Taking her second shot of whiskey, Olivia leaned her heavy head upon her hand and tried to block out the maddening melody of the song being pushed through the speakers of the tavern: If you don't know me by now, you will never, never, never know me…

She didn't want to be there, but it was better to be there, instead of at home. She felt like she never wanted to go back into that apartment, knowing what went on there between Peter and that…woman.

She finally deigned to look around the dark, empty room, and ended up locking eyes with another patron. It was a man, probably somewhere in his late 40's to early 50's, with neatly cropped gray hair and chiseled features. The man's clear blue eyes seemed to shine out of the dimness like the light of a lamp. His gaze was hard, yet sincere. Olivia let her eyes linger for about a second and a half before pulling them back to the empty glass on the table.

She felt the man get up from his table, and her heart began to pound in anxiety. She definitely didn't want company, but she didn't want to be forced to leave, either. She felt a vague sense of relief when she realized he wasn't approaching her, but was instead walking to the restroom. Slowly she exhaled.

The bartender came by shortly after that and asked if she wanted another drink. Knowing she could easily have one, but not wanting to be a mess in the morning, she politely declined.

Nearly ten minutes passed, and Olivia realized that the blue-eyed man hadn't returned from the restroom. She eyed the hallway passage warily, wondering if there was perhaps an exit from the tavern over there.

It really wasn't her business, but she had to admit, she was mildly curious. And the wondering took her mind off of Peter and alternate universes, so there was a small relief in it.

Finally, after another minute passed, she pulled herself from her booth, shaking off the momentary feeling of vertigo from the drinks and from sitting for so long, and made her way to the back hallway.

As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she made out a thin cloud of smoke, gently sailing her way. Then, taking one step closer, she realized it was the man with the blue eyes, smoking a clandestine cigarette. It had started raining, and he probably didn't want to have to leave the tavern and get wet to smoke. He looked at her as if she were intruding upon him. Feeling ridiculous, she quickly darted into the ladies room, turning her eyes downward.

She didn't want him to think she had been following him, so she'd have to stay in there for at least a minute or two. She'd drunk a lot anyway, so she might as well empty her bladder while she was there.

Is this what I've come to? Olivia found herself thinking as she read the lewd words scrawled in blue and black ink on the walls of the stall. Passing the night in a bar, checking up on strange men?

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. When she'd been captured by Walternate, subjected to experiments and prepared for dissection, it was the thought of coming home, to Peter, that kept her going. Thinking of lying on the sofa with him, watching movies at night. Walking along the harbor on a misty day, letting the chill air blow upon them, thinking of their warm bed waiting for them. Even letting Walter cook her one of his elaborate meals while Peter rolled his eyes and smiled.

But that was all gone now. She had taken it away from Olivia, and she took it with her when she escaped, scot-free, to her own universe.

Olivia left the restroom and returned to her seat, thinking now that she probably should order some food so she didn't look like the sad, lonely loser she felt inside. She was surprised when she returned to her table to find her drink refreshed and a bowl of soup waiting for her.

Olivia looked around at the other tables, thinking at first that she went to the wrong one. But she quickly realized that this was her table, and against her better judgment, she slid back into the booth. She stared at the white ceramic bowl, a white layer of gruyere bubbling precipitously at the top.

"You seemed like a French onion type of girl," a voice said. Olivia turned her head to see Blue Eyes standing next to her table, a triumphant smile on his face.

Olivia narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?" she said. Without thinking she whipped out her badge so he could see it. Her gun now pressed reassuringly into her side, ready to be fired if needed.

His smile instantly faded, and he took a step back. "Sorry," he said. "I'm no good at pick-up lines. I thought food might be less intrusive. Obviously you're not here for that." He turned and walked back to his table.

Olivia shut her eyes after he left. She was annoyed, but mostly at herself. While she had no desire to get "picked up," she didn't have to be so defensive. She had to remember that not everything and everyone had an ulterior motive, or were part of the Pattern.

She felt ridiculous being there now. She felt silly and awkward in her loneliness. She was sure the other Olivia Dunham never felt that way. Olivia now began to admit something to herself: part of her wished she'd carried on the façade of being her double in the alternate universe a little longer. There were things about the place she had enjoyed: she had real friends on the Fringe team, a camaraderie that simply didn't exist here. She had a sweet, handsome, funny boyfriend who loved her. Best of all, she had her mom, and they had a wonderful relationship.

But it was no use now. She wasn't going back there. All she had now was this universe and a life that that she was beginning to realize was quite empty.

It was at this moment that something broke in Olivia. What the hell? Why did she have to be so proper in living this empty life? Before she could reconsider, Olivia picked up her soup and drink and walked over to the man who'd bought them for her.

