In the lab, Walter is already waving a syringe with more enthusiasm than care, and Astrid is wisely stepping back and, just as appropriately, rolling her eyes. "Walter."
"Right, right. I'd say your memories don't need retrieving, my dear." He smiles indulgently at Astrid, teasing a mirror expression out of her, before pivoting until he faces the three of them making their way down the steps. "Come here, Olivia!"
She does, and wonders only for a fleeting moment if she would not if Broyles given any other answer, any other command than the free pass they all received just now. Forks in the road. At any rate, she's still choosing the path less travelled by.
Also, migraines and nausea.
As if he were the one with telepathic abilities, Walter squints at her and says, "By the way, I've added some sumatriptan to be automatically activated in case of an attack so you should not experience any crippling headaches again this time." He raises an expectant eyebrow, so Olivia purses her lips and thanks him, with feeling.
Astrid welcomes her, leading her to the doctor's chair, hands gentle and eyes more so. Her expression is as easy to read as those of Peter and Lincoln. "Are you sure, Olivia?" The back of Astrid's hand brushes hers. She misses her friend, Olivia realises. Misses the fellow field agent who would lean in to share a smile and a joke across a lab table: across no space at all. But there are no matter-of-fact file folders detailing the private moments between her and Astrid; there is nothing Olivia can read up on and learn by heart like a poem crammed in a Jacksonville classroom with pale-blue walls in fourth grade.
"I'm sure," she says, louder than she thought she would, looks over to Peter and Lincoln. When Astrid's hand squeezes hers, she presses back.
The injection itself is...actually anti-climatic.
"How do you feel?" Peter asks her over dinner, and it takes Olivia a moment to take note because she doesn't really feel any different. But he's looking at her, and the recent softness of his face is gradually replaced by the sharpened features she remembers from the man thrown head-first into this brave new world. It's not her perception, though. It's him. Peter is scared of losing her again. The thought makes her heart ache and her arm reach out. She curls her fingers around his next to the plate of penne all'arrabbiata.
"I'm fine." At his expression, she laughs. "Peter, I'm not bending the truth here. No headache. And I'm not forgetting you again."
"What makes you so certain of that?" Oh yes, there's an edge to his words, one not aimed at her but the universe at large, so intent on pulling the rug from under Peter Bishop at regular intervals.
"I've dreamed about you ever since the Bridge was formed. Before the first shot of cortexiphan. You and I, we're real." Little else in this world is, although the comfort of these so-similar versions of her chosen family ground her in ways she probably can't even fathom, from Astrid over Walter to a Lincoln who has throughout this transformation felt so familiar to her, closer than any FBI partnership warrants. She puts down her fork, stands up without letting go of his hand so he has to as well. "Are you done?"
Peter doesn't even look down at the rest of his noodles. "With the food, yeah." The hunger in his eyes is of a different kind.
Something down in her belly blooms hot, spirals lower still. "Good."
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timeasmymeasure
The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 3
Date: 2012-04-06 07:30 pm (UTC)"Right, right. I'd say your memories don't need retrieving, my dear." He smiles indulgently at Astrid, teasing a mirror expression out of her, before pivoting until he faces the three of them making their way down the steps. "Come here, Olivia!"
She does, and wonders only for a fleeting moment if she would not if Broyles given any other answer, any other command than the free pass they all received just now. Forks in the road. At any rate, she's still choosing the path less travelled by.
Also, migraines and nausea.
As if he were the one with telepathic abilities, Walter squints at her and says, "By the way, I've added some sumatriptan to be automatically activated in case of an attack so you should not experience any crippling headaches again this time." He raises an expectant eyebrow, so Olivia purses her lips and thanks him, with feeling.
Astrid welcomes her, leading her to the doctor's chair, hands gentle and eyes more so. Her expression is as easy to read as those of Peter and Lincoln. "Are you sure, Olivia?" The back of Astrid's hand brushes hers. She misses her friend, Olivia realises. Misses the fellow field agent who would lean in to share a smile and a joke across a lab table: across no space at all. But there are no matter-of-fact file folders detailing the private moments between her and Astrid; there is nothing Olivia can read up on and learn by heart like a poem crammed in a Jacksonville classroom with pale-blue walls in fourth grade.
"I'm sure," she says, louder than she thought she would, looks over to Peter and Lincoln. When Astrid's hand squeezes hers, she presses back.
The injection itself is...actually anti-climatic.
"How do you feel?" Peter asks her over dinner, and it takes Olivia a moment to take note because she doesn't really feel any different. But he's looking at her, and the recent softness of his face is gradually replaced by the sharpened features she remembers from the man thrown head-first into this brave new world. It's not her perception, though. It's him. Peter is scared of losing her again. The thought makes her heart ache and her arm reach out. She curls her fingers around his next to the plate of penne all'arrabbiata.
"I'm fine." At his expression, she laughs. "Peter, I'm not bending the truth here. No headache. And I'm not forgetting you again."
"What makes you so certain of that?" Oh yes, there's an edge to his words, one not aimed at her but the universe at large, so intent on pulling the rug from under Peter Bishop at regular intervals.
"I've dreamed about you ever since the Bridge was formed. Before the first shot of cortexiphan. You and I, we're real." Little else in this world is, although the comfort of these so-similar versions of her chosen family ground her in ways she probably can't even fathom, from Astrid over Walter to a Lincoln who has throughout this transformation felt so familiar to her, closer than any FBI partnership warrants. She puts down her fork, stands up without letting go of his hand so he has to as well. "Are you done?"
Peter doesn't even look down at the rest of his noodles. "With the food, yeah." The hunger in his eyes is of a different kind.
Something down in her belly blooms hot, spirals lower still. "Good."
And upstairs, in his bedroom, they are just that.