Olivia/Peter fanfic (post-Finale): In Reverse (VII)
A/N: I'm going to post parts VII, VIII, IX and X in different posts, you just have to follow the links :)
Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI.
IN REVERSE
VII.
They come every year, not a day early, not a day late. Wherever they might be, they always find them.
They bring with them anxiety and anger, a sense of inevitability. Failure. Guilt. Resentment and inexplicable fear. It's one of those constants in their lives that, no matter how much they despise them, they have become part of their world, years after years.
Until one day of October, when there is nothing in the mail besides bills and advertisements.
No birthday card comes for Olivia, that year.
They've come home late from work, so they both know that if it hasn't come yet, it will never come again. Of course, Peter might be optimistic. But he knows. You don't stay hidden from everybody for so many years, making sure to psychologically abuse someone every twelve months, to suddenly stop one day. You don't just 'skip' a year. And Peter knows they can verify it. Even if it takes him a few weeks to confirm it, he will make sure to have a written proof to show her, evidence she will need to accept the fact that he is gone for good.
It is after all much easier to find a cadaver than it is to find a running man.
He doesn't tell her that, of course, not yet. Actually, he doesn't tell her anything. As they enter the house and get rid of their shoes and coats, he can feel her growing distress. Unsurprisingly, she goes straight for the liquor cabinet, and serves herself a full glass of whiskey, that she then downs in one impressive go, while he carefully drops the small stack of mail on the coffee table, his eyes on her.
She's halfway through refilling her glass when she abruptly stops, putting the bottle down on the counter with a loud 'THUMP' before throwing the content of her glass in the sink, her free hand now up in her hair. He knows she's remembering the recommendation she has gotten during her last checkup.
"Try and go easy on the liquor, Agent Dunham. Your liver may start to disagree sooner than you think," to which she had answered -to Peter later that day at least: "At that rate, I might be dead in five years anyway, and I don't think my love for whiskey will have anything to do with it."
He hadn't thought it was funny at all, but after all, neither had she. She was just being bleakly pessimistic and realistic, as always, seeing the glass half-empty…or currently, completely empty.
Fingers leaving her hair, she turns to face him, pale yet slightly flushed. And they talk with locked gazes, like they often do when none of them really knows how to initiate that kind of conversation.
'Are you okay?'
'No.'
'Do you want to talk about it?'
'No.'
And yet he knows she needs to talk, and so does he. But she looks away, her eyes glassy. "I'm tired," she says then. "Let's go to bed." And just like that she's out of the kitchen, disappearing into their bedroom.
He doesn't join her right away. He knows it is one of these times when they should really be talking about what's happening, and yet don't because they don't know how to deal. They never really know how to deal. Even the previous years, when her birthday cards actually arrived, they acknowledged them without doing anything about it. What is there to be done, anyway? This kind of battle is just too personal, so personal that they can't even share the burden that comes with it. So they offer each other comfort, up close or from a distance.
That's why he gives her a few minutes alone, so she can get into bed and pretend she's asleep. Which is all kind of laughable, really, since he knows her sleep pattern -or lack of- so well; there's no way she's going to be asleep within the next few minutes, if she sleeps at all tonight. He gives her some time anyway, putting the bottle away, and filling up the dishwasher with whatever was left in the sink.
When he finally enters the bedroom, she's curled up under the covers in the dark. He quickly changes and joins her, refraining his reflex to wrap an arm around her. If she wants any kind of physical contact, even the slightest, she will let him know. Still, it's torturous to just lie there, staring at the back of her head.
Time passes, and she doesn't sleep. He doesn't sleep either, part of him still hoping that the murmur of her voice will eventually pierce the thick silence of the room. At that point, he's ready to talk about anything, even if it has nothing to do with the birthday cards. Against his will, he eventually starts to doze off, though, stuck in that strange state between sleep and awareness; when she suddenly leaves the bed at some point during the night, he is wide awake again within seconds. And again, he gives her a few minutes alone, before getting up himself, deciding that she's had enough time.
After all, this is not a bad thing. But it's a change. And changes are never easy.
As soon as he enters the living room, the floor cold under his feet, he sees her silhouette outside on the patio. Always thoughtful, he grabs a blanket from the basket near the couch and wraps it around his shoulders before braving the chilly night air. He closes the door a little too loudly just to make his presence known; she barely flinches.
