Thanks to OConnellAboo for beta duties and for listening to me whine when my pc ate the first (better) version of this story! I could not ask for a better writing buddy and companion in all things Fringean!

Onward to 2036!

They eyed each other warily, neither really knowing what to expect. Twenty years ago was just yesterday, and a bad yesterday at that.

Peter leaned against the wall in the basement lab and scrubbed his hand over his face wearily. He was exhausted and it showed in his face. Olivia stood on the other side of the room, still, emotionless, but her tension was obvious in her deliberately casual pose and her refusal to look directly at him.

"How are you feeling?" Peter asked softly.

She didn't answer, or even look up at the sound of his voice. Instead, she examined the makeshift lab tables, running her hands over the battered surfaces and refurbished equipment.

"Olivia…" His voice held an edge now. "Talk to me."

"How do you think I feel, Peter?" she snapped. "I haven't been out of amber for 24 hours yet, I have a grown daughter that I don't know, I'm a fugitive, a refugee, the world has been taken over by these… these monsters…" Her voice trembled and she grasped the edge of the workbench til her knuckles whitened.

Peter was behind her in two strides, his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened at his touch and the pain of that realization was evident on his face, but he didn't remove his hands; he rubbed her shoulders gently, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around her.

"Liv…"

She shook off his hands and stepped away from him. "Peter, can we do this tomorrow?"

"No."

For the first time since they'd reached the dilapidated house that served as their shelter and workspace, Olivia looked at him. Even after 20 years apart, Peter recognized the expression on her face – it was her "Don't fuck with me" look. He'd seen it a lot in the days leading up to their separation.

That look, and Olivia's accompanying attitude, used to cut like a knife to his heart – but after 20 years, after seeing Etta, grown and healthy – Peter wasn't inclined to back down any more.

"No, Olivia, we're going to do this now." He steered her gently towards one of the battered stools scattered around the table, and snagged one for himself, positioning it so he faced her with a minimal amount of distance between them.

"I'm going to cut you some slack for being in a bad mood, because being in amber for 20 years does tend to fuck you up…" he murmured as he leaned forward and placed his hands on her thighs, "and I understand that you've had 20 more years to be pissed off at me."

Olivia drew a deep breath but said nothing, although Peter noticed a faint blush to her cheeks.

"That doesn't give you the right to be rude to our daughter."

"Peter…" She paused, then looked down at the floor.

"We've got a second chance, Liv." He took her hand and held on when she tried to tug it away. He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, a gesture familiar to them both. "We've gotten a lot of second chances, you and I. Do you really want to spend this one looking at the past?"

"Peter, we missed so much. We can never make up all those years. And for what?" Her voice was sadness tinged with anger.

"What are you scared of, Liv?" He touched her cheek gently. She stiffened at his touch, but allowed him to raise her face to meet his eyes. "You've never backed down from a fight before." He didn't need an answer to know why she ran out of the kitchen earlier that night. The look on her face when Etta entered the room was easy to read, especially for someone who'd made a career out of reading people and whose specialty was understanding Olivia Dunham.

"We couldn't save her then. What makes you think we can do any better now?"

She bit her lip as she looked up at him, and he was taken back to the early days of their relationship. Even then, when he rationalized his desire to protect her and shelter her as his job as her partner, that look made him want to wrap his arms around her and wipe the uncertainty and worry from her face. He'd learned though, from those early days, that protecting Olivia (without incurring her wrath) required finesse and subtlety.

"You've seen her, Olivia. She's strong, she's bright, she's everything we wanted her to be…"

"I never wanted her to be a motherless child. She grew up without us, Peter," she hissed. "She grew up without a mother and father, nobody to protect her, to keep her safe."

"Nina kept an eye on her."

Olivia snorted. "Nina Sharp's not exactly my idea of a maternal role model."

Peter shook his head. No point in reminding her that, at one point of her life, Nina WAS the closest thing she'd had to a mother. They'd had this argument before, and that road was a dead end.

"But we're here now, and she's here, and she wants her family."

"You, maybe. She always was Daddy's little girl," Olivia said with no little bitterness in her voice.

"Olivia…" Peter sighed. "She's nobody's little girl any more. She's twenty-four."

"She's still our daughter, our baby," Olivia said sadly.

"At any rate, she's grown into someone we can be proud of. And look on the bright side - we missed all those angst-ridden teenage years." Peter glanced at Olivia, and was relieved to see the corners of her mouth twitching despite her best efforts to maintain her icy demeanor.

Olivia gave a long sigh and stretched, wincing as she moved her head from side to side.

"Muscles ache?" Peter said sympathetically. "It's one of the side effects from being ambered." He patted her knees, then swiveled the lab stool til she faced away from him. He stood up and brushed her hair over one shoulder.

"You'll want to wash your hair tonight, get the amber residue out. Walter made a concoction that works pretty well." He chuckled. "Just be sure to rinse it all out. I think it's responsible for some of the blue mice you'll see running around here."

"As long as I don't glow in the dark," Olivia deadpanned.

Peter grinned. For years, his purpose in life had been to make Olivia Dunham smile. An out-and-out laugh was nirvana. The dark weeks before they were ambered had neither; even though he had many memories of Olivia in happier days, the thoughts that stuck with him were from those recent weeks – Olivia's tear-reddened eyes, surrounded by dark circles from days on end with no sleep, days spent searching for any trace of Etta or the gray suited Observers who had snatched her away from them on that last perfect day in the park.

His memories from those better times held Olivia's voice, whispering "I love you's" in the shadows of their bedroom, calling his name as she twined her fingers through his hair; singing snatches of unnamed tunes as she rocked baby Henrietta in her nursery; endlessly reciting 3 year old Etta's favorite books, dog-eared and creased from countless readings.

