Hi. I'm back. Well, sort of. I've been wildly busy with my studies, which completely wipe my brain of any creative thoughts whatsoever. I was terribly upset when I wrote this (way back on 11/3) because of the spoilers for DSSDOES? You know, those ones. I'm rating this T for now, and I might as well leave it at that. There will be parts of this that are M, but I don't want to mark the whole fic as such. I'll give you fair warning before the M bits. There will eventually be a character death, but it will be in the future. So, consider yourself warned. Oh, also, I'm currently working on something much lighter, but I want to get more of that written before I start posting that one.

I don't own FRINGE. If I did, BOPO wouldn't have slept together. Alas, what's done is done.

And without further adieu, I present to you...

ANALYTICA - CHAPTER 1

She's back, and she's beaten and broken in more ways than one. He can't even look at her. Every time he does all he sees are her scars, the worn expressions on her face. He sees the fear behind her eyes, it's dark and menacing, ever present. It almost makes her look younger, like a small child come face to face with a chimerical monster that's been living under her bed. Probably the most horrible thing that he sees every time he looks at her is her pain. Pain that he put there, that his father put there.

He starts thinking, and it's possibly the worst thing he could do. But those cogs are turning, and they're rushing into overdrive, burning thoughts along the synapses in his brain. For a moment, he's all nerves as the sensation of thousands of messages firing along his nervous system and blazing out across his axons overwhelm him. He reins it all in, keeping his mind in check, and he begins to analyze. He overanalyzes to the point of rational oblivion, and he plummets into a deep dark abyss of thought, because that's what he does. That's who he is.

He comes to a conclusion, and it's not one that he likes. It's not about whether he likes it or not. It's not even about whether she'll like it or not. It's about what's best for her, what's best for her world, for all these people that he now feels responsible for. After all, he realizes, if it weren't for him, none of this would be happening. If he'd never been here, there'd be no war. His side wouldn't be damaged. This side wouldn't be slowly starting to fall apart. She wouldn't have to save everybody. She wouldn't have to save him. She wouldn't even know him. He pauses to ponder that thought a bit, and it occurs to him that if they'd never met, she'd probably be leading a rather happy life. He wonders if she would have been married by now, if she'd have a family. Everything that he wants with her, but can never have. His train of horrible thoughts steams along at full speed. They should never have met. They should never have fallen in love. He's ruined her life. He hates himself, feels guilty. This is his mistake. He needs to fix it. He can only think of one way. He has to go back, and he must not return.

He takes a few moments to process what he needs to say, how he'll explain to her his 'desire' to leave. He wants to tell her how horrible he feels for what he's done, that he regrets it with every fibre of his being. He wants to tell her how he wishes he could take it all back, wishes that he'd noticed, that he hadn't just brushed it off. He wants to tell her how much he loves her, and how much he will never, ever, forgive himself for what he's done. He wants to tell her how sickened he is, how disgusted he feels with himself. He wants to explain that he could shower for weeks, months, and still not feel clean. But he won't. He can't. So he doesn't. He has to settle for cold, and harsh. He has to break her even more, because then at least maybe once he's gone she can start to heal. It minutely occurs to him that watching her break directly because of what he has to say to her might actually kill him. Death would be welcomed at this point, and he's more than once considered that a beautifully viable option. Then again, death would be the easy way out, and what is the point of him if he can't at least help end this whole disaster?

So, he says to her, "I'm not staying."

She looks at him, a morbidly confused expression spreads accross her bruised, cut up features.

"I'm going back," he explains, "I can't stay here. I don't want to."

He's not entirely sure why he adds that last sentence, because it's most certainly a lie. That's not what he wants at all, but he needs to make this convincing so she believes him.

"What," it's dry and her voice cracks a little. Her expression doesn't change.

She looks directly into his eyes, and he feels like she's somehow consuming his soul, trying to perceive what he's really trying to say. There is a deafening silence that lasts several seconds before she breaks it.

"Where will you go?" Her question is asked with little emotion, and considerable detachment.

He considers answering 'home' for a split second, but the word won't vacate his mouth. It doesn't feel right, calling that place home. Not that this place is home either. In a heartbeat he realizes that for him, home is not a place, it never has been. For him, home is a person. She is home. For the first time in his miserable existence, he is leaving home.

"I've already said that I'm going back. I intend to go back to my real family," he nearly chokes on his words, but he checks himself, and his voice remains cold and even, "I'm going to go back to be with my father, and my mother, and..." he tried to finish. Really, he did. He gave it his best effort, but he couldn't.

She finishes for him, "Her. You're choosing her?"

Her tone is incredulous, and her pitch is slightly higher than usual. Her face reflects her disbelief and if he's reading her correctly, there's disdain there as well.

"Yes," he says it in a pragmatic, unfeeling tone. He momentarily thinks that he might vomit as waves of nausea crash over him at what he's said.

"But I thought..." she's fighting for control over her emotions.

