Chapter 52

-Boston, Massachusetts

Peter leaned forward in his seat, checking out the hanging sign above the bar's entrance as they rolled past in Olivia's suv. In an elegant, flowing script, Foley's was in written in green above a shield's crest, on which was a mix of stars and shrubbery. He recognized the name and the bar, with its mustardy yellow exterior, having driven past it on many occasions, but never having had a reason to visit before. The bar encompassed the first floor of a narrow office building situated at the corner of a busy intersection, not far from the Federal Building, and coincidentally, the hospital they'd just left.

Olivia cruised slowly down the block, craning her head from side to side, searching for available spots ahead of them. They were lucky, happening on an open spot about a block away, and she quickly executed a perfect parallel parking job in the face of mounting pressure from other vehicles waiting behind them. Grinning at her competence, he pushed open his door, then waited as she pulled a black hair tie from the ashtray in the center console, and began to pulling her long hair back into an efficient ponytail. He watched her for a moment, finding the procedure almost pornographic in nature, until she paused and glanced over at him, arms raised behind her head. He felt his face catch fire, and quickly slipped out of the suv to the curb. A moment later, Olivia joined him on the sidewalk, her ponytail swinging behind her.

There was a fair amount of foot traffic, with the lunch rush just ending and they weaved their way against the flow, occasionally brushing shoulders as they parted for a pedestrian and then came together again. Peter glanced down at her discreetly as they walked, taking measure of her current mood. There was a bounce to her step, a slight upturn to her lips which he took for contentment. It was about as clear a sign that she was happy, or least not uncomfortable at his being at her side as he could expect from her. In all honestly, it had been awhile since she'd seemed truly uncomfortable around him, but he didn't dwell on what that might mean. Constant reminders to frame their friendship within strictly platonic borders had become habit, almost without thought, though he still was prone to slipping occasionally, particularly when she was in close proximity, as he had in suv a moment ago. His gaze lingered on her face, following the pattern of freckles dusting the pale skin of her cheek up to the viridian gleam of her eye.

Suddenly aware that he was gawking, he looked away, ahead of them to the bar's entrance. "So how was Germany?" he said, filling in the gap of silence. "They give you any trouble with Jones?"

Olivia glanced up at him, "It was...complicated." she said, blushing faintly, and then let out an exasperated chuckle. "They were literally dragging me out of Jones's cell when you got the answer from Smith."

"Were they now?" Peter grinned. "I'd have loved to have seen that. I didn't know you were such a troublemaker, Dunham."

He grunted as her elbow caught him lightly in the side. "Watch it, Peter." she said, giving him a semi-playful glare. "I've got my gun."

"Believe me, I'm not complaining..." he said with a laugh as they reached the entrance. "It's nice to know I'm not the only one who seems to find trouble." He pulled open the heavily sculpted door, and then motioned her in ahead of him. "Ladies first."

Arching an amused eyebrow at the gesture, Olivia merely nodded, and then moved ahead of him through the door. He followed after her into the tavern's dim confines, at once liking the atmosphere as he stepped over the threshold.

A jazzy saxophone was playing lightly in the background, Coltrane, from the sound of it, muting the voices of the few remaining patrons from the lunch hour, most of whom were seated at the booths and tables between the entrance and the wide bar across the back of the space. Dark paneled walls with an aged, leathery luster and brick veneered columns were decorated sparsely with various pieces of sporting equipment, relics from the days long past before brand names and logos were displayed across every surface. Pendant lights with stained glass shades were suspended overhead, casting the room in a darkly orange glow.

He followed Olivia over to the bar, passing a jukebox with a framed black and white picture of Bobby Orr, in flight, arms raised in victory after his famous goal. Peter grinned at the picture as he moved past it. Yes, he approved of the place, and was pleased that she had chosen it. He wondered how often she came there, whether it was one of those bars often frequented by law enforcement, or if it was her own hideout, an escape.

Following her example, he pulled off his jacket and slid onto the stool next to her. Her gun in its holster at her side drew several glances, the intimidating silhouette distinct against the light blue of her blouse, but the eyes turned away after a moment, minding their own business. The bartender was a burly fellow, with a shaved head, and arms that rivaled his friend Brian's back in his heyday. Across from them on the other side of the bar, tiered shelves of hard liquor caught his attention, and he lingered on the bourbons and scotches, craving their burn, but settled on a beer instead, again following Olivia's example after she ordered her own along with a plate of fries.

The two of them must look like quite the odd pair, her in a suit, obviously a cop, him in his untucked, unbuttoned shirt and baggy pants, along with his unshaven cheeks. They probably looked like a handler meeting with her informant. The thought brought a smile to his face. If they only knew the truth.

"What are you grinning at?" Olivia said as the bartender returned with their drinks. She swiveled on her stool toward him, pressing her knee into his thigh.

Peter took a swallow, enjoying the chill as it went down. "I was just thinking how the two of us looked together." he said. Olivia's eyes gleamed dangerously at his response, and he chuckled, rolling his eyes. "It's not what you're thinking..." He gestured in the space between them. "To everyone else in here. You with your suit and gun, me looking like a complete slacker...an unlikely pair."

"Oh..." she said, cheeks reddening noticeably. Her eyes drifted over his wrinkled shirt. "That's the same shirt you had on before I left..." A note of concern entered her voice. "Peter, have you slept at all?"

"As a matter of fact, this is the same shirt," he said, grabbing at fabric and pulling it away from his chest with a smirk. "Thank you for noticing. I caught a few hours on your desk after the procedure. Not the most comfortable surface I've ever put my head on, but it did the trick." If his admission of resting at her desk bothered her, she didn't show it. "By the way, I think we could use a sofa in your office. There's space along the wall under the windows."

"Sounds like you've really put some thought into this." Olivia said, lips curling with amusement.

"Yep, measured it out and everything." he said, grinning as he lifted his glass again.

Giggling in a very un-Olivia-like manner, she sipped at her beer, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "What was it like?" she said after a pause. "The procedure, I mean." Her gaze rose upwards to his forehead, focusing on the welts where the electrodes had been attached. "Was it painful?"

Peter felt at one of spots at his temple, rubbing it at tentatively. "It was...no big deal, really." he said with a shrug. Olivia lifted an eyebrow skeptically, clearly not buying it. He sighed, and then flashed her a tight smile. "All right...it hurt like hell." he admitted. "But compared to...other things that have happened to me lately, it was a piece of cake."

"But what did it feel like when you were…whatever…with Smith?" The question was sharp, intense, as if she had a particular reason for asking.

Peter thought for a moment, recalling the burning sensation that had seemed to come from inside his head. "It's kind of hard to describe." he said hesitantly. "There was pressure…a sort of heat, for lack of a better word…inside my head." He tapped his temple several times. "And then Walter shot me up with something. Not sure what, but according to Astrid, I was out in la-la-land. There was nothing else until the very end, and then it was just like a...a single image that sort of...flashed in my head." He chuckled, and then took a sip of his drink. "It was very weird, to say the least."

