FF: Normal Asymptote
Title: Normal Asymptote
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: R
Peter/Olivia
Spoilers: "The Day We Died" (3.22), set in the possible future we saw there
Summary: "The ability's there, whether you want it, or use it."
****
When Peter was acquitted, he came home with her, not saying much, but holding on to her tightly in the small hours of the night. When Walter went on trial, she'd gone with him and let him hold her hand in the courtroom, squeezing so tightly as the verdict was read that she was sure he'd bruised bones. They heard the sentence, watched Walter be led off and then sat, starting at the empty doorway where he'd vanished from their lives, long after the courtroom had emptied.
She took him home, in silence. But there on the couch after two mournful glasses of Macallan, he'd broken down, crying for the only time she'd ever seen. He'd buried his head at her breast, weeping and cursing the universes. She let him cry, held him tight, understood. He'd looked up at her eventually, tears spent and eyes red and puffy and so so blue, and told her she was all he had left. She'd kissed him and curled up in bed that night, holding him for once.
Two days later, she'd asked him to marry her. It was the first time in months that she'd seen him smile, so wide that those wrinkles around his eyes -- when had he gotten those? -- grew deeper, and he simply said yes.
He'd insisted on a honeymoon. She'd thought it was a needless frivolity in an imploding world, and protested they had so much to do if they wanted to try and stop it. A long weekend, he'd said, just a few days alone, together. The look in his eyes broke her heart as she realized it might be their only chance for twenty-four hours of happiness.
So now they sat, curled in an old porch swing, creaking softly in the Nantucket twilight. A cool breeze blew up off the Atlantic and she shivered, snuggling closer to him, pulling the ratty old quilt tighter around them.
"How...?" Peter's voice was a warm rumble under her ear.
"How, what?" Her query was muffled by the blanket over her chin.
"The quilt tucked itself around us."
She slowly shook her head against his chest. "No, I did."
He leaned back forcefully, pressing her hands against the wooden slats forming the back of the swing. "Your hands are around my back."
"I thought I..."
"You thought."
She scrambled back from him, nearly toppling them both out of the swing. "No. No, Peter."
He put one foot down, steadying the swing, and reached out a hand, steady on her arm. "Olivia."
Turning away from him, she refused to look at him, staring instead out to the distant waves. She didn't shrug his hand away, though, as it slid up her arm and around to caress her back in slow, steady circles. His suggestion for a peaceful weekend away from the rest of the world, which had started so promisingly, seemed to be crumbling. Eventually she turned back to him, pleading with her eyes. "Do we have to talk about this now?"
The hand on her back stilled, warm between her shoulder blades He sighed. "We should. Over dinner?"
"Is it ready?"
"Should be, nearly. Want to light the fireplace while I check on it?"
He proffered a hand up from the swing and she took it, letting him draw her back into the little clapboard cottage, chilled now but filled with the aroma of whatever he'd been making, simmering in the oven. He'd refused to let her help, wanting to make her dinner. It was surprisingly domestic, and shockingly pleasant, being two normal people enjoying a weekend on an island, grocery shopping and watching old movies, worrying more about the way the sun pinked her nose after an afternoon spent walking along the beach than about the fate of the world. They'd neither had much of this, and she wished she could have had it under difference circumstances.
Peter stuck his head back into the living room, where she was staring down at the cold hearth, and interrupted her thoughts. "You want wine? Or something stronger?"
"Wine's fine." He disappeared back into the kitchen, and she was impelled into motion, setting a blaze crackling with a long match against crumpled newsprint, heat radiating out into the cool room. A breeze still crept in through the windows, and but she left one open a bit, allowing the stir of salty air carry the scent of the sea inside, a sharp contrast to the warm smoky fire. She took a deep breath and settled on the couch, closing her eyes and resting her head back against the afghan folded over the back. Only when she heard Peter clinking silverware and glasses on the coffee table did she open her eyes, staring at the plate being presented to her.
"Macaroni and cheese?" It seemed in keeping with the sweet homeyness they'd been enjoying, but not at all what she'd expected, and hardly a meal of itself. She couldn't keep the laughter out of her voice.
"Not just any mac and cheese," he said, handing over the plate with a flourish. "Lobster macaroni and cheese. I promise it bears little resemblance to the stuff out of the blue box."
