AN: Ok, you win lovely readers. Many asked for more so I decided to do the fic from Peter's POV. Though I must admit I like Olivia's POV better, I seem to be able to get into her head easier. But that's probably because I have NO clue what Peter is actually thinking after TMFTOS. Again…this is unbeta-ed so any stupidity is mine alone.
AN2: And can I tell you, I actually am interested in seeing the musical ep. Yes, I admitted it. It looks…fun. Right now can't we all use a little fun? And really…it's a good way to keep Josh Jackson in the show without him magically reappearing the episode after he disappears – which would be hard to believe. That's creative storytelling people!
It had taken him two hours after Walter left to insist he be allowed to check out of the hospital. The nurses were less than thrilled, but they couldn't exactly force him to stay. And there was no way he was staying. Staring at blank white walls with nothing to occupy his mind was starting to drive Peter crazy.
So he'd used the ATM in the hospital to get enough money to get him through for a bit then would figure it out like he always did. He also knew that Olivia – and the FBI – would be looking for him, so he got on a bus using a false last name. And since he had already told the person he was avoiding how he chose his identities, Peter got creative. He used hers. Seemed appropriate in a demented way.
So now Peter Hill sat in a small diner in a small town outside Buffalo, New York. The motel hadn't even blinked when he paid for a week cash with a questionable ID and his shoulder in a sling. Thankfully the bullet had gone all the way through, caused little damage but a lot of pain. He did miss that from the hospital, the painkillers.
He stared into his second coffee and contemplated. When that FBI agent vaporized into nothingness and he remained standing with the man from the other side, he knew what Walter had done. He had heard the story of how he was so sick as a boy enough now to know that THIS Peter had not lived to see his eighth birthday. But somehow he had.
Through all the anger and betrayal he felt toward Walter THAT was the thing his brain kept going back to, as if he was missing an important piece of the puzzle. Why had he survived a fatal genetic disease when his alter ego had not? Something had saved him, or someone. And he had his suspicions who that someone was.
As rain started to pour outside the diner's window the loneliness began to sink into his bones, which annoyed him. Peter Bishop had been accustomed to being alone, to moving every few months before he could form connections with people and places. It was who he was.
Was being the operative word.
Clearly the last year and a half had diminished that part of him, more than even he anticipated. The first couple days in nowhereville sucked, he was still furious. But as the anger dulled, questions took over and the isolation seeped in, he began to hate being by himself. Somewhere along the line he had gotten used to having people around him who cared.
He didn't doubt that Walter cared; actually, Peter suspected he cared TOO much.
Then there was her. Olivia. He had tried so very hard to not think about her. Because once his head cleared he realized she must have known, after Jacksonville and the Coretexiphan, there was no way he wasn't glimmering, or whatever the hell he looked like. Probably explained her behavior during and after drinks that night. She hadn't been avoiding him because of the near-kiss, but because she had inadvertently been pulled into Walters lie.
So every day he sat in his motel room alone with nothing to occupy him - no cases to run, no leads to track, no bad guys to get. The idea of finding Newton was highly appealing initially so for the first week he keep an eye on the news, specifically reports of anything…Fringe-y. Then he realized that even if he COULD locate the man, what was he going to do? Ask for his return ticket? That would not be an improvement over his current situation.
Every once in a while he had the urge to call her. Or at least text so she – and Walter by default – would at least know he was ok. And there it was, the crux of his problem, he was actually concerned about Walter and his state of mind, Peter could only imagine the state the older Bishop was in and it bothered him. Two years ago Walters mental status meant little to nothing to him. But now… Shit, he had called the old man "Dad" for the first time in 20 odd years mere hours before his world shattered.
And yet, the idea of actually coming face to face with Walter was incomprehensible. He had no idea what he would even say to the older Bishop. Forgive him his trespasses or hold a grudge – he leaned toward holding a grudge. Of course, the last time he held onto that emotion seventeen years had passed, seventeen years of poor choices and stupidity.
Furthermore, he knew the second the battery went back in that cell and it was turned on, every satellite the FBI had access to would be beaming his location to Olivia.
When he went back – and yes, it was a when, not an if – it would be on his terms.
Predictably, the when came sooner than he anticipated – and he had been thwarted by his own subconscious. Over the course of 5 days he changed motels twice, each move taking him that much closer to Boston. Though later he would admit his conscious had more to do with it than he acknowledged. So did she. He wasn't moving closer to Boston so the inevitable confrontation with his father would happen, he was moving closer to her.
He practically ached for and did miss her. Only her.
He arrived a little after eight at her apartment after some creative modes of transportation to avoid detection and was not surprised to find her not home. The lock was quickly picked and he made himself at home.
Having time to kill, Peter wandered around her apartment, taking in the things he normally glossed over. The pictures of Rachel and Ella, a couple with her in them, happy and smiling. The books on the bookshelf – predictably all forensic or psychology related, though there was an occasional true crime. The assorted knick knacks one acquired after a lifetime.
This was what he craved. Home. Stability. And he hadn't even realized he wanted it until fate allowed him a small taste. Even if this side wasn't technically his "home", it was all he knew.
During his travels he stumbled upon her nicely stocked liquor cabinet and poured a small glass of scotch. With the first sip the cheeriness of the apartment bothered him and he turned out the lights, sinking the room and his mood back into darkness.
Suddenly he couldn't fathom why he came back. Why he would open himself up to hurt and betrayal again? Was the abstract concept of home and family that powerful?
Yes, it was.
He snorted at that as the key turned in the lock.
It was then he realized he wasn't sure exactly what to say to Olivia. About where he had been and what he had done.
So he kept his answers frustratingly brief. Until she asked why he was back, then he had to tell the truth.
"I missed you, Olivia." Truer words had never been spoken, even if she didn't believe them.
When a pillow and blanket were practically thrown it at him, it was all he could do to restrain the smile.
Lying there in her apartment, hearing her small movements in the stillness, he felt complete, anchored to this place even if he didn't necessarily belong here. No, he corrected himself, he did belong.
And no, he didn't snore.
But in the morning he did talk.
Fin
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