Warning: mild spoiler and conjecture for Lysergic Acid Diethylamide 3x19
Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe. Don't make me say it again.
A/N: Okay, sooo this started out as something entirely different and then halfway through, I found myself seduced by Peter and Olivia and their epicness. That, coupled with major Fringe withdrawal led to caffeinated nights, weeping over Peter/Olivia scenes and ultimately this here smutty tale. I do hope you enjoy the product of my delirium.
A Million Stars and You
It's been four days since they've expelled William Bell from her mind. Four days since she almost died. Four days since he brought her back.
She doesn't feel 'back' though. She feels vague and nebulous, as if she is a jigsaw puzzle put back together except some of the pieces don't quite fit. Walter told her it would take a few days for her mind to adjust to the trauma of being temporarily inhabited. Inhabited. A nice way of phrasing violation, rape, irreparable damage. She gives in to rare moments of self-pity and wonders if she'll ever remember what it feels like to be complete, to have a mind, a body that isn't dictated by someone else's whims. She supposes as long as she has Cortexiphan running through her neural pathways that's out of the question. It's funny how the weeks prior to Bell's abduction, those blissful few weeks with Peter now seem like a hazy memory - like a life lived by someone who wasn't her. The irony of that statement is not lost on her. She wants to go back, but doesn't know how. The mind is both durable and surprisingly fragile. Hers has been tampered with so many times that she marvels over the fact that she still has all her senses and is not half-insane or delusional like Walter.
She stands in the shower now, barely moving while piping hot water hits her body, as if the boiling temperature is enough to peel off the extra layer of grime left there by a seventy-year old pervert. She runs her hands across her chest, over her breasts, down to her stomach and watches as rivulets of water run down her thighs, past her calves and circle the drain. The thought that William Bell stood in this exact position observing this exact image makes her sick. She doesn't consider herself a prudish person, but she does value her privacy - highly - and the fact that it had been so viciously abused is unforgivable. She doesn't know how to make sense of it.
She's just stepping out of the bathroom when she hears the knock. She knows it's him before she looks through the peep-hole. He knocks with a certain cadence.Bum-ba-bum-bum. Still she looks, because she's cautious and because it's after ten and mostly because she's still half wet and wearing nothing but a simple black bathrobe. He's standing with his hands in his pockets, looking down, awaiting entry.
She opens the door swiftly and he looks surprised to see her and a little guilty, as if he understands that he's caught her during a bad time.
"Hey," she manages, stepping aside to allow him to walk past her.
He appraises her state of undress with an odd combination of sheepishness and half-disguised desire. "I'm sorry. I tried to call. You weren't picking up."
"I was in the shower," she states tersely. Within seconds, they've managed to make it awkward. She blames herself. She hasn't seen him since the lab. In fact, 'actively avoiding' would be a better term. He's called daily to check on her and she's said she was fine. F-I-N-E. Fine. She knows he knows better. He always has. But he's given her space. And she's been grateful. But now he's here, looking at here with those eyes that seem to bore into her very soul and unravel her without her permission.
"I was worried," he says softly.
She looks down for a moment, watching the carpet soak up the droplets of water falling from her wet hair. When she looks back up at him his face is so torn, so helpless that she means it when she says, "I'm sorry."
"You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine." She gives him a tight smile as if to be reassuring, but it's been years since that day in Iraq when she first conned him into getting onto a plane with her and he's since learnt all of her tells. He's always been good at reading people, she knows this, but with her it's different, he's the only one who's ever been able to see past the mask of self-composure. It's one of the reasons she needed space from him. To see him would be to admit that she wasn't fine, to see him would be to admit defeat.
He takes a step towards her and she literally fights to maintain her ground. "Olivia," he says her name on a breath, as if it is a fragile thing to be held gently between cupped palms. Tentatively, he reaches out and twirls a wet tendril of hair around his finger. "I'm here. You know that right?"
She nods, not meeting his eyes. "I know, I just -" It's difficult for her to articulate her feelings, it always has been, which is why she's always felt a little inept at the whole relationship thing. But in the spirit of full disclosure, she sighs and says, "I'm trying."
He frowns, his brows coming together in an expression she's always found endearing. "Trying to what?"
"Not to retreat," she admits. "Despite the fact everything inside me wants to run from this."
His hand falls to his side in a defeated gesture. "Because I lied to you? About the shapeshifters?"
She raises one shoulder. "I don't know. Yes. That and Bell and everything." She lets out a shaky breath. "Peter, I'm tired."
Without another word, he takes her in his arms, one arm encircling her waist, the other buried in her damp hair. She's stiff against him, her body awkward in his embrace. He's warm, is the first thing she thinks. Warm and solid and Peter. And for the first time in four days she lets go and allows herself to fall against him. "I know," he whispers into her ear, "I know." Against her cheek she can feel his steady heartbeat, its rhythm constant and soothing. He's always been her constant, she realises, her tether, keeping her grounded, holding her to this world when it felt as if she would float away. Even in the beginning, when her universe had been shaken up and everything seemed to be collapsing around her, there was Peter, always there, despite his own proclivity to run. Always there…for her. She pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at him.