Olivia nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on his face. "Peter...you know you don't have to-" she started in a soft voice, but stopped as the bartender returned, bearing her plate of fries and a bottle of ketchup. He set the plate between them as if uncertain of their status, to be shared or eaten singularly, and then moved away.

They both stared at the plate for a moment, before Peter pushed it across the polished bar top in her direction with one finger. Instead of continuing with what she'd started to say, Olivia began eating, foregoing the ketchup, chasing the fries with her beer. He let her eat, content with the quiet between them. He thought he knew what she'd been about to say anyway, something about how it was her job to do the dangerous stuff, that he hadn't signed on for it. She was wrong though, he had signed on for it, had gone all-in when he'd decided to stay.

He watched her eat for a moment, then looked past her, to the far end of the bar, where two wooden baseball bats were mounted to the brick veneer on one side of a column, criss-crossed above an ancient-looking baseball mitt. The glove was small by current standards, more akin to the size worn by children. He stared hard at the glove, thinking of normal kids and their normal childhoods, and his lack of one. He was not one of them. His father had made sure of that. On some level he'd always been aware it, had felt out of place to one degree or another, as if he were not quite in sync with everyone else.

He was going to tell her about it, what his father had done to him as a child. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the decision to do so was made. Maybe he'd been subconsciously waiting for her to come back so that he could. He had to tell somebody, and she of all people could understand abuse. Looking away from her, he inspected the amber liquid in his glass, working himself up to it.

"What's wrong?" Olivia said suddenly, looking over at him.

"...I remembered something last night." Peter said, and stared down at the overhead lighting's reflection in the bar top. "When Walter was going over the procedure with me and Astrid." He looked toward her with one eye. "Something he said...it triggered some memory from my childhood."

"What?" she said, sitting up straight on her stool. She almost appeared to be bracing for a blow.

"He…he used to strap me to a chair and then shock me...with car batteries." he said, watching as her eyes widened and she sucked in a sharp breath. "I can't really remember many details…but he didn't deny it." Peter said, and looked down at his glass again. He grabbed it up and finished it off with several large gulps, then set it roughly back down on bar top with a thud that drew a critical glance from the bartender. "Said he was accumulating data when I confronted him about it." He peered over at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

Olivia remained silent for a moment, their eyes locked together. There was sadness in her gaze before she turned away, taking a large drink of her own. "I'm sorry, Peter." she said finally, glancing over at him. "I...I know that probably doesn't help much. Believe me, I know." She finished her beer, then ran her fingers around the rim, staring at it intently, before looking back over at him. "You want a french fry?" she said, picking one up and holding it out to him. "They're good."

Peter stared at the fry for moment, unsure if she was serious or not. From the look on her face, she appeared to be, and the absurdity of it all, of the insanity that both their lives had taken on hit him at once. A laugh bubbled up from deep in his gut, bursting out his nose with a snort which he managed to catch just in time with a hand, muffling the sound before it could carry far. Olivia grinned at his disposition, still holding the fry out toward him.

"Thank you..." he said, reaching for it with an unsteady hand. He took a bite, enjoying the saltines. "It's not going to get any better is it?" he asked, chewing and then finishing off the rest. "All this...it's only gonna get weirder."

"Yeah...I think so." she said, resting her head on the palm of one hand, watching him.

"Well, in that case..." He looked up, getting the bartender's attention with the intention of ordering another round of drinks. "I could use another drink or three, what about you?" he said, and waited for her nod of consent before proceeding. She hesitated only for an instant before giving the go ahead.

After their beers arrived, they drank in silence for several minutes, enjoying the other's company. Or at least he enjoyed hers. What Olivia thought of their outing was a mystery, her face was unreadable, her attention focused inward as she toyed idly with her ponytail, pulled to the front over one shoulder. He took the opportunity to reach over and boost the last of her fries, an action which did not go unnoticed by her. She made no comment, however, and merely quirked her lips at his theft. They had come a long way since Iraq, when they had been barely civil.

The way she'd asked him the procedure with Smith, her curiosity at what it felt stood out to him. He had never asked her about her experience in the tank before. At the time, they had barely known each other and it had seemed too personal, nor had he been all that interested. Now though, things had changed, for both of them.

He took a swallow of his beer, then set the glass down. "You mind if I ask you a question?" he said, catching her eye.

Olivia raised her eyebrows and shrugged. "Sure…I guess…" she said, and then narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "About what?"

"The tank."

"Wh…what about it?" she said, going still in her seat.

Choosing his words carefully, Peter wet his lips, sensing uneasiness radiating off her in waves. "Well…seeing how you're the only other person I know that's let Walter mess with their brain," he said, catching a hint of a smile flicker across her face. "I was just…curious what it felt like for you, the sharing consciousness part, specifically." She didn't reply immediately, and a lengthy silence elapsed as she considered his question. He shook his head, touching her arm for a moment through her shirt. "You know what, never mind, Olivia…don't feel like you have to answer…I was just curious."

"No…it…it's okay." Olivia said, looking down at her glass. She took a drink, then glanced back over at him. "It's just…kinda hard to put into words, you know what I mean?" She smiled, and then added, "I guess you do know what I mean."

Peter nodded, he did indeed understand exactly what she meant. His description of what it had felt like with Smith had been vague at best, the barest outline of what it had felt like, and that had only been with a dead guy. He could only imagine how mind-boggling that must have been for her with a live person on the other end of the connection.

Olivia was quiet for several minutes, her eyes fixed on something only she could see. "I...remember thinking at first that I was going crazy..." she started in low voice. "That Walter's drugs had...broken my mind. It was like I was...losing the parts of myself that make me...me. I couldn't feel or hear or see...anything. There was just this…black nothing." She sipped at her drink, her gaze still distant, looking down through the bar top. "And then I felt something in there with me..." Running both hands through her pulled back hair, she sighed and then glanced over at him. "In hindsight, I suppose it was John. He...it had a...a gravity, it that makes sense, and I couldn't resist it, kinda like I was falling or something. And then we touched...and I was somewhere else, with John, and he showed me what I needed to see." She took another swallow of her drink. "And that's it. That's what happened."

"Whoa…" Peter rubbed a hand over chin, tickling his palm with his scruff. "That sounds…well, I would say insane, but…clearly it worked." he said, exchanging glances with her.

Olivia shrugged uneasily and looked away, chewing on her lip. "I'll be right back." she said, and then slid off her stool. She moved past him, heading for the restrooms down a narrow hallway to his right.

Swiveling on his stool, Peter followed her purposeful stride as she disappeared down the corridor. It occurred to him that her world view, her beliefs about what was real and possible must have been shattered into a million pieces that day, and that she had seemed to just take it, and everything since then in stride. He would have ended up in a padded room.

It was just another confirmation of what he already knew about Olivia, that she was…extraordinary. And on the heels of that thought came the realization that he had missed her while was she was gone. That she'd only been gone less than forty-eight hours was irrelevant. He'd missed her presence in the lab, and had just flat out missed her in general. There was no way he could ever tell her though, for doing telling her would bring the vast differences in their character out in the open, exposing his darkness to her glaring light. He didn't need that kind of exposure to know the unfortunate truth, that he would never be worthy of her, that his taint ran far too deep.

