Olivia/Peter fanfic (post-Finale): In Reverse (XIII)
A/N: This is part XIII
Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI. // VII. // VIII. // IX. // X. // XI. // XII.
IN REVERSE
XIII.
"You know," he grunts, moving another pile of boxes around, "not to sound redundant or anything, but now would really be a good time for you to practice your superpowers and help me find it."
Olivia doesn't move from where she is sitting on the floor -or rather where she has slumped down a minute ago after they were done bringing the last boxes in. The ones she's leaning against all have "LIVING ROOM" written over their side.
"It's not like I can just go 'ACTION' and it will fly to me, like that geek in glasses does," she answers back.
He snorts, still roaming around. "I'm gonna speak for Ella and tell you that it's 'accio', not 'action'…and I only know that because she forced me to marathon the movies with her again last weekend when you were working."
"Geek…" she mutters under her breath.
He would have answered with something just as sweet if his gaze hadn't fallen upon what he had been looking for.
"Ah ah!" he exclaims, bending down to grab the beer pack. Getting two out, he then makes his way back to her through the sea of boxes in which they have packed all of their life.
When he hands one out for her to take, she makes a face. A very flushed, drained face. He just loves how her hair seems to get a life of its own whenever she exhausts herself -in any way. Today, strands of it have escaped her braid, now wildly standing up all around her head.
"This is warm," she scowls.
He smirks. "Well, if you can find the kitchen, feel free to go get yourself a glass of cold water. I'm not going back out there."
She narrows her eyes but finally accepts the beer, and he sits down opposite to her, against what must be the back of the couch; she stretches her legs out, sliding them between his. They open their bottles in perfect sync, and he then holds his out to her with a smile.
"To a fresh -lukewarm- start."
She chuckles but touches his bottle with her own, before they both take a sip of the liquor, then making similar faces.
"Okay, this is dreadful," he admits, putting the beer down as she laughs at his defeat, and his hands automatically find her bare feet, distractingly massaging her toes.
She looks around, rolling the beer bottle between her fingers, looking both contented and a bit overwhelmed. They both know she's not looking forward to the next step; she's never been much into cleaning and organizing. So he decides to make it fun.
"You know what we're supposed to do now," he says in his most cheerful voice.
Her eyes are still taking in the colossal amount of boxes all around the place. "Unpack all of these?" She sounds a bit desperate.
"Uh uh," he shakes his head. "We have to have sex in every room of the house. To make it 'ours', you know. That's what they say."
She finally brings her gaze back to him, raising an amused eyebrow, offering him a crooked smile. "Oh, really. I think they also say that we're supposed to fall into a routine and stop having sex within the next few years as well."
"Clearly not the same group of people."
"Statistics are statistics."
"Ah, but we both know we don't exactly belong in the 'normal' category."
"Why? Because I have a drug in my brain that presumably allows me to make things float like Harry Potter?"
"Or because you're married to a man who comes from another universe."
He says it jokingly, without thinking, lost into their banter. But as soon as the words escape his mouth, it's like someone has poured ice over his head.
It is sometimes sickeningly easy for him to just forget that he has destroyed that entire universe, and all the people in it.
She sees the sudden reappearance of his self-loathing of course -might feel it too when his fingers contracts around her toes. She doesn't say a word, though, simply looking at him, tilting her head slightly. He averts his gaze, which falls on his beer. He hastily brings it to his lips and takes an impressive mouthful of it, proof of just how uncomfortable he now feels. It really is all kind of nauseating.
From the corner of his eyes, he notices that she has stopped playing with her own bottle, and the lack of movement makes him look back at her face. She's not looking at him anymore; her eyes have dropped to his chest, looking blurry, as if her mind was miles away from here. At first, he thinks it's simply because she feels just as uncomfortable as him and doesn't know what to say or do. But after at least one long minute of this deafening silence and her vacant gaze on his shirt, he frowns.
"Olivia?" he calls softly.
"Shhh…" she barely murmurs, and he realizes then that she looks focused.
He understands what she's doing just in time to look down at his chest and see the first button of his shirt unbutton itself.
When he raises his eyes again, she's offering him a victorious smile.
"Niiiiiice," he can't help but smile as well. "By the time you learn to strip me of all my clothes, we will be one of these old and bitter couples who never have sex anymore, so it won't be much use."
A flying beer cap hits his forehead; she hasn't bothered this time and has thrown it with her hand. They then very maturely stick their tongues out at each other.
"You know, to be honest, I don't think we're gonna grow old and bitter together," she says then.
This earns her his best confused, pouting frown.
"Only six months of marriage and you're already getting tired of me? Is there something you wanna share, honey?"
She chuckles and shakes her head, finally putting her beer down. "That's not what I meant. I'm sure we'll grow old together, I just don't think we necessarily have to become bitter."
He smirks. "Wanna develop on that?"
His smiles grows wider when she moves to join him, sitting next to him back against the couch, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, and she rests her chin on his shoulder, looking up at him.
"You're my best friend," she tells him simply, then, shrugging slightly. "So even if, God forbid, we do stop having sex for some obscure reason, I'm pretty sure I'll still love being around you."
