Alice + The Elephant
The term “the elephant in the room” is a commonly used euphemism for “this huge-ass, monumentally awkward issue metaphorically looming over our heads.” Commonly indigenous to people desperately trying to be PC, it signifies an unavoidable aspect of the human condition: the avoidance of unavoidable things - specifically, in this case, confrontation. By avoiding problems, one believes they are removing themselves from any pain they could subject or inflict. Really people are setting themselves up for pain at an exponential rate - compared to what they would have gotten before. Why? Because they are losing badly the struggle to ignore things that most people just can’t.
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The elephant in this room is expanding widely and quickly throughout the Bishops’ stairs and foyer, like some accidentally Alice-in-Wonderland turn-of-events. Walter had handed her the bottle labeled “Infuse Me into Your Blood,” and because she followed orders her problems had grown and taken up residence in a home not her own.
For a long stretch, in her mind, the insanity was not associated with Peter. Sure, he is there witnessing and investigating these anomalies along with her. But he doesn’t have anything to do with it.
Sure, he’s there next to her at every bizarre turn.
But he doesn’t have anything to do with it.
It seems now that he has quite a bit to do with it.
Walter speaks; she ignores him. If he has something to say, he should have said it long ago. And maybe he tried, back when she was cajoling Peter into signing his rights away for the good of humanity, or something like that; but regardless, he should have tried harder. This is something you keep from everyone you know, which is exactly why he should have spilled it immediately.
She doesn’t understand what’s happening. But she’s officially not speaking to Walter, in the hopes that she can make sure she never finds out. Because disgusting as it is, ignorance is bliss. The less she knows, the less she has to ignore.
So the elephant in the room drifts away, dissipating, mingling in the air until it is something far larger than her, far larger than her imagination. But spread so thin that at this moment it doesn’t matter.
-
The bottle she’s holding very clearly states “Drink Me” but she’s unwary this time. She can feel his cells gravitating towards her, and her own towards him; but maybe that’s just what buzzed feels like. She wonders how she would feel right now if she replaced him with someone else. The same, the similar? Perhaps. She wishes she could calculate the probability of feeling this good with just anyone on the eve of something-like-the-apocalypse.
The probability: very highly unlikely.
They’ve been mostly quiet. She swears he’s looking at her differently today than yesterday. She soaks it up because she is painfully aware that shit as beautiful as that doesn’t last forever. There’s something in his eyes that drives her wild, just mad, just batty, and she wants to preserve it as long as possible.
“I kind of like you.” It just comes out. She doesn’t question why. “I like it when you look at me,” she adds, because she decided to be truthful about all things except for one.
“I look at you a lot,” he admits.
“I like you a lot,” she adjusts accordingly. Sure, it’s no grand profession of love; she doesn’t just keep those in her pocket. But it’s still something.
“You’re just realizing this now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I like you, too.” Sure, it makes him feel like he’s thirteen years old. But it’s still something.
So he just smiles. But something is different, new with her. “How do you feel?” he asks.
It’s not an are you okay? or a what the hell is wrong with you?; she recognizes that. He just wants to take her temperature for this moment in time.
She takes a look into his eyes again, and takes a look into her mood. Ignores the rising panic, ignores the Northern-Lights-meets-fireworks-display that begins to appear. Amazing that he can unlock that in her in a split second. She takes a long sip of her drink.
“I don’t know.” She takes another drink. Swallows, licks her lips. “I feel strange.”
He gives her more time, because narrowing down an instant’s worth of feelings is harder than it looks.
Olivia knows she can’t answer until she beats back some emotion. She tears her fear to shreds - a bloody battle - and sighs semi-peacefully in the aftermath.
“I feel absolutely feral…in the best possible way.”
And Peter, starving, only takes a moment after she consents before kissing her.
The bartender wanders over, refills their drinks, wanders away.
They’re still attached.
If she can handle anything, she can handle this.
If she can handle this, she can handle anything.