Thanks as always to O'Connellaboo, Beta Extraodinaire! This wouldn't be half as much fun and not nearly as good without her!

Thanks also to the amazingly creative people at Bad Robot - all theirs, not mine.

I don't think there's anything sadder than when two people are meant to be together and something intervenes. - Walter Bishop

Three Months Ago

When they found themselves in the Bridge Room, as they'd come to call it, everyone there was baffled. No one knew how the two universes had merged without destruction or how Walter and Olivia had come face to face with their alternates.

She and Liv had circled each other warily while Walter and the Secretary had argued, voices becoming more strident with every breath. Finally Olivia had enough and slammed her hand on the conference table between the two of them.

"Stop it!" she said with enough authority in her voice to quiet the two men and earn a subtle nod of approval from her doppelganger. "However we got here, this is our opportunity to FIX what's wrong. Are you going to blame each other while our worlds die or use this chance to save them?"

ooo

Once the Doomsday Machine had stilled, the catastrophic events in Olivia's world seemed to diminish. No more random lightning, no more vortexes and sinkholes. Olivia's Walter and the Secretary had developed an uneasy truce. Astrid and the new agent from Hartford, Agent Lee, worked directly with Walter and organized the makeshift lab in the Bridge Room.

Walter and the Secretary battled daily, but with each battle came progress. Between the most brilliant minds in each universe and the combined resources of Massive Dynamic and the alt-world's Department of Defense, the Walters developed strategies to strengthen the soft spots between their worlds without the deadly Amber protocols.

Olivia and her alternate coordinated activities in their respective worlds, following up on the dwindling number of Fringe events and comparing notes on cause and effect, incidents and solutions. They, too, had formed an uneasy bond – not quite trusting each other, but each knowing the other too well to keep each other at arm's length.

ooo

As the scientists' work continued, Olivia's case load lightened.

She attributed her empty feeling to this surcease of activity, yet it persisted even when she was on a case. Her mind was so accustomed to a rapid pace; maybe the calm was playing tricks on her.

It's being away from home, she told herself, it's not seeing Rachel and Ella. But she'd traveled extensively on cases before, had been assigned to military bases around the world and been away from Boston and from her family for months at a time. She felt as if she'd lost something valuable, something that was a part of her.

Her body reflected her state of mind; it ached for no good reason. She'd started running again after she met Liv coming in from a run early one morning. She hadn't run in years, since her time in the Corps, but it seemed a good way to bond with her alternate, and God knows they needed all the solidarity they could muster these days. After a couple of weeks, she began to look forward to their runs, and the guards around the compound grew accustomed to seeing the two women, so alike yet so different, following the perimeter track. The exercise seemed to alleviate some of the daily stress, and her body quickly adjusted to the routine. Still, she ached.

At times, she thought she might be having panic attacks. She felt a tightness in her chest, the pressure of a giant hand squeezing her ribcage. Other times, it was just a hollow feeling that seemed to match the emptiness of her soul.

Olivia had never been one for introspection. She'd just bury her feelings, compartmentalize them and move on. This feeling was palpable, like nothing she'd experienced before; not when her mother died, not when Lucas had moved to Europe, not when John had been shot while pursuing a suspect and died shortly afterwards. She'd mourned her losses, but the feelings were distinct and attributable, and faded as time passed.

These feelings were unexplained and unpredictable. Sometimes it hit her with a physical force, enough to leave her weak and gasping. As time passed and the feelings of loss became more frequent, she began to identify triggers, seemingly unrelated, that seemed to intensify her grief – the smell of coffee brewing or bacon crisping on the stove; snatches of music from the radio; the weight of her wool coat on cold mornings.

The transitions between wakefulness and sleep became the most confusing. As she drifted off to sleep at night, she felt she could almost reach whatever IT was, but it was just beyond her grasp, her consciousness. And then she'd wake the next morning clutching a pillow, her face damp with sweat… or tears.