Picking up the fork, she eyed the steaming, cheesy heap suspiciously, but she had to admit that it did look good, if incredibly decadent. "I like the stuff out of the blue box."
He rolled his eyes and picked up his own plate. "How did you end up so beautiful on a diet of frozen dinners and takeout? You need to eat some real, home-cooked meals."
She wanted to laugh, knowing it was true, that the closest thing to cooking she did was making toast or turning on the microwave. "You offering to do the cooking in this household?"
"Are you taking me up on it, without even sampling the product?" As if to emphasize his point, he speared a large forkful of macaroni, and a huge chunk of lobster.
"Anything would be better than my cooking." She helped herself to a large bite of dinner, and her eyes widened as she chewed. "And this is definitely better than my cooking."
By the time they finished eating, she was feeling sated on good food and wine, lulled by the warmth of the fire and Peter's presence. She'd almost forgotten about their dropped conversation, but he apparently hadn't. "Tell me about the telekinesis."
Tentatively, she nodded, exhaling a slow, breathy, "Okay," then gulped down the last splash of the wine in her glass. Peter took the glass from her, then pulled her back against him, arms wrapping around her waist and heartbeat steady under her back. Reclining them both against the corner of the couch, she felt enveloped, safe, but she didn't have to look at him as she spoke. In relief at his understanding, she dropped her head back against his shoulder, sighing.
He allowed her silence, let her melt against him until she was comfortable before she began, elaborating on his simple request. "I guess the first time was that bomb of David Robert Jones' that I diffused, though I didn't realize it at the time. It was the same thing I did to turn off the Machine, though. Since then its happened a few more times. Small things, like the blanket, not like the others. No one's been around to see it, but I'll be working late, and think I need a pen and one will roll across the desk."
They were both quiet, Peter caressing her sides gently with the tips of his fingers, Olivia pondering whether to tell him more. It was part of why she hadn't wanted to discuss this, especially this peaceful weekend. But he was her husband now, and deserved to know. "It also happened the day I was working and got the call about you and Walter. I knew I needed to get there fast, and turned on lights and sirens, but I still kept thinking, faster, faster, and the only lights I hit on the way there were green. I was going way too fast to catch the timing on them. I wasn't even trying, I was just...."
"Upset. Afraid," he finished, squeezing her just a bit, voice warm in her ear. She nodded, feeling her hair catch in the stubble on his cheek. "Have you ever tried it intentionally, since the Machine? When you're not emotional?"
Vehemently, she shook her head. "No, no I don't want to."
After a long pause, he said, "The ability's there, whether you want it, or use it."
"Then why should I use it? What good's come of it so far?"
"Party tricks?" She could hear the laughter in his voice, and appreciated the touch of levity just when she needed it.
"A fallback career as a magician might be nice."
"The Great Olivini? You could pull off the top hat, I think." He kissed the crown of her head.
She huffed out a little laugh, thinking now that it would be a much nicer job than her current one. When he kissed her temple, she hoped he'd continue down her face, let this conversation be forgotten in favor of love. But she had the misfortune of being married to someone just as determined as she could be.
"Why don't you try it now?" He whispered into her ear, the way another man might an endearment.
"Now?"
"Yeah. It's safe, no pressure, no one else ever needs to know."
Unless it works, she thought. If it works, I'm going to have to use this, because it could help, and it's going to raise all kinds of questions. Consequences tumbled through her mind, but somehow she felt herself saying, "All right."
He lifted one hand from where it wrapped around her waist, and gestured at their plates on the coffee table. "Try something easy. Maybe move one of the forks."
"You were serious about the party tricks, then?" She smiled a little, nervously.
Kissing her temple again, he murmured, "Easy and no pressure. Just relax."
She took a long deep breath, closing her eyes and willing herself to relax back against him, supported by his solid chest. His arms remained around her, lightly, and he kept his breath steady, until she allowed hers to fall into the same rhythm. If she hadn't known him so well, she would have wondered at his ability for stillness, but she was certain that he was someone who knew how to wait, still and quiet, for hours and at this moment, that patience was more comforting than she'd ever be able to express to him.
Gradually, she opened her eyes, focusing on the simple silver fork sitting at the side of Peter's plate. She knew the feel of it, could carefully wrap her fingers around it and lift it up. When the fork actually lifted up as she'd imagined herself to be doing, she startled, and it clattered the few inches back down to the plate. Twisting in his arms, she turned to look at Peter, eyes wide.
