No inFringement intended, just filling in the blanks. Probably won't take the same road as Northwest Passage, but you can get there from here.

"I want a team on the other side of that bridge, NOW!" Broyles barked as the railroad bridge warped and shimmered. A shock wave almost knocked them all flat against the ground. He was done being a bystander. He just watched two of his men possibly disintegrated into nothing and be damned if he was going to stand here and watch.

Walter broke away from Olivia's weak grip on his jacket and loped as fast as he could towards the bridge and Peter.

"Walter!"

She easily caught up to him.

"It might not be safe! Stay back," she yelled as she ran past him headlong into the thick of it. The FBI agent and Peter had both disappeared and Walter's urgent warning from before was screaming in her brain-- The waves will tear a man apart.

She blinked back hot tears that were pricking at her eyes. The wind dried them out quickly as she ran.

She sprinted towards the black SUV. Coming from behind she could see both sides, equipment scattered about, but saw no one. Across the way, a white SUV screeched and drove off. She pulled her gun again and risked a look, but she didn't have a clear shot. But really all she could think about was Peter. She came around to the front of the vehicle and there he was. Her heart, seconds away from being crushed and scattered to the wind, skipped ten beats and picked up the rhythm again.

He was slumped against the bumper. Deathly still. She bent down, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but fast. There was blood coming from his ear and that was very worrisome to her. She touched his hand.

Walter came up beside her.

"Oh, thank God," he muttered. He knelt down and tried to wake him. "Peter! Son, wake up," he slapped his cheeks gently trying to rouse him, pulled on his jacket.

"Walter, stop," she pulled at his restless hands to still them. She didn't want to move him for fear of hurting him more. The shock wave must have knocked him out, maybe he'd hit his head. She hoped that was all. She didn't want to think about skull fractures or broken bones or anything else. She went to touch him again, but pulled back.

"We need a paramedic right now!" she stood up and yelled at Broyles who was coming up behind the car and only a few feet away.

"Already on it," he barked back. Into his radio he said, "We need paramedics, agent down..." He walked to the edge of the bridge to give their location and tried to see anything on the other side.

"What about the other person that was on this bridge?" Olivia looked at Broyles. "And the white SUV, we need to find them, someone came over."

"Who came over?" Broyles asked, a troubled look on his face.

"Somebody was on this bridge, they came over from the other side. And left in a white SUV, in a hurry," she told him. "With Newton."

"Are you sure of that, Dunham?" Broyles questioned her.

"Yes," Olivia answered.

"Yes, she is," Walter concurred. "They were attempting to create a portal to the other side, Agent Broyles. We were attempting to disrupt it. But it appears that they were partially successful," he said worriedly as he brought his attention back to Peter. Peter, who had risked his life, not knowing that he would survive, unlike the FBI agent. Peter, who stayed behind to help him get set-up, who had just called him dad, who had fixed his turntable and made him pies at ungodly hours of the night and took the pus samples from bodies and calmed Olivia when she needed it and when he needed it. But Walter was anything but calm now and neither was Olivia. The only calm one was Peter who was still motionless against the bumper in a very uncomfortable looking position and not responding to either of them. Walter felt his son's neck again for a pulse, careful not to jostle him any further. It still seemed faster than normal.

Broyles watched as his agents pulled up to the other side of the dilapidated bridge.

"Nothing over here, sir," they radioed over to him.

Broyles exhaled loudly. "We are looking for a white SUV..." he walked away to bark at them in private.

Walter pinched the back of his son's hand, pried open his eyelids to check the pupils with the flashlight he carried at all times in his front pocket.

"This is not good, Olivia," he told her as she crouched down again. "No response to painful stimulus. Not good, not good. We can't wait for the paramedics," he said looking up at her worried face.

"Walter, we have to wait, they'll be here soon."

"No! We have to take him ourselves!" he hissed at her, frantic and irrational.

"Walter, just relax," she ran her hand through her hair and spoke in her best authoritative voice because she really didn't have the time or the patience to deal with Walter right now. "We can't move him. They'll be here soon."