Arms crossed, she looking up, staring at the moon. He briefly looks at its deformed shape, a few days away from being full. But his gaze quickly goes back to her, already noticing the small tremors shaking her body. He walks to her without hesitation, gently and silently pressing himself against her and wrapping her in the warmth of his arms.
She relaxes in his embrace, and he feels the reassuring pressure of her weight against his chest, head falling back against his shoulder, her fingers finding his under the blanket now covering them both. She keeps her eyes on the moon, though.
He keeps his on her face. She looks beautifully pale in this milky light, her worry lines almost invisible. She looks younger. For a moment, as they simply stand there, sharing the same warmth and quiet understanding, he can almost see the young child she once was.
He sees the young Olivia who shot the gun and opened the first birthday card a few months later.
"You know, I don't remember what it's like not to dread my birthday," she speaks then, as if she has just read his mind. Her voice is soft, more contemplative than anxious, eyes still lost in the sky. "And I don't think that will ever stop. Even if he does. I'll still be excepting the cards to come."
He lowers his head, pressing his cheek against hers. "I know," he says just as softly, his own eyes lost into the dark shapes of the trees, beyond their yard.
She brings one of her hands up from under the blanket to bury her fingers into his hair in a gentle caress. "I know you do."
He closes his eyes, nose pressed against her soft skin, lungs and heart filled up with her scent. She smells of fall, tonight, of swirling red leaves and cinnamon; she's neither warm nor cold, stuck between two seasons.
A few more minutes of silence go by before she speaks again, her fingers still tracing slow patterns in his hair. "Do you have anything to do with it?"
He doesn't have to ask what she means. "No," he answers truthfully.
He's not offended by the fact that she's wondering if he's responsible for the lack of birthday card this year; he is known for keeping things from her on occasions, deciding by himself on when it's the right time to share some important information with.
Also, it's not for lack of trying.
Again, she seems to read his thoughts. "Did you ever try to find him?"
He presses a kiss on her neck, an affectionate gesture more than anything else. "I did," he admitted then, not without a slight tinge of guilt.
She doesn't seem that surprised or upset, her body still relaxed in his arms. "When?"
Another long pause follows her question. "Nine years ago," he answers finally against her skin, forcing the memories of that time to stay buried.
There was just too much pain and too much anger back then, and too little results when he had tried to stop the bastard from sending her a card that year, or ever again. She hadn't needed that kind of trouble on her mind on top of…the rest. But his search had been fruitless, and the card had arrived at work, as it sometimes did.
"No luck, uh?" she asks, even though the answer is obvious.
He tightens his hold around her, thinking for the umpteenth times that he wouldn't mind at all if they could simply merge into one another, knowing that the words he's about to utter will bring up her own set of painful memories. "It wasn't a good year."
He feels her tense briefly in his arms, but like him, she has good defense mechanisms; her hand finally leaves his hair to rest her palm on his cheek. He raises his head slightly as she turns her head, so that their eyes can meet.
"No, it wasn't," she agrees quietly with a sad smile. But her smile becomes tenderer then. "Until we got married, that is."
Technically, they got married the next year, but he's not going to be a smart ass about this. "Yeah, that wasn't too bad," he says with a cheeky smile, and she kisses his jaw, before turning her gaze back to the moon. And he thinks he sees some hope in her eyes.
"Maybe this is going to be a good year…" she whispers then, and there is hope in her voice, too. "Maybe…maybe he'll stop, too."
But this is wishful thinking. They both know the only reason why she hasn't gotten anything today is because her step-father must have died at some point since last October.
And Peter knows his Father is not dead. He's not dead and well decided on staying around to haunt him for many, many more years. Revenge is what drives this man, and for almost twelve years now, he has made sure Peter will never forget his son's birthday.
There's no hope for him. February will come, and with it will come another card.
'Happy 12th Birthday!' this one will say.
And inside, a few words, always the same, written in black angry letters.
'Another year your son did not get to live.'
Another year he got to live with that knowledge and guilt. His Father does not forget, does not forgive.
And somewhere deep inside his guts, Peter knows that inflicting him with this pain every year is not enough.