He was smiling, delighted, she shook her head in confusion. "You did it."
"But I...." She turned again, looking back over at the fork. Sitting up a bit, she bit her lip, determined now, and focused on the piece of silverware once more. Peter sat up behind her, keeping her in his embrace, long legs falling around hers. "Let me try again."
She barely felt the little squeeze he gave her, or the brush of his lips against the nape of her neck. All she could feel was the few ounces of fork, so heavy to lift. When it felt like too much, she almost stopped, and envisioned the silverware floating up, off the white porcelain and into the air. To her surprise, it did so, wavering and unsteady in her astonishment, but stabilizing and then gradually drifting across the expanse of plate and bare table, before landing, a bit ungracefully, beside her own former utensil.
Peter kissed her cheek as she sat, a bit shocked and staring at their plates and silverware. Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly, her arms tightening across Peter's, needing reassurance she couldn't quite ask for Behind her, she could feel him drawing deep, centering breaths, and she let herself do the same, knowing he was doing it for her. "You're amazing," he whispered, almost sotto voce, tickling her ear with his breath.
At this moment, that would have to be enough, because she couldn't contemplate more than that now. The ramifications were too much, what she would expect of herself now more than she wanted to think about. She shook her head, slowly, unsure whether she was trying to clear her head or deny his statement.
"Olivia." He shifted then, lifting her a bit and turning them, until he could look her in the eye. "I told you once before, years ago, that you can do things I've never seen anyone else able to do. And it's not just moving silverware. It's that you're willing to even consider trying it."
"I don't know what to do now." She still couldn't quite look him in the eye as she spoke, staring instead very resolvedly at the hollow at the base of his throat. "I don't know what to do with this...ability. I don't know how it can fix things."
"It doesn't have to fix anything. You don't even know the extent of what you can do with it."
"I don't...." She shook her head. "I'm not sure I want to know the extent of it, but I can't know and not do something with it, Peter."
In her peripheral vision, she saw his head bob, and finally allowed herself to look him in the eye. The love she saw there reassured her, and she let herself bask in it for just a heartbeat. "But you don't have to decide that today. Gradually, we can figure out what you can do, and then make a decision. Later."
"Later." Part of her wanted to ask how much "later" they really had to look forward to, but she just wanted to stay in the warm loving moment they had here, and not think about all of the horrible things that were outside this cottage. She dropped her head down against him, feeling the warmth of his shoulder under her cheek, under the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. "I never wanted to be Scarlett O'Hara, but thinking tomorrow is another day sounds pretty damn good right now." Her lips brushed his throat as she spoke, and she was careful to look at the honeyed column of his neck, rather than the flatware on the table.
"You would be a miserable failure as Scarlett O'Hara." He laughed, then, really laughed, chest rumbling under her, a reassuring, affirming little shake, accompanied by tightening arms, pulling her closer into his lap. "But you've got the idea. This is our honeymoon, for another 34 hours. Wondering whether your can bend universal physical constants with your mind is not how I'd like to spend that time."
"Oh? You have something else in mind?" She batted her eyes at him, knowing he couldn't see, but could feel the flicker of her lashes against the thin skin of his neck. Though she couldn't see his face, she knew he was grinning, could almost hear it.
"I most definitely do." She could hear the smile then, the little lear, that bit of swagger he'd shown off when she'd first met him. Then, it had frequently made her want to slap him, an impulse she resisted purely out of professionalism. Now, it just made her want to put him in his place, and she gave in to the urge, shifting quickly across his lap and forcing him back, until he was flat on his back and she sat across his hips. "You do too, apparently."
The grin was still there, beaming up at her as his hands slid down her back, tugging her down to him, tugging up the hem of her worn grey sweater. A moment's token resistance, and she gave in, collapsing leisurely against him and enjoying his warm hands on the bare skin of her back, tracing the line of her spine. She captured that smile with her lips, once quickly, teasing, before meeting them in a long, deep kiss that left them both short of breath when they finally parted.
She sat up a bit, and peeled the sweater over her head and tossed her bra to one side. Peter's hands remained low on her back, kneading small circles just alone her spine. When she spared a glance back down at him, he was staring up at her, entranced. This was not normally a favorite position of hers; it felt too exposed, too vulnerable, too much for the man's voyeuristic benefit rather than her enjoyment. It had never felt that way with him, not when he watched her with such open adoration.
