Timestamps (again)
One more timestamp fill. I know I've fallen behind on these, but to be honest, these last two requests have been the hardest because I was going back to the very first story I wrote in this fandom - not that that's the bad part, it's just scratching around made me realize that the there was so much more potential in that 'verse, even though the meme says I only needed to dig up about 100 words. Anyhow, this one's for 
wikiaddicted723 who wanted - Bleeding Daylight - anytime afterwards.
The mist turns into a full-fledged fall rain and washes the mud from Olivia's knees. It runs down Peter's bare back in dirty rivulets and raises goose bumps on both their sun-kissed necks. It seems appropriate, Peter thinks, that they left that world the same way they'd come into it - tangled, wet, and dirty.
"There's something to be said for acclimatization," Peter says. It comes out as a puff of steam that hangs in the air between them. "So… My place?" he offers. "Your place?" It's too cold to stand out here and feel awkward about their display of public indecency.
Not that he regrets anything - quite the opposite. At the very least, they're home, and if all this had been Peter taking one for the team to help her make it happen, he certainly had no qualms about that. His motives had been sincere, his feelings for her, genuine. This whole trip had started because he'd left Boston in the first place. Because Olivia'd lied to him and it'd hurt.
It wasn't until later, until she was standing in that Architectural Digest centerfold of an apartment he'd been given, listing the reasons he needed to come home that he'd realized it'd hurt because it mattered to him. Because she mattered. Then Walternate had got her and done things she still wasn't ready to speak of.
And so he willingly gave whatever she asked for, let her take whatever she'd needed.
But from the way Olivia's frowning, with her head canted to one side, her fingers pressed against her lips as if to hold back some horror she's not ready voice, Peter's not exactly sure how all this is sitting with her.
Or maybe he should offer somewhere neutral, Peter thinks, somewhere without any pressures or expectations attached. "The lab's just a couple blocks away," he nods in its general direction. And when she doesn't answer, "Olivia?"
She looks up suddenly, startled for a moment before her eyes focus on his and the tense lines of her shoulders under the thin gingham dress soften. "Peter look at this," she says, and it comes out strung together in a single word - Peterlookithis -the way she calls him when they're at a crime scene and she's found something that piques her interest. It's Olivia's version of Walter's shuffle-dance of joy.
The knot in his chest unclenches, but he barely gets the chance to remind her that they're not really dressed to stand out in the fall rain - some of them are barely dressed at all, because she's hold the gun belt out to him and now he sees what she'd noticed right away.
The belt looks old. Not the used-and-well-cared-for kind of old it had been when Olivia'd first pulled it from the trunk. The belt had obviously been old, but it'd looked supple and well cared for, smelling pungently of leather and gun oil.
If he hadn't had his fingers hooked through it only moments ago, Peter wouldn't have believed this was the same gun belt she'd worn on the other side. The leather is faded and cracked, and the rawhide stitching around the holster looks so brittle that it might come apart if he looks at it the wrong way.
"What the…" he asks. He forgets about being wet and cold. This has bigger implications.
Olivia shakes her head. "I don't know." She pulls the big revolver from the holster and had to tug to get it loose because the leather had shrunk around it. It comes loose with a brittle snap and a palmful of dust that rains down all over Olivia's shoes. Half the barrel is missing and the great polished wood grip is now bleached dry and cracked. It looks old. Scratch that, he thinks, it looks ancient.
Peter's first thought is that something happened to when they'd crossed over - maybe they can't bring matter with them - but that makes no sense, otherwise their clothes would be nothing more than rags and tatters. And Olivia's dress looks fine on her. More than fine.
"What if… " Olivia trails off as she gives him that pained smile that suggests he's not going to like what she'd going to say next. "What if we've been over there longer than we thought? You were keeping track Peter. How many days were we stuck there? What if that place did something to us?"
For a moment, Peter's not sure what she's talking about. He's about to tell her he doesn't know what she's talking about, but then he remembers there'd been a book, a black one with onion skin pages he'd dog-eared to mark his place. Or to mark the date. Already it's fading like that last licks of a dream upon waking. In his mind's eye, he can see Olivia standing windswept in the middle of an open plain, looking out at something out past the horizon.
Olivia tilts her head, waiting for an answer, then frowns. "Or maybe that was someone else." It's fading for her too.
Peter grabs onto her hand tight, holds onto that memory even tighter, and starts them walking across the wet grass toward the footpath, and then on toward the lab. It's not long before Olivia's pulling him through the heavy wooden doors, out of the rain, and down the corridor to the basement and the warmth of the lab, and Peter finds himself wondering if Astrid and Walter will be there, waiting for them to come home.
