Sometimes he'd remember when Olivia returned from the Other Side, when she'd managed to escape with Alternate Broyle's help. He'd gone to the hospital and stayed by her side for hours until she woke up. When she'd finally opened her eyes and thanked him, he'd been wracked with guilt.
He still was, sometimes.
Those times came when he was lying next to her in bed late at night, listening to her breathe slowly and deeply. He'd think about her account of what had happened to her on the Other Side - both what was in the report and what she'd told him privately - and he'd inwardly shudder. He'd recall her quiet, controlled voice relating to him the many times she'd hallucinated him talking to her, reminding her of her true identity. How her hallucination of him had kept her sane and firmly rooted in the right universe. He'd remember how she'd once pointed out, why hadn't he clung to her as she had clung to him? Her voice had been full of emotion - accusing, pleading, and despairing all at the same time. That first time, he'd drowned in guilt.
Those times came at random, spontaneous moments in their everyday lives when they were doing ordinary things. Maybe it had been a stressful day at the Fringe division, and they'd be making dinner together. She'd be cutting vegetables or setting the table for two, and the bright light of the kitchen table would illuminate the dark, tiny points on her right arm. Or maybe they'd be sitting on the bed reading reports, and the sleeves of her pajama top would slide back just a little bit, revealing the scars scattered along her right arm. Evidence of the needles full of Fauxlivia's memories, forcefully injected even if her body couldn't stand it.
She never mentioned if they'd tortured her on the Other Side, but he had a foreboding feeling that they had. She was their key to figuring out how to cross over, and they wanted the answer no matter how they got it. The planned medical examination had come after she'd refused to submit to the questioning, interrogations, and torture. It didn't matter if she looked like one of their best agents; to them, she was the enemy and was treated as such. Spare no moralistic sentiments. Send her back in pieces if they had to.
Whenever he thought about this, he'd inwardly shudder.
Sometimes she'd think about the day Peter had crossed over to the Other Side. The moment she'd watched the video feed, seen Peter and Walternate disappear into thin air. Her throat had constricted, her heart had plummeted. She had followed false lead after false lead, and it had all ended with this - Peter had gone. He wasn't just running all over the country; he was impossible to follow. She could never - would never - see him again.
But that was nothing compared to the realization that Peter's destiny was linked to the machine, and that he was destined to die inside it. When she had looked at that piece of paper, seen the drawing of Peter's eyes aflame...she had never felt so afraid. This, she could not control. She could not understand it, and she could not solve it. It was out of her hands entirely. It was her worst nightmare.
Sometimes she would have time to think and wonder what would have happened if Walter had not found a way to cross over to warn Peter. What if they, the cortexiphan children, could not cross over? What if they had all died in the process, or been captured and killed? Worse, what if she had reasoned and pleaded with Peter, and he had refused to leave his universe? Luckily, because of her he had come back.
But she hadn't.
Sometimes she'd think about her time on the Other Side, before she'd been brainwashed, while she had been brainwashed, and after she'd realized the truth with the help of her hallucination of Peter. Fear and determination had alternately gripped her, but when she'd believed that she was Fauxlivia, she'd been happy again. She had a place in life, a country to serve, friends who stood by her. She'd had a mother. She'd had someone to share her love.
It was different, being Olivia from this universe. She could feel the heavier burden, the extra stress and pain that had started so long ago in her childhood. She'd learned to be strong when she was young. So had Fauxlivia. But the other Olivia was much more carefree and lively, easy to love, quick to smile and joke. She had more life in her. She saw the worse parts of life, and she had people to help her work to get through it. She had Mom, Lincoln, Charlie, Broyles, and Frank. Now that she had both their memories inside of her, she was more of a mix of the two of them. Yes, she had better sharpshooting skills (courtesy of Fauxlivia); but she still had the most terrifying moments of her life.
But she had her own friends and family to help her. She had Rachel and Ella, Walter, Astrid, and Broyles. And she had Peter. Peter, who made her happier than she had been in years. Lucas had given her companionship, John had given her excitement, but Peter gave her more than she could ever have imagined. He gave her strength, comfort, support, stability, excitement, humor, and so much more.
"I've never met anyone who can do the things that you do."
He had helped her see that she truly was special; she wasn't just a freak or a victim because of the cortexiphan trials. For so long, she had seen what the trials had done to the other test subjects, and she saw herself in them. The dark clothes, the loneliness, the fear and pain. The burden. But Peter had been key in helping her see that her life didn't have to be like that. She could take what had once caused her pain, and make it her strength. Now it was. She had once thought that it was her duty, her purpose in life, to make sure that others would not suffer as she had. She had once thought that it was her duty alone, and no one else's. But Peter had helped her see that she could open up, calm down, and rely on others; by supporting other people, she could find that they supported her. Especially Peter.
Sometimes late at night, when they were curled in bed and almost asleep, she heard him sigh deeply behind her, as if he was exhaling all his regret and worry. She would find his arm around her, take his hand, and squeeze it comfortingly. He would move closer to her, providing a solid support for her as he always did. Then they would finally asleep, with their hands clasped together.