeps on thumping. And he feels her body behind his, her lips on his shoulder.
He knows she wishes she could say something, do something. But they also both know there is nothing that can be done. She has tried every attitude, years after years, and it never really helps.
So she remains silent but here, her body warm against his back, her lips soft on the tensed muscles of his shoulder blade, and one of her arm comes around his waist to rest her palm upon his pounding heart.
"Come on…" she says softly against his shirt. "Let's eat."
And that is what they do.
(February 2026)
V.
Peter is stirred from deep sleep by some sort of stinging sensation on his ear.
As his mind becomes more focused, he realizes that what he feels are teeth nibbling his earlobe. And it's far from being the only thing he feels. There is the soft brush of her hair on his cheek tickling him, the definite presence of bare breasts pressed against his chest, and when he breathes deep, her warm scent invades his sleepy mind.
With a small growl, eyes still closed, he wraps his arms around her and rolls them over so that she's on her back again with him half lying on top of her, his face pressed hard into the crook of her neck. He could very well go back to sleep right there without ever knowing why she woke him up in the first place; her palms on his back make him feel safe, and her 'morning' scent is honestly his favorite fragrance. She smells so warm; she smells of dreams and home.
But she has other plans in mind.
"We have a problem," she whispers in his ear.
He really doesn't see what could be wrong right now. Actually, if they could stay like this all day (or week), he wouldn't mind at all.
"Mmmmwhat…" he mumbles against her skin as her fingers distractingly run over his back, making him shiver.
"Well, my inner clock and the fact that I am wide awake tell me that the sun should be rising right now but…look out the window."
He opens his eyes and raises his head to look at her, his mind still foggy, suddenly remembering where they are. He stretches his neck to look behind his shoulder at the large window.
Outside, the sky is still dark, way too dark, and the dim light permeating the room possesses this peculiar quality that he has always associated with rainy days.
He falls back against her with another growl, grumbling against her neck, and she chuckles softly, curling her fingers in his hair. "Didn't you check the weather before you planned this romantic escapade?"
He pulls away slightly so he can look at her; there isn't a lot of light, but his vision is adjusting already; besides, he knows her so well by now that he can pretty much draw out in his mind every expression she chooses to display just by the way she speaks or breathes. Kind of.
She's smiling softly, clearly amused, and he cannot resist a tender smile of his own. "I didcheck. I guess the weather really is unpredictable at this time of year. So much for our beautiful sunrise."
She scooches even closer to him, until every inch of their skin that can touch, touches. "It wasn't exactly a waste of time either," she whispers teasingly, before she turns her head slightly to look up. He mimics her, and their gazes meet in the mirror overhead.
His face breaks into a grin as they both remember quite clearly their late night activities, and his heart simply melts when she starts to blush, biting her lip, before she hides her face into his pillow. Even after all these years, he finds it incredibly endearing how she gets almost embarrassed every time she gets a little wild. And of course, he loves the fact that he manages to get that side out of her more often than not.
His fingers find her cheek, his index sliding under her chin to make her turn her face, tickling her slightly. She looks at him, smiling. He loves how young and care-free she looks during those fleeting moments when they don't care about what is out there, when they allow themselves to forget about the vortexes, about Amber Protocols, about the daily loses.
It is only the two of them, ridiculously enjoying each other like teenagers, instead of acting like the forty-something year old adults they really are. And to prove it to her and to himself, he captures her lips with his, then, his fingers finding their way into her hair to bring her face closer and give her the good morning kiss she deserves to get.
He loses track of time, loses track of everything that isn't her, her sweet lips and her soft skin, her sighs and her shivers, her body warmth and her scent, always her scent.
They ignore the world crumbling around them, and yet, he very well knows that this doomed life they are living is the reason why things are the way they are. He has heard that people get bored after a while, that marriage ruins relationships that everything gets dull and irritating in the long run.
And he wonders what the hell they are talking about.
