Stage Two- Anger (ex: How dare this happen! Who's to blame for this?")

The new case wasn't nearly has much fun as giant shrimp or brain melting videogames but for Olivia Dunham it was a godsend.

Anything to get her mind off Peter.

A very sick person, possibly Jones or one of his lackeys, had created a gigantic monster and unleashed it on an unsuspecting city of Boston, creating what could only be described as a logistical nightmare for the FBI. How did you track a mindless creature that seemed to strike at random? The only way the knew how: release a few APBs, comb the streets, and eventually catch a lucky break.

So after half a week of tracking, the cornered creature roared then thundered down the alley towards Olivia. It's mouth yawning into a wide, gaping maw of teeth and rage. The beast had perhaps once been a dog, maybe a cat, or some sort of rabbit. After this much genetic manipulation it was hard to tell it's previous life because nothing about it looked familiar. This was the horror of the Pattern: ordinary things taken and twisted until they no longer resembled anything.

Just like Olivia's relationship with Peter. In the six days since she woke up next to him, nothing was familiar and it didn't resemble anything. Not love, not lust, just awkward anger and fear of discovery.

The beast tried desperately to get out of the narrow alley by running towards Olivia with all four clawed feet pounding the pavement. Somewhere inside the simple cluster of nerves it called a brain there was a memory of her face and scent from three days before. It could smell her blood pulsing under her skin which spurred it forward in pursuit of revenge.

But Olivia wasn't alone in her pursuit and the animal had barely taken two steps before a six man HRT fire team unleashed a storm of gunfire. She didn't need to join the fire line but for some reason she found herself reaching into her holster and unloading bullet after bullet. 'Shooting monsters isn't going to make you feel better.' The little voice said but she ignored it until her clip went dry.

There was no satisfaction when the beast finally fell, merely the same white hot rage and sickening self loathing that had been simmering inside her.

'That feeling isn't going to go away until you start acting like a big girl.'

"Your hunch was right, Boston PD picked up a David Westman at the airport about to make his escape," Broyles motioned towards the hideous corpse filled with FBI issue bullets, "He's says he'll tell us who he was working for but claims he didn't design the process that made…that."

"That's a little disturbing, it almost sounds like someone's selling 'Do-It-Yourself Monster' kits to anyone with a biology degree."

"Exactly, which is why I want you to get Bishop working on this as fast as possible, I need that thing analyzed."

She nodded, relishing the chance to lose herself in some work. "I'll talk to Walter."

"Wrong," Broyles voice snapped back at her with the sharpness he only reserved for the most dire emergencies, "You'll talk to Peter."

Olivia felt her stomach twist into a knot, then do a cartwheel. As if on purpose, Broyles had managed to say the one thing she didn't want to hear and turn it into an order. "I don't understand, Walter's the one with the PhD?"

"I need him to go over the notes we confiscated with Westman, maybe find a clue our forensic team might've missed."

"But Peter-" She was struggling in vain to get out of the trap Broyles was unwittingly laying for her.

"I don't understand why you're still standing there, Agent Dunham," He didn't bother to turn around as he issued his parting rebuke, "Because this conversation is finished."

On the other side of the crime scene, Peter could do nothing but watch Olivia struggling through her job as if nothing had ever happened between them. It was frustrating to watch her just wash the memory of their night together right out her hair and it took almost no effort to get through the daily , he was stuck mooning over her like some kind of lovesick fifteen year old.

Peter felt himself releasing a heavy sigh and when he turned around he came face to face with his father's vacant stare. "You should tell her." There was firmness in Walter's voice that implied this wasn't just another erratic episode, Walter was actually trying to act like a father for once.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Walter."

"You should tell Olivia how you feel."

He tried to laugh that off and tried to pretend it was just Walter being Walter but the laugh felt hollow and it didn't reach his eyes. "Okay, Walter," Peter said, "I'll be sure to tell her I feel like pizza for lunch."