She sat down without being asked. He looked surprised, but he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an unexpectedly charming way.

She returned the smile, shyly. "For all you know, I could have been lactose intolerant," she remarked as she took a spoonful of the soup.

"Ha," he chuckled. He took up her spoon when she was finished, and rather brazenly took a helping from her cup for himself. "It would have just meant more for me."

Olivia's laughter rang out through the tavern as Harry told her the story of the first – and last – time his ex-wife tried hot waxing.

"So she decides to throw out all the instructions on how to use the wax, she's sure she knows exactly what she's doing. She takes out the wax – doesn't bother to heat it up, mind you – and slathers globs of it on her bikini line. Then she slaps the paper onto her thighs, tries to pull it off, and…what do you know? The paper won't come off. It's stuck to her skin."

"Oh gosh! What did she do?"

"Well, I was in the Air Force at the time – we were living in the military housing at Andrews. She calls me while I'm at the lab, and she's like, 'Help! I'm covered in wax! You need to come home now!'

"Not something you hear from your wife every day."

"Definitely. I told her, 'Honey, I'm in the Air Force – I can't just come home. Just sit tight until my shift ends at midnight.'"

"So…was she able to wait?"

"Well, she was too embarrassed to tell anyone else, so she tried getting it off herself. She came up with the idea to boil a huge pot of water, hoping that the steam would loosen the wax so she could pull the strips off."

"I…don't like where this is going."

"I came home at midnight like I said, and there she is, stark naked, standing in front of a steaming pot of water, orange wax running down her thighs, balling like a baby."

Olivia held her hand to her mouth. "So, uh, did the wax ever come off?"

"Eventually, we were able to scrape it off. But she burned herself from the steam coming off the boiling water, so for the next week or so, she was walking really funny. She made me swear not to tell anyone. Unfortunately for her, they held a party for one of the retiring generals soon after that, and she had to be there. My friends took one look at her funny walk and started joking that I must be an animal in the sack."

Olivia covered her face in her arms, her whole body shaking with laughter. She threw back her hair and wiped the tears out of her eyes. "Oh, man. I haven't laughed like that in a long time."

Harry smiled gently. "Yeah, it uh…it looked like you needed a good one."

Olivia became silent at this remark, turning her glass around in her hands. She could feel his eyes on her bent head. Don't cry, she thought to herself. You didn't cry at John's funeral, or Charlie's. You're not going to cry now.

"We're closing now, folks," the bartender called from the front of the room.

Olivia blinked quickly, then squinted at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. "I didn't realize it had gotten this late." She got up from the table, gathering her coat and pulling out her wallet to pay her bill.

Of course, she knew it had to end, but she didn't want to go back to her apartment. Perhaps she could go to her office and wait until the morning. It was 2 am according to her watch; a couple of hours wasn't so bad.

Harry took her arm. "Look, we've had a nice talk and laugh, and I'd like to keep it going. You don't strike me as the type that goes home with strange men, not that there's anything wrong with…but…man, I am bad at this. I just mean…I'd like to spend more time with you."

She could feel the heat on her cheeks. "Harry, you seem like a good guy, but I'm not in a position to…"

He cut her off. "Sorry. You're married, right?"

Right after he said that, they jumped at the sound of a glass breaking. The bartender sheepishly ran to the back of the bar to grab a dustbin. He'd been listening in while he hung the clean glasses, and let one slip out of his hands when he heard the man mention being married.

Olivia turned back to Harry with a chuckle. "I'm not used to being so interesting to strangers," she joked. She took a deep breath. "I'm not married. Far from it, actually."

Harry smiled. "Well, don't worry about it. It's not all it's cracked up to be. You never know when you might come home and find your husband trying to wax his bikini line with a pot of boiling water."

She laughed as they made their way to the exit. The night seemed peaceful, now that the rain had stopped. There was a star here and there in the sky, but mostly blocked by city pollution. Olivia always liked this time of night. It felt deep, and silent, and sacred. She was naturally a night person, often working alone in those hours. Sometimes, it felt like it belonged just to her.

Olivia's car was parked just a block up, though she could probably have walked to the FBI building since it was so close. It was probably best if she did. More time to kill.

She didn't want to get Harry's hopes up, so she took his arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. "It was really nice to have met you. Thanks for the laugh."

Harry smiled, clearly disappointed. "Anytime," he told her.

"So what's his name?"

"What's whose name?"

Harry chuckled as he stopped massaging Olivia's left shoulder and now focused on the right. "You know. Mr. Done-You-Wrong. The one who sent you to O'Leery's to drink whiskey all night."

Olivia chuckled, and was surprised at it. She didn't think she could ever chuckle about the mistake Peter had made – or the hurt he'd caused. Just a few hours earlier she was berating him for not being able to see through the other Olivia's ruse. It only served to prove that Peter never really knew her at all.