Only when she began to tug at his own shirt did his hands move from her back, skimming up her sides before falling away and letting her pull his navy henley free. She ruffled his hair where the shirt had left it spiky; he looked good with a bit of a bed head. His eyes fell shut and he leaned into her fingers like a puppy having its ears rubbed. She took the opportunity to watch him, a chance she rarely got unobserved by his watchful gaze, enjoying the play of warm firelight across the plane of his chest. When her hands slipped from his hair to run down across his pectoral muscles, his eyes snapped open, staring straight at her. Neither were loquacious by nature, and they'd never had to talk much in bed, seeming to know what the other needed, to communicate enough with a look that more was unnecessary.
No further words passed between them as clothes were shed and bodies joined. Only the sound of their increasingly fast breaths, broken by the crackling fire and distant crash of waves, filled the room. In this elemental peace, she could scarcely believe the sound of her own voice, echoing in the cozy room, a throaty cry where there was normally little more than a gasp. Peter answered in kind, fingers tightening on her hips, pulling her even closer as she collapsed against him. Their syncopated breathing gradually slowed and fell into rhythm, and she could feel his heart racing under her cheek. Eventually his arms came up around her and squeezed her tightly to him, until she exhaled in a great contented sigh, feeling his ribs flush against hers, as if they'd melted together just a bit.
It took a moment for her to catch her breath enough to lean up and kiss him, until they were both short of breath again. When their lips parted, she smiled, humming contentedly. There was a cool breeze from the window blowing into the room, tickling across her back, sending goosebumps across her skin. Before she could say anything, Peter had pulled the afghan down over them, shaking it down to cover her feet.
She snuggled into him, as if it were possible to get closer. "Can we stay right here the rest of the weekend?"
His fingers twisted through her hair, sweeping it off her sweaty back. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. "We have the whole weekend to stay right here."
He made "the whole weekend" sound like the rest of their lives, and she closed her eyes, letting herself dream, just for one night, of a lifetime of such simple pleasures.
****
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: R
Peter/Olivia
Spoilers: "The Day We Died" (3.22), set in the possible future we saw there
Summary: "The ability's there, whether you want it, or use it."
****
When Peter was acquitted, he came home with her, not saying much, but holding on to her tightly in the small hours of the night. When Walter went on trial, she'd gone with him and let him hold her hand in the courtroom, squeezing so tightly as the verdict was read that she was sure he'd bruised bones. They heard the sentence, watched Walter be led off and then sat, starting at the empty doorway where he'd vanished from their lives, long after the courtroom had emptied.
She took him home, in silence. But there on the couch after two mournful glasses of Macallan, he'd broken down, crying for the only time she'd ever seen. He'd buried his head at her breast, weeping and cursing the universes. She let him cry, held him tight, understood. He'd looked up at her eventually, tears spent and eyes red and puffy and so so blue, and told her she was all he had left. She'd kissed him and curled up in bed that night, holding him for once.
Two days later, she'd asked him to marry her. It was the first time in months that she'd seen him smile, so wide that those wrinkles around his eyes -- when had he gotten those? -- grew deeper, and he simply said yes.
He'd insisted on a honeymoon. She'd thought it was a needless frivolity in an imploding world, and protested they had so much to do if they wanted to try and stop it. A long weekend, he'd said, just a few days alone, together. The look in his eyes broke her heart as she realized it might be their only chance for twenty-four hours of happiness.
So now they sat, curled in an old porch swing, creaking softly in the Nantucket twilight. A cool breeze blew up off the Atlantic and she shivered, snuggling closer to him, pulling the ratty old quilt tighter around them.
"How...?" Peter's voice was a warm rumble under her ear.
"How, what?" Her query was muffled by the blanket over her chin.
"The quilt tucked itself around us."
She slowly shook her head against his chest. "No, I did."
He leaned back forcefully, pressing her hands against the wooden slats forming the back of the swing. "Your hands are around my back."
"I thought I..."
"You thought."
She scrambled back from him, nearly toppling them both out of the swing. "No. No, Peter."
He put one foot down, steadying the swing, and reached out a hand, steady on her arm. "Olivia."
