TITLE: Fathers, Sons, and Women Whom Weren't Quite Girlfriends

PAIRING: Walter/Olivia (Waltivia)

CHARACTERS: Walter Bishop, Olivia Dunham

GENRE: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Romance

RATING: M

SUMMARY: Olivia searches for comfort and finds it in Walter

CHALLENGE: Write a believable Walter and Liv pairing!

WORD COUNT: 1330

WARNINGS: Character death

SPOILERS: Season One

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For the delightful FaustAutumn

DISCLAIMER: Obvious this isn't mine.

Olivia's eyes ached from the amount of crying she'd done this week. She was wearing all black, her shirt and trousers wrinkled because she'd simply pulled them off the floor this morning.

It was cool this morning, fog covering the grounds of the small cemetery that was oddly familiar until she realised that this was the same location she'd gone to to hunt down John Mosely and the Beacon. The leafless trees were silent spectators to the funeral, ghostly viewers that hid in the edge of the mist.

He wasn't given a Christian burial, but prayers were said and Astrid sang a mournful rendition of "In the Gloaming". Olivia had mumbled a few words over the casket and Walter had sobbed, shouting incoherently at the sky. Broyles had of course brought the condolences of the FBI and Homeland Security, but the words were hollow and obviously insincere. Nina Sharp appeared as well, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. All in all, it was an unusual gathering of government, private market, and black market characters.

After the service and they were alone with the casket, Olivia and Walter had held hands. It had been an unconscious movement, both needing the comfort of the other whom had been closest to Peter other than them. His palms were clammy and hers were dry and cracking from the cold, but they held to one another tightly as though afraid if they let go, the other would disappear and there would be no more connexions to Peter left.

"He's really gone," Walter lowed sadly.

Olivia's own voice was deeper and considerably more raspy from her own crying. "I know."

"I loved him," his father said softly.

"I loved him, too," Olivia finally confessed to herself, the words pushing out of her throat like large, painful rocks.

His hand tightened slightly around hers. "I know, my dear. He loved you, too."

Olivia didn't allow herself to run her fingers along the smooth lacquer of the coffin. "Where are you staying tonight? Peter wouldn't have wanted you to be alone."

"I like my bed," Walter suggested, though it sounded more like a warning.

She nodded. "I'll spend the night, okay?"

Since Peter had been…recovered, she hadn't been able to go home to her flat, terrified of being with Rachel and Ella, people who couldn't possibly understand the storm that raged in her heart.

"You don't have to," he insisted, his voice breaking slightly.

"You shouldn't be alone."

He clung to her arm as they began walking away, his head resting on her shoulder. She was so used to being strong for other people, but this was truly the first time she didn't know if she had the energy when she herself needed someone so badly. Back to the Bishop's Vista Cruiser, parked on the gravel road in the forest, she dug the keys out of her pocket, opening Walter's door for him before walking around the front to the driver's side. Walter was never going to get another license and Peter had put so much work into the vehicle that she felt it was a shame to let it sit in a storage unit again.

She tried starting it—she'd found it was a fickle beast—and it roared and sputtered as she mumbled words of encouragement to the engine, and for the slightest of moments she almost believed she could hear Peter's voice speaking with hers, trying to convince the machine to start. Her tears managed to find their way to her eyes once more and she fought back sobs as the station wagon finally sprang to life.

"Oh, my dear. It's all right. It's all right," Walter soothed, stroking her shoulder as she cried.

Back at the hotel room, Olivia picked up scattered newspaper sheets and dirty laundry. While Walter was incredibly composed, the inside of the room reflected the obvious turmoil he was feeling. Once the room was righted, she let herself stare at the still messed blanket and bed sheets on the couch. Peter had been dead for two weeks and yet his makeshift bed was still the same way he'd left it.

"Agent Dunham," Walter stated, standing in the door way between the sitting room she had been cleaning and the bedroom.

"Yes, Walter." Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"I miss him," he finally whispered and opened his arms up to her.

She allowed herself to be folded safely in his hold, feeling his lungs expanding and his muscles shifting. Here Olivia felt a sense of peace, the same calm Peter gave her. She pulled back and studied the older man's face.

"You have his eyes," she murmured.

"Technically, he has mine," Walter pointed out.

She couldn't help it. "I always loved his eyes."

She leaned in, her lips pressing against his. He resisted slightly, but didn't refuse. She was powerless—the need to see what was left of Peter filled her and this was as close as she could get to the man she'd fallen in love with. Walter was simply the best she could do.

She moved her arms so that they were around his neck, pausing to look at the scientist's soft green eyes. No, there were slight differences between Walter and Peter's irises but in the darkness of the hotel room, it was easy to pretend the differences weren't there. Her fingers moved up to his hair. Walter had soft curls with slight tangles, much different than Peter's hair, not that she'd ever had the chance to touch it. Their kissing deepened, Olivia hungry for any distraction of the misery that made her skin cold.

In a movie that Rachel had once rented, some dreadful comedy, there had been the discussion of grief being the greatest aphrodisiac and Olivia hadn't believed it until now. Grief simply needed comfort, needed to cling to anything alive. Olivia felt as though she might be drowning or smothered and if this man was the eye of the storm, she was willing to accept it.

They parted for a moment and even in the dim light she could see the pink on his cheek, the first hint of colour on either of their pallid faces.

"If I try hard enough, I can still taste him," he whispered. Olivia's eyes widened slightly and for the first time since the announcement of Peter's death, Walter gave a smile, though it was rather sick looking. "Oh, nothing like that. I just remember kissing him on the head when he was a child and on the back of his hand when he would sleep here on the couch. Taste has more to do with the olfactory aspect of the senses than the tongue."

She nodded, brushing her lips against his cheek. "I get it. You were breathing in."

He nodded as well. "Exactly."

His fingers traced her face lovingly, leaving her to lie on the bed. Wordlessly she followed, though she did pause to retrieve Peter's blanket off the sofa.

"The world seems so much colder without him," Walter whispered as she stepped out of her shoes and joined him.

"I know," she murmured sympathetically. "So much colder."

They pulled the blanket over them, the oxygen warm, stifled with Peter's scent. Both breathed it in deep, savouring that small part of the man they'd known. Walter's arms pulled her in tighter, his head nestled on her breasts as their legs intertwined comfortably. His hands toyed with her hair for a moment before sighing.

"Did he love me, Agent Dunham?" he asked and she closed her eyes.

"I don't think he held anyone closer in his heart."

She could feel Walter's tears soaking through the wrinkled black shirt she'd picked up off the floor earlier that morning.

"I never loved anyone more than him," he rasped.

Olivia thought back to different people throughout her life, people she'd invested her emotions to and felt as though her heart was being torn out.

"Ad neither have I."