And he doesn't say anything more because he knows from her tone of voice that she means business. Stealing the car himself and getting Peter out of there was also certainly out of the question. He had seen her shoot that cop in cold blood and didn't want to get on her bad side any more than he possibly was.

"Agent Dunham," Broyles called out to Olivia. She stood and walked over to her boss who was standing off to the side, out of earshot of Walter. Broyles looked at her, looked through her, before he spoke. "Will you please explain to me what the hell is going on?" he said, deadly serious. "Where is Agent Crawford? Why did he disintegrate into thin air in front of my eyes and Peter Bishop didn't?" He looked at her like he already knew the answer and only needed her confirmation.

Olivia had no time to prepare. She had hid this information from Broyles, too. She knew the whole sordid thing would eventually come out, but she just needed more time. Peter needed more time. Should she lie and say she didn't know? She looked over the side at the water, saw an empty boat sitting below. Thought there might be more casualties than they initially thought. Sirens sounded in the distance, getting closer.

She looked Broyles in the face, "I am still gathering evidence, sir. I cannot tell you for sure at this time."

Broyles' face might have been carved in stone. She bet he played a hell of a game of poker.

"Have you been purposely withholding this knowledge?" he asked.

But Olivia also played a mean game of poker. "Remember sir, you withheld knowledge of a few things from me, too. I'm sure you had your reasons. As do I." She felt like it was a Mexican standoff. The tension so great that at some point, they were both going to go for their guns and only one of them would be left standing.

Broyles was saved by the ambulance pulling up at the foot of the bridge.

He gave her a softer look. "I did have my reasons. I'll talk to you about this in the near future, though."

"Yes, sir," Olivia said. She breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't need Broyles breathing down her back, but he knew she needed time. She was thankful that although Broyles had a gruff exterior, he seemed to always know when she needed something, sometimes even before she knew she needed it.

She waved at the paramedics who were approaching with their black bags and a backboard.

"Over here," she directed them to the edge where Walter crouched over Peter's limp form. The anguish in Walter's eyes was terrible and she knew they must match her own.

Walter got to ride with Peter in the ambulance after he promised Olivia he would stay out of the way. She was so much more demanding than Peter sometimes. He didn't even notice and wasn't even the least bit excited when they turned on the sirens and sped away to the nearest hospital. He was too busy trying to tell them to put that there and this here and don't use that arm for the I.V. And no, he doesn't have a history of seizures and no, he's not allergic to penicillin, and is he his next of kin?

The question hung in the air for a moment.

Next of kin... Walter could not get any more words past the big lump in his throat, so he just nodded. The paramedic seemed satisfied enough though and scribbled something down on his clipboard. Walter envied this man's innocence. Oblivious to the tragic technicalities of his words, blind to the world literally ripping apart at the seams around him. That he could go about his job and come home to his family or his dog and have a beer, watch some tv—repeat, repeat, repeat, ad inifinitum--when a handful of them knew what was coming and the consequences were dire. It was an enviable position.

Walter stared at the still lifeless form of his son, his only son— no, not his only son-- but still his son. For twenty-five of his thirty-two years he was his son, which came to 78% of Peter's life and if he rounded up it was practically his whole life if that counted for anything. But then, subtract seventeen years and then probably another year or two where he really wasn't around and the end figure was more like twenty percent. And twenty percent wasn't even a quarter of his life--

Walter stopped that train of thought and just let his mind go blank, sometimes that was easier.

He sat and stared again at Peter, strapped to a back board and neck brace, tubes running this way and that. The medic was writing some more notes, checking the I.V., checking Peter's neural responses.

"Why isn't he waking up?" Walter murmured to himself. He hadn't realized he'd been thinking out loud but the paramedic heard him.

"Trauma has a funny way of manifesting itself," the medic told him, placing a hand on Walter's shoulder. "They'll get a better handle on it at the hospital. He's stable though."

Walter nodded and made sure he rode the rest of the way in silence.

And he didn't get in the way, just like he promised Olivia.

35 HOURS LATER

Walter walked out of Peter's room, a complete certifiable, babbling mess and went straight to Olivia.