He hears it in her voice, the way she trails off, searching internally for an explanation she will never find. He watches her sadness dance across her face. It nearly breaks him, nearly drives him to run screaming into her arms, begging forgiveness for his sins. At this moment, he wants nothing more than to be held by her, hear her soothing voice calm all of his fears. He wants her to tell him that he will be fine. However, his mind is screaming at him that there is only one way to make things right again. There is only one way to save her. This time, he needs to protect her, he needs to make sure that she is safe and sound and alive.

"You thought wrong," comes his calculated answer. There is no emotion in his voice.

She's stunned into silence. She cannot believe what she is hearing, what he is saying. She has to be dreaming. Her heart is screaming at her over and over that this cannot possibly be happening. This cannot be real. Her mind is telling her that it is. She can't speak. She has nothing to say to him, she doesn't know what to say to make him stay. So she stares at him relentlessly. The tension between them is overpoweringly insuffrable.

No more words pass between the pair, and after many long, painful minutes, he walks out the door. She's left standing there feeling more cold and alone than she's ever felt in her entire life. Only then does she realize what the agonizing pain ripping through her being is; they call it heartbreak. The final piece of Olivia Dunham has shattered, and she slides to the floor and cries like she's never cried before. Heartwrenching, body-wracking sobs that shake her to her now empty soul. She's found in that exact slumped over position by Astrid a few hours later. She's still crying, but at least it's not as violently as before. Tears still flow silently down her cheeks, and Astrid tries to wipe them away to no avail. Olivia learns from Astrid that Peter is gone. He locked himself away in one of the labs of Massive Dynamic, tinkering with bits and pieces of technology. He managed to get himself home safely. No one is quite sure how he managed that, but he took the other Olivia with him. Walter is a mess. Astrid says that she intends to sell both his house and her apartment and move him into a new one with her. Olivia nods because that's all her brain will allow her body to do. Astrid offers to drive her to her sister's. Broyles suspends her from active duty, respectfully so, until she feels ready to come back. She can't even argue with him, mostly because she never wants to come back. Rachel is wildly confused and uncomprehensibly worried, but dares not to ask more questions after her first batch leaves her sister curled into the fetal position on a bed in a blackened room. Ella is sweet but fretful, and tries to comfort her aunt when she can. Six months later, Olivia goes back to work. She still doesn't feel ready, but she can't stand sitting around any longer, she feels unproductive and useless. That is not who she is.

Meanwhile, Peter tries to adjust to life on the other side, his side. It's something he'll never really become accustomed to. He lives alone, but he visits his mother frequently, and stays when she insists. Lucky for him, he rarely sees his father. He has a separate apartment in New York. The Secretary is never home. Elizabeth doesn't mind. One night she tells Peter the tale of how they've grown apart. Peter listens attentively and rubs a comforting hand along her arm. She smiles warmly at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes. He blinks his confusion at her and she requests an explanation as to why he's come back here again. Two hours later, he finishes telling his mother everything. He went back there to be with Olivia, but she did not come back. He didn't notice it wasn't his Olivia, or he did, but he ignored it. Either way, he comitted the highest form of treason against the woman he loved, and he could never forgive himself. He tells her of the day he came here again. How the other Olivia had a cocksure grin plastered to her face, with a glint of pride in her eyes, like she'd won. He explained to her how he's sworn to himself that he will never touch that woman again, and he holds nothing for her except the utmost repuslion and disgust, a burning hatred that seethes through his veins. Somewhere along the misguided lines, she'd sort of fallen for him, but he'd made it clear to her that she meant absolutely nothing to him. She was married now, and pregnant. She was happy. He couldn't stand her. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of all the things his Olivia could never be, all because of him. He tells her how he feels like nothing more than a pawn in this war. A piece to be used and then discarded. He explains, or at least tries to, the machine. What it does, what it is, how it's supposed to use him. He tells her that this is the reason he came back, to make sure that it could never be used against anyone from any universe. He wants to destroy it, he's not yet sure how, but someday he swears to her that he will. He says that it's what she wanted. She always wanted to save both worlds, even at the expense of herself. He looks down when he's finished.

Elizabeth cups his cheek, and he watches as she fights back tears. Her son is in pain and there is nothing she can do to fix it. He's had to leave behind the woman he loves, his family, his friends, an entire world, literally everything. She realizes how hard he's trying to save everyone. She hopes with her entirety that it's not in vain. She makes him stay that night. Peter doesn't sleep, but he listens as his mother cries herself to sleep. Once her soft sobs and shuddering breaths have evened, his mind is flooded with thoughts of Olivia. He wonders what she's doing, how she is. He thinks that maybe by now she's met someone. His heart selfishly hopes that she hasn't, but only for a second before his brain takes over demanding that he wish only for her happiness. He doesn't want her wasting her life pining for him. He stares blankly at the ceiling not caring what tomorrow brings, or if it even comes.

Wow. That was a bit heavy, wasn't it? Soooo not like me. I have to admit though, that a few of my friends and I obsess a bit over self-hating, depressed Peter.

Anyway, I'd like to hear your thoughts on this, good or bad. And please point out if I've mucked anything up. I'm an American who prefers British English to the horrid thing we speak over here, so I tend to slip back and forth between the two (mostly when it comes to spelling).

And I will try to update this as often as I am able, but I've heaps of assignments to complete and exams to review for.