The thought left a heavy feeling behind, a weight pressing down on his shoulders. He stared down at the remainder of his drink, then tipped back his glass and drained the rest in a single swallow. Setting the glass down, he looked around for the bartender. He was going to require another.


Olivia stood before the counter, washing her hands in the restroom's only sink. She scrubbed them clean with soap from the dispenser and then rinsed. After watching the bubbles as they disappeared down the drain, she turned off the faucet, and then looked up to the mirror above the sink and leaned close, inspecting her face in the reflection.

Her skin was pale, with dark rings and puffiness under her eyes, which were themselves starting to look a little bloodshot. In a word, she looked exhausted, and was beginning to feel that way as well. Her lack of proper sleep over the last few days was catching up with her. It was bound to happen at some point.

Pulling back from the mirror, her gaze drifted upward to her hair, and she noticed several strands that escaped their confinement in her hair tie. She considered fixing it briefly, removing the hair tie and starting over, but instead chose to just pull the tie tight, the loose hair be-damned. It was just hair, and there was no reason for it to look perfect at present. She doubted Peter cared, and so what if he did? Reaching upwards, she pulled her hair tight, enjoying the pressure as it tugged on her scalp, keeping her on her toes.

The restroom door's reflection in the mirror caught her eye, and she thought of Peter sitting out at the bar. He was waiting for her to return, and hiding out in the bathroom was only acceptable for so long, yet she wasn't quite ready to face him again.

His revelation of what had been done to him as child had been a shock, though with what she knew of Walter before his incarceration, it probably shouldn't have. He'd crossed every other boundary, why not that one? And Peter had still chosen to participate in the procedure, even with the full knowledge of his abuse at his father's hands.

Olivia could only imagine how hard that must have been for him, and wasn't sure she could have done the same, if it had been her, facing her stepfather. Their situations were not precisely the same, but abuse was abuse. She had underestimated him, and his commitment to their work. That gut feeling she'd had about him from the beginning had been right all along. He was a good man, better than he knew.

Another thought occurred, holding her feet in place in front of the mirror. Peter had confided in her. There was sense of pride at the realization. He'd actually told her something from his past, something that he'd never told anyone before, unprompted. Given how guarded he was, it was a bit of a surprise. She wondered what had changed between them to make him do so. The answer came to her after a moment's thought.

He was guarded with his past, true, but so was she with her own, and with what she'd told him about her stepfather, it made sense that he would want to tell someone who had experienced something similar. The two of them were more alike than she could have guessed.

Olivia smiled at the thought, watching herself in the mirror. The smile faded after a few seconds and she dropped her eyes as guilt began to flood in from all corners. She hadn't been entirely honest with him. There was her secret. She had told his father and not him. At the time, she'd had what she thought were good reasons for not including him, but they all seemed empty to her now, without any ground to stand on. The truth would come out eventually, it always did, and it would be better if he heard it from her first, instead of from Walter or from on the other side of a psych ward's viewing glass. The conversation about the tank they'd just had would have been a perfect opening.

Leaning with both hands on the countertop, Olivia stared down at the drab surface, the guilt all-consuming. He deserved to know, and fuck…she should have told him already. He won't look at her any differently, she was sure of that if nothing else.

.

Peter was still where she'd left him, sitting on his stool at the bar, drink in hand. His glass was fuller than it had been, but not fresh, evidence of how long she'd hidden in the restroom. She hesitated at the doorway, studying him as he took a sip, and then ran his fingers through the scruff on his chin, appearing to be deep in thought. There was a sag to his shoulders, a rather defeated looking posture if she'd ever seen one. It looked out of place on him.

Steeling her nerves, Olivia moved forward out into the bar, heading for her stool to Peter's left. He looked over his shoulder as she passed behind him, flashing her one of his winning smiles.

"Hey, I thought you got lost for a minute there." he quipped as she sat down next to him. Olivia glanced over at him as she picked up her half empty glass, and the wide grin slid from his face. "Everything okay?" he asked, setting his glass down and turning toward her. Concern was etched across his features, deepening the groove at the bridge of his nose and narrowing his eyes.

Concern for her, she told herself. Olivia took a large gulp of her drink, taking her time to swallow it down before answering him.

"Olivia, what is it?" Peter said, sounding fairly alarmed. "Do you want to leave? We don't have to stay…"

Lowering her head, she stared down at her reflection in the bar for a moment, and then turned toward him. "Peter…" she started and then paused, letting her gaze wander over his face where it would before coming to a stop on his eyes. They seemed particularly blue at that moment, gleaming with an inner light. His face softened as they regarded each other without blinking, the line of tension building between them quickly.

"What is it?" he repeated softly, his voice barely audible of the ambient sounds of the bar.

Olivia looked away from him, exhaling the breath she'd been holding, and then caught his eye again, feeling more relaxed than she had. "Peter…" she started again. "Something else happened when I was in the tank. Something…that...well, it's gonna sound crazy."

"What?" he said, shifting on his stool.

"It…started about a month or so after John died." she said. "I got a phone call. It was actually in the middle of that case with the cylinder, the night before you were abducted." Peter nodded, urging her on with his eyes. They were intense, the way they got when his full attention was brought to bear on a problem. "There was no one on the line at first, but…then I heard a voice. It wasn't very clear, but…it was John…or his voice at least." Olivia hesitated, expecting an interruption, but none came, so she plunged onward, telling him about she'd futilely tried to have the call traced, and how John had then appeared in her apartment after she'd picked him up at the hospital the next night.

She watched his reaction closely, looking for any sign of doubt, any pulling away from her, but there was none. Just more concern directed her way. Her mouth was dry, and she took another sip before telling him the rest, how John had appeared again at the Federal Building, and then again at the lab during the Joseph Meegar case. "It was almost as if he were trying to help me…" Olivia said, mopping an anxious hand across her brow. "And I know that I must sound like I've lost my mind, but you have to believe me, it happened."

"I believe you…" Peter said slowly, and then abruptly leaned his head back, staring up that ceiling as if he'd come to a realization. "Uh…I remember thinking that you were acting very weird during that case, even my father commented on it." He rubbed at his neck, and the glanced over at her. "I guess seeing dead people does that to you."

"Yeah…" Olivia agreed with a sour chuckle. "It does."

Peter grinned, and then swiveled on his seat to face her, all traces of humor wiped off his face, which seemed almost menacing in its harshness. "And what did Walter say about it?" he asked. There was no question in his voice of whether or not his father knew, only certainty.

Olivia blinked at the question, taken aback by how quickly he had put two and two together. She felt her mouth drop open and promptly closed it with a snap. He's a genius, Olivia. she reminded herself. He may not show it all that often, but he is. Looking down at her glass, she shrugged weakly and then nodded. "He said that a part of John's consciousness must have gotten trapped in my head while I was in the tank." she admitted. "That when I saw him, it was my brain trying to expel his memories…or…or something like that."

