Olivia/Peter fanfic (post-Finale): In Reverse (XX)
A/N: This is part XX...last 'in reverse' part. The next part will be the conclusion.
Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI. // VII. // VIII. // IX. // X. // XI. // XII. // XIII. // XIV. // XV. // XVI. // XVII. // XVIII. // XIX
IN REVERSE
XX.
Peter walks home.
He doesn't really know why he doesn't simply hail a cab; after all, it is clear from Olivia's text that she would like him to get there sooner rather than later.
'Can you come home? We need to talk.'
'We need to talk' never is a good sign, in any kind of relationship, and quite honestly, he feels like she could spare him the additional worry at the moment. But he is aware of the fact that she wouldn't have asked him to come if there wasn't a good, valid reason. It doesn't make him feel any better. Nothing can really make him feel better at the moment.
It's one hell of a week.
He guesses that's why he has decided to walk the few miles home, hands buried in the pockets of his pea coat, chin against his chest, his face partially protected from the icy breeze and the light snow slowly falling from the sky. He's in a crappy mood, and he doesn't want to let it out on her. Walking in the cold seems to slow his brain down a bit, as he focuses on each step he takes and the little cloud of steam his breath forms in the air.
But as much as he tries, the birthday card refuses to leave his mind.
It's been three days since he has received it, though, one would think that he should start to get a grip by now. But just like the two previous years, his dear Father's annual piece of mail has left him a complete mess, an angry, guilt-stricken, confused mess. The only reason why he doesn't get drunk again like he did last year is because he is a mean drunk when he drinks in that state of mind, and thinking about the things he told Olivia that one time still makes him feel like the biggest jerk on the planet.
At times, he finds himself wondering how she still copes with him.
He knows he hasn't been the nicest person to be around for the past three years, lashing out at her more often than he dares to think about-verbally of course, never physically, but words can be incredibly poisonous. She usually gives him the silent treatment when it happens, though he knows she could very well retort just as efficiently. She doesn't go that low, though, not with him. She knows he's hurting, and that's why she hardly ever complains, why she's always there, why she lets him cling to her sometimes a bit desperately.
Because sometimes, when the pain and the guilt are so strong that he can hardly breathe, let alone speak or open his eyes, the feel of her is the only thing keeping him afloat.
He finds himself walking faster, realizing that things might be more serious than he originally thought for her to need to talk to him.
Fifteen minutes later, he's finally inside, brushing the snow off his hair as he takes his shoes off, before getting rid of his coat. He doesn't call out for her, his eyes silently roaming the place instead. He silently makes his way to the bedroom, stopping at the doorway, his eyes instantly falling on her.
She's sitting at the edge of the bed, and although she almost immediately realizes that he's here, it only takes him a second to note how tensed she is. She's still wearing her work clothes, minus the jacket, though she looks generally disheveled. Both her hands dangle between her legs, and he realizes then that she looks nervous, as she unconsciously keeps on drumming her fingers together; her hair also looks like she has excessively run a hand through it. He takes all these details in during the second or two it takes her to notice his arrival.
When she turns her head to look at him, he definitely knows something's wrong, her eyes moving through him and around him in a way that is sickeningly familiar. But she forces herself to bring her gaze to his face, and she looks incredibly pale.
"Hey," she says then, and she sounds strangely breathless.
But all he can do is frown, still not daring to move closer, only straightening up slightly. He feels more confused than worried at the moment, to be honest, because if something bad had happened, she wouldn't just be saying 'Hey,' would she?
"Olivia," he starts, and his puzzlement is clear in his voice. "Why are you scared?"
She's not scared, he knows, she's terrified. It takes a lot for her to get to that point, and he's not sure he wants to know what has caused her such distress, because he has no idea if he can deal with it. And yet, he needs to know.
She shakes her head briskly, "I'm not scared," she denies, but her fingers keep on drumming and her eyes are moving again, unable to stay focused on his face.
His patience is pretty much inexistent these days, and he doesn't understand why she feels like she should lie to him about this, especially when it's so obvious, and she knows he can tell. But for some reason, her pride seems to be dominating right now.
"I know I'm glimmering," he points out in a slightly exasperated voice. "You get that…look when it happens."
She purses her lips, moving her hands to rub her palms on her knees. "I'm not scared," she repeats stubbornly, but she lets out a small, unamused chuckle then, nervously scratching her temple, averting her eyes. "I'm just…I guess you could say I'm a bit freaked out."
He doesn't think the time is appropriate for them to start discussing the semantic of these terms, so he decides to let it go and to focus on the why instead.
"What's wrong?" He asks softly, trying to ignore his own growing edginess as she lets out a shaky breath, before standing up.
She's still not looking at him. She starts to pace, showing every sign of anxiety he has ever seen her display, a hand on her hip while the other is back in her hair. The look on her face only makes things worse, her whole body language almost screaming in panic, and it's quite contagious.
