More proof that I can't answer a prompt with a short ficlet. Clem asked for "Ella loses her first tooth," and this is what came out. I have no idea from where, though! Just a little bit of family life for the Fringe team, ideally set between "LSD" and "6:02 AM EST."

Thanks to LeeLee for the read-through.

A nice shot of Polivia for y'all. We need it, don't we? (Though you'll note I managed a bit of whump. Just a tiny little bit because that's how I roll!)

xoxo, miss kira

the end could be a moment away

we're strong enough

yeah, we get knocked around but we get up

'cause it's hope that's flowing through these veins

"Had a Dream," Bird York

She approaches the door with slow steps, almost leaning against the door frame as she inserts her key. It's dark, nearly midnight, the air cool without the sun to warm it even with radiators along the hallway.

"I can't wait to just go to bed," Olivia smiles, turning the bolt with a click. Beside her, hands in his pockets, Peter seems to relax a bit, and he takes a hand out to rub her back, fingers brushing loose blond hair.

"Thank God. I think I might collapse on your couch."

"Really? The couch?" she asks over her shoulder.

He shrugs, grinning. "It's closer."

Olivia pushes open the door, hand on the knob, and frowns - her instincts, still wired from a night trying to keep the universe in one piece, tell her something -

- a tiny body slams into her legs, arms wrapping around her waist.

"Aunt Liv! Aunt Liv! I'm a grown-up!" the little one shouts, head tilted up at Olivia.

She gives Peter a sad, is this really happening? pleading look over her shoulder before putting on a smile as she looks down at her niece; Ella's hair is nearly past her shoulders, now, straight and long. "Really? You look a little taller."

"Ella, let your aunt inside," calls Rachel from somewhere inside the apartment. Ella lets go and takes a few measured steps backwards to give Olivia just enough room to come inside and shut the door, Peter sliding in behind her and moving to her side. She catches him eyeing the white armchair nearby and elbows him in the side.

"Didn't you hear?" she says, sotto voice. "Ella has important news."

"You didn't say anything about them visiting," he replies with raised eyebrows.

Olivia purses her lips and thinks back to the last time she spoke with Rachel - a week ago, on the phone - and runs through the calendar in her head. Is it really Thursday already? Working on a case blurs the days together until she barely notices the time of day, going to sleep when her eyes can't make out the words in the files she loves to study. Her whiskey's low, there's little to no food in the kitchen, and - she looks at the couch and winces at the thrown about pillows and blanket - yup, she spent the night on the couch again.

"It's Thursday, and you just realized that, didn't you," remarks Peter, shaking his head.

"I was a little preoccupied," she shoots back.

With an annoying smirk, he raises his hands in surrender before unbuttoning his coat, throwing it on the nearby end chair and, with energy she wouldn't even be able to fake at the moment, grabs Ella and twirls her in the air.

"So what is this news, Ella?" he asks with a smile. She shrieks with laughter, the sound bringing Rachel from the kitchen, and she gives her sister a knowing look from the other side of the living. room.

Olivia crumbles, forgetting everything she just went through. "I'm so sorry, Rachel, I totally lost track of time - "

"Don't worry about it. It gave me time to come to your rescue. You do know you need food to live, right?" Rachel says, crossing her arms. "Ella wanted hot chocolate, and I went a bit overboard at the grocery store. It's not every day I get to help out my big sis."

The Dunham sisters meet in the center of the room, behind the couch, and Rachel envelops Olivia in a hug that seems to take the rest out of her; she sinks into the embrace, allowing herself a moment of rest while Rachel rubs her back. You're home. She settles until she hears Ella begin to speak, her voice high and excited and bubbling out in a single breath.

"Look! I lost my first baby tooth! It was wiggling for a few days and then it just came out and that means I'm a grown-up, now!"

Olivia can't help but smile at the girl's logic, and notes, when she turns to put her hands on the back of the couch so she has something to lean on, that Peter's wormed his way into sitting down. Ella's perched on his lap, her tiny hand offering up her first baby tooth as though it's a precious stone of wonderment.

Which, perhaps, it is.

Peter has his hands on her side and laughs, eyes crinkling; Olivia notes the dirt still lingering on his face, and the faint bruise beginning to form along a cheekbone, but that all seems erased as he plucks the tooth from her hand and pretends to examine it.

"I don't think it works that way. I think you have to wait until you lose all your baby teeth before you can say you're really a grown up."

Offended, Ella huffs and takes the tooth back, clasping it in a tiny fist. "You don't understand! The tooth fairy comes and takes it and then you're not a baby anymore."

"Well, if she says she's a grown up," Olivia chimes in, "maybe we should treat her like one?"