Turning away from him, she refused to look at him, staring instead out to the distant waves. She didn't shrug his hand away, though, as it slid up her arm and around to caress her back in slow, steady circles. His suggestion for a peaceful weekend away from the rest of the world, which had started so promisingly, seemed to be crumbling. Eventually she turned back to him, pleading with her eyes. "Do we have to talk about this now?"
The hand on her back stilled, warm between her shoulder blades He sighed. "We should. Over dinner?"
"Is it ready?"
"Should be, nearly. Want to light the fireplace while I check on it?"
He proffered a hand up from the swing and she took it, letting him draw her back into the little clapboard cottage, chilled now but filled with the aroma of whatever he'd been making, simmering in the oven. He'd refused to let her help, wanting to make her dinner. It was surprisingly domestic, and shockingly pleasant, being two normal people enjoying a weekend on an island, grocery shopping and watching old movies, worrying more about the way the sun pinked her nose after an afternoon spent walking along the beach than about the fate of the world. They'd neither had much of this, and she wished she could have had it under difference circumstances.
Peter stuck his head back into the living room, where she was staring down at the cold hearth, and interrupted her thoughts. "You want wine? Or something stronger?"
"Wine's fine." He disappeared back into the kitchen, and she was impelled into motion, setting a blaze crackling with a long match against crumpled newsprint, heat radiating out into the cool room. A breeze still crept in through the windows, and but she left one open a bit, allowing the stir of salty air carry the scent of the sea inside, a sharp contrast to the warm smoky fire. She took a deep breath and settled on the couch, closing her eyes and resting her head back against the afghan folded over the back. Only when she heard Peter clinking silverware and glasses on the coffee table did she open her eyes, staring at the plate being presented to her.
"Macaroni and cheese?" It seemed in keeping with the sweet homeyness they'd been enjoying, but not at all what she'd expected, and hardly a meal of itself. She couldn't keep the laughter out of her voice.
"Not just any mac and cheese," he said, handing over the plate with a flourish. "Lobster macaroni and cheese. I promise it bears little resemblance to the stuff out of the blue box."
Picking up the fork, she eyed the steaming, cheesy heap suspiciously, but she had to admit that it did look good, if incredibly decadent. "I like the stuff out of the blue box."
He rolled his eyes and picked up his own plate. "How did you end up so beautiful on a diet of frozen dinners and takeout? You need to eat some real, home-cooked meals."
She wanted to laugh, knowing it was true, that the closest thing to cooking she did was making toast or turning on the microwave. "You offering to do the cooking in this household?"
"Are you taking me up on it, without even sampling the product?" As if to emphasize his point, he speared a large forkful of macaroni, and a huge chunk of lobster.
"Anything would be better than my cooking." She helped herself to a large bite of dinner, and her eyes widened as she chewed. "And this is definitely better than my cooking."
By the time they finished eating, she was feeling sated on good food and wine, lulled by the warmth of the fire and Peter's presence. She'd almost forgotten about their dropped conversation, but he apparently hadn't. "Tell me about the telekinesis."
Tentatively, she nodded, exhaling a slow, breathy, "Okay," then gulped down the last splash of the wine in her glass. Peter took the glass from her, then pulled her back against him, arms wrapping around her waist and heartbeat steady under her back. Reclining them both against the corner of the couch, she felt enveloped, safe, but she didn't have to look at him as she spoke. In relief at his understanding, she dropped her head back against his shoulder, sighing.
He allowed her silence, let her melt against him until she was comfortable before she began, elaborating on his simple request. "I guess the first time was that bomb of David Robert Jones' that I diffused, though I didn't realize it at the time. It was the same thing I did to turn off the Machine, though. Since then its happened a few more times. Small things, like the blanket, not like the others. No one's been around to see it, but I'll be working late, and think I need a pen and one will roll across the desk."
They were both quiet, Peter caressing her sides gently with the tips of his fingers, Olivia pondering whether to tell him more. It was part of why she hadn't wanted to discuss this, especially this peaceful weekend. But he was her husband now, and deserved to know. "It also happened the day I was working and got the call about you and Walter. I knew I needed to get there fast, and turned on lights and sirens, but I still kept thinking, faster, faster, and the only lights I hit on the way there were green. I was going way too fast to catch the timing on them. I wasn't even trying, I was just...."