Shaking his head slowly, Peter nodded, and then turned away from her, his lips pressed together in a bitter smile. He snatched up his beer and chugged it down, emptying the glass. She followed his gaze as he looked past her, appearing to focus on a pair of old bats mounted on the wall behind the bar. His face became clouded with raw fury the longer his gaze lingered on them, and she figured the baseball bats must have held some special significance to him. Making an inference of her own, she realized that it wasn't her that he was angry at.

"It was my choice, Peter." she said firmly, putting a hand on his forearm. She could feel him straining through his shirt, squeezing his glass in vise-like grip. "I chose to get in the tank. No one made me, not you…not your father."

He glanced down at her hand, then up to her face. After a moment, he sighed, the muscles in his forearm relaxing. Olivia released him, and he looked down at her sideways. He lifted his glass, but set it back down, realizing it was empty. Getting the bartender's attention, he motioned for another. "Fair enough." he said, and then snorted quietly. "I suppose it was John's memories that led you to his secret office then."

Olivia lowered her eyes, nodding reluctantly. She had lied to his face about that. Picking up her glass, she took a sip, enjoying the slight buzz that coming to the foreground. It loosened her lips, making confessions easier to bear, and apologies less bitter of a pill to swallow. It had always been that way for her.

"I'm sorry, Peter." she said after a brief silence. "I…should have told you sooner. But, I thought I was going crazy for a while there, and well…your father seemed like a good person to talk about that."

Peter chuckled, his face brightening to its normal glow. "Forget about it." he said. "I understand completely." He glanced over at her, smiling lopsidedly. "Thank you for trusting me." He nodded at the bartender, who set a new glass before him. "You know, I'm glad you're not crazy." he said, looking over at her with a wide smile, showing all his teeth. "It's kinda been bothering me for a while now."

"Hah…you're very funny, Peter." Olivia said lightly, glaring daggers at him. He leaned away from her with a mad cackle, and her mock-outrage fell away, replaced by mirth at the situation. Grabbing her glass, she emptied it, feeling relieved that everything was finally out in the open between them. She was aware of her own shortcomings, of her inability to let people in. It was a small step, but a step nonetheless. They had each given up a small part of themselves to the other, and each package had been handled with care. As a friend would.

"Any regrets?" Peter said as she set her glass down. "Knowing the consequences."

Olivia considered the question for less than a second before answering. "No. I made the only choice I could, given the information I had at the time." she said, thinking back to that frantic day in the lab. She had been operating on her instincts only, and she had always trusted them. She wasn't about to start doubting herself now. "What about you?" she said, turning his question back on him. It was something she'd asked him already, but she had to make sure answer hadn't changed. "Are you sure you don't regret coming back with me, knowing what you know about your father, and what he did to you?"

Peter thought for a moment, staring upwards. "No…I don't regret any of it." he said. "It's kinda hard to stay angry at Walter for too long. He's not the same man I remember from before. Whatever they did to him at St. Claire's, it…changed him." He seemed conflicted by the insight, and gazed down at his hands with troubled eyes before glancing back at her. "Besides," he said, curving lips into his trademark smirk, "I would have never to see all this." He gestured around the bar, spreading his hands wide. There was a hint of his usual sarcasm in his tone, but his eyes said differently, holding her with that inner glow that was impossible to look away from. "And…and…that would have been shame, 'Livia." he added in a quiet voice, thick with some emotion she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Feeling sanguine, Olivia relaxed up against the bar top, resting her head in the palm of one hand and watching his profile as he lifted his glass, the muscles in his throat shifting as he swallowed. She kind of liked the way her name sounded on his lips, how he sometimes shortened it, removing or perhaps forgetting the first syllable. No one had ever called her that way before. He turned toward her, giving her a tilted, curious look.

There were things she wanted to tell him, but would never be able to say out loud, at least not at present. That she was glad he came back with her, that he'd chosen to stay and help, and that his shouldering some of the burden meant more to her than he could possibly know. Olivia tried to convey some of those sentiments with her gaze, hoping he could read her as well as she thought he could.

He seemed to understand, as his lips curved into a fractional smile, which widened slowly as they maintained their tenuous connection, until the bartender unexpectedly arrived in front of them, interrupting their silent communication. Olivia sat up straight and looked away him, feeling a flush warming her cheeks.

What are you doing, Olivia? The voice was her own, the tone she used when questioning suspects. The Agent side of her personality. It was sobering in its detachment. What was she doing? Her innocent intentions always seemed to go out the window when they were alone together, and despite knowing this, she still put herself in those same situations repeatedly.

She ordered another drink, vowing internally that it would be her last. She needed to retain at least some control over her actions, over her intentions toward him.

When her drink arrived a moment later, she drank a gulp down greedily, watching Peter out of the corner of her eye. The defeated slump to his shoulders was back, making him seem weary and downtrodden. After a moment, he corrected his posture, forcing his usual carefree mask into place.

Olivia sighed, feeling sad at the sight, but did likewise, letting walls that had been partially breached rebuild, putting her own mask back in place.

.

There was an interval of uneasy silence, which she detested, and only reaffirmed her choice to make sure things remained as they were between them. It was better that way, cleaner, easier for everyone involved.

"So, did David Robert Jones ever explain his question to Joseph Smith?" Peter asked after several minutes.

Olivia shook her head, grateful the subject had moved to safer ground. "No. Nothing." she said, "He was pretty tightlipped, but he did say something odd while we were waiting for…for you, I guess." Peter chuckled, sounding like his normal self again, much to her relief. "He told me how loyal his people were to him, and then he asked me if I could say the same."

"Was he talking about John?"

"Maybe…I don't know." she said. "He said something else, suggested that we were being manipulated, that someone wanted us to meet."

"Sounds like he bullshit to me." he said with a shrug. "Or that he was the one doing the manipulating. But it all seems needlessly complex." He grinned, and nudged her with his elbow. "Maybe he's just a big fan of yours, and wanted to meet you."

Olivia snorted, finding the idea absurd. "How could he even know who I am?" she said. "I'm no one."

Peter's eyes flared for an instant, his look intense. He shook his head. "I wouldn't say you're no one..." he said. "If Jones is involved with this…Pattern Broyles keeps telling us about, it stands to reason they might be aware of their adversaries, and by adversaries, I mean you…us." He poked her in the shoulder meaningfully with his index finger.

Olivia thought for a moment. She hadn't considered it from that angle. When put that way, David Robert Jones having an interest in her made a little more sense. Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head. "Like you said, it's still too complicated though." she told him, and took a sip of her drink. "How could they have known how events would unfold?"

"You'd have to be able to predict the future," Peter said with a smile. "Which last time I checked, wasn't in the realm of possibilities,though I could think of several lucrative things to do with that ability." He lifted his glass, watching her over the rim as he took a sip.

Olivia rolled her eyes. Of course he would look at it in that light, she thought fondly. "The Pattern..., she mused, staring into her glass. "What if it's some kind of…phenomenon?"

"Phenomenon?" he said, wrinkling his brow. "You're starting to sound a little like Walter, Olivia."