"Olivia, what is it?" he asks again, a little more firmly this time to get her to stop pacing and look at him, his heart pounding now.
She does stop eventually, turning to face him; both her hands are pressed together, fingers against her lips, and she meets his eyes. Her hands drop, then, palms up in a gesture of surrender and inevitability.
"I'm pregnant."
She says the words calmly, even managing to look more collected.
And for the first time in what must be months, Peter's mind goes completely blank.
He is in all honesty unable to do anything but simply stare at her and blink. He has heard the words alright, but his brain seems to have lost its ability to process their meaning.
"What?" He cannot help this reflex question, the stupidest of all, really.
She slowly wraps her arms around herself, and he notices then that she's shaking slightly. Her controlled mask crumbles, too, as her nostrils flare and her brow furrows, and when she repeats the words, they are hardly louder than a whisper. "I'm pregnant, Peter."
Maybe he really needed to hear her say it twice. Or maybe her obvious helplessness is simply too painful for him to just stay stoic any longer. Feelings and thoughts start to come back to him, though definitely numbed by shock. He briefly closes his eyes, shaking his head as if trying to clear his head, but it's hardly effective. When he opens his eyes again and looks at her, the crease between her eyes has deepened. She looks incredibly vulnerable and lost, hugging herself even tighter.
"Before you ask, I am sure," she says then in a shaky voice. "I didn't want to risk a false positive or negative with a test, so I went directly to my doctor; I had an appointment earlier today."
He remains quiet, though something huge is growing within him, compressing his chest and making it hard for him to breathe; he doesn't recognize the feeling. All he knows is that he's still unable to speak or even think properly, or to show any kind of reaction at all for that matter, and it is obvious that it's adding to her distress. He sees the growing tears in her eyes, her face contracting so hard now that it looks painful, and she shakes her head shortly.
"I'm sorry…." She whispers. "I know it's not….I know you're having a rough week, and I really didn't want to burden you with this on top of the rest, but I couldn't wait any longer, I needed to know. You needed to know."
To burden him?
The words hit him like icy water being poured over his head, shocking him in a very different way and somehow shaking him awake as his insides hurt, because she looks so small and scared and yet she's fighting so hard to keep herself together, apologizing to him.
Has he really been so busy feeling sorry about himself that he hasn't realized that something that important was troubling her? She has without a doubt spent more than a few days agonizing over this, rightly so, and he had been completely oblivious. And when he should be the one begging for forgiveness, she's being as selfless as ever, worrying about him more than she's worrying about herself.
About herself and the child she's carrying. Their child.
Pregnant.
The word suddenly booms in his head, and the unidentified feeling growing inside of him intensifies, goosebumps breaking all over his skin. His head is clearing up, though, and he's conscious enough to know that he's completely awestruck, not grasping it at all, but it doesn't really matter right now.
"How far along are you?" He asks then, barely noticing how his voice hardly carries his amazement. It mostly sounds hollow, which in turn causes her to swallow hard.
"Five weeks…" she breathes out, and she looks like she's expecting him to openly react negatively any second now, still on the verge of tears.
But he realizes then that there is absolutely nothing negative in what he is feeling, and that is almost as astonishing as her news itself.
Pregnant.
His amazement is so unexpected and in some way so liberating that he would surely have laughed then if he hadn't still been too shaken to be able to react properly. Actually, his body is shaking a little too, now, and he forces himself to take a step towards her because he cannot possibly keep on letting her think that this is bad.
"Are you…Is everything okay? I mean, is everything going well?" Genuine curiosity and awe finally ring in his voice, and he can instantly see the change in her body language and on her face, as apprehension starts to morph into confusion.
She nods a little. "My doctor said the baby's healthy."
It hits him, then. The nature of what has been growing within him ever since she has said those first two words, those two words that are going to change everything, those two words that are already giving him back something he had lost the instant he had stumbled out of the Machine, branded murderer for the rest of his life.
He's feeling hope again.
And when you have been desperately swimming in the darkest waters for months and months, barely able to keep your head above the surface at times, and merely doing so because she is the only thing keeping you from drowning, hope is the most incredible feeling in the world.
It brings colors back to your life.
Right now, he is mesmerized by the scintillating green of her eyes.
He feels his face break into a dumbstruck smile, and his voice is just as filled with sheer bewilderment when he says: "We're gonna have a baby."
Olivia looks even more dazed than him, except that he is the reason behind her bemused state, and her look of total confusion only worsens when he walks to her. When she weakly unwraps her arms from around herself, it's clearly more an instinctive gesture than a deliberate decision, her body perfectly in sync with his as it is his turn to enfold her into a warm embrace, holding her tightly, yet almost delicately. As he buries his face against her neck and breathes in more deeply than he has in ages, she loosely wraps her arms around him, still clearly in shock. When he exhales, the air comes out of his lungs in a long, relieved sigh.