It is always so sudden, and almost unexpected. Not only her rare and precious admissions of how much she cares for him, but the intense waves of deep affection he feels for her as well. Those two often go together. He feels so strongly that it blocks the air in his lungs, making him strangely aware of every inch of his skin, and hers. And as she absently brushes her lips against his shoulder, looking at him with nothing but sheer honestly in her eyes, he feels very breathless indeed.
And so he leans in to press a kiss on the tip of her nose, before saying just as honestly: "I love you."
She smiles against his shoulder. "But you love sex too," she whispers with a laugh in her eyes.
"Damn right I do."
And he grabs her without warning, causing her to let out a squeal of surprise, which turns into a purr when she ends up straddling his lap with his hands under her top tank and his mouth against her jugular. She smells sweaty and sweet and tantalizing, a scent so hers that he wouldn't mind starting owning their new home right here on the floor, especially when she tugs on his hair to bring his mouth up to hers, and the beer tastes much sweeter on her tongue, if you asked him.
He mindlessly marvels on how one could ever get tired of this, of the feeling of the woman you love coming alight in your hands, of her nails in the back of your head as she cups your jaw, of her heaving chest against yours. They have kissed a thousand times, and yet it's always exhilarating. She's passionate, and he loves being scorched by her blazing touch.
In all honesty, she feels more liberated than she has been in months. The reasons behind the thick darkness in her eyes are more than valid of course, and he can't say his burden isn't heavy either. But right now, lost between boxes and wrapped furniture, the way she kisses him fills his heart with honest hope, and he wonders if their change of scenery truly has something to do with it. Maybe they have left some of their darkness in boxes they didn't bring along.
Once again, she reads his mind, because when the kiss stops and they find themselves simply staring into each other's eyes for long seconds, nose to nose and breaths mingling, she eventually whispers against his lips:
"Fresh start, right?"
And for an instant there, he sees it all again, everything they don't talk about, everything she will never be able to lock away no matter how hard she tries; he knows how sometimes, he's the only reason why she's trying at all. He wants nothing more than to make it all disappear, though he knows it's impossible, and that's alright, because he will keep trying for her, too. He loves the shadows in her eyes as much as he loves the sound of her laugh.
He brings a hand up to her face, palm on her cheek, and nods against her.
"Fresh starts," he confirms.
She nods too, before slowly dropping her head, and she presses her face into the side of his neck, breathing in deeply, one of her hands still warm on his nape as he encircles her in his arms.
"I love you…" she whispers against his skin, and he closes his eyes, tightening his embrace.
Breathing is overrated, anyway.
(May 2016)
TO PART XIV
Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI. // VII. // VIII. // IX. // X. // XI. // XII.
IN REVERSE
XIII.
"You know," he grunts, moving another pile of boxes around, "not to sound redundant or anything, but now would really be a good time for you to practice your superpowers and help me find it."
Olivia doesn't move from where she is sitting on the floor -or rather where she has slumped down a minute ago after they were done bringing the last boxes in. The ones she's leaning against all have "LIVING ROOM" written over their side.
"It's not like I can just go 'ACTION' and it will fly to me, like that geek in glasses does," she answers back.
He snorts, still roaming around. "I'm gonna speak for Ella and tell you that it's 'accio', not 'action'…and I only know that because she forced me to marathon the movies with her again last weekend when you were working."
"Geek…" she mutters under her breath.
He would have answered with something just as sweet if his gaze hadn't fallen upon what he had been looking for.
"Ah ah!" he exclaims, bending down to grab the beer pack. Getting two out, he then makes his way back to her through the sea of boxes in which they have packed all of their life.
When he hands one out for her to take, she makes a face. A very flushed, drained face. He just loves how her hair seems to get a life of its own whenever she exhausts herself -in any way. Today, strands of it have escaped her braid, now wildly standing up all around her head.
"This is warm," she scowls.
He smirks. "Well, if you can find the kitchen, feel free to go get yourself a glass of cold water. I'm not going back out there."
She narrows her eyes but finally accepts the beer, and he sits down opposite to her, against what must be the back of the couch; she stretches her legs out, sliding them between his. They open their bottles in perfect sync, and he then holds his out to her with a smile.
"To a fresh -lukewarm- start."
She chuckles but touches his bottle with her own, before they both take a sip of the liquor, then making similar faces.
"Okay, this is dreadful," he admits, putting the beer down as she laughs at his defeat, and his hands automatically find her bare feet, distractingly massaging her toes.
She looks around, rolling the beer bottle between her fingers, looking both contented and a bit overwhelmed. They both know she's not looking forward to the next step; she's never been much into cleaning and organizing. So he decides to make it fun.
"You know what we're supposed to do now," he says in his most cheerful voice.
Her eyes are still taking in the colossal amount of boxes all around the place. "Unpack all of these?" She sounds a bit desperate.
"Uh uh," he shakes his head. "We have to have sex in every room of the house. To make it 'ours', you know. That's what they say."
She finally brings her gaze back to him, raising an amused eyebrow, offering him a crooked smile. "Oh, really. I think they also say that we're supposed to fall into a routine and stop having sex within the next few years as well."
