Disclaimer: I do not own anything on Fringe, yadayadayadaheee
Spoilers: All the way up to 3x22 'The Day We Died'
A/N: So initially, this was supposed to be a oneshot. It is all planned out and everything, but as I started writing it, I realized that it was going to be a monster again. Soooo since we are stuck in this Hiatus from Hell, I've decided to post it one part at a time, since that's how it's planned out anyway. Lots of parts.
This is a future!Polivia fic, meaning that it begins during dark times again. But it's going to explore their life together. Just stick with me okay?
Thank you so much to Alex for correcting my silly mistakes, and for being awesome :') All remaining typos are mine!
This starts out very fluffy. Do not be fooled. Remember: Ambre = EVIL
Holding her around the waist from behind, he leads her forward, stopping only when they reach the perfect spot. She's still smiling softly as he brings his hands up to unfold the small scarf he has tied up over her eyes a while ago now.
Though not blindfolded anymore, Olivia keeps her eyes closed, a good player, only raising an eyebrow as she asks: "Are you done being cryptic? Can I open my eyes?" She sounds definitely more amused than anything else, which is good.
He slides a hand back around her waist, over the soft fabric of that gorgeous black dress she has put on for the occasion –the restaurant they had dinner at was quite fancy. He brings her closer against him, unconsciously breathing in her scent. "Go ahead and look," he whispers in her ear. "Happy Anniversary."
And she does. She stares, and the smile turns into pursed lips, a confused frown contracting her brow. She turns her head, looking up at him. "Is this supposed to be…my gift?"
"Yup," he approves, with a goofy grin, loving how perplexed she looks.
She turns her eyes back to what is in front of them. "You're offering me…a hotel room's window?"
He chuckles in her hair. "A very expensive hotel room's window, if I may say. As much as I love their curtains, your gift will not actually show up for another…" he looks at his watch. "Eight hours."
She's looking at him again, still obviously confused about what he means exactly. "What's in eight hours?" she can't help but ask.
He kisses her temple, nuzzling his nose on her cheekbone, which causes her frown to finally disappear as she smiles softly again. "Sunrise is in eight hours," he says in her ear. "I've asked experts, and they all agree. This place still has the most beautiful naturally colored sunrise in the country."
There she goes, pursing her lips again. "Oh," she says. "Peter, are you offering me the sunrise?"
"Our Ten-Year Anniversary, honey, I had to do something big." He's not upset by her lack of joyful reaction; he knows her, and he expected nothing less from her.
"Is this you bringing up that silly conversation we once had about me liking the sunrise again?" He nods with a cheeky smile. "You're never gonna let me forget that I said that, are you?"
"Nope!" He says kissing her cheek this time, and she turns completely in his arms, wrapping hers around his waist and he mimics her. "I'll bring it up again for our twentieth anniversary."
She chuckles, looking around the room, which is a very nice room indeed, before bringing her gaze back to his. "Ten years, uh? Doesn't it make you feel…"
"…lucky?" He asks.
"I was gonna say 'old', but yes, I feel very lucky," she agrees, bringing her hands up to his cheeks and patting them a little mockingly. "I have such a romantic husband. I would have been happy with just a piece of jewelry though, you know?"
He grabs one of her hands and brings it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. "First, you never wear any of the jewelry I give you."
"I'm wearing the earrings you gave me last Christmas right now," she objects.
"Second," he continues as if she hasn't spoken. "I lied. Well no, not exactly. I want us to see that beautiful sunrise, but I'm fully planning on us enjoying that expensive hotel room for the next eight hours, first."
She's patting his cheek again. "Suuure. However, don't be surprised if after the first four of five hours, you remember that you're not thirty-five anymore." She looks up behind his shoulder then, stretching her neck. "I'm quite liking that mirror over the bed, though."
Her exposed neck is simply too tempting. He brings his head down, grazing his lips over a favorite spot of hers on her sensitive skin, and he is rewarded when her hand leaves his cheek to sink into his hair. He lets go of her other hand so she can do whatever she wants with it, while his own decidedly slips behind her to bring her closer.