He's tired too. She notices the dark circles under his eyes, the thicker than-usual stubble coating his chin. She has no idea if he's gotten any more sleep than she has since she's been back. She knows he must have spoken to Broyles about keeping her off any new cases and she finds herself surprisingly grateful for this show of protectiveness. She's unaccustomed to being protected, and would usually discourage it, but she welcomes the peace these few days have brought. He's looking down at her with a bemused expression, searching her eyes as if they hold the key to deciphering her thoughts. "You feelin' any better?"
Without a word, she reaches up and undoes the top button of his shirt, garnering a confused frown. "'Livia, what are you-" He sucks in a breath when she decisively moves to the next one then places his hands on hers, stilling them. "Olivia, we don't have to-" that frown line between his brows deepens as he stares at her intensely, blue eyes burrowing into green ones.
Her lips curve into the tiniest of smiles as she lets out a breath. "You know every time I get brainwashed and inhabited, every time I cross over and taken over I feel like a little piece of me gets left behind and so really I'm less and less of myself. But, with you," she bites her bottom lip as she considers her next words, "with you I'm whole." The changes in his face are barely perceptible, but she knows how to read him by now too. She sees the frown lines clear, a certain lightness touch his eyes, the hint of a smile play on his lips. She reaches for his hand and slips it under her robe so that his palm rests over her rapidly beating heart. "Peter, when you put your hands on me, I'm whole."
His breathing is unsteady when he closes the small gap between them. "Well in that case," he manages to whisper before he tenderly closes his mouth over hers. The kiss is long and languid, like one slow unfurling melody. Unrushed, but intense. They sway slightly as they drink each other in and she clings to him, fisting his shirt in her hands as she arches against him, trying to get closer, trying to melt into him. He pulls away from her for a second, gasping for much needed air and rests his forehead against hers. They breathe against each other, panting as if they had been running a mile. She reaches up and tenderly brushes her fingers over his stubbled jaw. He's beautiful, she thinks absently. Beautiful and hers. It's funny how he brings out a possessive streak in her. She's always been fiercely protective and possessive with regard to her family, but never with lovers. Until Peter. He leans in closer, just close enough to bush the tip of his nose against hers and asks, "What?"
She purses her lips, unwilling to share this newfound revelation and shakes her head. "Come on," she says, linking her fingers with his and leading him to her bedroom. This has become somewhat of a tradition, she thinks. Her the seductress, he, the seduced. Not that she's ever heard him complain. But by the time they get to the bedroom, the dynamic has shifted. She turns to him, her eyes wide and forest green. "Peter." It's expressed like a question though she's not quite sure what she's asking. His lips curve into a soft, lazy smile that is unique to him. "It's okay," he whispers, before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on the side of her mouth. She parts her lips, granting him access and unconsciously moans as she feels his tongue sweep against hers. She missed his taste.
He skims his fingers across her collar bone, and gently pushes back the robe exposing one pale shoulder. He breaks their kiss to place his lips against the smooth skin there, nibbling against her neck, up her jawline. She sucks in a breath when he places a teasing kiss behind her ear; an area he knows is particularly sensitive. It's amazing how well he's learnt to mould and manipulate her body in the short time that they've been intimate. He finds her mouth again and she swears she hears a faint hum of electricity crackle between them as she tugs on his lower lip, suckling it into her mouth. Their pace escalates, and she feels flushed, her entire body is throbbing, aching to be touched. He lowers his hands to her waist and fumbles with the belt of her robe for a second or two before her fingers join his and she nimbly undoes the knot, smiling against his lips. The smile is quickly replaced with a gasp when he slips his hands under the bathrobe and slides the material off her shoulders, causing it to pool to the floor, leaving her naked in the cool night air. Her entire body breaks out in goosebumps partly because of the slight chill, mostly because of the way he's looking at her. Like he's never seen anything more precious, like he's never wanted anything more. She marvels at the fact that he can make her feel so incredibly desired, as if he's never wanted another woman before, let alone another version of herself. Any doubt, any fear or misgiving she may have buried inside of her disintegrates under the intensity of his blue-eyed gaze. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, running his palms down the soft sides of her breasts, eliciting a shiver. "And you're overdressed," she replies with a soft laugh as his fingers move down her ribs, tickling her sides.
"Let's see what we can do about that." He has a playful glint in his eye as he moves forward. He kisses her urgently, desperately as she arches up against him, relishing in the feel of her bare skin against the rough fabric of his shirt. His hands travel down her spine, to her lower back and she moans into his mouth when he brings her closer, moulding her body against his. Even through the thick denim of his jeans she can feel the state of his arousal pressing up against her. She absently commends her coordination skills as she blindly undoes the buttons of his shirt while walking backwards towards the bed. The back of her knees hit the firm mattress and she breaks away from him to sit down and scoot backwards. It's amazing she thinks, as she watches him discard of his clothing at super-speed, how he makes her feel not only incredibly desired, but incredibly powerful. She leans back on her hands and tilts her chin down, her hair falling over her face in golden waves, she shoots him her best 'come hither' look and he responds with a something of a shaky smile as he climbs onto the bed.
