hokay, i felt the need to write one Peter centric fic and then a Olivia one. THis is the peter centric fic. I'm getting sick of reading stories of Peter crawling back to Olivia and feeling guilty. I'm also sick of here him say "I'm sorry" over and over again. So i felt this story is what my response would be to that. Maybe. Anyway, it's rated T/M since it's a mix of both.

All mistakes are my own. and i own nothing.

It was just a break up.

Just a fucking break up.

There was nothing special about Olivia Dunham, Peter told himself again, nothing special about the walking blonde haired heartache machine in pantsuits with cold and callous eyes. Olivia Dunham wasn't even his type, he shouldn't have even considered her for anything, let alone dating the shrew of a woman. Yes, Olivia Dunham was a shrew of womanly existence, a barbed wire fence hell bent on piercing up hearts and bleeding them dry. Which is probably part of the reason Peter was so bitter towards her.

His heart hangs on that fence.

But in all seriousness, it's just another woman. Olivia will always be another woman. Of course circumstances are anything but normal within their nonexistent relationship and therefore the hanging of his heart upon the fence was completely accidental. Right? Yes, yes, he tells himself constantly, that is exactly what happened, all of this was an accident, she accidently burrowed her way into his heart and created a fluffy nest in which she lives.

So why can't he seem to find the power to rid her of that home?

Of course it has to do with the fact he can't just get up and leave again. His coping mechanism had always been flight, to turn and flee from anything he didn't like, anything he didn't want to deal with. So rationally, he didn't want Olivia anymore since she no longer wanted him, and he had no reason to stay. His universe-hopping kidnapper of a father didn't even get a say this time around. But there is no where to flee to anymore, because Olivia is always there, under his skin, in his head, nestled in his heart. There is not a corner in this universe or the next universe that he can settle in and feel completely void of the blonde woman that overran his life.

Which he guesses is part of the reason he is so angry right now. What gave her the right?

She is nothing new, nothing special. Special Agent Olivia Dunham, that's all she is to him, just a woman with a badge and gun. She has no personality, Peter tells himself again and again, she has not a heart nor soul. Special Agent Olivia Dunham is just like every other woman he'd never want to date. Special Agent Olivia Dunham has no sense of humor. Special Agent Olivia Dunham lacks the heart-warming smile of a beautiful woman. Special Agent Olivia Dunham wears blacks and grays because she herself lacks the warmth found in his clothing. Special Agent Olivia Dunham is unlovable.

And yet bashing on Olivia Dunham has only seemed to make him feel worse. The bottom of a bottle looked oddly inviting.

But drowning would do no good. At least drowning now would do no good. What would come of it, a bar fight, a one night stand, or worse? And this pity party seems to be an awful one at best yet he remains in wallow because it's better than the other options. He has too much pride to act like a lost puppy and crawl to her, beg for her. And still he feels this strangely strong compulsion to get down on his knees and beg her back. And it's a feeling he'd like to forget.

It was just another break up. But dammit it wasn't even a break up. And that's how he ended up here.

Peter Bishop likes to fight. He likes to fight to win. He likes the feeling in his veins when the adernaile rushes through and how he sees red as he splatters a man's face into a million pieces. And of course he likes to fight because he's good at it. He's always been good at it. With his fists, he figures, he words couldn't be any clearer. With his feet, his knows there is no misunderstanding of exactly what he was feeling. And when he towards over a man's body there is this power, this power that Special Agent Olivia Dunham has robbed him of. It's this release, this rush that only fighting or a seriously rough fucking could ever get out of him.

After his fourth fight of the night, Peter's back is glistening with a heavy sweat underneath the bright warehouse lights and he is hunch over, arms hanging heavy as he dodges another fist thrown to him. The jeers and cheers are mingling among the crowd and somewhere in the back Big Eddie is smirking is termite infested smirk. His best fighter has returned, a machine of a man with so much pent up hate that he could take a serious beating to his face and still manage to stay upright and fight. Peter Bishop could make him a fortune in one night. And it was only midnight now, and there was barely a scratch on his face.

There was a lot of pent up anger in his body. This release was perfect for him. He swung again, this fist landing like a sledgehammer to the ribs, and he felt them give way to his force. The man got an arm around his upper arm but could not find a spot to hit. And when Peter's knee connected with his gut the man crumpled to the ground in a heap of skin and bone, blood on his face and pouring from his nose. Peter felt the power in his veins, this is what he needed, he needed this more than anything. And with the lift of his leather soled shoe, Peter brings it across the man's face and the shuddering crack doesn't even bother him for one second before the man remains motionless on the ground.

He turns to face where his towel boy stands, eyes to the ground and wiping his mouth with his hand and staring down at the red smeared on it. The crowd was full of cheers and the sound of shuffling money. He saw someone hold out a water bottle and he drank it, tossing it away before reaching for the towel that was in his towel boy's hand. He snatched it, but the boy didn't let go of it. Not having the time or patience for some fool, Peter growled and snatched the boy's wrist, intent on snapping it in two. And his hand clenched around it and froze. It was small, tiny and so very female.

Oh fuck me.

His mind clearly was toying with him. From all the anger and release that he was unleashing on every victim, his mind chose a manifestation of the very thing he was escaping reality for. The not so very Special Agent Olivia Dunham held onto the towel with his blood soaked into the fibers. Hair hidden underneath her gray sweatshirt hood she looked up at him with a clenched jaw, defiant eyes and a stance that told him, you could fight the best fighter in the world and bring him down but I'll kick your ass any day.

