Here's my take on what Peter was going through during those all important moments of Entrada and Marionette.
The disclaimer is useless, as I obviously don't own anything.
Pretty please review! Yes? You'll make my day!
Note: This story is now in its third version. The first, with the same title, got deleted, the second is under the title Standstill, and the third (this one) has Standstill (revised version) as a first part of what is yet an undetermined number of chapters.
As he sat there, paralyzed, he couldn't help but feeling how strange it was to be this calm and analytical. Funny how the greater the distress he was in, the better he could control his emotions.
It often happened like that. A strange coolness and rationality took over him and gave him distance from what was happening to him.
He wasn't quite sure where that came from. Not from his mother, surely. Not from neither of them. Brilliant as they were, of their own right, they were governed by their hearts. One so much stronger than the other, but still, the heart trumped the mind. He had learned what love was from them both, but also the fear of loss.
As for Walter, he remembered all too well his father's inability to relate to his young son. If he had shown some moments of tenderness when he was growing up, they were mostly overshadowed by his overbearing presence and constant reproach of everything he did. Growing up around Walter had been pretty much a study in neglect.
In fairness, he could no longer tell which of the most dreaded memories of his father were of Walter and which were of Walternate. There were so many memories he had repressed or dismissed as fancies of his mind or as dreams, that had turned out to be real, which were mixed with the memories of his childhood Over Here. Now more than ever it was hard to differentiate between the lives in each of the universes.
What he was becoming increasingly aware of was that the bond forged with Walter over the past two years was stronger than blood. He was his son, and he was very sure that Walter loved him as much as he had loved his own son. His Peter.
Oddly enough, where reason made deciding between the two universes impossible – he had only achieved a standstill - emotion allowed him to make the decision. Olivia had had much to do with that. Early on he had admired her for the strength in her beliefs, for the way she pushed everyone around her to try and be their best, because nothing else was acceptable, for how she gave herself whole heartedly to her job. In many ways she was his exact opposite. Caring for her, as a colleague, a friend and as a part of that dysfunctional little family unit they had formed, came naturally. He loved her before any romantic notions entered his mind.
Well, no. In truth, if Olivia hadn't been in love with John, first, and grieving him, later, he wasn't sure if their relationship wouldn't have evolved differently. There had always been an underlying current between them, only he had chosen early on not to act on it. As it was, he began to entertain that possibility, hoping for it, when he began to realize that she needed him, and that she no longer tried to hide or repress it. She began to lean on him in a way that went so against her fierce need for independence, and that was all that he needed to let his feelings go in new directions.
As for Walter, well, he had been part of the decision to come back, too. When it came down to it, Walter had been willing to sacrifice himself to save him (twice!), whereas Walternate, his own father, had plotted to sacrifice him. Of course, he realized that the situation was probably not that clear cut, but he couldn't help feeling it.
So perhaps, there lay his answer – to where he got the detachment from. It seemed as though Walternate was the consummate strategist - cool headed, deeply rational and detached from the impact on individual lives, when he needed to be. As far as he could tell, Walternate was going to sacrifice his long lost son for the greater good.
On some level, he had to be grateful for that trait of his personality. That coolness and the ability to detach himself from his emotions had helped him get out of a scrape more than once. When a glimmer of hesitation or doubt would have gotten him killed, the stillness of emotions that usually descended on him was providential. His brain entered in hyper drive and he became calculating, he was able to map out the best course of action, and to assess the best way to gain the upper hand.
Right now, at the forefront of his mind was the image of his Olivia trapped somewhere Over There, and it was chilling. He would gladly forfeit retribution on that other Olivia, even on Walternate, if only that would get her back safe and sound.
Sitting again.
Only, now, he was feeling more helpless than ever. Every red stop light seemed like a growing barrier between the universes. Every minute wasted in the traffic, travelling from the Bronx to Newark, felt like a void pulling Olivia farther and farther away from him.
They would not cross over. He could not get to her.
Stuck.
He was stuck on one side and she was stuck on the other.
The only chance now was in capturing the other Olivia, the woman who had shared some of the happiest moments of his life. The thought depressed him to depths he didn't know he could reach. The first moments of their new kindled love – Olivia's and his - were wasted because some insane twist of fate made him a key piece in a covert war between universes. She was a captive in another world and he… He had been the happiest he had any memory of ever being.
He had been living a lie.
Again.
He had thought his life was beginning to make sense. Under the unimaginable weight that suddenly his very existence became, he loved and was loved back. He was starting to belong. He had finally found a purpose in life.
How curious it was that he, who had wandered the world and all walks of life, aimless, should now be the one who had to figure out how to save two universes. And while this quest – for what other word suited it best? – was unfolding, he had found a woman who could and was willing to accompany him.
Only, it turned out she was the wrong one.
In retrospect, the subtle differences had been obvious, and he should have known. It was that simple. Inconceivable as it was, he had been to the other side, he had seen how the two universes weren't that different, that it was the finer things that separated the familiar from the foreign.
So, maybe Walter was right. Maybe he had inherited an unwillingness to believe in what he didn't want to from his mother.
"She may be the only chance we have to recover our agent." Broyles said and terminated the call.
He felt his throat go dry. He loathed himself for even entertaining a moment of self pity. Whatever he was going through was nothing compared to what Olivia had to be enduring Over There.
Left behind and all alone.
He still felt strangely sedated and calm, but somehow his rational side was not winning this time. He was worried about Olivia and he feared for her safety. He was sure that time was of the essence, and if they failed to capture the other Agent Dunham, their options were reduced to zero. Despair was beginning to take hold of him.
"Peter, we'll get her. And we're going to bring Olivia home."
Broyles' attempt to rally him up only fuelled the latent anger he was feeling on account of that unbelievable life of theirs.
"Glad you're feeling so confident." He couldn't help but sounding bitter.
Back, she was back.
His incredible Olivia was back.
Hope had been revived when they succeeded in capturing the other Olivia. And when Broyles told him she was back, by her own means, relief and happiness filled him in equal measure, but those feelings were soon quelled by worry, after the moment it took him to process that she was on her way to the hospital.
Images of Olivia in a coma on a hospital bed entered his mind in a flash and all he wanted was to leave and be there by her side.
If some things were still as they had been, maybe his presence would help. He hoped it would.
They could not know what the consequences of yet another crossing between universes were. However, just before boarding the plane he had called Astrid, and the news were good, all things considered. She was still unconscious, but stable. There hadn't been any more seizures.
Sitting there looking out the airplane window, watching the bright white clouds rolling peacefully beneath, the guilt surged forward, like a tidal wave. It oppressed his every thought.
How would he tell her that while she was trapped, and enduring who knows what tortures, he had unknowingly been betraying her?
How could he explain that the oddities and the differences he saw, in a person he thought was her, could have been explained away so easily?
He wanted her forgiveness.
Only, he couldn't forgive himself, so how could she?
Oh! He wanted her forgiveness and their new possibilities back!
But he feared the worst.
He feared all might be lost.