Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own them…

A/N: A more substantial chapter this time… Thanks to all the readers and special thanks to Skate-815 and Mochi-Girl for reviewing. I appreciate the feedback. Oh, and I love seeing what people think Olivia would be drinking… I chose cognac because I used to drink it and can describe it, lol… Never drank Jack or Scotch…

"I shut my eyes in order to see." Paul Gauguin

She checked her reflection in the review mirror before getting out of the car and laughed at her uncharacteristic preening. She felt almost giddy, which she would blame on the intensity of the day and exhaustion, though she knew it was more than that. She hesitated at the door, relishing the moment. It was not often she felt good, open to the possibilities, hopeful even. Then the door opened and everything changed.

She smiled at Peter and her smile froze in place. She knew how to make her face give nothing away, but she knew that would not last long with him. He could read her better than anyone. He walked away to get his coat and Walter approached, beseeching her to keep the secret.

Smile still frozen, she hastily did the mental math. Peter is from the alternate universe. Walter knows because he took him. He had to know that if this worked, I'd find out. As Peter bounded down the stairs, her anger flared again, burning hot, but her smile was still locked in place. He suggested they walk and she looked away, turning toward the door.

The brisk air helped clear her mind and the mental math continued. This didn't happen recently. This is why Peter can't remember his childhood. This is the only Peter I've ever known. How did the universe balance when it happened?

She glanced at him them, small talk forgotten, and the glimmer distracted her. This changed everything but nothing all the same. This was Peter, the only Peter she had ever known. She suddenly understood his detachment, his constant movement, his lack of belonging. She understood feeling like a misfit. She understood him, wherever he was from.

When he came down the stairs, he could tell that Walter had spoken to her. Her expression was blank, her smile empty. He knew if he asked, she would say nothing. But she still chose to come out with him. He was quiet as they walked, giving her time to think. Her expression was intense, focused away from him, and then she turned and smiled. A real smile, her eyes dancing over his face. In silence, she looped her arm though his, turned, and resumed walking.

"You come to a conclusion then?" he said, glancing at her.

"Yes. I did. For the most part, anyway." She grinned back at him. The secret would keep that long, she thought, her breath catching anyway. The hope barely outpaced the fear.

The food was good, the drinks were better, and the company was comfortable and familiar. She knew this pattern, this banter, the way of interacting they had. He did not broach any topic that would be considered sensitive and she appreciated that. It was light and freeing and easy. She figured out that she could concentrate and make the glimmering diminish substantially. After a few drinks, once she really relaxed, it went away almost entirely. In the back of her mind, dread loomed like a massed thundercloud on the horizon but she concentrated on not seeing that either. Trepidation about relationships, lingering grief about John, this secret, the coming war, all these were pushed aside for now. Now was the fiery burn of the cognac, tasting woodsy and golden brown. Now was the scent of Peter Bishop and his accidental touch, as he brushed up next to her at the crowded bar.

She bumped his shoulder and asked him to tell her a joke. He looked perplexed for a brief pause and started in. "So a duck walks into a bar, goes up to the bartender and says 'Got any grapes?'…"

She savored the simple moment. The light in his eyes (not glimmer, just twinkle), the smirk, the way he ran his words together as he slurred through "Gotanygrapes?".

She leaned into him, laughing, then surprised herself by not pulling away.

"What a surprisingly clean joke… I am not sure what I expected, but I don't think that was it."

He quirked a smile and his eyes grew subtly warmer as they narrowed at her. "Was that a challenge, Agent Dunham?"

"Well, Mr. Bishop, perhaps it was," she replied huskily.

He only nodded in reply, holding his eyes on hers while he considered other jokes in his repertoire. He flashed to the Agent Dunham he knows from cases, businesslike and driven, and realized that she would never be caught flirting with him. This Olivia was relaxed, initiating physical contact, teasing him for not telling off-color jokes. Distracted by her smile, the warmth of her body leaning into his, he commented on the difference and knew the words were a mistake almost as soon as he said them.