Being here with this strange man in his house, however, made her let most of her guard down. So she answered Harry's question directly, though not completely.

"His name is Peter, since you asked," she told him. She rolled herself over onto her back on Harry's bed, and he promptly turned to lie beside her.

"Massage wasn't so good?" he asked.

"No, it was fine," she told him, then continued. "We work together, and…a while back, I was sent on a mission in a foreign country. I was…captured…experimented on."

Harry looked wounded. "Olivia, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. I'm fine now, no permanent damage."

He took her hand. "Nothing you can see, anyway."

"Yeah," she said softly. "Anyway, I was able to escape with the help of one of their agents, who felt sorry for me, and when I got back and recovered, I found out that…Peter had moved on without me. With one of their spies, working undercover."

Harry whistled. "This sounds like the plot of an action movie."

More like a sci-fi thriller, if you knew the half of it, Olivia thought to herself. Feeling exposed now, she rolled over and stood up, feeling around on the floor to find her clothes.

Harry rolled over and looked at the analog clock on the nightstand. "Nearly seven. Yeah, I guess it's about time to get ready for the day."

Olivia smiled. "Thank God for coffee, right?"

"Yeah, well, I'm retired. The most that's going to happen is my golf swing is going to be a little off this afternoon."

"Oh, just rub it in, why don't you."

Harry offered to make Olivia breakfast before she left, but she declined, saying that she needed to get home and get some paperwork done before going into the office. They both knew the real reason: for Olivia, this was a one-night stand, and that one night was now over with the sun coming up. She'd made that clear to Harry throughout the whole thing: the kissing, the touching, all of it.

He walked her to her car. "Look Olivia…I know I'm not going to see you again, so before you go, I wanted to tell you something."

He took her face in his hands. "I'm not trying to be condescending when I say this. You're so young, and it's clear you've been through a lot. But what's happened to you – the hurt you feel –let it become a part of you, but don't let it define you. You know what the difference is."

Olivia started to feel tears forming at her eyes. She allowed him to pull her in for a kiss. "Thank you. Thank you for this," she told him.

He smiled at her, and for a moment Olivia felt like he desperately needed to tell her something. Instead the smile turned into a rakish grin and he said, "An incredible night with a beautiful woman? I think I should be thanking you."

Harry stood there on the curb while Olivia drove away, and she knew it. She looked at him in the mirror. She was tempted to look back at him, but couldn't quite do it. Finally she turned back at the end of the block, before she needed to make a left turn. But he had already gone back into the house.

Olivia wasn't proud of what she'd done. Her Puritan heritage made her scornful of one-night stands, finding them superficial and shallow. But she had to admit, it was much easier walking into her apartment afterwards, knowing that she hadn't been there all night.

It brought her a vague sense of satisfaction to think that maybe Peter had called, or had even stopped by her apartment to try to talk to her, and found that she wasn't there.

She went to her bedroom, stopping in her tracks when she saw her queen sized bed, still stripped down to the mattress cover. She'd already decided to make some time to visit Rachel and Ella in Chicago, and spend a good deal of it taking them shopping, while buying new things for her apartment. She'd even been tempted to find a new place to live, but that would have been too extreme. No, a whole new set of linens, new towels, new underwear – that would be enough.

Sighing, she began taking off her clothes, feeling a pleasant ache in her body from the night's activities. It had been a long time – since John was alive. In some ways, Harry reminded Olivia of the lover she'd lost. He was older, like John, and he also took his time, mapping out the curves of her body, figuring out what she liked.

In her more empty moments, she had wondered what sort of lover Peter was. Was he inventive, a risk taker? Was he playful? Did he like to play the pursuer, or did he prefer to be pursued?

Well, she wasn't going to find out now. That part of their relationship was over before it even started.

She took a long, hot shower, and a cloud of steam followed her from the bathroom to the bedroom as she went to put on her clothes. With perfect timing, there came a knock on her door just as she finished combing her hair and putting on her shoes.

Anxiously she opened it, hoping it wasn't Peter, or even Walter.

It wasn't. Broyles stern, dark face stared at her from the doorway. "Dunham, something just came in." He sighed. "Listen, if you don't feel ready…"

"No, sir, I'm fine," Olivia insisted. "Let me just grab my coat."

They were both silent as Broyles drove them to the scene of their next case. Olivia could tell he wanted to say something to her, but wasn't sure how to say it. Finally, trying to give him a lead in with some levity, she remarked, "I think this is the first time you've ever picked me up to go to a case. Not that I don't appreciate the concierge service."