"I don't know..." she replied, purposefully ignoring his second comment. "All these coincidences...from the very beginning." She puts her hands to her temples, ordering her thoughts. "There's what happened with John…which led to you and your father, and your connections with the Observer when he saved your lives, and then what happened with the cylinder. And now this thing with Loeb, and Jones being the only one that could save him." She met Peter's eyes. He was paying close attention to what she was saying, with a not a hint of humor on his face. She leaned closer. "I shouldn't have even been able to see him…but Lucas was able to get me in. No one could have counted on that."

"Who's Lucas?" he asked.

"Oh...uhh...he's an old friend of mine…from the military." she said, glossing over their relationship. "He's a member of the German Parliament and he knew the prison warden." She took a breath, and another drink. "My point is, that it just doesn't seem natural."

Peter was silent for a moment, and she could see the gears turning behind his eyes. "Maybe it wasn't a coincidence." he said finally. "You might be surprised at how well accurate intel, and just plain old research can predict and induce certain responses from a mark...or marks."

Olivia grinned, and shook her head. "And let me guess...you know this from personal experience?"

"I can neither confirm, nor deny that statement, Agent Dunham." Peter chuckled and finished off his beer. Follow suit, she drained her glass and set it down on the bar top. "Another?" he said, tilting his head toward the bartender.

"No." she said, and checked the time on her watch. "Three's my limit for a weekday afternoon." And for making sure things didn't get complicated, she added silently, slipping off her stool. "Can we get the tab?" she asked the bartender.

When the bartender returned, he set the bill down between them, and Peter snatched it up before it before she could, much to her indignation.

"I got it." he said, pointedly ignoring her look, and reaching for the wallet in his back pocket.

"Peter-" she started warningly.

"Don't worry, Dunham." he cut in, pulling several large bills from his wallet and dropping them on the bar. "You can foot the bill next time." he said with a smirk, and then slid off his stool.

"Next time?" Olivia said, cocking an eyebrow as she looked up at him. "That's a pretty big assumption there, Bishop."

"Yep, next time." Peter said, nodding confidently as he pushed his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm pretty sure we're gonna need to blow off some steam again at some point, aren't you? The real question is this, why haven't we done this before now?" Without waiting for her to reply, he turned and moved away from her toward the exit.

Olivia smiled, watching his back as she pulled on her coat, and then trailed after him. It was a good question, with a complicated answer. She had gone drinking with Charlie and John after closing a case to celebrate on many occasions. Maybe she hadn't felt up to it, or maybe it had been too soon after John's death. She wasn't sure why her and Peter never had, mostly she just hadn't thought about it, but maybe it was about time she started to.


Walter was seated on the unforgiving piano bench, back straight, arms extended forward, fingers resting lightly on the old upright's ivory keyboard. His eyes were closed in tight concentration, his breath steady, maintaining perfect stillness until he felt his heart rate reach its lowest dip. When he was ready, he took a deep breath, and launched into the first movement of the sonata.

He focused on the feel of the bench beneath him, the humidity of the lab pressing down lightly on skin on the back of his hand, and the sound of each note individually as they vibrated through the pads of his fingertips and up through his arm. His fingers feathered over the keys, lightly when required, with force when called for, as dictated by the piece's cadence.

The melodic notes were soothing as they washed over him, calming his frenetic mind to more subdued pace, and he sighed, relishing the silence of his thoughts. He loved music, all forms of it, appreciated its physiological effects on the brain and the body. He loved how it could lift one's spirit and inspire hope when none could be found otherwise. It was particularly useful getting one's thoughts out of a rut, allowing obstacles to be viewed from within a different context. He had proven it many times in the lab, him and Belly both. Most of all, he loved its association with memories, how a single note could recall past events only dimly remembered, and bring them back in perfect clarity. The piece he was playing was one such, and happened to be Elizabeth's favorite. In his mind's eye, he was watching unobserved from the doorway.

A very young Peter was attempting to play for her again, and Walter can hear the discordant plunks! as his not-quite-long-enough fingers fumbled over a particularly tough section, of which there were many. Elizabeth smiles softly in the memory, placing a hand on his shoulder from where she stands behind him. Chagrined at his mistake, Peter turns and looks up at her over his shoulder, tells her that he's sorry for messing it up again. Elizabeth smiles, and shakes her head, negating the apology, and then to his horror, the young Peter gasps in pain, and hunches forward over the piano keys, clutching at his abdomen with both hands. After he recovers, he looks back and asks when he's going to feel better, when he will stop hurting. Elizabeth, bless her beautiful soul, tells him soon, that his father will be back soon. Peter smiles and turns back to the keys, and she bites her hand as tears spill down her cheeks, leaving wet trails behind as Peter starts again from the beginning.

"Are you okay, Walter?"

Walter jerked on the bench, his eyes flying open and darting around wildly as the vivid memory receded like a mist before high winds. The young, curly-haired agent was standing in front of him, looking at him over the piano back. Her dark eyes were distressed, filled with concern.

The concern is for you, Walter. He heard Belly's gravelly voice say.

His gaze shifted around the lab, past Agent Farnsworth. There was no one else in the room with them. The voice must have come from inside his head. He suppressed a giggle at the realization. What he would do if William actually walked into the lab one day, competing with the Belly who talked to him occasionally and offered friendly advice, he had no idea. Would there be a rivalry for his attention? How interesting a possibility.

"Dr. Bishop?"

Walter pulled his hands away from the piano keys. The moment was ruined in any case. "Yes?" he blurted. "Is there a problem?"

The young woman patted her face under her eyes and nodded toward him pointedly. "Are you okay, Walter?" she said in her musical voice.

Reaching up slowly, he felt at his cheeks, surprised to find wetness. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. "Oh…I'm quite all right, my dear." he said, offering her a tremulous smile. "I was just…" he trailed off, swallowing a painful constriction in throat. He wrung his hands together, glancing nervously up at the woman through his eyebrows.

"What were you playing just now?" she said, moving around the piano to his side. "It was beautiful."

Walter bowed his head, acknowledging the compliment. "Why thank you, Astro." he said. "It was Chopin, sonata number three." He swept his fingers over the keys in a light glissando, which brought a smile to her lips. "You know, Peter grew to be rather adept at this particular piece when he was a boy." He flashed her a wide grin, and then patted the bench next to him.

"Well, I think you can give Peter a run for his money." she said, sitting down on the wooden bench as he scooted to the side. "Play something else, something…written more recently."

"Ahh…a woman after my own heart." Walter said, prodding her with his shoulder. He thought for a moment, and then launched into the opening piano riff from Last Man In Space, which started out at a slow tempo, that gradually increased, before the song finally ended at a frantic pace.

As they had before, his eyes slip closed as he played, shoulders swayed slightly, keeping him in time, as he remembered seeing Roscoe do likewise at a Violet Sedan Chair show on one particularly memorable occasion. He smiled, remembering the night. He'd been tripping, him and Elizabeth both, on double doses of blotter acid. He'd made it himself in the chem lab, making a few adjustments of his own to the recipe that according to Belly, had come from Dr. Leary himself.

