Well, after holding on to this for more time than I care to count, here it is out in the world. Please review. I'll be working on one more chapter, and maybe be done with this fic. We'll see.

He turned off the radio and welcomed the quiet. Walter, mouth slightly open, snored a low contented snore. Peter gave him a quick glance over, and exhaled suddenly and sharply. He felt his brain addled, his mind sluggish.

Yeah, well, he thought, a couple of nights of no sleep will do that to you, stupid, idiot of a man.

Exiting the house, he knew he wasn't up to facing the grilling he could see Walter gearing up to give him - on the importance of the truth and Olivia. Fortunately, Walter's self-medicating habits had gone in his favour this time, because almost as soon as the car started rolling, Walter was lulled into a heavy stupor. Peter thanked whatever gods had turned the tide in his favour: a three hour's drive to Rye, listening to Walter's diatribe on sexual indiscretions, never mind with a doppelganger of sorts, would have been worse than copper wires being shoved up his nose.

And so, miles of suburbia zoomed by, and were followed by farmed fields and forest, then there were granite boulders and hills and more forest. Now and then civilization gauged out nature: towns small and large, industrial and business parks, motels, diners, and fast-food joints, all the usual tenements of American highways. He travelled through most of it on autopilot, his mind a blank void, his actions only mindless reaction, except for those moments when something in his surroundings formed an association with something in his brain, and pierced through the haze, filling his mind with memory.

On the side of the road, a billboard announced a motel (HBO and internet available).

In his mind's eye, he sees Olivia withdrawing a little more into herself, her head lowered towards her chest, her jaw clenched. It lasts two minutes, no more, then she is back to her GI Jane self, Agent-Olivia-Dunham. He sees everything, takes note of everything – you never know where a tidbit of information is.

Another day, another case, another motel: now, a wistful look out of the car window, and eventually, the ghost of a sad half smile. Still he notes, and bids his time. And all the while, sneaking, creeping curiosity grows and gnaws at him. About how she can appear so detached and – yes - even cold and standoffish, when really she cares so much. He is her polar opposite. He looks positively caring (just turn on the megawatt smile and you're in), but could not care less.

Then, there comes the day when a motel is... unremarkable. Looking at Olivia, there's nothing to draw notice from more inquisitive eyes - for her it's just another day on the job. Weirdly, that gives him comfort. He's different now – they are different now. There's no longer puzzlement at who or how she is, rather there's a feeling he cannot yet identify, a good feeling, that comes from knowing she demands nothing from him, and yet relies on him as no-one ever has, or could have before. It's more than that. She's getting closer, and for once he doesn't feel cornered. Somehow, he feels they're equals.

Whenever he realised his mind had wondered off, he would turn his thoughts back to the strip of asphalt rolling out before the car, until his mind was numb and deep in the blank haze again. Such was his state of mind reaching the outskirts of Rye, when suddenly a car cut across them – a red blur and the roar of an engine come and gone in the blink of an eye. He pressed the brake to the metal, yelling "Son of a bitch!" The station wagon screeched and jolted to a halt, and there was the smell of burnt rubber. That was enough to slap the haze away. Unfortunately, it also woke Walter.

"No!" Walter screamed, flailing his arms in front of him, as if reaching out for something. "No, don't go!" he looked utterly bewilderd. "Oh, arrrggh! Peter! You've scared them away!"

Walter's outburst let Peter know he was alive, conscious and grumpy.

The hunking of a horn made the two men look furiously to the car behind them.

"Hold your horses, asshole!" cried Peter.

"Put a cork in it!" cried Walter.

Peter drove off, once he had double checked the intersection. After a few blocks of letting Walter stew in his frustration, he threw him a glance, and asked "What did I scare away?"

"The unicorns." Walter said morosely. "They were showing me how to make a spectacular strawberry faluda. Now I'll never know..."

"Strawberry faluda, huh?"

"Yes, yes, a wonderful desert," he said impatiently, "but that's neither here nor there, because," he paused and his face softened somewhat, and speaking more gently – "have you thought what you're going to tell Olivia?"

That was that. Not even unicorns and strawberry ice-cream would throw Walter off the scent, not when it came to Peter's love life. Ah! the joys of a healthy father son-relationship, he thought wryly.

"No, Walter, I haven't." He said sharply, trying to end the subject there. He could see police lights farther down the street. Almost there. He would be able to avoid the subject altogether as long as there were corpses to entertain Walter. Maybe there'd be lots of them.

But Walter still persisted.

"You have to tell her! I know this is an instance of a parent asking a child to do as he says and not as he does."

"How many ways can I tell you that I don't want to have this conversation, Walter?"

" But you must have it."

" No, this conversation, the one that we're having right now. We're here."

" You understand better than most the pain a lie can inflict."

" Yes, I do..." There was only one way to stop Walter from preaching to the choir, so he finally relented. Full disclosure and he'd be done with it. " which is why, even though I expect it's going to fundamentally change how she feels about me, I am going to tell Olivia everything. Okay?"

" You're a good man, Peter. She knows that."

If only, he thought.