She glances between Rachel and Peter, eyebrow raised, and when Rachel nods and Peter simply shakes his head - it's a small one, that I can't believe you but I'll go along for kicks that she knows means he's humoring her - Olivia knows she's definitely surrounded herself with the right people. Ella, for her part, seems confused, still frowning, indignant, her hands at her sides, trying to figure out what, exactly, she's in for.

Very carefully, Peter lifts her and plants her on the floor.

"Thank you," she says, but sounds uncertain.

Olivia remembers her fatigue, how her bones seem to ache just a bit, and takes off her jacket, walking to hang it on a peg behind the door, scooping Peter's off the chair as she passes, giving what she hopes is a disapproving look. Both are streaked with mud and dirt, brown blotches on matching black wool, and she's never noticed how similar their coats are before. She kicks off her shoes and walks in stocking feet to the couch, where she wearily collapses with a huff, letting her head fall to the back of the couch.

Rachel looks at her, upside down. "Do I even want to know?"

"No," answer Olivia and Peter at the same time.

"Wow. That's worse than finishing each others' sentences."

Olivia rolls her eyes at her sister's obvious attempt to make her blush and remembers that last bit of whiskey in the cabinet. It takes an enormous amount of effort, but she manages to pull herself up into a sitting position, elbows on her knees, and rests her head there as Peter absentmindedly begins rubbing circles on her back. She turns, face hidden by a curtain of hair, and he seems to remember their conversation; he pats her back twice, then lets his hand fall on his lap.

"I guess we're not getting sleep anytime soon," he says.

"Nope," she replies.

Peter takes this in with a deep breath, then flops his head back on the couch and closes his eyes, rubbing them with his right hand.

"No sleeping," Rachel says. Olivia looks up, having never realized she'd left the room, leaving Ella somewhat oddly sitting on the end chair, her small feet kicking slightly, as if she can't help but swing her legs despite her new self-proclaimed status as 'grown-up.' "I made dinner."

"Rachel, I really appreciate that, and you going shopping, but I just - "

"Olivia. When have I ever come into your apartment and cooked you dinner?" interrupts Rachel. Olivia shrinks, knowing the answer - never. She's tried, or offered, but has never swept in to save the day. And maybe Rachel needs this, needs to be there for her sister when she can't take care of herself. Olivia winces; she's definitely changed if she can admit, at least in her own head, that she needs saving right about now.

And the lump on the couch next to her doesn't look like he'll be doing much of anything, if his soft breathing is any indication. It infuriates Olivia, at times, how he's mastered the art of sleeping anywhere, though she's sure sharing a hotel room with an insomniac mad scientist probably helped with that. She pushes on his shoulder and his eyes crack open with a smile.

"Resting my eyes, Dunham," he remarks. "Did you really think I'd sleep through an effort-free meal?"

"You haven't tasted her cooking, yet."

Rachel lobs a dishtowel at her sister's head, putting on a frown. "Be nice, or Ella will be the only other person eating dinner tonight."

With a smirk, Olivia tosses the towel at her sister and notes, with a bit of sadness, how perfect her aim has become. Rachel raises her eyebrows, clearly surprised, but leaves it alone when the timer on the microwave begins to beep. Ella jumps up from the chair, smile on her face, and rushes around the couch, clearly excited.

"Ella, grown-ups don't run inside," Olivia says. The little girl turns to her aunt, nods, and takes on a posture so not-her, Olivia can't help but crack a smile, waiting until Ella rounds the corner into the kitchen to burst out laughing, hand covering her mouth as though that could muffle the sound. She finds Peter's smiling, having witnessed the whole thing, his eyes sparkling in a way Olivia's never seen before.

Except once.

And maybe that's the moment she realizes that for all his sarcastic remarks and cynical views, Peter Bishop may actually want children.

The thought blindsides her, and Olivia seems to sink back into the cushions as the reality of that sinks in. To say she hasn't thought of it would be lying, but with everything that happened to her as a child - experiments and death and an abusive stepfather - she's always thought having a child would be selfish. And now, with the doom of a machine from the past hanging over two universes, Olivia can't imagine bringing another life into what passes as one for her.

But maybe this is all a dream. Maybe Peter simply adores her niece. Maybe he likes the idea of a kid, but wouldn't actually have one. Olivia tries to rationalize everything in her mind, eyes half-focused on the room across from her, and knows she's probably the only woman thinking about all the reasons not to have children with universe-hopping abilities being at the top of the list.

"Well," Peter says, pulling Olivia back to the present, "trying to get a grown-up to act like one is my area of expertise these days." He stands up and steps in front of her, holding out his hands. Part of her wants to knock them away, a silent affirmation of her ability to take care of herself. But it's been almost thirty hours since she slept, and a cat nap can barely qualify as real sleep, so Olivia gives Peter a tight smile, grasps his hands, and allows him to pull her up, landing on her feet with a little hop.

