Disclaimer: I disclaim these characters and their universe, which are wholly owned and operated by others.

Outlast

The secret to his success had always been longevity. Perseverance. Tireless, dogged endurance, just staying upright long enough for eras to change and paradigms to shift. A horse with its head facing the wind, he did his best to be streamlined in the face of resistance.

I can withstand you, he thought as he stared into her flighty wide eyes. He sat over her on the hospital bed, his face open and dark to give respite to her frantic stare. Her mouth raced to tell him things she didn't think she remembered, and she clutched at his lapels, his jacket, his shirt. He kept a hand firmly beneath her shoulder and another against her burning head. In moments of tenderness, he was moved to stroke her hair; it smelled still of smoke and rubber and vaguely of blood, which turned his stomach momentarily and had him squeezing her shoulder more tightly than he wanted to. It was a tiny allowance, considering all the things he wanted.

He wanted to pile her up into his arms in the hospital blankets and press his rough cheek against her forehead. He wanted to break out his inner street fighter on the doctor who had all but pronounced her dead. He wanted to lay the bodies of her enemies at her feet, his chest heaving and covered in their hard-won effluvia. He wanted to inhale deeply from the pool between her clavicle and trapezius.

He set his jaw and felt his teeth vice as he tensed against the rising of his chest into his throat. Sometimes it took so little to resist, and sometimes it was like clawing his way to the surface of a mudslide. Hot blood fizzed through his neck and head, and his vision of her seemed to float and waver in front of him. Something molecular hummed in his ears. Sometimes it was too much.

He wanted to run away to Dubai and not come back. He wanted to ask Walter to give him something to make him forget; Peter knew that he could.

She reached for his face and he shut his eyes, being still for her touch, but her hand fluttered away at the last moment. His face didn't show his disappointment. His features remained soft, and the shadows in his eyes made him seem gentle and half-veiled. In her panic, his soft darkness was a fine escape from the harsh scrutiny of the police.

I can outlast you.

Olivia's third mug of coffee was only drops-left at 11:30am, but her head hit her palms at noon anyway.

"You should hit the hay, dear," Walter said.

When she objected to going home, Walter pointed to a flattened spot of hay next to Gene.

"I do it whenever I need a little shut-eye," he said with a shrug. Peter caught her eye and grinned sardonically.

Olivia closed her open mouth with a slight downward tug of her head. "Right," she said. Rubbing her eyes, she stood and swung her jacket over her shoulder. "Anyone else for coffee?"

"Half-caff caramel latte," Astrid called from behind an array of test tubes, her goggles reflecting a sublimating ultracoolant. "Extra hot. Extra hot."

Peter sauntered to Olivia, reached for her free hand and held it up loosely at the wrist. They both watched her fingers' caffeinated tremble. Peter squinted and half-smiled. "Yeah, you sure do need a refill," he drawled. "You know, most people sleep when they're tired. I mean, at least once a week." Once a week. But it had been weeks since the accident, and he didn't know the number of nights she'd slept, through the night or at all. The cuts on her face had healed but everything she did reminded him that her blood was so close to the surface of her skin. So easy to spill. He couldn't envelop her, but he could try.

"Thanks," she said, tilting her head.

He rolled his eyes and headed back to his desk to grab his jacket. "Let's go."

Walter smiled and began to hum over his equations as they walked out the door.

"Driving without sleep is more dangerous than driving legally drunk," Peter said as they walked out to the car. She shot him a sidelong look. "Just so you know why you aren't driving," he said. She acquiesced without argument and slid into the passenger side of their government-issue SUV. Peter started the car and it felt so normal to Olivia, sitting there in her leather perch. The car smell and the engine vibrations and the sun filtering through the window hypnotized her as Peter drove through the fall streets of Boston. Outside air came in through the vents and she could smell someone's fireplace. She closed her eyes and leaned into the side panel, and didn't even notice that Peter was driving in circles as she fell asleep.

She woke up feeling warm, although it was much darker outside than she remembered. With a small jolt, she raised her head. "Peter? What's going on?" There was something heavy on her arm: a jacket. Leather jacket. Peter's jacket. And then Peter's hand, on her shoulder, and then Peter's voice:

"Hey, it's okay." And then Peter's face, quietly smiling.

She relaxed and let her head fall back against the seat.

"How're you feeling?" His voice was low and calm. Olivia yawned in response.

"Better."

"How long since you slept the night?"

She looked down and fussed with his jacket.

"Hey," he said with an aggrandizing gesture to his chest and his most self-deprecating expression, "you're talking to a crown prince of insomnia." She gave him a little smile but said nothing in response. He sat back in his seat and looked softly at her while she woke up bit by bit. She looked through the windows at the dark world and neon windows.

"Where are we?"

"Where else?" he asked, and pointed over his shoulder at a bright art-deco sign. "Food."

Olivia began to say something that Peter just knew would be contrary, and he cut her off. "No protest, or no curly fries." He opened his door into the night and headed around to open hers.

"Poor Astrid," she said, not sorry at all.