Olivia Dunham (
flip_the_lights) wrote2012-02-26 02:45 pm
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[Boston, MA: post-allpocalypse]
The last thing she remembers is the ground disintegrating beneath her feet, her toes stretching down to find purchase against the dying gravity, a flash so bright it knocks the wind from her.
Her feet slam too hard against the floor of the bar, and she gasps out, involuntarily, as her injured ankle threatens to buckle. Olivia knows it wasn't a dream or a vision then: persistent pain is a good indicator of reality.
The bar's in shambles, but in one piece. Everyone else stares around, looking as dazed as she feels.
Without a word, Olivia turns and limps through the wreckage to the front door.
She keeps a basic first aid kit in her bathroom, and she's tending to her ankle first, efficiently wrapping it in an Ace bandage, when her cell rings. She pins the bandage with one wrist and fishes out her phone to click ACCEPT CALL. "Dunham."
"Hey, it's me," says Peter, voice tinny through the line. "Sorry I'm calling so late."
It's late? Olivia's eyes flick to her wristwatch, puzzled. "Oh," she mumbles when she sees 11:23 flashing up at her. "No, it's all right. What is it?"
"It's...something that can wait." Peter's voice deepens with concern, and for a moment, Olivia can't fathom why. "Olivia, are you all right?"
She blinks. A hard knot blossoms in her throat, making it impossible to speak.
"Olivia?"
"I just got back from Milliways," she manages in a hoarse whisper, and that's all the answer either of them need.
Fifteen minutes later, she walks gingerly from the bathroom when she hears a knock-knock-knock in the living room. "Jesus, Olivia," says Peter the instant she undoes the chain and pulls the door open; he's staring, horrified at the cut on her head. Most of the blood's washed from her skin, but she hasn't had a chance to shower yet: ichor, and mud, and things unidentified still pepper her hair like flecks of paint.
She can take care of the matter herself. She wants to say, it's nothing, and turn Peter away so she can go back to the business of filing her own mental paperwork, compiling a distant report of everything that happened tonight. But when she sees the look in Peter's eyes, she very abruptly can't tolerate the idea of staying alone in an empty apartment any longer.
Olivia hobbles back a step. In an instant, Peter's hand is there, catching her arm to steady her. "What happened?"
Mute, she shakes her head. Peter breathes out, whispers, "Okay," and helps her walk to the couch. "Hold on a second, I'm going to get something for your head. Do you have any bandages?"
"They're in the bathroom," she says, and touches her hand to her head. The bleeding's long stopped, but her fingertips come away filthy anyway.
He nods, disappearing further into her apartment. Olivia folds her hands in her lap and listens to the near-silent rush of her own breathing. The rustle and click of cabinets opening and shutting interrupts her every so often; she ignores it, and waits.
Soon, Peter returns with isopropyl alcohol, a washcloth, and small rolls of medical gauze and tape. He takes a seat next to her. Their faces turn, like opposite poles seeking each other out; Peter studies her a moment before beginning the silent work of cleaning her wound.
Not pressing her to speak seems the best way to get her to speak at all.
"I saw a universe die," she murmurs, and Peter's hand halts against her forehead. "Milliways lost all the stability we thought it had -- not just fragments this time, but...all of it." She turns her gaze up to Peter's without moving her head. "It turned into a genuine soft spot, all the trademark symptoms -- bad time, bad physics, everything, and...it broke apart."
"And you were there for the whole thing?" He begins to move the washcloth again, its dampness stinging where it touches the open wound.
"Yes," she whispers. "I had to..." She struggles to find the words. "I had to stay and fight."
"Fight what?" he says, incredulous. "Olivia, you could have died, you were right in the middle of a collapse -- "
"I know," she interrupts, her hands tightening around one another. "But I'm fine. And -- somehow the bar is, too. It reassembled itself. I don't know how."
Peter shakes his head, jaw tensing a little. He sets the washcloth aside to unwind some gauze.
Olivia's silent for a long span before she says, "Do you remember when I spoke to William Bell? On the Other Side?"