"Upset. Afraid," he finished, squeezing her just a bit, voice warm in her ear. She nodded, feeling her hair catch in the stubble on his cheek. "Have you ever tried it intentionally, since the Machine? When you're not emotional?"
Vehemently, she shook her head. "No, no I don't want to."
After a long pause, he said, "The ability's there, whether you want it, or use it."
"Then why should I use it? What good's come of it so far?"
"Party tricks?" She could hear the laughter in his voice, and appreciated the touch of levity just when she needed it.
"A fallback career as a magician might be nice."
"The Great Olivini? You could pull off the top hat, I think." He kissed the crown of her head.
She huffed out a little laugh, thinking now that it would be a much nicer job than her current one. When he kissed her temple, she hoped he'd continue down her face, let this conversation be forgotten in favor of love. But she had the misfortune of being married to someone just as determined as she could be.
"Why don't you try it now?" He whispered into her ear, the way another man might an endearment.
"Now?"
"Yeah. It's safe, no pressure, no one else ever needs to know."
Unless it works, she thought. If it works, I'm going to have to use this, because it could help, and it's going to raise all kinds of questions. Consequences tumbled through her mind, but somehow she felt herself saying, "All right."
He lifted one hand from where it wrapped around her waist, and gestured at their plates on the coffee table. "Try something easy. Maybe move one of the forks."
"You were serious about the party tricks, then?" She smiled a little, nervously.
Kissing her temple again, he murmured, "Easy and no pressure. Just relax."
She took a long deep breath, closing her eyes and willing herself to relax back against him, supported by his solid chest. His arms remained around her, lightly, and he kept his breath steady, until she allowed hers to fall into the same rhythm. If she hadn't known him so well, she would have wondered at his ability for stillness, but she was certain that he was someone who knew how to wait, still and quiet, for hours and at this moment, that patience was more comforting than she'd ever be able to express to him.
Gradually, she opened her eyes, focusing on the simple silver fork sitting at the side of Peter's plate. She knew the feel of it, could carefully wrap her fingers around it and lift it up. When the fork actually lifted up as she'd imagined herself to be doing, she startled, and it clattered the few inches back down to the plate. Twisting in his arms, she turned to look at Peter, eyes wide.
He was smiling, delighted, she shook her head in confusion. "You did it."
"But I...." She turned again, looking back over at the fork. Sitting up a bit, she bit her lip, determined now, and focused on the piece of silverware once more. Peter sat up behind her, keeping her in his embrace, long legs falling around hers. "Let me try again."
She barely felt the little squeeze he gave her, or the brush of his lips against the nape of her neck. All she could feel was the few ounces of fork, so heavy to lift. When it felt like too much, she almost stopped, and envisioned the silverware floating up, off the white porcelain and into the air. To her surprise, it did so, wavering and unsteady in her astonishment, but stabilizing and then gradually drifting across the expanse of plate and bare table, before landing, a bit ungracefully, beside her own former utensil.
Peter kissed her cheek as she sat, a bit shocked and staring at their plates and silverware. Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly, her arms tightening across Peter's, needing reassurance she couldn't quite ask for Behind her, she could feel him drawing deep, centering breaths, and she let herself do the same, knowing he was doing it for her. "You're amazing," he whispered, almost sotto voce, tickling her ear with his breath.
At this moment, that would have to be enough, because she couldn't contemplate more than that now. The ramifications were too much, what she would expect of herself now more than she wanted to think about. She shook her head, slowly, unsure whether she was trying to clear her head or deny his statement.
"Olivia." He shifted then, lifting her a bit and turning them, until he could look her in the eye. "I told you once before, years ago, that you can do things I've never seen anyone else able to do. And it's not just moving silverware. It's that you're willing to even consider trying it."
"I don't know what to do now." She still couldn't quite look him in the eye as she spoke, staring instead very resolvedly at the hollow at the base of his throat. "I don't know what to do with this...ability. I don't know how it can fix things."
"It doesn't have to fix anything. You don't even know the extent of what you can do with it."
"I don't...." She shook her head. "I'm not sure I want to know the extent of it, but I can't know and not do something with it, Peter."
In her peripheral vision, she saw his head bob, and finally allowed herself to look him in the eye. The love she saw there reassured her, and she let herself bask in it for just a heartbeat. "But you don't have to decide that today. Gradually, we can figure out what you can do, and then make a decision. Later."