But her hand falls limp on her side, and soon, so does the other one, as her whole body simply crumples in his arms. He is so shocked and unprepared that, even though she weighs next to nothing, he loses his balance and stumbles backwards. That's when he feels it, trickling from the back of her head onto his hand still on her back. Thick and warm.
He falls with her onto the floor, and her face finally comes into view, offering him the most horrifying sight he has ever been forced to witness. There is a round, red, bloody hole where a frown used to be, only minutes ago. Her eyes, glassy and wide open, stare but do not see anymore. A terrifying scream builds up within his chest, ready to come out and pierce the air with his despair and-
Peter jerks awake at the feel of warm fingers on his face, and both his hands desperately come up to grab them, "Olivia!" he half-moans, half-exhales.
The hand leaves his cheek, squeezing his trembling fingers, and she speaks then. "I'm sorry, Peter, it's me."
He recognizes her voice just as his foggy, drunken brain finally takes in the face hovering over him.
He remembers then. It will never be Olivia again.
Olivia is dead.
He has no control over what happens next, as this realization grips his guts and twists them, twists them so hard and violently that he has no other choice than to roll over on his side as his body dry-heaves forcefully, once, twice, three times. But he has no food to throw up, he hasn't eaten in over two days. And yet he is trying, as if his whole being was desperately attempting to get rid of that deep, smothering anguish and pain poisoning his insides. But all that comes up is some astringent alcohol that burns the back of his throat. He spits a mouthful of it on the floor, ignoring the fact that it lands only inches away from Astrid's feet. He is far beyond caring, though, stuck somewhere between being sickeningly drunk and badly hung-over.
Not to mention heart-broken.
Apparently, Astrid doesn't care either, because when his useless hiccups eventually die off, he feels her hands on him again, pushing him gently back onto the couch, and he lies back, his head throbbing.
"Don't move, I'll be right back," she says in a soft voice, and he hears her foot steps as she enters the kitchen, hears her turn the water on, and he forces himself to focus on every sound she makes so he doesn't have to think. He cannot think, he just can't.
But the sound of her shoes on the floor instantly reminds him of how many times he has seen Olivia enter the house and simply kick her high heels off with a contented sigh, leaving them be wherever they might land, which was pretty much all over the place.
He opens his eyes, which feel feverish in their sockets, and his blurry gaze falls on the bottle sitting there on the coffee table. He reaches for it, quite impressed when he manages to grab it on his first try. He opens it and is about to bring it to his mouth when Astrid, who has made her way back to him incredibly fast, stops his arm.
"Peter, don't," she says, trying to sound firm, but her voice is hoarse and shaky.
"Why are you even here?" he asks then, and he sounds like an old drunk, trying to get away from her grip, but she's surprisingly stronger than him.
"The funeral is in a few hours, Peter," she says in a whisper. "We need to get you ready."
The mention of what is to come is enough to drain all energy from his limbs, and she finally gets the bottle away from his fingers, his head falling back on the couch, throbbing more painfully than ever. After another moment of silence, he feels a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. He opens his eyes again, focusing on her face.
Even in the darkness of the room, she looks pale, dark shadows under red eyes. He guesses he isn't the only one who has lost the ability to really sleep.
"I'm sorry," he whispers then, and his voice cracks as he speaks, because it's not to her he wants to say those words, but he has no choice, there's no escape, no solution.
She meets his gaze, and whatever his eyes are displaying, it causes hers to instantly fill up with tears.
"For what?" she asks as softly, still gently cleaning his sweaty face, and he has to admit that the coolness feels almost good.
A lump forms in his throat as he tries to answer. It takes him a few excruciating seconds, but the words finally come out. "Even all ranked up, you end up having to take care of some sick, useless Bishop man."
She smiles at him then, and it is a heartbreaking smile really, her eyes so full of tears that he wonders how on earth they aren't streaming down her face yet. She brings her other hand to his face, soft, warm palm on his messy stubble, her thumb gently caressing his skin.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says softly. "All I've ever done was take care of the people I love. It hasn't changed."
