Olivia/Peter fanfic (post-Finale): In Reverse (XII)
A/N: This is part XII
Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI. // VII. // VIII. // IX. // X. // XI.
IN REVERSE
XII.
She is livid.
In all honesty, he can't remember the last time he has seen her that infuriated. It's the kind of anger she's trying to keep in, but knowing her as he does, everything in her body language simply screams of impending death. His, probably. Not that he cares much.
He's even worse than her.
"What was that about, Peter?" she asks tersely, closing her office's door a bit too loudly. Again, none of them cares.
He's pretty sure she's talking about how five minutes ago, he was fearlessly and quite rudely contesting her authority in front of no less than six other FBI agents. All of them are surely betting right now on the outcome of their fight. They are usually really good at behaving professionally, which makes it all even more exciting to the outsiders.
Neither of them is amused at the moment, though, really not. Actually, Peter wants to murder someone. He needs to act, to move, and she's being annoyingly unsupportive.
"I'm still going out there," he tells her gravely, ignoring her question. "I am not going to just sit around waiting for-"
"We have protocols," she cuts him off, her hand slashing the air -a very obvious sign of how mad she is. "You cannot jump into a dangerous situation just because your judgment is biased."
He chuckles almost mockingly. "Who's the one to talk?"
Amazingly, her eyes darken even more, and her whole body stiffens. He should already be regretting his words, knowing that there will come a time when he will beat himself up for acting this way. Unfortunately, he is not being rational at the moment. Not that he's going to admit it to her, of course.
"Alright," she says then, tilting her head sharply. "I get it. You're pissed off. And I do understand why. But I won't let you act recklessly because you're having a bad day."
He clenches his teeth. "This has nothing to do with anything."
It is her turn to chuckle darkly. "Really, Peter? You're going to look at me square in the eyes and tell me that you don't always tend to behave irrationally every year, when you get the card?"
He sees red. Or black. Whatever color it is, it just makes him want to throw something out the window. How dare she? How can she just spring the card on him like this, when he has purposefully thrown it in the trash hours ago? As always, he had tried to ignore whatever drawing there was on it, but it was difficult, kids birthday cards are obnoxiously colorful. This one ridiculously depicted a pirate holding out a sword and saying "Hey Matey! Heard it was your ARGHHHday!"
Peter doesn't know what was the most revolting, the big red number 6 on the top left corner, or the pirate's wicked grin. Looking at it, Peter had felt like Walternate was staring right back at him, taunting him. There's some progress though.
He doesn't throw up after opening the card anymore.
On the other hand, the anger that always comes along with his suffocating guilt is still as virulent, if not worse. Something else he will never admit out loud.
"This has nothing to do with the card," he says then, almost in a growl. "It has everything to do with me being tired of being reactive."
"Don't lie to me," she replies, her voice worryingly calm. "We are above those petty lies. I don't want to patronize you, Peter. I know how you feel, but you can't let Walternate get to you that way, it's exactly what he wants."
"You never know when it's the right time for you to stop interfering with what doesn't concern you, Olivia," he says then in a very low voice. "I don't need you to pretend you understand, because you don't. I need you to let me go do my job without indeed patronizing me in front of the entire division."
Even through his angry haze, he registers every single sign of hurt that she briefly displays, as she recoils slightly, as if he had physically slapped her; these eyes of hers lose their deadly gleam to be filled with honest pain, and her whole body seems to curl up into itself.
He knows how preposterous and unfair that was; if anyone knows what it feels like to be reminded year after year of something you've done, it is her. And she can understand what it's like, to feel responsible for the death of a child. In three sentences, he has not only denigrated the mutual trust they have spent years building, but also her own pain.
It only lasts a second, and it lashes out at his heart.
But she's just as good as him, first trying to mask it, and when it doesn't work, she morphs it back to anger, offering him her darkest look to date.
"Fine," she says then, terribly coldly. Her voice is quivering slightly, but he knows it's from her infuriation, well decided not to show any more sign of hurt. "Go ahead, Peter. Do whatever you want. But when you end up dead, you can come and tell me 'You were right'."
And without another word or glance, she leaves the room with a slam of the door.
Peter doesn't die. He does end up pretty broken up, though.
When he opens his eyes for the first time in what feels like days -which is most likely the case, it only takes a few second for his blurry gaze to fall on her, a dark shape in the almost inexistent light of his hospital room.
