AN: This is my first foray into Fringe fan fiction as well as publishing on . I haven't written seriously in years and I'm trying to get back into it, so feel free to critique.

Also, I need an outlet for my extreme Fringe obsession. I can't believe I passed my finals after that finale!

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe, though I'd accept the rights if you bought me them. Can't promise the show would continue to be so awesome.

Peter's eyes snapped open. Which was odd, because the last that he could remember he didn't have eyes at all. But they were there, and he was seeing with them. He was in the lab, which he knew because he recognized the view from the couch. Sure enough, he could feel the cushion under him.

Whoa. After a few months of not physically touching anything- or being a physical being, for that matter- the feel of the soft cushions underneath him, and the way that they reacted when he shifted his weight (weight!) could have kept him occupied for hours.

But along with seeing and feeling, he could also hear. And he heard the sound of fabric against fabric as something moved on the couch next to him.

He turned and his eyes, ears, and even nose quickly cued him in to the fact that it was not simply something- it was Olivia. And she did not simply move- she slid. Slid down. Almost all the way off the couch before Peter's hands felt her arms and squeezed them, using his muscles to stop her weight from dragging her to the floor. His eyes saw hers, but hers did not see his. They seemed intent on rolling into the back of her head.

"Walter!" Peter yelled out, pretty much instinctively. He didn't relish in the fact that he had a voice and that he had used it. All thought of delighting in the senses had been driven from his mind, and all that mattered now was that Olivia was not conscious.

?

Olivia stayed unconscious on the way to the hospital, during multiple examinations by a slew of doctors and Massive Dynamic scientists, and was still unconscious the next afternoon.

"Son?"

Peter looked up and saw Walter standing on the other side of Olivia's bed. When he saw that he had his son's attention, Walter continued. "Astrid brought you some lunch." He placed a greasy paper bag on bed table. "I'm going to get a ride home with her. You'll call me if there are any changes?"

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "I will."

"Good. And, Peter, please make sure you get some sleep. We don't want you in a hospital bed, too."

Part of Peter was glad that he was finally left alone by Olivia's bedside, occasionally munching on a fry. He appreciated Astrid's care, Broyles' concerned interrogations and Walter's use of his resources as Massive Dynamic CEO, but Peter would be glad to be left alone with his thoughts until Olivia woke up (or someone came in with a way to wake her up.) He really did have a lot to think about. Like how the hell he ended up in the lab when the last he could remember he was climbing the stairs up to the machine months earlier.

He knew that he knew where he had been. Or, at least, he knew he had known. He remembered wondering at his working eyes, ears, nose, skin, and tongue when he came to in the lab. But he seemed to have forgotten why he was wondering at everything as soon as he saw Olivia.

He hadn't been in a coma. He hadn't even been gone, according to Walter and Astrid. They were unsurprised to see him in the lab and referenced events of the past few months as if he had been there for all of it.

But he hadn't been. Had he?

Maybe it was some sort of amnesia. But what could have erased his memories and caused Olivia to pass out? There was nothing in the lab that could have done that, and both Walter and Astrid were fine. Not to mention Peter was pretty certain- for some unknown reason- that he did not remember the past three months because he had not lived them. But he had been somewhere. How had he known that months had passed?

He was also sure that he should not tell anyone about his sudden lack of memories. He told himself that he wanted the others to concentrate on Olivia's condition and purposely ignored the possibility of his amnesia being something that could help them figure out what had happened to her. In fact, his inability to even consider he was wrong to keep quiet further proved to him that this was not some attack on them by a dastardly enemy. He believed that, even if he couldn't remember why, all of this made sense, and would be okay.