Real is just a matter of perception. - Peter Bishop

Two Months Ago

And then The Voice started. It was male, low and calming, and she heard it indistinctly as she drowsed. At first, she thought it might be a TV or radio from the next apartment, so she tried sleeping on the couch for a few nights. An extra shot at night didn't help either; in fact, sitting on the couch and sipping her Johnny Walker or Bushmills seemed to intensify her anxiety rather than soothe it as it had always done in the past.

She became frustrated trying to locate the source of the sound in the small apartment. When she heard it, it followed her from room to room. One night, she'd had enough. She slammed her glass down on the coffee table and said in a firm voice "Alright, whatever you are, you're a massive pain in the ass and I refuse to let you bother me any longer." She thought she heard a low chuckle, and although it didn't stop, it became less of an anomaly and more of a fixture, like a ticking clock or the hum of the refrigerator.

She returned to sleep in her bedroom and the murmur became her lullaby.

ooo

There were times when Olivia was tempted to ask her – especially on days when her counterpart looked a little haggard, or when Olivia had experienced a particularly restless night herself – but she always stopped herself. "Some things are just too personal to ask anyone, even your alter-ego," she thought to herself wryly.

She made an appointment with one of the Massive Dynamic counselors; the FBI had them, too, but not with the kind of clearance she needed. And even though the Bureau said it wouldn't happen, she didn't want her sessions to be perceived as a weakness that would be held against her later.

The therapist didn't have much to offer – exercises to relieve and manage stress, meds if she wanted them, but no answers. So Olivia continued with the coping strategies she already knew: morning runs with Liv that left them both panting and soaked with sweat, and evenings with case files and whisky.

ooo

Driving from the Bridge Room to her office in the NYC FBI building, or to Massive Dynamic, she started seeing something out of the corner of her eye. Almost a glimmer, almost a figure in the passenger seat. She found herself listening to the local jazz stations on the radio – even though she didn't remember programming the presets.

And The Voice, as she'd come to think of it, was still there. Getting more insistent, really; she heard it during the day now, too.

Olivia, have you eaten anything today?

In that twilight between wakefulness and sleep, she could hear his measured breathing if she was very still.

She found herself sleeping less and less. The only time she felt rested were those moments in between. She could hear The Voice, could almost feel a body next to hers, warm, solid, real. And she reached out to pull him closer and touched – nothing. And woke up, again.

In the mornings, she started reaching for two mugs, two spoons. In the evenings, when she unlocked the door, she almost expected to hear someone in her kitchen, see someone stretched out on her couch. She even caught herself reaching for a second glass, on the nights when she had the energy to bother with a glass instead of just grabbing the bottle, standing there in the small kitchen waiting for the familiar burn to ease the ache that seemed to follow her now.