"He knows Olivia, he knows..." he stared into her unbelieving eyes and wrung his hands, shaking, shuddering almost out of control. The complete opposite of how he entered the room a few minutes before. "He wouldn't let me explain. This is not how I wanted it to happen. Not at all. I should have told him, I should have..." his voice became desperate, pleading.

"Calm down, Walter, let me go talk to him." She felt a pit of dread in her stomach. She had known, she had seen the venomous look in his eyes when he'd he first woke up. But she'd thought it was just from the thirty-six hour marathon nap or grogginess or pain killers or anything else but what her gut had told her initially. And she knew her gut was always right.

"He said he wants to be alone, Olivia."

Olivia peered into the window of Peter's room. He was laid back against the pillows and she could tell by the way he was holding himself and the set of his jaw that he was angry. But she was angry, too. Wouldn't he at least allow Walter to explain? How could he presume to know the whole story? Maybe he would allow her to explain things rationally. Her anger at herself bubbled up, too, she should have told him from day one. He should have heard it from her. She turned away then as she realized her deception had now caught up to her. He knew that she too had been hiding things from him. She knew when she first saw the look, but then he smiled and everything seemed okay. But that smile had been just like the one he'd given her in Iraq, fake and plastic, maybe a little warmer, but not by much. She didn't want to think that a year and a half of friendship and trust and whatever else was brewing between them could disappear with a smile. She hoped it wouldn't.

She ran her hands through her hair, she should take Walter home, give Peter some alone time and hope that her worst fears wouldn't come true and he'd be there in the morning.

Olivia gathered her coat and tugged at Walter and he gathered himself up, too. "I'll meet you at the elevator, Walter," she told him and he slipped past the doorway not looking inside at Peter who was like a statue. She stood in the doorway of his room, a gulf, a mile wide and a mile deep, lay between them. He appeared to be sleeping, but she knew him better.

"Peter, I know you're upset. And I know you're awake," she began.

He didn't open his eyes and his face was anything but peaceful. But he was listening, she knew.

"Don't rush to judge your father too harshly. Please, hear him out before you do anything rash, Peter. I'm going to take Walter home and I'll be back in a few hours. It's late, let's get some sleep and we can talk tomorrow."

Peter didn't acknowledge her and Olivia paused briefly before fleeing to the elevator and to the great unknown that was the future of their odd little family unit.

Peter heard her hesitate and then her footsteps on the floor receded as she walked out. He waited for what he thought was about ten minutes, until he was sure they were gone. He wanted to wait more, had been biting his lip, trying to keep the tears from falling, but now they burned behind his eyes wanting release and they would wait no more. Why was it that everyone around him always ended up betraying him, hurting him, and telling lies? He swiped at his eyes as they spilled over and he hated himself for crying, for being weak, but he couldn't stop, the flood gates were open. He was a grown ass man, he shouldn't be crying over this. But it was everything else, too. His mom, his father, his Olivia--they all had lied to him. He'd been too preoccupied with trying to combat Walter's depression to really notice just when everything had started to go so wrong. Ever since Jacksonville Olivia had been acting strangely. He thought it was her, maybe she'd dredged up painful memories she couldn't talk about yet. Or maybe it was him and their near kiss was too much, too soon. He figured she would talk to him about it when she was ready, he was sure of that. He just wildly underestimated the weight of what she was carrying around with her.

He just laid there, staring at the ceiling tiles trying to count the holes and stop the waterworks from getting any farther out of hand, but he kept dwelling on everything. Peter Bishop, pity party of one: no guests allowed.

Thoughts came barreling at him non-stop. Now he knew why he could never sleep normal hours comfortably and had always been a night owl. He was out of synch. He now knew the real reason why his mother had committed suicide, it was not his fault for moving to Europe and leaving her alone, it was Walter's fault. Walter had even lied about that, too. He knew why he could never sit still in one place for too long, he simply wasn't where he should be and there was nowhere he could run to to fix that. Well, there was one place he could go to, but there was a certain matter of getting there. He was probably experimented on, just like Olivia. He might not remember a good chunk of his childhood but he damn well remembered being hooked up to car batteries.