This is not the last of his revenge.
(October 2023)
TO PART VIII
Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI.
IN REVERSE
VII.
They come every year, not a day early, not a day late. Wherever they might be, they always find them.
They bring with them anxiety and anger, a sense of inevitability. Failure. Guilt. Resentment and inexplicable fear. It's one of those constants in their lives that, no matter how much they despise them, they have become part of their world, years after years.
Until one day of October, when there is nothing in the mail besides bills and advertisements.
No birthday card comes for Olivia, that year.
They've come home late from work, so they both know that if it hasn't come yet, it will never come again. Of course, Peter might be optimistic. But he knows. You don't stay hidden from everybody for so many years, making sure to psychologically abuse someone every twelve months, to suddenly stop one day. You don't just 'skip' a year. And Peter knows they can verify it. Even if it takes him a few weeks to confirm it, he will make sure to have a written proof to show her, evidence she will need to accept the fact that he is gone for good.
It is after all much easier to find a cadaver than it is to find a running man.
He doesn't tell her that, of course, not yet. Actually, he doesn't tell her anything. As they enter the house and get rid of their shoes and coats, he can feel her growing distress. Unsurprisingly, she goes straight for the liquor cabinet, and serves herself a full glass of whiskey, that she then downs in one impressive go, while he carefully drops the small stack of mail on the coffee table, his eyes on her.
She's halfway through refilling her glass when she abruptly stops, putting the bottle down on the counter with a loud 'THUMP' before throwing the content of her glass in the sink, her free hand now up in her hair. He knows she's remembering the recommendation she has gotten during her last checkup.
"Try and go easy on the liquor, Agent Dunham. Your liver may start to disagree sooner than you think," to which she had answered -to Peter later that day at least: "At that rate, I might be dead in five years anyway, and I don't think my love for whiskey will have anything to do with it."
He hadn't thought it was funny at all, but after all, neither had she. She was just being bleakly pessimistic and realistic, as always, seeing the glass half-empty…or currently, completely empty.
Fingers leaving her hair, she turns to face him, pale yet slightly flushed. And they talk with locked gazes, like they often do when none of them really knows how to initiate that kind of conversation.
'Are you okay?'
'No.'
'Do you want to talk about it?'
'No.'
And yet he knows she needs to talk, and so does he. But she looks away, her eyes glassy. "I'm tired," she says then. "Let's go to bed." And just like that she's out of the kitchen, disappearing into their bedroom.
He doesn't join her right away. He knows it is one of these times when they should really be talking about what's happening, and yet don't because they don't know how to deal. They never really know how to deal. Even the previous years, when her birthday cards actually arrived, they acknowledged them without doing anything about it. What is there to be done, anyway? This kind of battle is just too personal, so personal that they can't even share the burden that comes with it. So they offer each other comfort, up close or from a distance.
That's why he gives her a few minutes alone, so she can get into bed and pretend she's asleep. Which is all kind of laughable, really, since he knows her sleep pattern -or lack of- so well; there's no way she's going to be asleep within the next few minutes, if she sleeps at all tonight. He gives her some time anyway, putting the bottle away, and filling up the dishwasher with whatever was left in the sink.
When he finally enters the bedroom, she's curled up under the covers in the dark. He quickly changes and joins her, refraining his reflex to wrap an arm around her. If she wants any kind of physical contact, even the slightest, she will let him know. Still, it's torturous to just lie there, staring at the back of her head.
Time passes, and she doesn't sleep. He doesn't sleep either, part of him still hoping that the murmur of her voice will eventually pierce the thick silence of the room. At that point, he's ready to talk about anything, even if it has nothing to do with the birthday cards. Against his will, he eventually starts to doze off, though, stuck in that strange state between sleep and awareness; when she suddenly leaves the bed at some point during the night, he is wide awake again within seconds. And again, he gives her a few minutes alone, before getting up himself, deciding that she's had enough time.
After all, this is not a bad thing. But it's a change. And changes are never easy.
As soon as he enters the living room, the floor cold under his feet, he sees her silhouette outside on the patio. Always thoughtful, he grabs a blanket from the basket near the couch and wraps it around his shoulders before braving the chilly night air. He closes the door a little too loudly just to make his presence known; she barely flinches.