The girl rocked against him as he swayed, rubbing up against his shoulder as Elizabeth had once upon a time. He was in both places, with the girl in the lab, and with Elizabeth at the concert, living and re-living both moments simultaneously. Behind his eyelids, he observed the hypnotic dance of colors, the muted kaleidoscopes which waxed and waned as they flowed from one fractal form to the next. The colors were soothing, stress relieving, a curious effect he had always found fascinating and useful, sober or no.

It was unfortunate that he had no LSD on hand, as the chance of inducing a proper flashback to that moment felt particularly high. He loved a good flashback, despite their erroneous nomenclature.

Two for the price of one, eh, Walter? Belly's voice intruded on his thoughts.

Walter grinned in response to his old friend. How right he was. In his experience, a flashback was more like experiencing a sequence of thoughts, or performing a series of actions in response to a certain set of stimuli which corresponded to similar event that had happened on a previous trip, than any sort of recurring visual effect. The potential for becoming paralyzed in a pseudo-temporal paradox, in which the past and present reverberated concurrently in one's mind was high, however, which he supposed, was where the flashback's bad reputation had come from. Mental strength and preparedness were the keys, a good strategy for any experimentation in the exciting inner-world of hallucinogens.

He finished out the tune, the faded ivory keys banging noisily under his fingers by the end, and then relaxed, pulling his hands away and massaging his joints after the abuse.

"Aww…that was wonderful, Walter!" Asteroid said, getting to her feet. Her eyed danced with delight as she clapped her hands together.

Rising from the piano bench after her, Walter smiled. "Thank you, my dear, thank you." he said proudly, bowing to her formally, one hand in front, one hand behind, before reversing them.

"You should play more often." she said over shoulder as she moved away from him, over to her workstation and sat down.

He watched her for a moment as she began typing away at her personal computer, and then cracked his knuckles and wiped the sweat from his hands on his lab coat. The song he'd played for her began looping in his mind, and he whistled the tune jovially, feeling positively exuberant. The success with the infected agent, Loeb, or whatever his name had been, had left him in an excellent mood, his earlier trip down memory lane notwithstanding.

On the countertop near his microscope, the glass jar containing the dead parasite caught Walter's eye, and he crossed over to it, thinking about possibly getting started with his research. He picked up the jar and stared in at the carcass, appreciating its magnificent engineering. And to think that ass of a surgeon from the hospital had been about to have it destroyed! Luckily he had been there to step in and take it off the man's hands before he could do so. It would be an affront to science to not study the creature and learn its secrets.

Walter was about to twist open the jar when the chemical cabinet above the countertop against the wall caught his attention in his peripheral vision. The windowed cabinet door was partially opened, and he moved to the end of the row, and pulled the door back all the way. Reaching inside, he shifted the vials and bottles around until he located the one he was looking for near the back and then pulled it out. Frowning unhappily at its scant weight, he held the orange tinted bottle up to the light, checking its contents. Although the bottle was not empty, not nearly enough of the clear liquid remained inside to glean any diethylamide, at least in the amount he was looking for. His supply must have been depleted by Agent Dunham, and her adventures in his old sensory deprivation tank.

It was a pity. Putting the bottle back in the cabinet, he sighed sadly and swung the cabinet door closed. Maybe he could clandestinely requisite another bottle through an unwitting Agent Farnsworth.

Looking around the lab, he wondered where Peter had gotten off to. The boy should have been back from the hospital already, Aspirin had driven him back hours ago. Perhaps Agent Dunham had returned from her trip to Germany, and the two of them were getting...reacquainted. He tittered softly at the idea. Peter would have been absolutely furious with him if knew the thought had ever crossed his mind.

Another thought struck him then, a memory from before. There had been a box in his storage room. A box in which he had secreted things he wished to remain hidden from school administrators, the prying eyes of assistants, and the occasional government oversight personnel. It was worth a look. Humming happily to himself at the prospect of rediscovering an old stash, Walter crossed the lab and descended the stairwell to the musty sub-basement.

.

He yanked the strings for the overhead light sockets as he moved through the storage room, illuminating the mess of scattered stacks of cardboard boxes, some with their contents spilling over the open flaps, others with their peeling packing tape still in place, undisturbed.

In the center of the storage room a table stood alone, its surface clear of clutter except for a single cardboard box sitting open in the center, its top lying discarded to the side. He started toward the shelves along the far wall, intending to start his search there, when a familiar image in the open box on the table caught his eye as he moved past.

He stopped at the box, and lifted out his Seven Suns album, admiring the orange hue of the sun reflecting on the water and the face in the clouds above. On the back, the triangle Violet Sedan Chair logo brought a smile to his face. He used to have t-shirt with the logo emblazoned across the front, and would frequently wear it as an undershirt. It had irritated William to no end when they would do presentations together.

Chuckling softly to himself, Walter slid the album back in its place at the front of the box, picturing the annoyed looks Belly used to toss his way. He flipped through the other albums, passing over some without a second glance, and pausing at others. There was a lifetime of memories in the box, moments captured in the midst of a song. Moments that collected duct in the recesses of one's mind, until the music called them forth once more in a nostalgic rush.

Walter let the albums fall back into place after reaching the back of box, and then glanced around the storage room, looking for his old turntable. It would be nice to hear some his old records again. Stepping away from the table, he moved around the perimeter of the room, searching for the turntable among the jumble of out of date equipment and the remains of old experiments which littered the storage rooms tiered shelves. He had just pushed aside a box containing the unassembled shell and internal parts of some device he'd forgotten the purpose of when he saw it.

Leaning against the wall, behind the metal shelving unit itself was an object covered in brown packing paper. It was thin and square or rectangular shaped, with twine criss-crossing from each edge and meeting at a knot in the center. He froze at the sight of, trying to discern what it was and how it had come to be there. Kneeling down, he cleared the rest of the shelves in front of it, trying to get a better look. It was about the size of a large picture frame.

Squinting in the dim light, Walter leaned in, taking a closer look at the knot where the lengths of twine came together. It was an Ian knot, as opposed to the simple bow knot generally used by the majority of the human population. He gazed at the knot, feeling cold all of a sudden as a tight, gnarl of fear began worming its way up his spine. He sucked in a sharp breath.

The Ian knot was a favorite of his, it always had been. It was the way he tied his own shoes, and the way he'd taught Peter to tie his shoes as a boy.

Despite wanting nothing more than to cover the object up again, to forget he'd ever seen it, he reached out gingerly with a trembling hand and touched one corner through the packing paper. The corner had sharp edges and seemed to be about an inch or two thick. There was smoothness to it that gave the impression of metal. Sliding his thumb over the surface, he came across a lip, and then another smooth surface. The slippery feel of it through the paper reminded him of something...a mirror perhaps, or...or...

It feels familiar, doesn't it? Walter that was said suddenly in his ear. Why don't you open it? The voice was stern, without compassion. Open it!

Walter gasped and jerked his hand back at the voice, shaking his head with quick, sharp movements. He didn't want to open it. His blood began pounding in his ears, and the fear intensified, becoming outright panic which clamped around his throat with an iron fist.

Open it!

