(Um…that was weird. I wrote a subplot about a monster and then holy shit…there's an episode about a monster! Are they reading my mind? Is that how Abrhams does it? Uses a giant mind reading machine that saps the collective knowledge of the internet to come up with plot? Just watch, I'm betting that's next week's episode!)

Stage Four- Depression (ex: "What's the point anymore? I just don't care.")

Olivia reached into the bowl as Kiera Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen locked lips on her television screen. "Don't do it Elizabeth," She muttered bitterly while stuffing a gigantic handful of popcorn into her mouth, "He'll just screw up your life, that's all they're good at."

This was hour sixteen of the Olivia Dunham Sick Day Sulk-a-thon, where harcore former Marines dealt with feelings they didn't dare to understand using a rigerous process of emotional readjustment.

The process was fairly straight forward: she woke up, called in sick, rented every romantic movie/tv show she could get her hands on, then the final step of eating junk food until she fell asleep. This was her oldest method of dealing with pain. She used it over and over again during the dark days of high school, once or twice during college, and totally abandoned it during her Marine deployment when she started to lose her self in her work whenever the world got her down. But this pain was a little bit more intense and drove her to fall back to the comfortable darkness of an old crutch.

And it was working. Sure It was touch and go during the first half hour of 'Love, Actually', with open moaning and bawling. Things got better during the 'English Paitent' and 'Love Story' when she was lightly sobbing into a bowl of ice cream on the couch.

By now she was all cried out and had resorted to making snide comments every time Darcy and Bennett shared a smoldering glance across the room.

"I do believe I love you Mr. Darcy!"

"BOOOO!"

It was easier for her to hate Peter instead of hating herself, and it was far easier to say that all men were scum when she knew this entire situation was her fault. 'Marines don't make mistakes, right Liv?'

"That's right." Talking to the voices again, pathetic.

'You were perfectly in the right for tearing out that poor man's heart.'

"That's a little unfair."

'No, you freaked out because this is the second time in a row you got involved with a co-worker and you decided to punish Peter.'

"That's not at all how it happened."

'Then why is it driving you crazy?'

"It isn't driving me anything."

From the inside of her mind, she heard the soft chuckle of her inner monologue and she suddenly felt very hollow and sad.

'Olivia, you're sitting alone in your apartment watching love stories and talking to the imaginary voices in your head.'

"Evil bitch." Peter whispered just as James Bond landed a knock out punch on Red Grant and saved the world from the evils of SPECTER, "I'm done with her, done with this stupid town, done with Walter…everything." Some time around the second half hour of 'Die Hard' and the first ten minutes of 'Lethal Weapon' decided the time had come to just leave. Pack his bags, get into the car and scam his way into a job inside a nice tropical tax shelter.

But that wouldn't solve his other very upsetting problem: Peter was hearing voices. Ever since he first heard about her 'birthday card', he had started imagining what a life with Olivia might be like. The suggestions were small at first, then larger and larger as time went on, until they became almost unavoidable.

'Forgive her.'

"No."

'Just call her, please? You love her, you know you do.'

This was how it usually went with the voices. It was never about lust or hunger, the thoughts were innocent and sad. A yearning voice that spoke poetically about romance and love. The crazy thing was, after everything he'd just gone through that voice still sounded reasonable.

"Not after what she put me through."

'You love her.'

"Not enough."

'More then enough.'

He sighed because he agreed.

The knock on Olivia's door just barely roused her from the two hour power nap and she contemplated not answering the door at all. "Who is it?"

The flat, terse voice of Philip Broyles returned her quere, "I need to speak with you."

Even off duty Broyles sounded like an audio version of the FBI Guide to Procedures and Statutes. As she rose from the couch to open the door, Olivia got this image of 10 year old Philip Broyles patrolling his elementary school as the world's most efficient hall monitor. Then she took a moment to arrange herself and opened the door.

"May I come in?" He was standing in the hallway, still soaking wet from the light rain that fell all day yesterday and into this morning. In fact the rain had not ceased since the night she argued with Peter.

"May I come in?" Broyles said again and she snapped back to reality.

"Yes, of course." She stepped inside and ignored the twinge of embarrassment as they stepped past a pile of empty ice cream containers and cookie wrappers. First time the boss sees the apartment and it looked like a broken heart club support group, "Is there something wrong?"

"I was going to ask you the same question."

Olivia's breath froze in her lungs and she felt an electric current running through her nerves, "I beg your pardon?"

"Lately," Broyles said as he walked over to the table and settled into a chair without asking, "You've been distracted, not focused."

'Congrats, Liv, even the big scary black man's noticed.' Said the voices, 'Just go talk to Peter before you're in a looney bin!'

"No." She whsipered out loud and she saw Broyles' head tilted in confusion. 'Smooth, Liv.', "What I mean is that I'm dealing with a personal problem." Olivia winced as she predicted Broyles' harsh, macho response but the older man threw her something of a curveball.

"I'm sorry to hear that...do you need any time off?"

"I...no. No, I think I can deal with it on my own."

An odd, almost fatherly expression flashed on Broyles' face and for a moment Olivia wondered if he was going to try and hug her. "I've seen a lot of good agents get swallowed up by this job and I'd hate for you to become one of them."

"I...appreciate the concern."

"No, you're shocked I didn't tell you to suck it up." And she watched a wry smile spread across Broyles' chin. In all the time she'd known him, which was the first time she recalled him doing anything other than frown. "You're surprised I'm not a slave driver off the job as well."

She smiled and return and settled down on the opposite side of the table, cautiously appreciating the hidden depths to the man she respected. "Yes, actually I am." She said, "The work we do is important, personal feelings would just-"

"Keep you sane." His voice was flat and authoritative, socking Olivia right in the preconceptions. "We're fighting for a better world, Olivia, a safer and saner existence for the people of this nation. If I actually sat here and said 'don't have a personal life' I'd be doing you a disservice...and I'd be a liar."

"You don't think I should focus on your job?"

"Focus is fine, but not at the expense of your humanity." His eyes were scanning the room in search of some kind of liquid refreshment and then found it in the form of a bottle of water, "You're a human being with human needs. Embracing that makes you a better agent."

She sighed and her shoulders slumped as if all the air in her body was disappearing. This was the kind of talk she could've used a couple of days ago. "When John died-"

"John is dead." Her eyes met his and he defiantly held her gaze, as if to accept his answer for gospel, "I learned after my wife died that if you don't learn to move on you'll wish you're just as dead. Life goes on Liv, in whatever form it chooses." Broyles took a sip of water and admired the cool taste as it went down his lips, then smiled absently, "So what's the name of this personal problem? Anyone I know?"

But Olivia didn't hear him. She was already getting her hat and coat.

TBC