Do you like my puppets, Doctor? Do you like my fun? All of them have played and lost, but here's my favourite one.
DOCTOR WHO
The Giggle
659 notes
·
View notes
Midnight Polivia Drabbles #1
“That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” she reiterates to him for probably the fifth time that night
The clock on the wall of the hospital room is ticking well past midnight. After hours of pacing back and forth and sitting in uncomfortable chairs, she’d made him scoot over and make room, nestling into the tiny bed next to him on his good side.
She should really call down and see if someone can get her a cot to sleep. She’s not sure she can simply go home tonight.
Peter, still doped up on pain meds, offers her a lazy grin and places his hand over hers on her thigh.
“We caught him, though,” he reminds her, a little too proudly.
He’s not a bit sorry, the little shit. At least not yet.
Olivia sighs. Yes. Yes, they had caught their suspect. At the cost of a bullet that had barely missed his ribcage. All because he couldn’t let it go. He had to keep pursuing, even after Broyles had warned him to stand down.
She wants to be angry at him. She wants to hate him. They’d talked about this when he stepped up for training to a more active role at the Bureau. They’d made an agreement: no vigilante bullshit.
The problem is, she knows why he did it. She remembers the way she’d had to talk him down the first time they had the guy in custody, before they had any proof. Olivia had interrogated him, a smug son of a bitch with an answer for everything and a lawyer on speed dial. The asshole had put up a wall of defiance, disregarding her at every turn.
Peter had already sat tight, fists and jaw clenched the entire time, his own questions clipped and precise to stay professional.
Then the man dared to tip his head toward Olivia’s prominently round middle and ask, “So, how much longer are they holding out to keep you around without getting sued?”
That had Peter nearly knocking down his chair, sending it sliding halfway across the room. Olivia caught him just in time, before he could round the table and put his hands on the guy. He’d yelled and cursed at the man the entire way to the door as she’d escorted him out.
After that, she’d lost every bit of leverage she might have had. The suspect was let go on a technicality.
Days later, armed with proof and a warrant, they’d gone to arrest him. Peter had set out to make a point.
The call she’d received from Broyles while she waited back at the Bureau had sickened her stomach. She’d been out the door and on the way to the hospital before they could even hang up.
Hours later, here she is. Here they are.
Peter still doesn’t get it, but trying to reason with him right now is about as useful as reasoning with a two-year-old. So, she lies there for as long as they can both tolerate the cramped bed, listening to the beeping of his heart rate on the monitor.
Suddenly, she feels a stirring in her belly.
Olivia presses a hand to her bump to feel. This is the first time she’s moved in hours, and now she’s practicing for what Olivia can only assume will be her future career as a professional soccer player.
Peter, alert at her sudden change, shifts in the bed, wincing at his own movements. He doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t have to say anything.
She simply takes his hand and places it with hers over where their daughter is tucked away safely. The content, dopey smile that spreads across his lips is enough to solidify the impossibility of her being angry at him.
For several minutes, they lie there, simply feeling their little girl move and kick and make her life force known. A reminder of why they do what they do.
And why they don’t take unnecessarily life-threatening risks.
“That really was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” she repeats.
This time, Peter can only stare at where their hands are joined, half asleep but still contemplative.
He nods, lifting her hand to his lips.
“I know.”
26 notes
·
View notes