Arms crossed, she looking up, staring at the moon. He briefly looks at its deformed shape, a few days away from being full. But his gaze quickly goes back to her, already noticing the small tremors shaking her body. He walks to her without hesitation, gently and silently pressing himself against her and wrapping her in the warmth of his arms.
She relaxes in his embrace, and he feels the reassuring pressure of her weight against his chest, head falling back against his shoulder, her fingers finding his under the blanket now covering them both. She keeps her eyes on the moon, though.
He keeps his on her face. She looks beautifully pale in this milky light, her worry lines almost invisible. She looks younger. For a moment, as they simply stand there, sharing the same warmth and quiet understanding, he can almost see the young child she once was.
He sees the young Olivia who shot the gun and opened the first birthday card a few months later.
"You know, I don't remember what it's like not to dread my birthday," she speaks then, as if she has just read his mind. Her voice is soft, more contemplative than anxious, eyes still lost in the sky. "And I don't think that will ever stop. Even if he does. I'll still be excepting the cards to come."
He lowers his head, pressing his cheek against hers. "I know," he says just as softly, his own eyes lost into the dark shapes of the trees, beyond their yard.
She brings one of her hands up from under the blanket to bury her fingers into his hair in a gentle caress. "I know you do."
He closes his eyes, nose pressed against her soft skin, lungs and heart filled up with her scent. She smells of fall, tonight, of swirling red leaves and cinnamon; she's neither warm nor cold, stuck between two seasons.
A few more minutes of silence go by before she speaks again, her fingers still tracing slow patterns in his hair. "Do you have anything to do with it?"
He doesn't have to ask what she means. "No," he answers truthfully.
He's not offended by the fact that she's wondering if he's responsible for the lack of birthday card this year; he is known for keeping things from her on occasions, deciding by himself on when it's the right time to share some important information with.
Also, it's not for lack of trying.
Again, she seems to read his thoughts. "Did you ever try to find him?"
He presses a kiss on her neck, an affectionate gesture more than anything else. "I did," he admitted then, not without a slight tinge of guilt.
She doesn't seem that surprised or upset, her body still relaxed in his arms. "When?"
Another long pause follows her question. "Nine years ago," he answers finally against her skin, forcing the memories of that time to stay buried.
There was just too much pain and too much anger back then, and too little results when he had tried to stop the bastard from sending her a card that year, or ever again. She hadn't needed that kind of trouble on her mind on top of…the rest. But his search had been fruitless, and the card had arrived at work, as it sometimes did.
"No luck, uh?" she asks, even though the answer is obvious.
He tightens his hold around her, thinking for the umpteenth times that he wouldn't mind at all if they could simply merge into one another, knowing that the words he's about to utter will bring up her own set of painful memories. "It wasn't a good year."
He feels her tense briefly in his arms, but like him, she has good defense mechanisms; her hand finally leaves his hair to rest her palm on his cheek. He raises his head slightly as she turns her head, so that their eyes can meet.
"No, it wasn't," she agrees quietly with a sad smile. But her smile becomes tenderer then. "Until we got married, that is."
Technically, they got married the next year, but he's not going to be a smart ass about this. "Yeah, that wasn't too bad," he says with a cheeky smile, and she kisses his jaw, before turning her gaze back to the moon. And he thinks he sees some hope in her eyes.
"Maybe this is going to be a good year…" she whispers then, and there is hope in her voice, too. "Maybe…maybe he'll stop, too."
But this is wishful thinking. They both know the only reason why she hasn't gotten anything today is because her step-father must have died at some point since last October.
And Peter knows his Father is not dead. He's not dead and well decided on staying around to haunt him for many, many more years. Revenge is what drives this man, and for almost twelve years now, he has made sure Peter will never forget his son's birthday.
There's no hope for him. February will come, and with it will come another card.
'Happy 12th Birthday!' this one will say.
And inside, a few words, always the same, written in black angry letters.
'Another year your son did not get to live.'
Another year he got to live with that knowledge and guilt. His Father does not forget, does not forgive.
And somewhere deep inside his guts, Peter knows that inflicting him with this pain every year is not enough.
This is not the last of his revenge.
(October 2023)
TO PART VIII