A tiny, humorless smile twitches Peter's lips, unwilling. "Yeah, of course I do."
"He told me that in large part, the Cortexiphan trials were meant to create someone who could serve as the 'guardian of the gate.' The same kind of soldier the ZFT manifesto talked about."
"Olivia, that doesn't mean you had to stay and risk your own life. ZFT's insane. They're a terrorist group -- "
" -- and maybe what William Bell did to me in their name made me more apt to stay when I saw Milliways collapsing," she says. "Or maybe it didn't, but -- I knew I couldn't go. Not even when everyone else had been evacuated, and..." Her knuckles are white. "Peter, the universe died."
He bites his lip. Gently, he presses the gauze over Olivia's forehead, then smooths back her hair. "But you didn't," he whispers: a reassurance to them both.
She nods. It's Peter's turn to be quiet for a while before speaking. "I don't think the Cortexiphan hardwired you to go into dangerous situations and stay there until the end." He chances a smile. "I think that's just you being brave."
"Being reckless," she counters.
"Okay, maybe that too," he says, and Olivia chokes on a tiny laugh. "But you wanting to protect people? I'm pretty sure that's been in you from the start. Maybe that's why they thought you'd be a good candidate. They didn't make you into a fighter, Olivia. You've always been one."
Peter's smiling, very small and very soft. Olivia feels her own mouth curve to match, before she nods and drops her gaze back to her hands. The affirmation connects to a fact buried by the debris of the night: she knows her reaction wasn't due to Bell or Dr. Bishop. It's what she's always done.
Peter's just giving voice to a truth they both know.
The smile fades. "You know, at Quantico, they train you for what to expect after you kill someone," she murmurs. "After you witness a death for the first time." Her lips quirk again, far more crooked. "They didn't have any training for something on this big a scale."
Peter draws in a small breath. He reaches out, one hand sliding around the back of her neck; she lifts her head, swiftly, but doesn't draw away. "I know," he says, no louder than her, and presses a brief kiss to Olivia's forehead, just to the left of the gauze.
She doesn't draw back from that, either. And she wonders: maybe she didn't run, even at the end, because she needed to understand the enormity of what lies ahead.
Her feet slam too hard against the floor of the bar, and she gasps out, involuntarily, as her injured ankle threatens to buckle. Olivia knows it wasn't a dream or a vision then: persistent pain is a good indicator of reality.
The bar's in shambles, but in one piece. Everyone else stares around, looking as dazed as she feels.
Without a word, Olivia turns and limps through the wreckage to the front door.
She keeps a basic first aid kit in her bathroom, and she's tending to her ankle first, efficiently wrapping it in an Ace bandage, when her cell rings. She pins the bandage with one wrist and fishes out her phone to click ACCEPT CALL. "Dunham."
"Hey, it's me," says Peter, voice tinny through the line. "Sorry I'm calling so late."
It's late? Olivia's eyes flick to her wristwatch, puzzled. "Oh," she mumbles when she sees 11:23 flashing up at her. "No, it's all right. What is it?"
"It's...something that can wait." Peter's voice deepens with concern, and for a moment, Olivia can't fathom why. "Olivia, are you all right?"
She blinks. A hard knot blossoms in her throat, making it impossible to speak.
"Olivia?"
"I just got back from Milliways," she manages in a hoarse whisper, and that's all the answer either of them need.
Fifteen minutes later, she walks gingerly from the bathroom when she hears a knock-knock-knock in the living room. "Jesus, Olivia," says Peter the instant she undoes the chain and pulls the door open; he's staring, horrified at the cut on her head. Most of the blood's washed from her skin, but she hasn't had a chance to shower yet: ichor, and mud, and things unidentified still pepper her hair like flecks of paint.
She can take care of the matter herself. She wants to say, it's nothing, and turn Peter away so she can go back to the business of filing her own mental paperwork, compiling a distant report of everything that happened tonight. But when she sees the look in Peter's eyes, she very abruptly can't tolerate the idea of staying alone in an empty apartment any longer.