He has to close his eyes then, almost wanting to ask her to take her hand away, because it feels so familiar and yet so painfully different; he isn't even surprised when he feels his own tears slipping out from under his closed eyelids, soon pooling into his ears.
"You need to shower and dress," she said then, trying to sound less emotional, and almost succeeding.
But he shakes his head. "I can't. I can't go in there."
He opens his eyes again. She has put the bottle back down on the coffee table. "The bedroom," he says, reaching out for it again.
"Peter," she tries to stop him but he shakes her hand off quite roughly, managing to sit up, ignoring her disapproving, worried look. "You're still drunk. You need to sober up, not the other way around."
He opens the bottle, and looks her square in the eyes when he says: "My wife is dead, Astrid. I think I'm allowed this kind of behavior." And he takes a long sip from the bottle, pretending that the pain he feels inside is caused by the burning alcohol going down his throat.
She sighs, defeated, and moves from her crouching position to sit on the coffee table, watching him take a few more sips.
"I hate to ask you this but…Have you thought about what you're going to say, for her eulogy?"
The alcohol tastes absolutely disgusting all of the sudden and his arm falls back, as he shakes his head. "I'll improvise." Incredibly, he chuckles then. "I've always been so good at bullshitting my way through public speeches."
He meets her eyes then, and she doesn't look amused. She doesn't look offended either. He closes his eyes again, painfully. Everything hurts.
"How do you sum up eighteen years of your life in a few minutes speech?" he whispers then, his heart pounding hard, so hard that it feels like it's trying to crawl its way out of his throat. "How do you sum up Olivia in a speech?" At the mention of her name, tears start rolling down his face again, and again, he doesn't care.
Tears. Funny thing, really. Tiny little drops of salty water. It had been quite a few years since he had cried himself, but he remembers quite painfully all the times she had cried.
He takes another long gulp of alcohol. Maybe if he drinks enough he'll get completely dehydrated, and he won't be able to cry anymore, so he can take his thoughts away from…well, everything.
But it's pointless.
"Have you ever seen Olivia cry of joy?" he asks then, quite randomly, and yet not really, opening his eyes again and meeting Astrid's sad gaze.
A small smile appears on her lips, and she shakes her head slowly. "I don't think I've ever seen Olivia cry at all, to be honest."
He chuckles, but really, he just wants to sob. "No, she isn't the kind of person who likes to display that sort of 'weakness'. But I guess when you spend so many years of your life with someone, you get to see every aspect of them, even the ones they want to keep hidden."
He closes his eyes again and really, he can just see her as if she was in front of him. He clings to that picture his mind has conjured, because there isn't any physical picture of her around for him to look at, and not for the first time, he wishes he had insisted more often, had been more pushy, more convincing, so they could have had those picture frames all around their home.
Stupid wishful thinking.
"Her cheeks get all flushed, you know?" he whispers then, talking more to that image of Olivia he's seeing in his head than to the actual woman sitting in front of him. "And her eyes gets…so big, and green. Like…the tears she tries to keep in there are magnifying them. And you just want to die."
He chuckles again but the sound turns into a broken sob, and he hastily brings the bottle up to his mouth to shut himself up, drinking long, the world spinning, and he doesn't give a damn.
"She cried happy tears once, though," he says after another long stretch of silence, and that distant memory is actually mingled with so much pain, so many feelings that he hasn't really allowed himself to feel in years, that it actually hurts more than thinking about all those times she cried out of despair.
But he remembers her so well, oh so well, so much younger, so genuinely happy, and he had been happy, too.
"She had the most beautiful smile on her face," he whispers then, and the ephemeral image in his mind offers him that same smile, eyes glimmering with tears and joy and hope.
And then, it simply vanishes. She vanishes.
She will never smile again.
A/N: Let's work as a team, okay? You let me know what you think about it in a review and kick my ass for being so mean/so I write more, and I will do my best to update fast :)