Walter clutched at the back of his head, gripping his hair in tight fists which sent little spikes of pain shooting over his scalp. He stepped back slowly from the shelves, still shaking his head, and then spun around with wild eyes darting frantically around the storage room. There was a moment of hesitation, of indecision, and then he was in motion, grabbing boxes and whatever else he could put his hands on in a frenzy of activity, and cramming the shelves in front of the object full until it was out of sight, covered with layers of cardboard boxes and broken lab equipment.

When he finished, Walter leaned back against the table in the center of the room, breathing hard as he admired his handiwork. Whatever was in the package, it was hidden from prying eyes, and hopefully from his own memory in time. He glanced back over his shoulder at the stairwell, and was relieved to see that no one had witnessed his behavior, which would have surely drawn suspicion.

Letting out a relieved breath, he turned back to the box of albums, intending to put the lid back in place, and noticed a small plastic bag lying at the very bottom of the box in front of the Seven Suns album. Curious at its contents, he grabbed the bag and then held it up to one of the overhead lights. Inside were a number of small seeds, tan in color. He recognized them at once, and then remembered how they came to be in the box. He'd put them there, of course. Several weeks ago.

His mood brightened at once, and he smiled broadly, opening the baggie and staring in at the seeds. Surely one of them was still viable, and in any event, he'd been coaxing deader things back to life for decades. Walter slipped the bag into the pocket of his lab coat for safekeeping, and then rubbed his hands together in anticipation. With any luck, several of them would germinate, and then he could resurrect his old hydro setup in its place under the stairs. In several months, he was going to be back in business.

"Yes!" Walter said, pumping his fist. He could almost taste it already. Now all he needed was to locate all the various parts of his setup. He crossed his arms, and then rubbed at his chin, thinking back to the time before his incarceration. He had disassembled it in the aftermath of the accident, and if he remembered correctly, had secreted the various parts of the setup around the lab.

Voices from up the stairwell distracted him from the planning of his short term future, and he retreated from the storage room. He climbed the stairs quietly, stepping lightly on the treads as he recognized Peter's voice mixed in with the others. Stopping several steps short from the landing, he peeked over the floor line.

Peter and Agent Dunham were standing side by side near Astro's table, still in their coats as if they had just arrived. He studied them carefully, looking for any signs of consummation in their proximity and interactions, before determining that the likelihood of such a union was negative. There was a space between the two of them, almost deliberate in its carefully measured distance as they listened to the girl speak. From the gestures she was making, he guessed her to be filling them in on his activities in the lab while they'd been gone. From his vantage point he could make out a flush on the Agent's cheeks along with a slight unsteadiness to both her and his son, and suspected that the two of them had been out consuming alcoholic beverages. An interesting development if true, he thought happily, gripping the edge of the floor under the railing.

The girl Asteroid motioned toward the stairwell, and then cocked an eyebrow as their eyes met. Recognizing that jig was up and that he'd been discovered, Walter ascended the steps to the landing, calling out their names casually. "Peter, Agent Dunham!"

They turned toward him in unison, their faces mirroring each other eyebrows raised as he approached the two of them. Peter face darkened as he drew closer, his lips pinched together in a thin line of disapproval.

"Olivia!" Walter said, stepping into her personal space and pulling her into a quick embrace. He inhaled her scent as he did so, and picked up the scent of her shampoo, a lavender and jasmine combination that was quite lovely, along with the unmistakable odor of alcohol, beer in particular, he surmised from the strong smell of hops he detected. She stiffened in his embrace, and he released her almost at once, and stepped back. His son's face had darkened further in the interim, but he ignored the black looks he was casting his way, keeping his attention on Olivia. "How was Munich?" he said. "Were you able to catch any shows? The National Theatre is simply astounding!" He had seen a showing of King Lear there in 1978. It had been spectacular.

Olivia blinked at the question, and glanced over at his son. "Shows?" she said with a frown. "Munich? Walter-"

"She was in Frankfurt, Walter, for the case..." Peter cut in savagely. "Are you aware of anything that goes on around here?"

Before he could say more, she reached out and touched the sleeve of his jacket. Walter noticed with satisfaction that Peter calmed at once, exchanging and abashed glance with the agent.

"Frankfurt went well, Walter." Olivia said, turning back to him. "Did you have any trouble creating the cure from Jones?"

Walter shook his head, dismissing the notion. "Of course not." he said. "The cure was simplistic to assemble, but quite effective." He walked over to the jar with the parasite inside and picked it up, giving it a little shake. "The parasite reacted to the solution at once, rendering it inert in a matter of seconds. I can't wait to dissect the little critter." He gestured between his son and Olivia. "And what have you two been out doing? Having fun, I presume?" he asked, and then grinned as an uncomfortable look flickered between the two them for an instant.

"We were just catching up." Peter said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Going over the case."

Olivia replied at the same moment. "We just grabbed a bite to eat, Walter." she said, glancing down at her watch.

"Oh...I see." Walter murmured, nodding as if that made sense. "Well, I hope it was delicious then." He smiled, catching Asteroid's eyes over their shoulders. He gave her a wink, which she returned, and then moved away from the group, taking the jar back to the station he'd set up to perform the dissection of the parasite.

"Well, I'm heading home." Agent Dunham said through a wide yawn. "I'll see of you all tomorrow..." she said, glancing between them. She lingered on Peter as if she might say more, but instead turned and walked into her office. She was back a moment later gripping a stack of paperwork against her chest, and moved quickly toward the exit.

He watched covertly from his lab table as his son's gaze followed the Olivia across lab. After the door closed behind her, Peter stared at it woodenly for several seconds before looking away, catching Walter's eye.

"Can I help you?" he said in a flat voice.

Shrugging sadly, Walter frowned "Oh... it's nothing, son." he said, and dropped his eyes. The boy was smitten, of that he was quite certain, not that he would ever admit it. The adult version of the boy he remembered from before the accident could be quite thick-headed at times. His skills in courtship seemed to be lacking as well, which could probably be traced to Peter's lack of a father figure in his pubescent years.

Looking up, he tried to see his Peter in the man standing before him. The eyes were the same. He would always remember his eyes. The rest of him though, time and circumstance had hardened him, their icy touch leaving behind the mask of indifference and sarcasm his son had taken to wearing. He should have been there. Maybe if he had been...things would have been different. For his son, for Elizabeth. It was difficult to see the causality in their lives, which event triggered which result, interwoven as they were.

"What is it now, Walter?" Peter said with a sigh of resignation.

"Oh...I was just picturing you as a pubescent boy, son." Walter said.

"All right then..." Peter said, wrinkling his nose. "I'm sorry I asked."

"And on that note, I'm heading home too." Astro said, pushing off her stool and then grabbing her coat and keys off the table. "See you guys tomorrow!" she called over her shoulder as she retraced Olivia's steps to the exit.

The door slammed closed behind her, leaving Walter and Peter alone together. They stared at each other across the lab table separating them, until Peter walked over and picked up the jar containing the parasite and gazed in at it wordlessly before setting it back down on the lab table.

"C'mon Walter." he said finally, and looked up, his face clear of any emotions. "Let's get out of here."

.