She's in one of these uncomfortable armchairs, legs curled up under her. Elbow on her knee, her forehead is resting on the heel of her hand. Her eyes are closed, but he knows she's not sleeping. Judging by her outfit and messy ponytail -the opposite of her work attire- she has gone home at least once since he's last seen her; that alone proves that he was out of it for some time.
As always, she seems to feel his gaze on her; turning her head slightly, she opens her eyes to meet his. She doesn't say anything, her hand simply curling into a fist, pressing her knuckles to her lips. They stare at each other for the longest time, the only sound in the room being the regular 'beep beep' of his heart monitor.
He eventually tries to move a little to release some of the growing ache in his back, but that was a bad idea; pain literally shoots down his spine, before spreading in his entire body, making his heart rate peek.
"How long was I out?" He manages to ask once he's done grimacing and grunting in pain. Even speaking hurts.
He sees her glance up at what must be a clock on the opposite wall, before she lowers her eyes back to his.
"Fifty-four hours…" she whispers against her fingers, and though it doesn't register on his monitor, his heart aches atrociously.
It only worsens when his brain, finally forced to wake up with all those jolts of pain, starts to work more efficiently, and he remembers in details their last 'conversation'. She's still piercing him with her eyes, and even though it is dark and she's too far, he knows. He knows just how much worry and pain he has put her through.
"I'm sorry…" he whispers, and his throat is now painful for other reasons. "You were right. I was an idiot."
She finally moves, slowly, dropping her hand and straightening up a little. "Yes, you were." Her voice sounds as constricted as his, as if it's the first time she's really using it in over two days.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, trying to sit up, but that was another stupid thing to do. He hisses in pain, white dots dancing in front of his eyes. When they disappear, he sees that she's looking even graver than she was a few seconds ago.
"Before I call a nurse so she can dose you up with more morphine, let me ask you something." Her voice is already steadier, sounding the way she usually does when she's about to debrief him on a new case. "How do you think you'd feel, if I got myself killed for some stupid reasons, because of a wrong choice and some misplaced emotions?"
He swallows hard, unable to do anything but stare at her, at his wife, at his only steady ground in this unstable life. He feels like telling her that he would most likely simply cease to exist.
But he knows now is not the time for one his grand speeches.
"I'm sorry," he says for the third time instead, because he feels like he could say it a thousand times, and it still wouldn't be enough to take back the hurt.
"So am I, Peter," she almost snaps at him, clearly mad again.
When she gets up, it is her bones' turn to snap loudly, suggesting just how long she had been sitting there by his side. His entire being fills with dread for an instant, convinced that she's simply going to leave the room.
But she doesn't.
She makes her way to the bed instead, and without a word, she lies down next to him, over the covers. He still cannot move to try and give her more room, but she doesn't seem to care. She's on the verge of falling, and she doesn't care, bringing her face closer to his.
The way he turns his neck to be able to look at her instantly sends more pain down his back, but he doesn't give a damn, now that he can finally see her and the storm invading her eyes. She seems unable to settle for one emotion, trapped between anger and desperation.
"You have to stop doing this, Peter," she whispers. "Behaving harshly and dangerously when you're in pain, almost getting yourself killed.
"I know…" he whispers back. "I won't do it again."
Her face constricts in pain, and she averts her eyes, bringing a hand up to gently stroke his slightly sweaty hair, before briefly resting her palm on what must be a beard by now. Her fingers finally stop on his chest over his pounding heart, and she looks back up at him.
"You can't just leave me here alone…" Her voice is barely audible now, and yet it hurts in every way.
They both know she is not one to admit that she needs someone, but they also know that it doesn't apply when it comes to him. They've made that clear a long time ago, when they accepted the fact that they wouldn't survive long without one another.
The fact that he has dismissed it, dismissed her in a moment of madness is written all over face, swirling into her glistening irises, vestige of the Glimmer he knows must have been surrounding him for some time.
"I won't," is all he can answer, all he can promise, because what they know as well is that sometimes, the choice simply isn't theirs.
But it is, occasionally, and he owes it to himself as much as to her not to shorten his life because he cannot cope with his pain.
Right now, it is his physical pain that he chooses to ignore, bringing his hand up to his chest so he can cover her fingers with his, squeezing them. And as she moves even closer to him, closing her eyes and pressing her nose against his, he silently prays that she won't break that promise either.