He feels like they are living at the edge of a dark abyss, one of those twirling vortexes swallowing everything around them, and the only reason why he hasn't been sucked in yet is because whenever he feels like he's tripping, all he has to do is hold out his hand and he knows she will grab it.
The Earth quakes beneath their feet, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally, but they keep each other steady.
At the moment though, it is his whole body that is quivering, entranced by the feel of her, and he has no doubt about where this is going. That is until she abruptly lets go of his mouth and stops moving so deliciously against him. And though his mind is now fogged for a very different reason, he understands what this is about even before he opens his eyes; he has somehow noticed how the light has changed around them, even behind closed eyelids. Olivia reacts the way she always does.
A little too passionately.
She lets out a joyful 'Oh!' before she rolls out of the bed, stealing the sheet in the process, ignoring the fact that she's leaving him completely naked and exposed in the middle of the bed by doing so. She roughly wraps the linen around herself as she makes her way to the window, stopping only inches away from the pane.
Having suddenly lost her body warmth -and her bodybody, Peter feels very cold; but he's smiling as he reaches out to grab the comforter they had thrown on the floor hours before, covering his shivering body. His eyes fall back on Olivia, then, as she lays one of her palms on the window, clearly lost in the view.
The sky is mostly still dark with clouds, but the grey sea has opened up to reveal a sun bravely fighting to get his light and warmth out there.
He doesn't have a view of the entire city from the bed, but he knows Olivia does. He doesn't care, his eyes traveling over the pale skin of her back, the sheet only covering half of her perfect buttocks. Her hair, dishevelled and gorgeous, starts to glimmer with this new found light.
"The sky isn't bleeding, here…" she whispers then, more to herself than to him.
'The Bleeding Sunrises'. That's how people call the way the sky breaks into different shades of deep red when the sun rises over New York, these days. At first, some thought it was pretty.
Now, everybody knows it is simply their world letting them knows how much it bleeds every morning.
She turns her head to look at him, then. Her eyes look a little too bright, even if she's too far for him to tell if it is caused by tears, or if it is simply a trick of the light. He decides that he doesn't really want to know.
"You don't want to watch?" She asks softly, before her eyes are drawn back to the sun.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't move either, his eyes drinking her in.
He knows he has the best view any man could ever wish for.
(November 2025)
VI.
Olivia never was a neat person.
She isn't exactly messy either, nothing near the level of messiness his father could reach when in one of his 'moods', anyway. But cleaning definitely isn't one of her strong suits.
'Give me a gun, not a broom,' she told him once when he suggested that maybe she should throw away some of the coffee cups getting moldy in her car. It is therefore safe to say that of the two of them, Peter is the one doing most of the domestic work around the house, when they are not busy stopping the world from dying too fast.
Every once in a while, though, they end up doing chores together during quiet Sundays, putting the music loud in the living room, songs that Ella always used to call 'Oldies' while rolling her eyes, if she were there to witness it during one of those weekends she spent with them as a teenager. She used to say that the sight of them regularly stopping their scrubbing and mopping to swirl around the room cooing over each other was slightly nauseating.
"She's just jealous," Peter would whisper in Olivia's ear, which often caused her to chuckle against his shoulder, earning them another disgusted growl from Ella, who was assigned the dusting of the globe, since she had been the one offering it to them.
When they had unwrapped it, years ago on Christmas morning, they had shared a look, both clearly agreeing on the fact that it was the ugliest thing they could ever receive to decorate their living room. But Ella had been grinning so happily and excitedly, and it had been her first Christmas without her mother, so they had both grinned back and hugged her. Peter had then spent over an hour just sitting with her and telling her all about the things he had done and seen in different parts of the world, pointing the locations out on the globe, Olivia watching them dreamily, chin in her hand, the other one holding a glass of whiskey of course.
As the years passed and Olivia's work became more and more time consuming, those moments became rarer, and Olivia didn't get any neater either. That's why he has always found it strange how, when particularly restless or distressed, she goes on a cleaning spree, and he had better not help or intervene.