"Later." Part of her wanted to ask how much "later" they really had to look forward to, but she just wanted to stay in the warm loving moment they had here, and not think about all of the horrible things that were outside this cottage. She dropped her head down against him, feeling the warmth of his shoulder under her cheek, under the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. "I never wanted to be Scarlett O'Hara, but thinking tomorrow is another day sounds pretty damn good right now." Her lips brushed his throat as she spoke, and she was careful to look at the honeyed column of his neck, rather than the flatware on the table.
"You would be a miserable failure as Scarlett O'Hara." He laughed, then, really laughed, chest rumbling under her, a reassuring, affirming little shake, accompanied by tightening arms, pulling her closer into his lap. "But you've got the idea. This is our honeymoon, for another 34 hours. Wondering whether your can bend universal physical constants with your mind is not how I'd like to spend that time."
"Oh? You have something else in mind?" She batted her eyes at him, knowing he couldn't see, but could feel the flicker of her lashes against the thin skin of his neck. Though she couldn't see his face, she knew he was grinning, could almost hear it.
"I most definitely do." She could hear the smile then, the little lear, that bit of swagger he'd shown off when she'd first met him. Then, it had frequently made her want to slap him, an impulse she resisted purely out of professionalism. Now, it just made her want to put him in his place, and she gave in to the urge, shifting quickly across his lap and forcing him back, until he was flat on his back and she sat across his hips. "You do too, apparently."
The grin was still there, beaming up at her as his hands slid down her back, tugging her down to him, tugging up the hem of her worn grey sweater. A moment's token resistance, and she gave in, collapsing leisurely against him and enjoying his warm hands on the bare skin of her back, tracing the line of her spine. She captured that smile with her lips, once quickly, teasing, before meeting them in a long, deep kiss that left them both short of breath when they finally parted.
She sat up a bit, and peeled the sweater over her head and tossed her bra to one side. Peter's hands remained low on her back, kneading small circles just alone her spine. When she spared a glance back down at him, he was staring up at her, entranced. This was not normally a favorite position of hers; it felt too exposed, too vulnerable, too much for the man's voyeuristic benefit rather than her enjoyment. It had never felt that way with him, not when he watched her with such open adoration.
Only when she began to tug at his own shirt did his hands move from her back, skimming up her sides before falling away and letting her pull his navy henley free. She ruffled his hair where the shirt had left it spiky; he looked good with a bit of a bed head. His eyes fell shut and he leaned into her fingers like a puppy having its ears rubbed. She took the opportunity to watch him, a chance she rarely got unobserved by his watchful gaze, enjoying the play of warm firelight across the plane of his chest. When her hands slipped from his hair to run down across his pectoral muscles, his eyes snapped open, staring straight at her. Neither were loquacious by nature, and they'd never had to talk much in bed, seeming to know what the other needed, to communicate enough with a look that more was unnecessary.
No further words passed between them as clothes were shed and bodies joined. Only the sound of their increasingly fast breaths, broken by the crackling fire and distant crash of waves, filled the room. In this elemental peace, she could scarcely believe the sound of her own voice, echoing in the cozy room, a throaty cry where there was normally little more than a gasp. Peter answered in kind, fingers tightening on her hips, pulling her even closer as she collapsed against him. Their syncopated breathing gradually slowed and fell into rhythm, and she could feel his heart racing under her cheek. Eventually his arms came up around her and squeezed her tightly to him, until she exhaled in a great contented sigh, feeling his ribs flush against hers, as if they'd melted together just a bit.
It took a moment for her to catch her breath enough to lean up and kiss him, until they were both short of breath again. When their lips parted, she smiled, humming contentedly. There was a cool breeze from the window blowing into the room, tickling across her back, sending goosebumps across her skin. Before she could say anything, Peter had pulled the afghan down over them, shaking it down to cover her feet.
She snuggled into him, as if it were possible to get closer. "Can we stay right here the rest of the weekend?"
His fingers twisted through her hair, sweeping it off her sweaty back. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. "We have the whole weekend to stay right here."
He made "the whole weekend" sound like the rest of their lives, and she closed her eyes, letting herself dream, just for one night, of a lifetime of such simple pleasures.
****