Disclaimer: I do not own anything, no profit is made out of this story.

Rating: T for language and some sexual insinuations.

Spoilers: Up to 3x13 'Immortality'.

A/N: This is an Altlivia story. I honestly love writing about her. She's fascinating, even more after 'Immortality'. I am very well aware of the fact that most people are very...'conflicted' about the pregnancy plot. I'm confused too, because it is a strange choice of storyline, for a show like Fringe. But I sincerely can't wait to see what the writers are going to do with it.

So yeah, this is all about Altlivia, her POV through 'Immortality'. I do NOT ship her with Peter. I love Peter and Olivia waaaay too much to ever ship Peter with Altlivia, but it is now canon that she has real feelings for him, and this is so tragic and twisted, I had to use that opportunity to write something all angsty again XD

Please, give this a try. You don't even have to like her to read this :p Oh and it's unbeta-ed!

DON'T THINK ABOUT HIM

Olivia's life's motto was that, when in doubt, or in pain, or in particularly shitty situations, you must have a motto.

It was all about control, all about focus. Don't let your emotions get the best of you. Just think think think, concentrate on one thing and one thing only, until you get the control back. Mottos were her thing.

Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they didn't.

Just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot.

There he stood; slumped against the doorframe, blood gashing out of the wounds in his shoulder and in the middle of his chest. But he was staring right at her; he could see the hesitation, as she loaded the gun for the third time with shaky fingers, and pointed at his head. She stared back, tears rolling down her pale, sweaty face. It was as if he was daring her to finish. As if he knew she couldn't. But she could. She could. She COULD.

Just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot just shoot.

It worked, that night. She shot alright, and he fell to the ground. Dead.

Evil bastard, she thought then, staring at the lifeless body pouring blood on the wooden floor, as an incredible feeling of victory and power took hold of her. That wasn't a very nice thought to have for a nine year old, but yet again, most nine year old didn't kill grown up men. Plus, he so deserved it.

She's not dead she's not dead she's not dead she's not dead she's not dead she's not dead.

Useless. Completely useless. She could think it a thousand times, a billion times, it wouldn't change anything.

Rachel was dead.

She was dead and she couldn't stop the dry sobs from coming out of her throat, of her heart, as she heard her mother throw up violently somewhere in the hallway. Her mom, she couldn't, she had to be strong for her, oh God, she was dead, she had to stop, she had to be strong but Rachel her sister, Rachel, the baby, dead, she's not dead, please.

Olivia changed her motto.

Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't you fucking cry don't cry don't cry stop it don't cry don't cry.

Now that was something she could control, if she tried hard enough. Suck it in, keep it in, and don't you fucking cry.

So she didn't cry anymore.

It took seven years for her to shed a tear again.

Don't think about him don't think about him don't think about him don't think about him.

It was her newest motto. Its use wasn't limited to particularly stressful situations anymore, though.

Get up in the morning, feeling slightly disoriented, not sure of where you are? Don't think about him. Take a shower? Don't think about him. Drive to work, wishing you could listen to some U2? Don't think about him. Lie down under the cold sheets of your bed at night, feeling lonely and out of place? Seriously don't think about him. Pick up your boyfriend after months away from each other?

For fuck's sake Olivia STOP THINKING ABOUT HIM.

But as she felt warm hands slide over her eyes, she could do nothing but think about him.

Peter.

She had just finished dying her hair blond again, and she sincerely, honestly hated it. She had abandoned her natural color of hair years ago when she shad let go of the old 'her', embracing her new self. A new self who might be sister-less, but who was going to love every minute of this life, because life was a gift and she would love every single minute of it, all of it all of it all of it. The red was just like her. Vibrant, wild, untamable. She loved it.

The blond? Not so much. The roots kept darkening too fast, and the years she had spent reddening it seemed to make the blond look wrong on her. She had tried four different kind of dye in the last six weeks, and she could never get the right color, the one she saw in all these debriefing videos, the one she used to have herself. But she had forgotten, and it was all wrong now. And as she harshly rubbed a towel over her wet hair, staring at herself in the mirror, she knew the color would be off again. She closed her eyes, annoyed, rubbing harder.

Somehow, she felt him a second before he pressed his body against her back, covering her closed eyes with his hands.

"Guess who?" He said playfully against her ear, and she instantly felt a shiver run through her.

God she really, REALLY shouldn't enjoy the feel of him against her so much, but honestly? She didn't give a damn right now, as she pressed herself against his chest, his breath tickling her neck.

"Uhm, I'm gonna take a leap of faith and say that it's the man who was still snoring very loudly in my bed twenty minutes ago."

He took his hands away from her face, grabbing her waist, and their eyes met in the bathroom's mirror. "Ouch," he grimaced. "That almost hurt."

She chuckled and smiled at him, trying to ignore the feel of his hands on her hips, which were only covered by the thin fabric of her robe. She brought the towel back to her head, starting to rub too harshly again, until he gently grabbed her arm. Meanwhile, his other hand was sneakily trying to find its way inside the robe. She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Are you trying to rub your hair off?" He asked, his voice low in her ear again, before he started pressing wet kisses alongside her neck; she sighed, completely leaning against him now, as his fingers definitely found their way in; and then they found their way down.

