Peter couldn't sleep that night.
There was too much swirling in his mind, too many things that could potentially go wrong tomorrow, and this had been plaguing him for days since Walter decided that the only way to retrieve Olivia back was to shock her in some pop psychology method of rebooting her. Turning over, he punched the pillow into a more comfortable position and stared at the clock on his nightstand. Blinking like a tell-tale heart, it read 2:15. Then 2:30. When it hit 2:45, he turned away in disgust and stared at the ceiling, trying to make out the cracks in the darkness and finding patterns, a comforting tick from his childhood. More images of Olivia with electrodes attached to her head screaming made his stomach churn and he grabbed his spare pillow to shove it over his face, muffling all noise and thoughts. The darkness was a welcomed comfort, but he caught a faint scent of Olivia's perfume lingering in the fibers, the delicate scent of lilac, and soon as the sensation clicked with recent memories, he flung it across the room like it was on fire.
Groggily, he wondered if they shared the same taste in perfume; he'd never noticed what Olivia had worn before. They were so similar but chasms apart, and he wondered if Olivia hadn't crawled out of the tank if he would have ever figured it out. And as soon as his mind contemplated that idea, his memory shot him back to Walter's lab weeks earlier. He had been working on the device all night, piecing it together with great difficulty and frustration. He hadn't realized he'd been there until day hit.
"Don't work too hard or you might turn into Walter."
Astrid's voice startled him; he hadn't realized she got to the lab that early in the morning. Looking up with bleary eyes he stretched—feeling the muscles his back burn as he moved. Astrid was shaking off her jacket and eyeing him with concern.
"Where you here all night?" She asked as she took in what he was doing. He mouth rounded as she made a little "oh." She quickly recovered and continued on her normal morning routine around the lab.
"Walter's not going to be happy. . ." she added nonchalantly as she rearranged some glass beakers.
Peter scratched his chin, aggravated. "Well, what Walter doesn't know won't kill him," he grinned, trying to get on Astrid's good side so she wouldn't rat him out to his overly paranoid father.
She opened her mouth to say something else when it happened. The whole lab shook with a magnitude so fierce Peter bit down hard on his tongue. The glass beakers that Astrid had moved earlier were rattling on the counter and crashing to the ground as the floor trembled under the weight of the quaking.
Peter gripped the ends of the table he was at, alarmed that he may have accidently triggered it the machine he was working on. He could hear Gene mooing in the corner as instruments in Walter's lab danced and shivered like drops of water on a hot pan. Peter braced himself against whatever the machine was about to do. The quake lasted a moment longer but the machine sat there, unthreatening as tin.
As the shaking subsided, Peter felt a rather unpleasant popping sensation in his ears before everything was as it was.
"Whoa, was that an earthquake?" Astrid asked, teetering through the wreckage of glass and fallen debris over to where Peter was. Peter sat unmoved from his location, staring intently down at his arm. The sleeves had been hastily rolled up on his t-shirt at some time during the night and he was looking, rather perplexed, at the hair on his arm lifting up from their roots like they were electrically charged. Shifting his gaze from his arm to Astrid, Peter met her mystified expression with his own.
"I don't think that was an earthquake, Astrid."
That's when he heard it—the heavy arm from Walter's sensory deprivation tank swing open, clanging against the weight of the metal frame. He was instantly up, stepping between Astrid and the tank, adrenaline and fear extinguishing any and all thought he was entertaining before. Scanning the lab for some sort of weapon of defense, he cursed himself for never getting a firearm he worked for the FBI for Christsakes and he knew Astrid didn't carry one, and he felt rather helpless against whatever it was crawling out of the tank at that moment.
"Astrid, call Olivia-" Peter ordered in hushed tones, taking cautious steps toward the back of the tank, keeping Astrid at arm's length and wishing badly that Olivia and her gun were in the lab with them. He heard Astrid backtrack and pull out her cell phone from her purse, dialing.
Peter mustered up his most authoritative voice and called out, "come out of there," he demanded. He could hear Astrid talking to Olivia in rapid succession, but the blood pounding in his ears prevented him from hearing what. He swung around cautiously, expecting the worst.
