Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe, Fox, Bad Robot or anything else I could get sued for. All characters, plot, etc. that this story is based on belong to Fox and J.J. Abrams' production team.

Note: This story is based on a scene from Fringe Season 1, Episode 6 "The Cure" and may contain spoilers if you haven't seen the episode.

I hate birthdays. Hate them with a passion. I can barely remember a birthday where I didn't have to worry about some intimidating reminder of the best and worst thing I'd ever done. The same basic cards, with the daisies on the front and that sentimental message, "Thinking of You". Sweet and innocent to the untrained eye, but for me, these have always been the last thing I need on a day like this one.

Every possible thing has gone wrong. Claire Williams is still missing, Nadeem Patel shot his head off in front of me, my interview with Esterbrook almost got me suspended, and now Broyles is breathing down my neck. It's a crappy birthday by anyone's standards and I haven't even got my stepfather's card yet. And now, maybe worst of all, I've made Peter mad. It's pretty clear. He's standing over me rattling on about how "We're all allowed to have our bad days", but whatever's been pissing me off today has nothing to with him.

"You're right. I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry." I take a breath and debate silently how much he deserves to know. But then I think, screw it; we risk our lives for each other every day. Charlie knows. John knew. Broyles probably has it on file somewhere. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just let it all out for a change, rather than bottle it up in some deep, dark, twisted place until one day I snap and shoot up a 7/11.

I look Peter in the eye. "I had a stepfather," I say. I give him a wry smile. I already think I've said too much. But, hey, there's no going back now.

Mum was crying. I didn't see him hit her. All I knew was they had been shouting and now she was in pieces. When it happened I was in my room, my back barricading the door closed as I willed Rachael not to cry too loud. Every time those heavy footsteps got too close to the door I flinched and prayed to anyone listening that he would just go far away from here and never come back. Then, just as abruptly as he had exploded, he left the house, leaving us only with the sound of Mum crying on the kitchen floor and rain bleeding down the windows.

After I was certain he was gone, I told Rachael to stay behind as I poked my head through the door to see if Mum was OK. She wasn't, but I don't think I expected her to be. Her nose was bleeding. I crept over to her, but couldn't think of anything to do or say. I just sat there, next to her, tracing the grains of the timber floorboards with my knuckles. I was angry, and I was scared, but none of that was going to help her. I knew I was supposed to hug her or something like that, but I found that I couldn't even unclench my hands. She pulled me close to her body, just enough for some of her blood to get in my hair. She tried to smudge it out.

Through some sick, wet choke, she managed to whimper "Olive". I couldn't look at her. She just kept thumbing my hair. "Oh, Olive, I'm so sorry. Mummy's so sorry. It'll get better, I promise. Your Daddy loves you very, very much. He doesn't mean it."

I tensed in her arms. I hated it when she called him that. Mike wasn't my Daddy. My Daddy was a soldier. He was back in Jacksonville at the base where my old school was. I wished I was back there. Every night, I saw it in my dreams. Mum would always tell me that I should pray before I went to sleep, but as soon as my head hit the pillow, all I could think about was being back with my Dad all the way over in sunny Florida. It was always too cold and too lonely here in Boston. As Mum clung to me, I closed my eyes and thought of how different life would be if we were still there.

Then I heard Mike's car. He'd turned back around. Mum knew it, too. "Olive, quick, take your sister and go hide!" I didn't want to leave her, but I couldn't see a better choice. I grabbed Rachael from our room and took her to Mum and Mike's room. It would be safer in there, I thought, because there was a lock on the door. I held Rach tightly in my arms. She was only four. Outside, I could here Mum trying to prepare herself for the worst as the car door slammed shut.