"You are really different tonight Olivia. It's a nice change to see you smile."

She could not stop her face from falling. Too much alcohol to hide her emotions effectively. Her thoughts raced around her life haphazardly, highlighting times she was isolated or alone, too focused for fun. Taking care of Rachel as a child, hiding from her stepfather, tackling school with a passion borne of fear, holding her own in the Academy. Losing John. Never being free enough to relish their relationship before he died. Telling Peter that Rachel was the fun one. How she felt when he called for her.

"I always said that Rachel was the fun one," she replied, twirling her now-empty glass.

"Olivia, that's not what I meant," he started, speaking with a soft intensity. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Did you go out with her?" She asked the question without thinking and bit her lip once she realized what she was saying.

Peter tried not to smile, noting her jealousy and happy to steer the topic to lighter ground. "We went out for drinks once or twice. It was no big deal."

She paused, considering. Considering asking what he saw in Rachel, what he sees in her. Considered asking for another round, knowing she was well-past her limit to drive safely, knowing it meant he would be in charge of getting her safely to sleep. Somewhere. She wanted to relax and just let things be.

She looked up at him hesitantly, and smiled, shaking the empty glass. He nodded and waved at the bartender. He smiled at her and she knew that he knew. Sometimes this is what it took to get her to let go. Hopefully it would not take so much next time or she would end up a full blown alcoholic. She chuckled at the thought.

"Something funny?"

She shook her head slightly and replied, "No, nothing… Tell me another joke, Peter."

He grinned. "So an FBI agent, a consultant and a cow walk into a bar…"

They stumbled out of the bar at a quarter to two. Peter watched her drinking and had decided long before to abandon the idea of being designated driver. It would have been stranger to have him crash at her place than her stay at his and she would never have allowed him to drive her SUV back. And knowing her, she had thought all this through anyway. She leaned into him as they ambled back to his house, comfortable in silence but neither knowing what to say.

As they approached his front step, he casually offered his bed to her. "You take the bed, I'll take the couch."

"Peter…" she started, not sure what she was going to say.

"Nope, no protests," he declared. "You are not fit to drive, nor am I, and Walter does sometimes like the clothing-free lifestyle. You should not be subjected to that."

She laughed, protest effectively squelched by the image, before melancholy started to seep in. Walter.

Astrid regarded them with amusement as they swayed in the doorway. Walter had gone to sleep a few hours earlier and she had dozed off herself. She excused herself quickly and left with a small smile gracing her features.

Peter walked her upstairs and offered her one of his shirts to sleep in. As he turned to leave, he heard her tugging off her sweater and he paused in the doorway, indulging his imagination.

"Peter," she whispered, voice lifting in slight question. "Do you ever wonder how things would have been, for us, if not for Walter? If… If he hadn't…"

He was surprised by her quiet voice, the sadness it hinted as her voice trailed off. Back still turned, he heard her kick off her shoes and he was momentarily distracted by the sound of a zipper. He sighed.

He exhaled her name, shaking off the vivid images he'd conjured. "'Livia… I wonder about that all the time." He heard the sounds of sheets rustling and he turned to see her sliding into bed. He was torn, drawn in by her vulnerable honesty, distracted by the smooth white skin of her thigh. The alcohol made it dangerously hard to focus.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his bed, and delicately smoothed her hair. "I wonder all the time," he said enigmatically. He let his hand follow the curve of her face and she turned into it, eyes closing, sighing softly. He felt the internal conflict of conscience struggling against desire and took a steadying breath.

"Goodnight, Olivia" he murmured, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on her temple. He was gone before she could react, shutting the door before he could persuade himself to enjoy the alcohol-induced disinhibition.

She was left alone in his bed, stilled by a lifetime of self-restraint, knowing he would not act if she did not act herself. Move. Act. Reach out. Let go. She held these thoughts close as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.