Olivia hobbles back a step. In an instant, Peter's hand is there, catching her arm to steady her. "What happened?"
Mute, she shakes her head. Peter breathes out, whispers, "Okay," and helps her walk to the couch. "Hold on a second, I'm going to get something for your head. Do you have any bandages?"
"They're in the bathroom," she says, and touches her hand to her head. The bleeding's long stopped, but her fingertips come away filthy anyway.
He nods, disappearing further into her apartment. Olivia folds her hands in her lap and listens to the near-silent rush of her own breathing. The rustle and click of cabinets opening and shutting interrupts her every so often; she ignores it, and waits.
Soon, Peter returns with isopropyl alcohol, a washcloth, and small rolls of medical gauze and tape. He takes a seat next to her. Their faces turn, like opposite poles seeking each other out; Peter studies her a moment before beginning the silent work of cleaning her wound.
Not pressing her to speak seems the best way to get her to speak at all.
"I saw a universe die," she murmurs, and Peter's hand halts against her forehead. "Milliways lost all the stability we thought it had -- not just fragments this time, but...all of it." She turns her gaze up to Peter's without moving her head. "It turned into a genuine soft spot, all the trademark symptoms -- bad time, bad physics, everything, and...it broke apart."
"And you were there for the whole thing?" He begins to move the washcloth again, its dampness stinging where it touches the open wound.
"Yes," she whispers. "I had to..." She struggles to find the words. "I had to stay and fight."
"Fight what?" he says, incredulous. "Olivia, you could have died, you were right in the middle of a collapse -- "
"I know," she interrupts, her hands tightening around one another. "But I'm fine. And -- somehow the bar is, too. It reassembled itself. I don't know how."
Peter shakes his head, jaw tensing a little. He sets the washcloth aside to unwind some gauze.
Olivia's silent for a long span before she says, "Do you remember when I spoke to William Bell? On the Other Side?"
A tiny, humorless smile twitches Peter's lips, unwilling. "Yeah, of course I do."
"He told me that in large part, the Cortexiphan trials were meant to create someone who could serve as the 'guardian of the gate.' The same kind of soldier the ZFT manifesto talked about."
"Olivia, that doesn't mean you had to stay and risk your own life. ZFT's insane. They're a terrorist group -- "
" -- and maybe what William Bell did to me in their name made me more apt to stay when I saw Milliways collapsing," she says. "Or maybe it didn't, but -- I knew I couldn't go. Not even when everyone else had been evacuated, and..." Her knuckles are white. "Peter, the universe died."
He bites his lip. Gently, he presses the gauze over Olivia's forehead, then smooths back her hair. "But you didn't," he whispers: a reassurance to them both.
She nods. It's Peter's turn to be quiet for a while before speaking. "I don't think the Cortexiphan hardwired you to go into dangerous situations and stay there until the end." He chances a smile. "I think that's just you being brave."
"Being reckless," she counters.
"Okay, maybe that too," he says, and Olivia chokes on a tiny laugh. "But you wanting to protect people? I'm pretty sure that's been in you from the start. Maybe that's why they thought you'd be a good candidate. They didn't make you into a fighter, Olivia. You've always been one."
Peter's smiling, very small and very soft. Olivia feels her own mouth curve to match, before she nods and drops her gaze back to her hands. The affirmation connects to a fact buried by the debris of the night: she knows her reaction wasn't due to Bell or Dr. Bishop. It's what she's always done.
Peter's just giving voice to a truth they both know.
The smile fades. "You know, at Quantico, they train you for what to expect after you kill someone," she murmurs. "After you witness a death for the first time." Her lips quirk again, far more crooked. "They didn't have any training for something on this big a scale."
Peter draws in a small breath. He reaches out, one hand sliding around the back of her neck; she lifts her head, swiftly, but doesn't draw away. "I know," he says, no louder than her, and presses a brief kiss to Olivia's forehead, just to the left of the gauze.
She doesn't draw back from that, either. And she wonders: maybe she didn't run, even at the end, because she needed to understand the enormity of what lies ahead.