But Walter shook his head, not fooled by his son's off hand denials. "That's not what I mean. You should tell her how much you love her."

Peter's breath caught in his throat. What did Walter know? "You're hallucenating, I'm gonna go get Astrid..."

"You need to tell her…"

"…maybe tell her to bring some thorazine."

"…don't do what I did with your mother."

The word 'mother' made caught Peter's attention. It was the way he said the word that brought so much concern, it almost sounded lucid. "What about my mother?"

Walter smiled again and spoke as if from a thousand miles away. "I never told her I loved her enough."

It was a little strange, having a bonding experience with a father he barely knew but Peter couldn't help but enjoy the feeling and wanted to savor it before Walter's fog rolled in. Some how, deep inside a memory made of Swiss cheese, there was still a little fatherly wisdom left to share. So they both just let the silence grow and drew a little strength from their very weak common bond.

Walter was the one who finally break the moment, as he turned to his son with a look of purpose and meaning. "Peter?"

"Yes Walter?"

"I just want to say…"

"Yes Walter?"

"….I need to use the bathroom but I can't seem to remember how."

The lab felt like a powder keg to Olivia. Peter kept staring at her, implying things to her, shooting innuendoes at her when Walter or Astrid weren't paying attention. And the little voices in her head. The naughty, wicked voices constantly egging her on to do things, say things. Every minute next to him was driving her mad.

"These notes are very distressing." Walter said as he removed yet another gibberish covered page from the small manila envelope Broyles have given him, "And the handwriting is terrible…has this person suffered a stroke?"

"Just tell me what it means, Walter."

"It means," Peter said as he slide up beside her, "That the creatures these people created are just a dry run for human subjects. Maybe even something on a large scale."

She tried to ignore the warm scent of Peter's breath as he stood scandelously close to her but certain parts of her body knew he was there…and responded.

"Didn't realize it was cold in here." Peter whispered as he ran a stray thumb across the small of her back. Olivia turned red when she saw what he was talking about: two small points had risen from the tips of her breasts, visible even through the thick material of her blouse.

'Lean closer, let him touch you.' Quiet!

"May I speak to you outside, Mr. Bishop?" 'Mr. Bishop? Are we playing out one of those teacher/student fantasies? Will you spank him with a ruler? Maybe give him detention?'

She pushed the voice away and walked into the narrow hallway of the basement. The quarters were close and the air seemed charged with an electric current. He was so close, too close. It was going to make this so much harder.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Peter whispered, that roguish smile planted firmly on his face. 'Give him something to really smile about.' More foolishness from the voice in her head, and she still ignored it. This was going to hurt but it needed to happen. It would put them back on even ground.

"Do you think this is a game, Mr. Bishop?" Her tone was like a slap across the face and she watched Peter recoil almost in pain.

"I don't….Look, Olivia, I'm sorry, it's just that ever since our night togeth-"

"Nothing happened, Mr. Bishop." 'What are you doing?'

"But-"

"Stop it! Just stop it! I refuse to let one stupid, regrettable night ruin a life time of hard work and dedication." 'Stop, please, you're going to hate yourself for this.'

"Olivia-"

"I'm not finished!" This wasn't Olivia, this wasn't the voice in her head, this was a cold calculating FBI agent covering up a bad call, "I barely remember 'our night together' and based on your behavior I'm glad I don't! We got drunk, you obviously took advantage of me." 'YOU KISSED HIM FIRST MORON!'

She watched as Peter's face turned into a pain filled mask. Every sharp word landed right in his gut and seemed to sting like a knife. His eyes met hers, locked in a hateful stare. When he finally spoke, it was with a voice that seemd both soft and hurt, yet hard and angry. "That was the most beautiful night of my life."

'Stop! STOP!' "Really? Like I said it wasn't that memorable for me."

And then she walked away, listening as the voice of her desire on the verge of tears: 'Oh, Liv, Liv...what did you do?'

To Be Continued...

(Says angst...right there in the category.)