(February 2017)
TO PART XIII
Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI. // VII. // VIII. // IX. // X. // XI.
IN REVERSE
XII.
She is livid.
In all honesty, he can't remember the last time he has seen her that infuriated. It's the kind of anger she's trying to keep in, but knowing her as he does, everything in her body language simply screams of impending death. His, probably. Not that he cares much.
He's even worse than her.
"What was that about, Peter?" she asks tersely, closing her office's door a bit too loudly. Again, none of them cares.
He's pretty sure she's talking about how five minutes ago, he was fearlessly and quite rudely contesting her authority in front of no less than six other FBI agents. All of them are surely betting right now on the outcome of their fight. They are usually really good at behaving professionally, which makes it all even more exciting to the outsiders.
Neither of them is amused at the moment, though, really not. Actually, Peter wants to murder someone. He needs to act, to move, and she's being annoyingly unsupportive.
"I'm still going out there," he tells her gravely, ignoring her question. "I am not going to just sit around waiting for-"
"We have protocols," she cuts him off, her hand slashing the air -a very obvious sign of how mad she is. "You cannot jump into a dangerous situation just because your judgment is biased."
He chuckles almost mockingly. "Who's the one to talk?"
Amazingly, her eyes darken even more, and her whole body stiffens. He should already be regretting his words, knowing that there will come a time when he will beat himself up for acting this way. Unfortunately, he is not being rational at the moment. Not that he's going to admit it to her, of course.
"Alright," she says then, tilting her head sharply. "I get it. You're pissed off. And I do understand why. But I won't let you act recklessly because you're having a bad day."
He clenches his teeth. "This has nothing to do with anything."
It is her turn to chuckle darkly. "Really, Peter? You're going to look at me square in the eyes and tell me that you don't always tend to behave irrationally every year, when you get the card?"
He sees red. Or black. Whatever color it is, it just makes him want to throw something out the window. How dare she? How can she just spring the card on him like this, when he has purposefully thrown it in the trash hours ago? As always, he had tried to ignore whatever drawing there was on it, but it was difficult, kids birthday cards are obnoxiously colorful. This one ridiculously depicted a pirate holding out a sword and saying "Hey Matey! Heard it was your ARGHHHday!"
Peter doesn't know what was the most revolting, the big red number 6 on the top left corner, or the pirate's wicked grin. Looking at it, Peter had felt like Walternate was staring right back at him, taunting him. There's some progress though.
He doesn't throw up after opening the card anymore.
On the other hand, the anger that always comes along with his suffocating guilt is still as virulent, if not worse. Something else he will never admit out loud.
"This has nothing to do with the card," he says then, almost in a growl. "It has everything to do with me being tired of being reactive."
"Don't lie to me," she replies, her voice worryingly calm. "We are above those petty lies. I don't want to patronize you, Peter. I know how you feel, but you can't let Walternate get to you that way, it's exactly what he wants."
"You never know when it's the right time for you to stop interfering with what doesn't concern you, Olivia," he says then in a very low voice. "I don't need you to pretend you understand, because you don't. I need you to let me go do my job without indeed patronizing me in front of the entire division."
Even through his angry haze, he registers every single sign of hurt that she briefly displays, as she recoils slightly, as if he had physically slapped her; these eyes of hers lose their deadly gleam to be filled with honest pain, and her whole body seems to curl up into itself.
He knows how preposterous and unfair that was; if anyone knows what it feels like to be reminded year after year of something you've done, it is her. And she can understand what it's like, to feel responsible for the death of a child. In three sentences, he has not only denigrated the mutual trust they have spent years building, but also her own pain.
It only lasts a second, and it lashes out at his heart.
But she's just as good as him, first trying to mask it, and when it doesn't work, she morphs it back to anger, offering him her darkest look to date.
"Fine," she says then, terribly coldly. Her voice is quivering slightly, but he knows it's from her infuriation, well decided not to show any more sign of hurt. "Go ahead, Peter. Do whatever you want. But when you end up dead, you can come and tell me 'You were right'."
And without another word or glance, she leaves the room with a slam of the door.
Peter doesn't die. He does end up pretty broken up, though.
When he opens his eyes for the first time in what feels like days -which is most likely the case, it only takes a few second for his blurry gaze to fall on her, a dark shape in the almost inexistent light of his hospital room.