Much later, in the darkness of the cramped hotel room he shared with his son, Walter lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring upward. The popcorn surface of the ceiling wavered spectrally in the dim lighting, a visual effect his eyes would have found pleasing at another time and place.

Fibonacci's Spiral had failed him, leaving him no closer to sleep than he'd been before starting his additions. He had attained a new personal best before losing the number sequence, however, which was the bright side of his restlessness.

Shifting on the mattress, he pulled the covers up to his chin, and heard Peter doing likewise on the couch across the room from the foot of the bed. Apparently he was not the only one unable to find sleep. It was a small comfort. The boy had hardly spoken to him after leaving the lab, had just brooded in front of the television until they called it a night hours earlier. Obviously he was upset about something, perhaps his failures with Miss Dunham, or perhaps it was some after effect of the procedure with the dead man.

"So are you gonna tell me why you were experimenting on me?" Peter said unexpectedly from the couch, breaking the silence.

Going still under the covers, he shut his eyes in the darkness and slowed his breathing to an even pace. Feigning sleep seemed his best option.

"I know you're awake, Walter." Peter said after an interval, and shifted on the couch again. Walter cracked an eye open and saw that he was sitting up on the couch. His silhouette was outlined against the starlight shining in through the partially open curtains over the room's only window. "You've been spouting random numbers for the last hour or two." he added, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

The numbers were hardly random, Walter thought, affronted at the notion. And surely he'd been saying them in his head.

He remained silent. He couldn't answer, and wasn't sure he even knew the exact reason. It was all so muddied in his head…so confusing. After the trauma of the procedure, he had hoped that Peter would forget his recovered memory, but in hindsight, should have known better. The boy was quite astute after all, despite his proclivity for making poor decisions from time to time. Floundering about in his head, he thought back to when Peter was just a boy and his Elizabeth was still alive, trying to pierce the veil of time which had blanketed his memory in a thick fog, through which he could see only vague outlines.

He heard Elizabeth speaking through the haze. She was speaking to him.

I don't doubt you, or expect you to give up…but it's been over a year, Walter. He needs his father…now more than ever.

Her voice was full of sadness, full of despair in every word, and his heart clenched at the sound of it. His memories of that time were jumbled, no longer flowing from one to the next. Large gaps existed, from which all he could be certain of was pain, hers, his…Peter's. The gaps were black holes of heartache and suffering and tears that he could feel threatening to consume him even now, across the intervening years. He gripped the edge of the blanket, twisting it in his grasp as more memories came to him, each more terrifying than the one which preceded it.

There had been bruises on his arms and legs. They had been questioned about them by Child Protective Services, notified by his school. He had been absolutely furious at first, but the questions had made him aware of...of…aware of what?

Peter…!

A coffin closed, the sound of it loud and full of finality.

He could hear Elizabeth's trill screaming from the doorway behind him, and then she was rushing past him, throwing herself down on the bed, shoving him out the way in her madness. She was crying Peter's name, over and over and over...he had to get out of there.

It was cold outside, cold on the ice. The small hand that grasped his was chilled to the bone.

What have you done? Elizabeth's voice rang out, shocked, outraged, and yet somehow full of hope.

He was too late.

No…he'd done it! It was right there in front of him. It just needed to be stabilized…he can't save him…he did save him.

Walter eyes were squeezed tight against the splinters of memory as they coalesced into a disconcerting and paradoxical sequence of horrifying images. Tears ran down his cheeks onto the pillow, and he pressed the blankets in his grip up against his lips, fighting to contain the scream building deep in his chest, trying to force its way outward. There no context in which to place the memories, no roadmaps to guide him. It was as if he were struggling to recall nightmares which he'd dreamt long ago. Only they weren't nightmares, they were his life from before.

"Walter?" a voice said through the darkness. "Walter!"

It was Peter. He latched onto the sound of his voice, letting it him lead him back to the present. To the hotel room.

"I'm sorry, son…what did you say?" he said, opening his eyes to room's hazy light. He panted softly, recovering his breath.

"I said…you're not going to tell me I'm a test tube baby or something like that are you?" Peter asked, repeating a question that he had apparently missed. "Cause if you are, I'm not sure I want to know."

Walter swallowed, and then dabbed at his eyes with the edge of the sheet. "Of course not." he said, putting a jocular edge to voice. "I assure you that your conception was done in the normal fashion, Peter." He smiled sadly. That particular memory was clear. Oh, my dear Elizabeth. "I believe it was in the missionary-"

"Whoa…whoa…that's enough!" Peter's voice was a strangled shout. "I would like to be able to sleep again, sometime, if you don't mind."

"Peter…" Walter said quietly, gazing up at the ceiling again. "You must understand. I...I wish I could tell you why I did what I did, but the truth of the matter is that I have…trouble piecing together certain memories…particularly those from before my time…in…in that…place."

"You mean before you were sent to St. Claire's?"

"Yes, yes!" Walter said, and sat up in the bed. If he could only make him see. "There are some things…that are just…fragmented. And that's not an excuse, mind you, I was wrong to do what I did…to my own son, no less. I know it, Peter, and I…I'm not the same man I was back then, you must believe me, son."

There was silence from the couch for a while, long enough for him to wonder if their conversation was over. He was about to fall back on his pillow when Peter spoke again.

"I've already come to that same conclusion." he said softly, and then hesitated before continuing. "Just tell me one more thing, Walter, and then we're never gonna talk about this again."

"Okay, son..." Walter said uncertainly. "If I can."

"Did my mother know what you were doing to me?"

"No, of course not." he said immediately, shaking his head. "Your mother never knew." It was the truth, or at least he thought it was. The data he'd been accumulating…its exact purpose was cloudy, hidden in the haze of his broken memory.

Or was that, and everything else he told himself just a confabulation, a product of his own imagination, his own invention? It was a possibility that had occurred to him many times since leaving St. Claire's.

"Then why didn't I tell her?"

"I don't know, son." Walter said, shrugging in the darkness. "Perhaps you trusted me."

"Perhaps I trusted you?" Peter said with an edge of scorn to his tone. "See that's the thing, Walter. I don't really remember ever trusting you before you were in St. Claire's."

Walter flinched at the words, his throat tightening painfully at their callousness, whether intended or not. He closed his eyes and dropped back on his pillow, and then pulled the covers around him in a tight cocoon. He can't talk about it anymore. "I don't know…" he repeated hoarsely, and then coughed, clearing his throat. "Goodnight, Peter."

Peter fell back on his couch a moment later, his slow and measured breaths audible from across the room. There was a long silence, whether seconds or minutes in duration he wasn't sure, time was tricky in the absence of light. He waited, hoping for some further response that might clue him on his son's current disposition.

"Good night, Walter."

On the edge of slumber, Walter sighed. A smile crept back on his face. Perhaps something could be salvaged of the progress he'd made, after all. It was his last thought before the dark of sleep rolled in, claiming his consciousness with its gentle caress.

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Hi there, sorry for taking so long to update. So here's another interlude before we get into The Equation. Let me know what you think, if it's too OOC, etc.

The next episode is going to be quite heavy with Walter POV's. His are the hardest to write by far, so it may slow going for a while.

Thank you all for reading!