Still working on the other one, Rainer. Very slowly. :)
Also posted at DW, where
people have commented. Comments welcome here or there.
wikiaddicted723 who wanted - Bleeding Daylight - anytime afterwards.
The mist turns into a full-fledged fall rain and washes the mud from Olivia's knees. It runs down Peter's bare back in dirty rivulets and raises goose bumps on both their sun-kissed necks. It seems appropriate, Peter thinks, that they left that world the same way they'd come into it - tangled, wet, and dirty.
"There's something to be said for acclimatization," Peter says. It comes out as a puff of steam that hangs in the air between them. "So… My place?" he offers. "Your place?" It's too cold to stand out here and feel awkward about their display of public indecency.
Not that he regrets anything - quite the opposite. At the very least, they're home, and if all this had been Peter taking one for the team to help her make it happen, he certainly had no qualms about that. His motives had been sincere, his feelings for her, genuine. This whole trip had started because he'd left Boston in the first place. Because Olivia'd lied to him and it'd hurt.
It wasn't until later, until she was standing in that Architectural Digest centerfold of an apartment he'd been given, listing the reasons he needed to come home that he'd realized it'd hurt because it mattered to him. Because she mattered. Then Walternate had got her and done things she still wasn't ready to speak of.
And so he willingly gave whatever she asked for, let her take whatever she'd needed.
But from the way Olivia's frowning, with her head canted to one side, her fingers pressed against her lips as if to hold back some horror she's not ready voice, Peter's not exactly sure how all this is sitting with her.
Or maybe he should offer somewhere neutral, Peter thinks, somewhere without any pressures or expectations attached. "The lab's just a couple blocks away," he nods in its general direction. And when she doesn't answer, "Olivia?"
She looks up suddenly, startled for a moment before her eyes focus on his and the tense lines of her shoulders under the thin gingham dress soften. "Peter look at this," she says, and it comes out strung together in a single word - Peterlookithis -the way she calls him when they're at a crime scene and she's found something that piques her interest. It's Olivia's version of Walter's shuffle-dance of joy.
The knot in his chest unclenches, but he barely gets the chance to remind her that they're not really dressed to stand out in the fall rain - some of them are barely dressed at all, because she's hold the gun belt out to him and now he sees what she'd noticed right away.
The belt looks old. Not the used-and-well-cared-for kind of old it had been when Olivia'd first pulled it from the trunk. The belt had obviously been old, but it'd looked supple and well cared for, smelling pungently of leather and gun oil.
If he hadn't had his fingers hooked through it only moments ago, Peter wouldn't have believed this was the same gun belt she'd worn on the other side. The leather is faded and cracked, and the rawhide stitching around the holster looks so brittle that it might come apart if he looks at it the wrong way.
"What the…" he asks. He forgets about being wet and cold. This has bigger implications.
Olivia shakes her head. "I don't know." She pulls the big revolver from the holster and had to tug to get it loose because the leather had shrunk around it. It comes loose with a brittle snap and a palmful of dust that rains down all over Olivia's shoes. Half the barrel is missing and the great polished wood grip is now bleached dry and cracked. It looks old. Scratch that, he thinks, it looks ancient.
Peter's first thought is that something happened to when they'd crossed over - maybe they can't bring matter with them - but that makes no sense, otherwise their clothes would be nothing more than rags and tatters. And Olivia's dress looks fine on her. More than fine.
"What if… " Olivia trails off as she gives him that pained smile that suggests he's not going to like what she'd going to say next. "What if we've been over there longer than we thought? You were keeping track Peter. How many days were we stuck there? What if that place did something to us?"
For a moment, Peter's not sure what she's talking about. He's about to tell her he doesn't know what she's talking about, but then he remembers there'd been a book, a black one with onion skin pages he'd dog-eared to mark his place. Or to mark the date. Already it's fading like that last licks of a dream upon waking. In his mind's eye, he can see Olivia standing windswept in the middle of an open plain, looking out at something out past the horizon.
Olivia tilts her head, waiting for an answer, then frowns. "Or maybe that was someone else." It's fading for her too.
Peter grabs onto her hand tight, holds onto that memory even tighter, and starts them walking across the wet grass toward the footpath, and then on toward the lab. It's not long before Olivia's pulling him through the heavy wooden doors, out of the rain, and down the corridor to the basement and the warmth of the lab, and Peter finds himself wondering if Astrid and Walter will be there, waiting for them to come home.
Still working on the other one, Rainer. Very slowly. :)
Also posted at DW, where
people have commented. Comments welcome here or there.