He had to get out of here. They would come back in the morning and he would be gone. He couldn't look at them right now, couldn't talk to them, he just didn't know what he would do or say and that scared him.

His tears died down after awhile and he wiped them clear with the corner of the sheet. He tried to sit up and groaned, his back was killing him. He had to get these wires off of him, find his clothes, and get as far away from here as humanly possible.

He stood upright without too much trouble and splashed some cold water on his face. There was a fresh set of clothes in a bag in his closet and he pulled them on slowly. Absently he wondered who was the thoughtful one that had brought him a fresh change of clothes, Walter or Olivia. Either answer gutted him, but for many different reasons. So he dragged his aching body out to the nurses' station and plastered his best smile on his face.

"What do I need to sign to get out of this place?"

Peter Bishop, a free man, stood outside Mass General rubbing his hands together against the chilly early morning air and contemplated 'borrowing' a car. He found it funny how old habits just came naturally back to him, like riding a bicycle, like stealing a car, like being on the run. He smiled slightly but only at how sad it all was. He thought he was a tough guy all these years, but come to find out he was just a broken record.

Walking between the red brick buildings, he decided that stealing a car was definitely out. There would be no thrill, so why bother. He'd probably get caught anyways and then he'd really be stuck in Boston. He saw a bus stop on Cambridge Street and briefly considered hopping on one, but after the things he'd seen on buses and subway platforms in the last two years, he probably would never ride public transportation ever again.

He wondered what public transportation looked like on the other side.

He saw a gas station ahead and a red neon ATM sign beckoned him. He nodded at the man behind the counter who was watching something on a small black and white television. He looked around for the cash machine, slipped his card into it and withdrew the maximum possible from his bank account—$500. For a few moments, Peter stared into the eye of the camera staring back at him as he waited for his cash to be spit out. It was a cold feeling to know his every move at that moment was being recorded and analyzed on a server somewhere and if he was really paranoid, ringing a phone somewhere deep in the heart of Massive Dynamic's headquarters. Maybe even Nina Sharp's phone. Or if he was really, really paranoid, ringing a slightly different phone somewhere deep in the slightly different heart of a slightly different Massive Dynamic in an alternate universe far, far away. He grabbed his cash and receipt and decided he was really, really paranoid and needed out of there fast. But first he needed some things.

He looked around and grabbed a bottle of water from a refrigerated case and set it on the counter. He also grabbed a Snickers bar

"Do you have any aspirin or Tylenol?" Peter asked the cashier. "I was in a bad wreck and my head's killing me."

"Just these," the cashier pointed to a box filled with small generic looking pill packets. "I think they're aspirin." He didn't look too sure.

"Well, give me about five of them." He had two prescriptions in his pocket for the good stuff, but he wasn't about to wait around for them to be filled. He looked around some more and spotted what he was looking for.

"Can I get one of those hats?" he pointed to some black knit caps hanging on the back wall.

The cashier took one down and handed it to Peter. It had cutouts for the eyes nose and mouth and he put his fingers through them, wiggled them around. He wondered what kind of knit caps they sold in gas stations in the alternate universe.

He rolled it up and put it on like a normal knit cap. It wasn't a great disguise, but it would keep his head warm anyways. And if he needed to rob a bank or infiltrate a secret government facility, he would be prepared.

Done with his impulse shopping, Peter handed the guy a twenty.

He popped some of the pills that were indeed aspirin and stepped outside into the cold morning air. He swallowed some water and it felt really good going down his parched throat. By some miracle or stroke of good luck, a taxi was driving slowly down the street at that same moment. Peter put out his hand and flagged it down, opened the door and felt the warm inviting heat inside. But then a thought struck him. Yes, this taxi was a little too miraculous.

"Uh, nevermind. I forgot, somebody's picking me up." And he shut the door abruptly. Paranoia was starting to creep in on all fours.

The driver gave him a weird look and drove slowly away.

Peter stood there, unsure of what to do or where to go or how to even get there.