Then it came to me. The gun. Of course! Putting Rachael down, I ran to Mike's bedside drawer and dug through the layers of socks and underwear until my hand hit chilled metal. My fingers wrapped around it instinctively, like it fit in my hands. It felt heavier than I expected. "Rach, get under the bed," I whispered, and she scrambled over. Before she disappeared beneath it, I looked her in the eye and said "Don't come out, no matter what." I made her promise and we shook on it. A sister can't go back on a pinky swear.

Bitter tears falling from my eyes, I cracked the door open and I could see Mike approach the door, screaming out his fury. As I walked out there, it felt like everything else in the world fell away – Rachael's crying, Mum's screaming, Mike's wide eyes as he realised what was happening…

I raised the gun. Pulled the trigger. Simple as that. Just a flick of my finger. Then I pulled it again. It was completely instinctual. It wasn't until he was on the floor that I realised I'd actually done it. And he just looked at me, half-smiling through gritted teeth, almost daring me to finish. But I couldn't do it. I didn't actually want to kill him. I just wanted to make him stop. Panic bent through me as I realised what I'd done. I ran to the phone and called and dialled 911.

I was greeted by a bored voice over the phone: "911, what is your emergency?"

I gulped, trying to drown out his panting and Mum's screaming. "I…uh…"

"Hello?"

"Umm…"

"Is this one of those prank calls, kid? Coz I've got better things to do."

I started crying then. I could barely get the words out. "I didn't mean to, honest."

"Didn't mean to do what, sweetheart? Are you OK?"

"I shot him. He's bleeding heaps."

"Who is, love?"

"My stepdad."

"OK, hon, there are some people coming over right now to help you, OK? What's your name? How old are you?"

"Olive. I'm nine."

"That's a pretty name, Olive. You just hang in there, OK?" He kept talking to me for what seemed like hours. Eventually an ambulance came, as well as social workers and police. A nice policeman named Phil let me ride in his car down to the police station and he gave me all the chocolate I wanted, even though I wasn't hungry. Mum went to hospital with Mike. Rachael went with a social worker. It felt like I was all alone.

Phil led me in to the police station and sat me down outside his office. "How are you doing, Olive? You want something to eat or drink?" I shook my head and he smiled reassuringly. "Well, I'm going to get a Coke, and I'll bring one back for you just in case. You stay here, now. I'll be back in a minute." As he left, he told another officer to keep an eye on me. I curled into a ball and tried to keep my fists from clenching. I just wanted everything to be over.

Just then, another policeman dragged in a boy my age by the collar and sat him near me. The boy was livid. "Dude, hands of the jacket! Stop manhandling me!"

The policeman scoffed. "You know what, Kiddo? I've had enough of you causing trouble and ending up in here all the time. Don't you think your Mum's got enough to deal with, raising you all alone?"

"Whatever, man." the boy said.

"Well, just wait here until somebody comes to pick you up, OK? I'll be watching you, so don't try to sneak off again." The policeman walked away, leaving the two of us sitting aimlessly together.

The boy looked annoyed and restless, stamping his feet and grumbling something about his Dad being stupid. He noticed me staring. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"Liar…What did you do to end up in here?"

I looked away. "I didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't my fault."

He scoffed. "Yeah, we all say that the first time. I got caught stealing a pack of cigarettes. It's OK, though, I've been in here lots of times…What's the matter, haven't you ever been in trouble before?"

I shook my head.

"I bet you ran away," he said.

Keeping my eyes on my hands, I shook my head a second time.

"Huh," he said. "I usually get that stuff right. Well, what are you so sad about, then?"

"I'm in trouble. I did something really bad." Before I knew it, I was crying again. The boy looked taken aback.

"Woah, relax. I bet it's not as bad as you think. Some of these cops can be really nice. Give you free McDonalds and stuff. Besides, before you know it, everything'll be back to normal. You'll see."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You're gonna be fine. I'm sure you didn't mean to do whatever it is you did. You seem too nice to hurt anybody on purpose."

"Thanks. You too."

"What's your name?"

"Olive."

"Nice to meet you, Olive. I'm Pete."