She's in one of these uncomfortable armchairs, legs curled up under her. Elbow on her knee, her forehead is resting on the heel of her hand. Her eyes are closed, but he knows she's not sleeping. Judging by her outfit and messy ponytail -the opposite of her work attire- she has gone home at least once since he's last seen her; that alone proves that he was out of it for some time.
As always, she seems to feel his gaze on her; turning her head slightly, she opens her eyes to meet his. She doesn't say anything, her hand simply curling into a fist, pressing her knuckles to her lips. They stare at each other for the longest time, the only sound in the room being the regular 'beep beep' of his heart monitor.
He eventually tries to move a little to release some of the growing ache in his back, but that was a bad idea; pain literally shoots down his spine, before spreading in his entire body, making his heart rate peek.
"How long was I out?" He manages to ask once he's done grimacing and grunting in pain. Even speaking hurts.
He sees her glance up at what must be a clock on the opposite wall, before she lowers her eyes back to his.
"Fifty-four hours…" she whispers against her fingers, and though it doesn't register on his monitor, his heart aches atrociously.
It only worsens when his brain, finally forced to wake up with all those jolts of pain, starts to work more efficiently, and he remembers in details their last 'conversation'. She's still piercing him with her eyes, and even though it is dark and she's too far, he knows. He knows just how much worry and pain he has put her through.
"I'm sorry…" he whispers, and his throat is now painful for other reasons. "You were right. I was an idiot."
She finally moves, slowly, dropping her hand and straightening up a little. "Yes, you were." Her voice sounds as constricted as his, as if it's the first time she's really using it in over two days.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, trying to sit up, but that was another stupid thing to do. He hisses in pain, white dots dancing in front of his eyes. When they disappear, he sees that she's looking even graver than she was a few seconds ago.
"Before I call a nurse so she can dose you up with more morphine, let me ask you something." Her voice is already steadier, sounding the way she usually does when she's about to debrief him on a new case. "How do you think you'd feel, if I got myself killed for some stupid reasons, because of a wrong choice and some misplaced emotions?"
He swallows hard, unable to do anything but stare at her, at his wife, at his only steady ground in this unstable life. He feels like telling her that he would most likely simply cease to exist.
But he knows now is not the time for one his grand speeches.
"I'm sorry," he says for the third time instead, because he feels like he could say it a thousand times, and it still wouldn't be enough to take back the hurt.
"So am I, Peter," she almost snaps at him, clearly mad again.
When she gets up, it is her bones' turn to snap loudly, suggesting just how long she had been sitting there by his side. His entire being fills with dread for an instant, convinced that she's simply going to leave the room.
But she doesn't.
She makes her way to the bed instead, and without a word, she lies down next to him, over the covers. He still cannot move to try and give her more room, but she doesn't seem to care. She's on the verge of falling, and she doesn't care, bringing her face closer to his.
The way he turns his neck to be able to look at her instantly sends more pain down his back, but he doesn't give a damn, now that he can finally see her and the storm invading her eyes. She seems unable to settle for one emotion, trapped between anger and desperation.
"You have to stop doing this, Peter," she whispers. "Behaving harshly and dangerously when you're in pain, almost getting yourself killed.
"I know…" he whispers back. "I won't do it again."
Her face constricts in pain, and she averts her eyes, bringing a hand up to gently stroke his slightly sweaty hair, before briefly resting her palm on what must be a beard by now. Her fingers finally stop on his chest over his pounding heart, and she looks back up at him.
"You can't just leave me here alone…" Her voice is barely audible now, and yet it hurts in every way.
They both know she is not one to admit that she needs someone, but they also know that it doesn't apply when it comes to him. They've made that clear a long time ago, when they accepted the fact that they wouldn't survive long without one another.
The fact that he has dismissed it, dismissed her in a moment of madness is written all over face, swirling into her glistening irises, vestige of the Glimmer he knows must have been surrounding him for some time.
"I won't," is all he can answer, all he can promise, because what they know as well is that sometimes, the choice simply isn't theirs.
But it is, occasionally, and he owes it to himself as much as to her not to shorten his life because he cannot cope with his pain.
Right now, it is his physical pain that he chooses to ignore, bringing his hand up to his chest so he can cover her fingers with his, squeezing them. And as she moves even closer to him, closing her eyes and pressing her nose against his, he silently prays that she won't break that promise either.
(February 2017)
TO PART XIII