He then becomes aware of the muffled, snuffling sound against his shoulder, where she has pressed her face, and he pulls away slightly to look at her. Her watery eyes instantly meet his, and his hand comes up to cup her cheek, his heart aching at the sight of her tears, but it barely dampens his vibrant exhilaration.
"What is it?" He asks softly, another stupid question without a doubt, because she has so many obvious reasons to be upset.
She shakes her head in his hand, her eyes roaming his face as her own features constrict again, and she simply looks baffled.
"You're…happy," she whispers then, as if she had never thought she would ever get to utter those words again, and more tears roll down her cheeks.
The pain becomes more acute as he stares into her eyes. He has been aware of what it must be costing her, to see him so lost and depressed for the past few years, to be the one keeping him together most of the time, but as he watches her being so shocked by his genuine happiness, he suddenly realizes just how much she's been hurting for him.
He brings his other hand up to her face, burying his fingers in her hair, gently pulling her closer, and she closes her eyes. He presses a soft kiss upon her close eyelid. "I'm sorry…" he murmurs, and her own hands come up, wrapping her fingers around his arm as he moves his lips to kiss her other eye, tasting her tears. "I'm sorry…"
He rests his forehead against hers, then, eyes closed, allowing himself to feel unburdened even if it's just for this moment, as he lets this wonderful, indescribable sensation overpower him, sheltered from the rest of the world. It's only her, it's only him, and everything they can be and will be.
He only reopens his eyes when he feels her hands move, her fingers leaving his arm to rest on his chest, and he raises his head to look at her. She looks calmer, though definitely overwhelmed, hundreds of questions and worries swirling in her eyes.
"We haven't even talked about having children," she whispers then, and it's clear that she hardly believes what she's saying.
It is true that they haven't discussed it, when most people would certainly have brought up the topic at least once after being in a relationship for three years. But once again, it's his fault, because 'children' has become one of these incredibly sensitive topics ever since his Father had let him know that when he had destroyed his own universe, he had not only killed billions of people, he had also killed his son.
He had never met the boy, and to this day still doesn't know his name, but the envelope Walternate had sent him had been thick with documents, proofs of the Other Olivia's pregnancy and proofs that the baby had been born healthy after her pregnancy had been inexplicably accelerated. There had been DNA proofs as well, and a handwritten note from his Father explaining how he had used the baby's blood to activate their Machine. It had been all facts, and it had been painful, but it had been just facts, just one more number, a number who simply happened to have shared half his genetic code.
But at the very end of the file, there had been a picture. There had been a picture, and as Peter stared at the baby's face, all he had seen were Olivia's eyes.
And it hadn't been just the eyes. The baby had been young, no more than a few weeks old, and yet he had been a perfect mixture of Peter Bishop and Olivia Dunham.
What had been just facts had become pain like he had rarely experienced it. And every year on the boy's birthday, which sickeningly enough happens to be the exact same day Olivia had come to his house with a bottle of bourbon, his Father sends him a card, wishing his son a wonderful year, before pointing out the fact that he actually won't get to live this year because of him.
Indeed, Peter and Olivia have never talked about having a child of their own in the wake of his son's death. And yet, there they are, faced with the irrefutable truth.
Discussed or not, thirty-five weeks from now, they will have a baby. And it doesn't feel wrong, it doesn't feel wrong at all; it actually feels so right that Peter doesn't know if he wants to laugh or if he wants to weep. He knows he will never forget about what he did, birthday cards or not, but this is not about his mistakes and his guilt.
This is about how much he loves her, and how much he cannot wait to experience this with her.
This is about second chances.
"Olivia…" he finally whispers, because he doesn't trust himself to be able to speak any louder, his eyes bearing into hers, and he brings his face down to hers again, noses touching. "You're giving me a family…" he murmurs against her lips, and it sounds like a 'thank you', causing her breath to hitch in her throat, her fingers digging into his chest. "You're giving me a family…"
He doesn't need to explain his words to her, she understands. She understands what it means to him, to the lost boy he once was, torn away from his world, and deafened by the lies. She knows what it means to him as a man as well, as the man who had tried so hard to cling to her and to Walter, but the lies had been deafening that time, too.
There are no more lies, not this time.
It's only her, and it's only him, and everything they will be.
And as he pulls away slightly one more time to look into her eyes, he sees the change in them, genuine joy finally taking over everything else as this realization swallows her whole, too. Her eyes fill up with tears again, but these tears have the power to heal wounds, he knows. And then she smiles, and it is the most beautiful smile of all.
Just like her tears, her smile is full of hope.
(February 2014)
TO PART 0: TURN BACK THE CLOCK (CONCLUSION)
A/N: Denial is the way to go.