He leans in and they kiss, Olivia very nearly melting into his body, happy for his warmth and solid weight keeping her upright. Running and jumping and wrestling with something she'd rather not see again, think about again hasn't helped; she wraps her arms around his middle and, after breaking the chaste kiss, leans her cheek on his shoulder.

"We can tell Rachel we'll eat left-overs," he whispers in her ear, stroking her hair.

She shakes her head, then tilts up her chin. This close, she can see how blue his eyes are, how the shade can change with the light. "She'd hold it over my head for months."

"Only months?" he jokes.

"You have no idea," she grumbles.

Peter takes that in stride, nodding, and she realizes he really doesn't have any idea, being an only child.

"What's up?" he asks suddenly, frowning. "You've been checking out."

"Just thinking," she mutters. Olivia figures distance may give her comfort, deflect his attention from her sudden bout of introspection, and she pushes away from him - it takes concentrated effort, and she's colder for it. He doesn't push, doesn't ask about what or make a joke, simply follows her along to the kitchen, where Rachel's stirring something on the stove and Ella's already seated at the table, speaking animatedly with her mother.

Olivia finds herself stopping just inside the doorway, and she leans against the frame, watching. She's always adored Ella, the little girl a bright spot in the Dunham sisters' relationship, and it's through her exuberance and excitement that the two woman have bridged the gap wedged by cold steel and a roaring truck. It isn't that Rachel blames Olivia, rather, she's always felt protected in a way no experimenting teenager wants.

But now there's Ella, that magical little girl missing from the Other Side, and Olivia can't help but smile at the small victory she holds over her double - this is something she'll never experience. For a woman who can only think of her alternate in times of sadness or anger, the feeling surprises Olivia, and she wishes, just then, that she could let her alternate be there, for a second.

And maybe that's the biggest difference between them.

Peter's arms wrap around her from behind, hands meeting over her stomach, and he leans against her for a change. She loves the way their relationship is give and take, that it isn't one where the man is always stronger and protective. He depends on her as much as she does on him, and neither feels less capable because of it.

Which is a hard quality to find in a man, she's learned over the years.

"She's adorable," he says. Across the kitchen, Rachel catches them from the corner of her eye and a smile breaks open across her face, though she doesn't say anything as Ella prattles on about what she'll do with her Tooth Fairy earnings.

"I was so afraid I'd break her when she was born," Olivia finds herself admitting. Six years ago, she was still a Marine, still prosecuting cases, and living in a world dominated by men had hidden so much of her femininity, holding the tiny Ella frightened her.

"They bounce back," laughs Peter, "or so I hear. Never really been around that many."

Olivia looks over her shoulder and he shrugs; she feels the movement of his body against her back. She wants to ask no cousins? but knows the Bishop family tree by heart, the lack spelled out in black and white, the very reason she crossed the world to grab him in Iraq. And suddenly, she wants to give him the joy of a family, of consistency and in-laws and kids running around. A family that isn't marred by the past or a crumbling universe or secrets carried to the grave.

The need to love him, to be close, overwhelms her. She turns in his arms and pushes him until his back hits the wall around the corner from the kitchen, the short wall hiding them from sight. His eyes are wide with surprise, skin dark around them; he's had just as much sleep as her in the past few days, far past sarcasm and a short temper into silence. There's dried mud on his face, and Olivia reaches up to brush it away; it crumbles and falls and she doesn't care that it lands on her light carpeting. Instead, she fingers the edges of the bruise on his face, the color deep blue by now, and he winces when she presses too hard.

"Sorry," she breathes.

"It's not your fault. I should have reacted faster."

"Do you ever think there will be a time when all this is over?" she asks, voice low, nearly a whisper. "When we don't have to worry about Over There or deteriorating boundaries?"

"I can't say that I've ever been called an optimist - "

Olivia gives a half-smile.

" - but yeah. I think I have to, or else what's the point?" He takes a breath, nearly a sigh, hands running up and down her arms. "So there was this physicist, Richard Feynman. And he told this story about how he was in New York a few months after leaving Los Alamos, watching them build a bridge. And how he thought what's the point of building a bridge after what we've created? How can these people keep going, keep making things, when we can destroy it all? But he said, twenty years later, that the bridge is still there." He pauses and rubs his eyes; Olivia can sympathize. "I think what I'm trying to say is that we don't know what's going to happen, but we can't assume this is it. I may not be very articulate right now because I'm pretty sure I'm dead on my feet."

She leans up and kisses him, presses herself flush against his body, lets her hands work their way into his hair, and she doesn't care that they're both half-dead and covered in who knows what and her sister's in the next room. It's taken awhile, but she's learned Walter and Peter communicate differently than normal people, that for all his smooth-talking, Peter still thinks in terms she can only grasp with the loosest of grips. She knows, as she drinks him in, that he spoke as clearly as he could, giving her the answer she needed to hear.

There's always hope.