This clearly was him hallucinating.

He tried to remember taking a hard enough blow to the head to give him at least a headache, but could not remember one that hard. Maybe he really was hallucinating. He'd rather not think of the other option that she may truly be standing there. Aw hell, what does he care? She left him, not the other way around. And she didn't even leave him. They never even had a chance. He ripped the towel from her tiny hands and scrubbed his skin, watching already as the next man stepped forward. He was bigger, but with the rage that Peter felt right now, the rage that she actually had the balls to show up or his mind was actually cowardly enough to manifest her was flooding through his hot boiling blood. He tossed the towel back and she still remained, either a very good hallucination or she was really there.

"What are you doing here," Peter snarled at her, either sounding crazy for talking to himself or like a half mad dog yelling at the hidden figure. Olivia looked him dead in the eye, unafraid, angry. Pools of angry green seas, he thought bitterly. The thought to spit down at her feet flickered through his mind once before being shoved roughly by an Eddie goon into the center. He didn't let his eyes flick back to the woman he hated, he hated so very much.

Throw after throw, punch after punch, an elbow here and a knee there, Peter Bishop felt power course through his veins and leak out his pores, running down his body like sweat. And it all felt so good, so fucking good. If Olivia wanted to see this, let her, this is who he was. She didn't matter. She never mattered. Each thrown punch was proof that he believed that. And when his opponent finally fell unconscious underneath his large forearm Peter felt that he believed himself. She was nothing to him.

Until he turned around.

She gripped his towel still and her stoic features showed that she had nothing to say to him. Then why the fuck was she here? He stalked toward her, a heavy swagger laced in his stature that he'd let return to his step. He had no burdens here, here was all him, a man with a serous amount of pent up anger that he could send off through waves in fights that he could win. He was a machine here, a machine with the lack of love or romance or anything Olivia Dunham thought she could slyly pull from him. Romance was for men without a backbone, and his was carved from diamond.

"I said,' he growled at her, ripping the towel from her with a snarling glance, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm here for you," she tried to say to him, as if she actually meant it.

"You," he answered, "Are my boss, what I do outside of work will never concern you."

"I am your friend-"

"No, you're not," Peter hissed at her, "You didn't want me."

Peter tossed the towel at her feet and turned away. She had nothing to say. It was true. She didn't want him. He shoved past her roughly and toward the back of the warehouse where a private room sat. It was the locker room. Eddie would find him there if he needed him. He pushed the door open with force and headed for the sink to see the damage done to his face. It wasn't a surprise when she appeared behind him. He wanted her to leave, to just fucking leave.

"That's not what I said," she said quietly although with a force behind her words.

"It's what you meant," Peter answered flicking on the sink. She clearly wasn't leaving without a fight.

"You don't know that," she answered, "How could you possibly know that?"

"Don't start with me Agent Dunham," he said bitterly, droplets of water falling off his face.

"What are you doing, Peter?" she asked.

"What I'm good at," he growled. He didn't answer her question, but hell he didn't have to answer her.

"Peter," she said, her eyes never leaving his face. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

"Dammit Olivia," he growled, spinning around to look at her. His face is black and blue, there is swelling in some places and he has a spilt lip, "What do you want from me? You have everything already."

"No," she said angrily to him, "I don't have everything."

"Oh," Peter said with a snort, "Well there's a shock."

Olivia's glance darkened. "Stop flattering yourself with your pity, Peter. You can suffer all you want, but it's your own fault-"

"I can blame you," he said angrily. Her eyes flashed from angry to hurt. They flashed from hurt to wells of hot tears and Peter had to look away.

Well fuck me.

It wouldn't matter if she were the ugliest woman in the world. It wouldn't matter if she were the prettiest woman in the world. It wouldn't matter if she were a sister, a mother, a wife or cousin. She was a woman. Peter hated to see women cry. Tears of a woman meant he was everything he shouldn't have been. He was the cause of the beautiful species to tear up and cry, hot and wet waterfalls of tears. He had always sworn to himself he would not be that kind of man. And yet here he was, beaten and bloodied with a beautiful specimen crying silently as she breaks apart.

And it's all. His. Fault.

So he looked at her. He really looked at her. Her beautiful and shiny blonde hair was dull and flat, the ends frayed. He looked at her skin, pale and clingy, sticking to her bones like there wasn't anything underneath to hold it up. She looked sick. She looked injured. She looked like she was…dying. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, hard. For the first time that night he felt pain. The feeling that kept him afloat was wearing off. He could only escape reality for so long. Invincibility was a myth, no matter how long and hard he chased for it. He was venerable. Olivia had taught him that. He can only hide behind his pride and ego for so long. He cannot escape reality.

"Olivia," he said, "Just go."

She had left by the time he had turned back around. He swore loudly, smashing his fist into the mirror that was by his back. The splintering of the mirror on his fist hurt. A lot. He hated Olivia. Olivia made him weak. Olivia made him feel. Olivia made him hurt. Olivia made him break. Olivia made him angry. Olivia made him cry. Olivia made him rage. Olivia made him. Olivia was him. And when Olivia Dunham walked away, Peter was not Peter. Peter was incomplete. But an Eddie goon poked his head in and told him to go. Peter couldn't complete his own argument. He couldn't convince himself again that Olivia didn't matter. He didn't have the time. He didn't have the reasons. Peter Bishop lost the next fight.

And when he woke up on the warehouse floor, cold and alone, beaten and broken Peter realized this was so much more than just a break up.

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