Nothing is mine. This could be seen as a pseudo-sequel to "the devil is in the details," though it stands on its own, as well. What happens in between the two stories is up to our imagination.

Set near the end of Fringe's first season and Supernatural's third, just before the demons come to collect on Bela's deal. Enjoy the angst!

if you should ever leave me

"What I want to know is, if this guy is planning on doing what Walter says he's planning, then what are we suppo – ?" Peter Bishop's phone rang and he began patting pockets to find it. Not many people had his number. Most of them were in this room; a couple of them were dead. That really only left one person.

Olivia raised her eyebrows. "Hot date?" she said, a note of annoyance creeping into her voice.

"Nah, no, just something…" He found the phone in his back pocket, right where he suddenly remembered putting it earlier, and looked at the screen. One text message from a blocked number. Meet me at the Esplanade, as soon as you can. It was her. She didn't have to say it was important for his heart to race in anticipation, in fear.

"Peter?" Olivia took a few steps closer. From her tone, he knew he'd betrayed more on his face than he'd meant to. "Is something wrong?"

Walter raised his eyes from a microscope and blinked. "Son?"

"Everything's fine," Peter replied, an easy smile appearing on his face to placate his colleagues. "I just need to head out for a bit." He glanced at Olivia. "Can Fringe Division survive without me for a couple hours?"

"We'll hold down the fort," she assured him.

Peter shrugged on his coat and gave her a devilish smile. "Great. Can I borrow the car?"

For some reason, Olivia agreed, probably because she was a better FBI agent than Peter gave her credit for and had read his distress like an elementary school chapter book. He was striding through the trees and shadows of Boston's Esplanade in a few minutes, unapologetic for his use of the flashing lights and sirens the FBI-issue SUV came equipped with to get himself here as quickly as possible. It was around ten at night and cold for early April, but Peter shrugged deeper into his coat and kicked at the rotting leaves littering the jogging paths to keep warm. In the distance, the band shell stood silent sentinel, just waiting until summer came around again. The FBI building watched from high above, standing mere blocks away, as Peter hurried through the trees and the Charles River, at last, came into view.

And there was Bela Talbot, pacing slowly back and forth on a lonely dock out over the river, lit by a half moon from both the sky and the river reflections. She didn't seem agitated, or rushed, or even particularly cold. Her movements seemed as calculated as always, calm and unhurried, the mark of a true artist. But she paused when he walked down the dock towards her and, when she looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes.

"Oh, thank God." She closed the gap between them in three quick steps and linked her arms around Peter's neck, seemingly without the intention of ever letting go. Instinctively, Peter's arms went around her, pulling her closer against the cold night air. She didn't speak. She didn't move.

It wasn't like Peter was unused to these sudden rendezvous. She called and he answered. When he needed her, she was there. They hadn't been friends – or whatever they were – for more than a year or so now, but they were two sides of the same coin. They understood each other too well, ran into each other too much, not to turn to each other for comfort as often as they did. They were tricksters, they were liars, they were thieves. They were working for a higher cause, and that cause was their own self-preservation. They had never swapped family histories – guns and treasures were more their speed – and Peter had never felt the need to know more about Bela than the little he did. He had absolutely never seen her cry.

"What's wrong?" he asked, after a lengthy silence. "What's going on? Did something happen?" Still, she refused to speak. "Did a job go wrong? How can I help?"

She held him tighter. "You can't." After another dozen or so beats of her heart, Bela pulled away and took Peter's face in her hands. "You're here." She looked him in the eye, daring him to come up with anything to say, then reached up to gently press her lips to his forehead. "Goodbye," she said, quiet and clear as the night.

"What's going on?" Peter demanded to know, catching hold of her arms to keep her in place until he got the full story. "I can help you. Whatever it is, you know the people I know."

"And, thankfully, you don't know some of the ones I've had run-ins with," she replied, then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. She'd said too much, crossed some boundary Peter hadn't seen drawn in the sand of their relationship. He regretted pressing her for information immediately. But he was made fearful by the thought of losing her, which, by her behavior and her words, was slowly becoming the only trajectory he could see her life taking.

"Let me help you," Peter said softly. He lowered his head to they were on eye level, he enveloping her in his presence and she being exactly what he needed simply by existing.

In reply, Bela freed her hands from his grip. "Goodbye, Peter," she said firmly, giving him a shove backward and hurrying around him as he stumbled to regain his balance.

"Wait a minute!" Peter shouted after her receding frame. "Hey! Wait! We're not done here!"

She disappeared into the trees. She was done. And she was gone. A few weeks later, Peter would receive word from a mutual contact that Bela Talbot was rumored to be dead. And then she was gone.