Hair pulled into a tight bun, she goes around the house, straightening things out, changing the sheets -even the ones from the guestroom that nobody ever really used anymore, reorganizing and moving furniture around.
Today is one of those days.
Even though it's the middle of December, the air is thick and sticky, humid and warm, the sun low in a greenish sky. Peter would love nothing more than to sit outside on the patio with a good book and let his mind go blank while enjoying the tranquillity, especially after the bustle of those last few days, but his wife has other things on her mind. And when she's cleaning of her own accord, he knows things are bad.
He lets her be for a while, pretending to be reading a science report sitting at the counter, though keeping an eye on her moving form. He finally intervenes when he notices that she's rearranging the books that were neatly organized in front of the window. She's turning them over, piling them up.
"What are you doing?" he asks curiously, frowning, and she doesn't even turn around, focused on her task.
"If it looks like I'm rearranging these books, then I guess it means I'm rearranging these books," she answers quite drily.
Pursing his lips, he stands up and makes his way to her; he's not upset by her sour mood -he's been living with a woman for over thirteen years now, he knows about sour moods. But he doesn't like seeing her so tense, knowing that she's most likely beating herself up over something she can't change or has no control over. He comes behind her and wraps his arms around her waist.
"Peter, I'm busy," she sighs, and even though the A/C is on in the room, the humidity that has taken over the city today still impregnates the house and their skin. He feels the slight dampness of her top tank under his palms, tastes salt on her neck when he presses a kiss there, ignoring her protests.
"Your new organization is questionable, honey, I thought I would stop you before you start turning the couch upside down." He knows she could, if she set her mind to it.
"Haha," she says humorlessly, trying to get away from his embrace, and he swiftly lets her go, watching her as she takes a few steps away. Eyes closed, she brings a hand up to her forehead to wipe the sweat off her brow, looking defeated. As always, he wants to immediately wrap her in his arms again, but he knows his boundaries.
"What's wrong?" he asks instead.
She sighs another defeated sigh, her hand falling at her side, shoulders slumping. "What are we doing, Peter?" she asks softly.
He frowns, taking a few careful steps towards her. "What do you mean?"
She shrugs, annoyed. "This, our work, our life. We spend our time running around, but people keep on dying, the Universe keeps on crumbling. It's like we're doomed to fail whatever we try."
He knew it. She is upset about what happened, those last couple of days. He is too, of course, but he has learned long ago to distance himself as much as possible from those things they cannot change; if he didn't, he would be wearing guilt constantly, like a heavy winter coat. Yes, they are the ones who give the order to release the Amber, they are therefore indirectly responsible for the people who get stuck in it, but what can they do? Let the vortexes spread and kill more people?
He does his best to distance himself, but he knows Olivia can't. She has always worn the world on her shoulders, long before it started to disintegrate in her helpless hands, one Crack at a time.
"Olivia…" he says softly, because he doesn't have an answer to that kind of question. "It may not look like it, but we are helping."
She chuckles drily, her cheeks flushed with heat and frustration. "Who are we kidding? Look outside. It's the middle of December, Peter. Ten years ago, we were fighting the snow at this time of year. I still remember that time you broke your back shoveling the driveway, and it was what, five years ago?" As she speaks her hands move almost angrily, her eyes dark, and when he finally stands close enough to her, he grabs her fingers, stopping the movements. Looking in his eyes, she seems to deflate again. "I don't even remember what a blue sky looks like," she says in a whisper. "All we get at best is that weird, white color."
He lets go of one of her hands so he can tuck a small strand of wet hair behind her ear, his fingers then gently brushing her cheek. He lets her rant, because he knows nothing he can say will make her feel better.
But as he watches her staring out the window, staring at that rainbow sky, he silently promises her that he will show her that there are still places in this world where the sun is bright and yellow.
And though he knows it will most likely never happen again, he finds himself wishing for some snow.
(December 2024)
TO PART VII
A/N: According to my plan, there are 15 more parts to go! Let me know if you're interested XD (as if I could stop myself from writing them hahahaaa)