She closed her eyes, dropping the towel so she could run her fingers through his hair, grabbing it a little too roughly maybe, but he was bringing it on himself. Her head was already getting foggy with desire and pleasure and anticipation, but she knew she should say something. Anything really. Anything to make her look plausible, yes, she should do that.

"Mmm…I just can't seem to be able to get rid of that reddish tang… I can't…get my hair back to its natural color, and I look like I'm wearing a wig."

He chuckled softly against the flush skin of her neck, but she just moaned, his teasing fingers teasing her alright. She couldn't stop her body from moving against him, holding him close with that hand in his hair, and opening her eyes, a peek at their reflection was enough to make her whole body flush all over again. He stared at her, his eyes dark, as he breathed in her ear: "I love the new hair."

And the warmth kept spreading, inside and out , as she let his words crawl under her skin, sink into her heart, choosing once again to believe him, to believe that this was all for her, all for her. Not for her.

All for me all for me all for me all for me all for me all for me all for me all for me.

Frank's hands were different. Frank's body was different. His scent, his taste, the way he kissed her, the way he held her close, it was all different.

It felt wrong. But Olivia did not want for Frank to feel wrong, she really didn't. Frank used to feel just right, to make her feel content and happy. She loved him. She had loved him for so long; he might be the sweetest, most caring, most wonderful man she had ever met. He took care of her, nurtured her, loved her.

He had always loved her more, though. She realized that on their way back. If she'd loved him just as much as he loved her, she would be feeling guilt-stricken right now, for everything she had done Over There.

Instead, she was cataloguing all those differences and missing him.

This was so wrong. But she could do this. Frank was back, finally, that last thing that had been the strongest constant in her life before 'There'. Frank was back in her life, she was back at work, everything was fine, everything would be fine, she could just forget, forget she had ever been away, forget the things she had done. Forget him.

But as soon as Frank kissed her again, another face imposed itself in her mind.

Don't think about him don't think about him don't think about him don't think about him.

And it was funny, really. When she had finally decided to entirely commit herself to her Mission and let Peter explore her body the way Frank was doing now, she had thought of Frank. She had made herself think of Frank. She had told herself it would be easier, it would hurt less, if she imagined she was in the arms of the man she was supposed to be with.

And yet, as he scattered kisses across her skin, whispering words that resonated with love and need and devotion, hands moving, brushing, pressing, Frank's face had dissolved, blown away by the feel of Peter's body and warmth, so real against her own. He loved her. He really, really did. And this was a different kind of love; this was love as she had never experienced it. Frank truly loved her, she knew that, but she had never seen this kind of look in his eyes.

It almost looked like pain. That's how much he was longing for her, that's what she saw in the depth of his eyes, that night.

And so, she completely took her place.

It was so much easier to believe that she was this woman Peter was so in love with, rather than to remember that she was in fact stealing it all from her.

That was her first mistake. That was when she started to lose control.

Olivia didn't like to lose control, though. She didn't like to lose, period, because she only wanted to win. Failure wasn't an option. But she started to fail as soon as she started to fall.

To fall for that man who would never be hers. He could have been, in another life. They were both from the same world, after all; had Walter let him be, they might have met under normal circumstances. They might have loved each other without any pretense, without lies, without pain. But he wasn't from her world anymore, and he wasn't hers.

He could never be hers.

By pretending to be that woman in love, the lines began to blur. Pretending wasn't really pretending anymore, and she started to be herself more and more around him, because he said he loved the changes and he loved her smile and her laughter and it was only the two of them under the warm blankets of her bed, and nothing else mattered nothing else mattered nothing else mattered. She felt precious in his hands, she felt special in his eyes.

She was screwed.

Frank was holding out a ring. A diamond ring.

Oh she was so screwed.

Say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes.

SAY NO.

She ignored the cry of protestation coming from a battered place in her pounding heart, as she stared at the ring. A wave of nausea washed over her, she ignored it as well. She knew this was coming, Lincoln had warned her. But this was too soon, way too soon, he had just come back, she had just come back she wasn't ready oh god what the hell was she supposed to do now and he was being so sweet but she was too lost.

Say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes say yes.

Something clicked in her mind then. It was crystal clear. No need to sweat over this. No need to feel sick either, really. This was the sign she had unconsciously been waiting for. This was her way out of everything still on her mind; this was how she was going to get her life back, her life back with Frank. They would get married, they would buy a big house, and someday have children and a dog.

This was a good thing.

"Olivia Dunham, will you marry me?"

He loved her. Frank loved her, not her. There was no pretending here, and the only lies lingering around them were the one still heavy on her heart but it didn't matter right now because he was proposing and basically telling her that he loved her enough to spend the rest of his life with her.

A life in which she could just forget.

"Yes," she answered, and her grin felt almost real.

Everything was going to be fine.

Don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke.

But it was getting really hard not to puke, indeed.