"Peter?" He froze. The voice was instantly recognizable, and his brow furrowed—it wasn't Astrid's voice, and he knew the voice he heard coming from the tank was who she was supposed to be talking to on the phone. His eyes found her.
Olivia, red-haired and soaking wet, was attempting to pull herself out of the confines of the tank, with fumbling arms and shaky legs. Peter remained rooted to the spot, feeling his mouth go dry.
"Peter," she repeated, her lips cracked and bloody, and Peter could see the bruises on her arms and neck, some dark purple—others lighter colors of green and yellows, telling him they'd been there for some time.
"Astrid, hang up the phone." He managed, and he took notice that Astrid had moved around the side to meet him, obviously recognizing the voice herself, though he wouldn't release Olivia from his gaze.
She hoisted herself into an awkward upright position; half standing—half crouching as her face broke into a forced smile.
"Olivia, dear god," he heard Astrid stammer, but he couldn't move, there were too many things whirling in his mind, trying to piece together what he saw. He didn't make a plausible hypothesis until her eyes met his with gripping intensity and he knew which Olivia stood before him.
"I made it home," she whispered, the effort strenuous for her. Peter took a step toward her and felt his stomach drop when her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed, tumbling out of the tank and crashing into Peter as he raced to catch her. He sagged under her dead weight as she dropped, jerking in his clutch. He hoisted her under the arms to pull out of the tank onto the lab floor, pulling her head to the side so she could breathe as she shook violently. He swore loudly, suddenly terrified.
"Olivia," he called, trying to revive her, his voice shaking.
"I'm calling 9-1-1," Astrid said, sprinting back to her phone.
"Wait, Astrid—get your car, we're taking her to Walter's." Peter concluded. Whatever happened to her, any hospital wouldn't help. He had to get her home. At this time the only person he was willing to trust was Walter.
"Peter, we don't know what's wrong with her, she could be dyi—"she snapped back, her anxiety plain on her face. Olivia's jerking stopped, she was still. Her stillness was more alarming than her shaking had been. Pulling his head down to her chest, he wedged his ear against her, feeling with immense relief from her heart beating, but not the rise and fall of her chest. She wasn't breathing.
"Get the Goddamned car Astrid," He barked as he pulled Olivia's sallow face back toward him and covered her mouth with his own; blowing hot and desperate air into her lungs, and praying she would take it. He heard the lab door slam open as Astrid ran outside to retrieve the car, but he wouldn't spare a look to make sure. He was still plugging her nose and forcing her to breathe again.
"Come on, 'Livia," he begged, his voice thick as he covered her mouth with his own. He wasn't sure how much time they had before the other Olivia got there, but he calculated about ten minutes if she ran the red lights on 3rd and 5th street.
When he pushed another gush of air into her mouth, this time felt it push back at him, filling his own mouth with air. He felt her jerk awake, coughing and sucking in air. Her eyes swung open and he recognized her, even under the red hair and foreign clothing she wore—he knew. The seriousness of the situation came crashing on him, there's two Olivia's in this universe. One of them didn't belong and she was close to five minutes out. He pushed them aside, focusing on the situation at hand.
"Keep breathing," he soothed, crouching closer, cradling her face in his hands and he continued to murmur softly as she came around. He heard the door open again and heard Astrid call out to him.
"Come on Olivia, we've gotta move," he coaxed, pulling his arms under her and lifting her up, noting how light she felt in his arms as he stood with her and made a run for the door, praying Walter knew what to do.
The memory still haunted him. Not just because of the terrifying way that she had come crashing back into this existence, but because of all the lies and deceit that her return exposed. He took little comfort in the fact that everyone—Astrid, Walter, even Broyles was deceived by the other Olivia, but he took it much more personally. He had spent so much time with her, entertained so many romantic moments—he should have been the one that figured it out. He was a genius; he always prided himself on the fact he was clever enough to figure any sticky situation out, to deduce and make reasonable conclusions. But his genius meant nothing. He was bested by the very person he cared the most for. This haunting revelation kept him up almost every night. And if Olivia did return to him tomorrow, he was secretly frightened of what the implications of his genius might bring upon the both of him.
Peter didn't sleep that night; he watched the sun rise up and break into his bedroom. He knew it was time. He had to get Olivia back regardless of what it cost him.