Olivia made out just the barest of snorts from her superior. He replied, "Your life – your personal life – is none of my business. But there are times, I know, when your personal and your professional life inevitably collide together. I know that's happening to you right now, Dunham. I'm simply trying to help you separate those two, the best you can."

Olivia looked at Broyles as he drove. "There's more to it than that, sir. Isn't it?"

Broyles looked at her for a brief second before returning his sight to the road. "I went to see the body of…the one from the other side. The other Philip Broyles. He gave his life to get you home. I feel that our team owes him a great deal. Part of that means looking after you, Dunham. You are at the heart of what we do. Without the heart, the body dies, and his death is for nothing."

Olivia gave a small smile at her boss's concession, but her smile quickly faded when she realized where they were driving to. This was the neighborhood she had just been in, not more than two hours ago.

Her heart pounded as Broyles made a right turn onto Harry's street. They passed one house after the other, and with each one Olivia could only pray that Broyles was merely taking some short cut to the crime scene that she wasn't aware of.

Broyles stopped the car at a yellow and black cape cod, house number 114. Slowly Olivia got out of the car, observing the federal agents in haz-mat suits moving in and out of the structure. Broyles began giving her an account of what they knew so far, but Olivia didn't need to hear it. She knew more than Broyles could tell.

Harry, she thought in despair.

Walter and Peter were already fully suited and inside the house before Olivia and Broyles arrived. The house was quiet and intact – nothing broken or moved or out of place. They were in the kitchen, examining the body of the man who presumably owned the house, Harold Locksmith, aged 48. Neighbors called the police when they heard terrible screams coming from inside the house. There was little left of him, only a skeleton with scraps of cartilage, blood, and hair clinging to the frame. The body lay on the white tile in a pool of gray fluid, as yet unidentified.

"That was quite a good milkshake we had last night, eh Peter?" Walter commented through his mask as he scraped a sample of the goo into a vial. "The viscosity of this reminds me of it. Good ratio of ice cream to strawberries, I thought."

Peter ignored Walter's comment and the nauseous feeling it produced. "What is this grey stuff? Mercury? Is this a shapeshifter?"

"I don't believe so," Walter remarked. "Mercury is liquid at room temperature. This room is…slightly higher than that." He held the vial up to his mask. "The contents of this vial are not merely liquid; it appears to have particles in it."

"Then what-" Peter was promptly cut off by a loud yowl and a shuffling noise. The two men quickly stood up to see a cat running toward them.

"I thought this area was clear!" Peter barked into his receiver to the agents outside while Walter tried to block the cat from entering.

"Damnit, Walter, pick the thing up!" Peter yelled at the older man, who froze in his tracks.

"I can't, Peter! You know how I hate cats-" Walter complained, just as the cat's paw touched the tip of the gray spill.

Instantly the cat froze, then fell over. It convulsed and shook, as its fur began to drop off of its body. Walter and Peter stood back in horror as it wailed with agony and something began to undulate under its skin.

A tear appeared in the side of the cat, and gray goo burst out of its flesh, engulfing the body, burying it.

"We need to get out of here, now!" Peter yelled at his adoptive father, and the two quickly exited the house.

Broyles and Olivia approached the two men as Peter ordered the agents to put up a blockade of the house.

"What is it?" Broyles demanded.

"There was a cat in there – the thing must have been hiding when the police came in to search the house," Peter explained. "It – it touched that gray stuff the man's body lay in, and it just…attacked the animal. I've never seen anything like it."

Olivia looked down as she thought of the cat. Shalimar was her name. Harry told her when Olivia saw her sitting on his living room sofa when they first came back to his house. She was a feral cat, and had been injured when Harry found her while jogging. He carried her in his arms to his neighbor's house, who was a veterinarian. When she was well, Harry had no choice but to take her in. He wasn't going to risk her getting hurt again in the wild, even if that had been the world she always lived in.

"She reminds me that I can be a good person," Harry told Olivia as the cat curled itself against his caress. "Sometimes I doubt it, but…when I see how grateful she is for her home, I know it's in me."

Olivia had only met the two of them a few hours ago. Now they were both dead.

"I have," Walter gasped, as he caught his breath. Olivia was roused out of her thoughts.

"Sorry Walter – what do you mean?" Olivia asked him.

"I'm saying I have seen something like this before. No one goes into that house, no one touches anything in there!" Walter leaned in confidentially to his team. "We must contain this at all costs."

"Dr. Bishop, the FBI has no intention of alerting the public…" Broyles began.

"I'm not talking about disclosure!" Walter snapped. "I mean that gray substance in that house. No one goes near it. No one will examine it but me, not even Peter, do you understand?"

Walter now looked intensely into Olivia's worried green eyes. "If one drop of it gets loose, even one…it will be the end of all life on earth."