She was feeling too warm and too cold, all at the same time. Shivers were running through her aching body, her back hurt like hell with every move she tried to make, and her heart was pounding loudly against her ears. She could feel sweat forming on her forehead and all over her skin under the layers of clothes. The sickening feeling of nausea was starting to overpower her and she hated it. She wasn't going to lose control over nausea, goddamn it!

But her body was against her, she could barely listen to what the evil bastard who had tied her to that chair was saying as the heat increased, and she felt cold all over again, shivering, her stomach cramping and twisting.

"You don't understand. The gestation has already begun."

Well, fuck.

That explained the nausea. Which was instantly replaced by an overwhelming feeling of dread and terror.

"What did you give me?" He just smirked at her, and the terror joined force with her nausea. "What the hell did you give me?"

She violently threw up then, only managing to turn her head enough so she wouldn't cover herself with her own vomit. Fucking son of a bitch was going to pay for that.

If she survived the deadly bug infestation that was.

I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die.

Definitely not her most optimistic motto. She was freaking out too much to think anything else at the moment though. Even when Lincoln burst into the room, even when Charlie and Frank arrived, even when they were driving her to the nearest hospital, she knew she was screwed.

SHE WAS SCREWED.

This was fate telling her with a big grin that it was payback time, bitch. She fucking hated those nasty little fuckers, bugs, god, and now she was going to die by having one of them crawling its way out of her throat.

All rational thoughts were flying out the window; she had no control left at that instant. She was going to die, fuck control, fuck everything else, she only had eyes for Frank and his syringe.

But he didn't plunge it in.

"You're not infected." He said then. "You're pregnant."

And for a second there, her mind just went blank.

One thing she had been right about during her outburst of terror was that this was indeed payback time.

She had just been reminded of the fact that every action had consequences, and she could not seriously expect to have done the things she had done, and not have to deal with some repercussions.

Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. You fucked up more than one life during your two months Over There, you're not getting off the hook so easily.

Sitting up on that hospital bed, she stared in the distance, hands on her stomach. Unconsciously, she was already trying to shield her unborn child from the horrors of this world. Of both worlds.

Could she protect this baby from herself, though?

There was a knock on her door, and she turned her head.

Frank. Oh Frank.

The look on his face. She couldn't. She just couldn't. As she stared at this heartbroken man, another face imposed itself upon her mind.

Oh please don't think about him don't think about him don't think about him don't think about him.

But how could she not think about him. She had his child growing inside of her. But she had to be honest with herself; she had to be honest for once, just for once.

The baby was not the reason why he was suddenly all she could think about, as Frank asked her how far along she was.

"Six weeks," she answered almost in a whisper.

Betrayal. There it was again.

Glorious, raw, fully deserved.

She knew that look. She knew that question in his eyes, the same damn question, pain and confusion and disappointment written all over his face.

'How could you do that to me? I loved you I trusted you I would have died for you why did you do this to me?'

In the last four weeks, Olivia had successfully broken the heart of the only two men she had ever loved.

She felt her throat close up, her eyes prickling painfully, as the nausea took hold of her again. But it wasn't what was making it so hard to breathe. It had been so long, so many years, she had almost forgotten how it felt like to feel the tears build up inside, like a relentless river crashing hard against a dam.

"Frank…"

But he was already leaving. It was over, all over, he was going to leave her without even trying to listen to her. Just like Peter had let her go without a second glance.

"You gonna kill me?"

When she had asked him that question, she'd wanted to sound sarcastic, in control. Her cover had just blown up, and it hurt way more than it should have, way way way more, but she could do this she would do this. She asked the question hoping she would sound like a badass, but ultimately, what she was asking was 'Will you really be able to kill me, even after all we shared?'

She shouldn't have asked. Sometimes, you just shouldn't know what other people think.

She wished Frank would give her a chance, though. Just a tiny chance.

But who was she kidding? This was LAUGHABLE. What could she say to him?

'You have to understand, this was my Mission, babe, my MISSION. I had to sleep with him, I had to, this was my Mission, I had to do it, Newton was right, I had to do it all.'

Nobody had asked her to fall in love with the guy, though, and that was what was oh so funny.

"You were gonna marry me."

One last metaphorical slap in her face, and he exited the room.

It really wasn't funny at all, on second thought.

"It would be so much easier to believe if you weren't in handcuffs right now."

She was a liar. She was a cheat. She was nothing but a betrayer.

These men she loved would never trust her again. And why should they?

Deep down, she very well knew that she deserved it. She deserved the hurt, she deserved the pain, she deserved these tears filling up her eyes, this nausea overpowering her again.

I'm sorry

She lay back down, pressing her face against the pillow, clinging to it hard because it was the only thing she could cling on to, now. And as she brought her knees up to her chest, the dam broke and the tears flooded out, soon drenching the white fabric of the pillow, which was barely muffling the sound of her broken sobs.

And all she could see was his face. Not Frank's face, no. She was too messed up to think of Frank now.

All she could think about was Peter. She didn't have the strength to make herself stop.

And she knew her new motto was one of those that would never, ever work.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

A/N: As always, reviews are MORE than welcome :)) Thank you for reading guys!