"Clearly not the same group of people."
"Statistics are statistics."
"Ah, but we both know we don't exactly belong in the 'normal' category."
"Why? Because I have a drug in my brain that presumably allows me to make things float like Harry Potter?"
"Or because you're married to a man who comes from another universe."
He says it jokingly, without thinking, lost into their banter. But as soon as the words escape his mouth, it's like someone has poured ice over his head.
It is sometimes sickeningly easy for him to just forget that he has destroyed that entire universe, and all the people in it.
She sees the sudden reappearance of his self-loathing of course -might feel it too when his fingers contracts around her toes. She doesn't say a word, though, simply looking at him, tilting her head slightly. He averts his gaze, which falls on his beer. He hastily brings it to his lips and takes an impressive mouthful of it, proof of just how uncomfortable he now feels. It really is all kind of nauseating.
From the corner of his eyes, he notices that she has stopped playing with her own bottle, and the lack of movement makes him look back at her face. She's not looking at him anymore; her eyes have dropped to his chest, looking blurry, as if her mind was miles away from here. At first, he thinks it's simply because she feels just as uncomfortable as him and doesn't know what to say or do. But after at least one long minute of this deafening silence and her vacant gaze on his shirt, he frowns.
"Olivia?" he calls softly.
"Shhh…" she barely murmurs, and he realizes then that she looks focused.
He understands what she's doing just in time to look down at his chest and see the first button of his shirt unbutton itself.
When he raises his eyes again, she's offering him a victorious smile.
"Niiiiiice," he can't help but smile as well. "By the time you learn to strip me of all my clothes, we will be one of these old and bitter couples who never have sex anymore, so it won't be much use."
A flying beer cap hits his forehead; she hasn't bothered this time and has thrown it with her hand. They then very maturely stick their tongues out at each other.
"You know, to be honest, I don't think we're gonna grow old and bitter together," she says then.
This earns her his best confused, pouting frown.
"Only six months of marriage and you're already getting tired of me? Is there something you wanna share, honey?"
She chuckles and shakes her head, finally putting her beer down. "That's not what I meant. I'm sure we'll grow old together, I just don't think we necessarily have to become bitter."
He smirks. "Wanna develop on that?"
His smiles grows wider when she moves to join him, sitting next to him back against the couch, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, and she rests her chin on his shoulder, looking up at him.
"You're my best friend," she tells him simply, then, shrugging slightly. "So even if, God forbid, we do stop having sex for some obscure reason, I'm pretty sure I'll still love being around you."
It is always so sudden, and almost unexpected. Not only her rare and precious admissions of how much she cares for him, but the intense waves of deep affection he feels for her as well. Those two often go together. He feels so strongly that it blocks the air in his lungs, making him strangely aware of every inch of his skin, and hers. And as she absently brushes her lips against his shoulder, looking at him with nothing but sheer honestly in her eyes, he feels very breathless indeed.
And so he leans in to press a kiss on the tip of her nose, before saying just as honestly: "I love you."
She smiles against his shoulder. "But you love sex too," she whispers with a laugh in her eyes.
"Damn right I do."
And he grabs her without warning, causing her to let out a squeal of surprise, which turns into a purr when she ends up straddling his lap with his hands under her top tank and his mouth against her jugular. She smells sweaty and sweet and tantalizing, a scent so hers that he wouldn't mind starting owning their new home right here on the floor, especially when she tugs on his hair to bring his mouth up to hers, and the beer tastes much sweeter on her tongue, if you asked him.
He mindlessly marvels on how one could ever get tired of this, of the feeling of the woman you love coming alight in your hands, of her nails in the back of your head as she cups your jaw, of her heaving chest against yours. They have kissed a thousand times, and yet it's always exhilarating. She's passionate, and he loves being scorched by her blazing touch.
In all honesty, she feels more liberated than she has been in months. The reasons behind the thick darkness in her eyes are more than valid of course, and he can't say his burden isn't heavy either. But right now, lost between boxes and wrapped furniture, the way she kisses him fills his heart with honest hope, and he wonders if their change of scenery truly has something to do with it. Maybe they have left some of their darkness in boxes they didn't bring along.
Once again, she reads his mind, because when the kiss stops and they find themselves simply staring into each other's eyes for long seconds, nose to nose and breaths mingling, she eventually whispers against his lips:
"Fresh start, right?"
And for an instant there, he sees it all again, everything they don't talk about, everything she will never be able to lock away no matter how hard she tries; he knows how sometimes, he's the only reason why she's trying at all. He wants nothing more than to make it all disappear, though he knows it's impossible, and that's alright, because he will keep trying for her, too. He loves the shadows in her eyes as much as he loves the sound of her laugh.
He brings a hand up to her face, palm on her cheek, and nods against her.
"Fresh starts," he confirms.
She nods too, before slowly dropping her head, and she presses her face into the side of his neck, breathing in deeply, one of her hands still warm on his nape as he encircles her in his arms.
"I love you…" she whispers against his skin, and he closes his eyes, tightening his embrace.
Breathing is overrated, anyway.
(May 2016)
TO PART XIV