Instead of coming up to meet her, he kneels at her feet and brings her ankle up to his mouth. She squirms when his lips make their slow, wet path from her ankle up her calf. He places a soft kiss on the underside of her knee and she arches up to tangle her fingers in his hair, impatient to bring him higher, impatient to feel his mouth on her. But he takes his time, licking his way up her inner thigh, nibbling at the soft flesh, causing her to pant in anticipation. "Peter," she breathes his name like a prayer. "Peter please." She feels as if she's about to spontaneously combust when he finally closes his mouth over her aching core. But he holds her down, keeping her steady. His tongue is warm and firm against her and her writhes up against him, her fingers in his hair, tugging perhaps a bit too tightly as she rocks against his mouth. "Peter, oh god," she gasps as he laps her up, "Peter, Peter, Peter," she says his name like a mantra, seducing them both as she unravels. He slithers up her body, both of them covered in a thin layer of perspiration.
He tastes like salty and sweet, he tastes like Peter, she thinks, like Peter and Olivia. He sighs sweetly against her cheek and she pulls back for a moment to study him. The shadows in the room are long, yet even in the half-light she can make out the darkness in his eyes, dark with passion and something more obscure. "You're trembling, sweetheart," she purrs softly, brushing her fingertips over his brow. His mouth quirks into a small smile, "I believe that's my line," but his eyes stay clouded and fixed on hers. "What is it?" she whispers, her heart racing under his.
"You were gone." He exhales and she watches him struggle with something inside as he tries to articulate whatever it is he's feeling. "For days you were just-" he swallows and continues, "– there was a moment when I was scared that I had lost you." She lies there, staring up at the man that she had crossed universes for, watching naked emotion play across in face in a rare moment of vulnerability and she is overcome with a sublime sense of safety and completeness. Because it suddenly dawns on her that as lost as she was, he found her. He went into the depths of obscurity and found her and he always will. Her tangled threads are tied up with his, blue and red tightly interweaved to create something solid, something real.
"I'm here." She takes his hand, and places it on her breast. His fingers instinctively curl around the soft flesh. "I'm here," she breathes, leaning up to take his mouth. He responds hungrily. Pouring every fear, every lost moment into that kiss. This is about taking for him and she gives, she gives until they're both panting, breathing each other's breath. He shifts over her fully and is inside her in one smooth silky move. They fit, she thinks as her adjusts his weight above her. They move in unison, like practised lovers with long years of learning each other's bodies. He reaches down to down to touch her and she arches up with a ragged moan. Her fingers dig into his back, her nails creating tiny half-moon patterns as she clings onto him like an anchor. His breath is warm in her neck and he murmurs something into her hair, some endearment she wishes she could hear, but the pounding of her hearts beats like a drum in her ears and all she hears is his name. But it is her name on his lips when he comes. Said on a dying breath, his face transforms and for a second he looks like a boy she thinks, but then his eyes meet hers, smouldering and dark and he's all man – a man who causes her body to shudder and explode and she joins him moments later, entirely spent and boneless in kaleidoscopic bliss.
Were there always stars floating around on her ceiling, she wonders, watching the little lights move and twinkle. She frowns; trying to discern the constellations that seem to be forming above her head. She thinks she sees a seahorse and some kind of closed flower. "Where are you?" His voice is a low rumble. "Stargazing," she answers, earning a chuckle from him. "Well come back down to earth." A warm, wet tongue over her nipple makes the stars disappear and there is only him. He rolls them over so that she lies above him. She rests her chin on her arms and glances and him with a curious expression "What?" she asks, her mouth tugging into a smile. His eyes flicker over her face, as if reading a secret language written there and she feels slightly self-conscious under his scrutiny. Finally, his blue gaze finds hers. The stars it seems have moved to those swirling irises of his. "I love you, Olivia." He says it easily, as if it had been said a hundred times before and she wonders if he can feel the pounding of her heart against his chest. But her mouth moves before she even thinks about it, words pushing out between her lips, originating from some place deep inside of her. "I love you too," she replies and watches his mouth curl into that lazy smirk. "Well it's about time; I was beginning to think you were just using me for my incredibly well-toned body." She bites down on her bottom lip to keep from grinning. Leave it to Peter Bishop to turn into a wise-ass at one of the most profound moments of her life. She arches her eyebrow as he goes on, "Not that I would have minded, I mean, any excuse to touch you would have been-"
"Peter?" she presses her finger to his lips to silence him. "Shut up."
"I can do that," he murmurs just moments before she leans down to capture his mouth with hers.