The voice that echoed in his head for 20 years, however, was neither soft nor gentle. It was agonized, pleading to unnamed gods to return her child, her baby; it was harsh, accusing Peter of a myriad of failures and faults; and it was flat, emotionless, final, when she told him (again) she didn't want to be with him, that she couldn't bear to see his face because it reminded her too painfully of Etta's blue eyes, of her smile, of her baby curls.

Just as he always did, he'd bowed his head and let her rage, knowing that the fury directed toward him was a reflection of her own insecurity, her own fears, her own catalog of shortcomings. They'd both said hateful, bitter words to each other after they'd lost Etta – the anger seemed to finally numb the unbearable pain they felt in that empty spot where their daughter used to be.

Even now, as she tried her best to keep him at arms' length, he'd take care of her as much as she'd let him – feed her, soothe her wounds, keep her warm and safe – just as he always did.

ooo

He used his thumbs to work out the knots in her shoulders, talking about inconsequential things: Walter's newest idiosyncrasies, Astrid's list of non-threatening cultural changes, Etta's stories about Simon. Olivia was silent, but he could feel her relaxing under his hands. He'd always been able to settle her down, to calm her demons, as long as he could get her to accept his touch.

Peter wanted to press a kiss to the back of her head, but he didn't want to lose the progress he'd made so far. Instead, he squeezed her shoulders gently and turned her back to face him. "Alright, time for that shower."

Rather than offer his hands to help her stand, he walked to the corner of the room that held their makeshift shower stall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stand, waver, and reach for the lab table to steady herself. After she'd taken a couple of steps without incident, he busied himself with finding the bottles and jars that held Walter's homemade shampoo and soap.

He flipped the switch on a small gray box next to the shower, with four diodes glowing green. Peter nodded at the shower stall as he pulled a faded towel from a stack nearby.

"It's not as comfortable as your soaking tub, but considering that Walter and I did the plumbing, I think it'll do."

He knelt to unlace her boots, and she placed her hands on his shoulders for balance.

"We hooked into the main water line a couple of blocks away. Didn't want the baldies to get suspicious about the water usage."

He tapped her foot, and she lifted it so he could slip off her boot and woolen sock. While he worked on the laces of the other boot, he continued the one-sided conversation. "When all 4 lights turn red, the water's hot. "

He pulled off the other boot and sock, then stood up. "Well, hot's a relative term… but it's better than a bucket."

As he stood, she left her hands resting on his shoulders and he took advantage of her extended arms by sliding her t-shirt over her head and popping the clasp on her bra one-handed. "A move envied by teenage boys everywhere," he joked. She didn't laugh, but she didn't move away either, just folded her arms over her chest, more for warmth than concealment.

Peter looked over her shoulder and spotted the four red lights, then leaned around her to turn on the water. "Let's get you in there, then, while the water's still warm." He waited for her to take off the rest of her clothes, but when she didn't move, he popped the button on her jeans and slid them down her too-slim hips. Fixing a neutral expression on his face, he nudged her towards the shower and pulled the curtain back for her. "In you go, then. Let me know when you're ready for the shampoo."

He shook out the towel and hung it on a hook next to the shower stall, then turned back to the table and busied himself re-arranging the junk Walter had strewn across the work surface, all the while listening for movement in the shower.

"Olivia? You ok in there?" When he couldn't stand it any longer, he pulled back the canvas sheet that kept the water from spilling out into the lab. Olivia was leaning in the corner of the shower, her eyes closed and tears streaming down her face.

Peter shed his clothes quickly and stepped into the shower, sliding behind her and angling her under the showerhead. As he worked the shampoo through her hair, he remembered happier times when they would do this for each other, staying in the shower til the water ran cold, then snuggling under the quilts on their bed, making love, taking a nap, making love again until sleep overtook them.

He turned her to face him so he could rinse her hair. As he squeezed the water through her hair, he chanced a glance down at her face. Her tears had stopped, but she looked pale and drained.

"Liv?" No response. "Liv, I'm going to wash you off now." He poured some of Walter's soap, designed to remove the grit and film from the amber without taking off layers of skin, onto a ragged piece of worn cloth that passed for a washcloth.

Focus, Bishop.

He ran the soapy cloth over her shoulders, over each arm, over her back. Over her breasts. Over her ribs, far too prominent. He knelt in front of her again, dragging the cloth over her hips. Once again, she rested her hands on his shoulders as he worked his way to her feet.

.Repeat .Repeat

He fought the urge to lean his cheek against her thigh and instead, braced himself against the wall of the shower and rose to his feet as his knees creaked in protest. The amber slowed down aging, but it didn't stop, and he felt every minute of his fifty-eight years tonight.

He inspected his efforts. Olivia's hair hung in damp tendrils around her face, but it was shiny and soft again. Her skin had lost the dusty, dull coating of amber residue and, although she was painfully thin, she didn't seem to have any visible injuries as a result of their scramble to get out of the lab and back to the house before they were detected.

Gently, he reversed their positions so the water streamed over his shoulders. He turned and stuck his face under the water, rubbing his hands through his hair and over his face. Just as he reached for the water taps, he felt Olivia's arms sliding around his waist and her cheek against his back. He froze, afraid that any movement on his part would spook her, and he wanted to enjoy this moment; he wasn't sure how long it would last or how long it would be before she'd get this close to him again.

He didn't move until he felt her shiver against his back. He turned slowly, and eased her under the still-warm water. She leaned her head against his shoulder and he eased his arms around her waist, waiting for any sign from her that his touch wasn't welcome. When that sign didn't come, he pulled her closer and pressed a long overdue kiss to the top of her head.

"Peter," she whispered. "Is it too late?"

"It's never too late, sweetheart," he murmured around the lump in his throat. "It's never too late."