A/N: You know, I had no idea how much I missed being able to completely give up my life to work wholeheartedly on a story until this week. Yet again I always seem to forget how much I need to do this until I do it again and realize how miserable I was, and how much better it makes me feel. Anyway. I have one day of soul-pouring left before all my energy has to go back to my kiddos, I'm working hard on making sure the last part is posted tomorrow, trust me.

To my few "guest" reviewers from last chapter, thank you, dearly. It does make a difference :') And of course, the few of you who never fail me, I LOVE YOU PARTICULARLY A LOT.

NORTHWEST PASSAGE

III. MIND OVER MATTER

"Could you at least call someone to collect you? I'm not comfortable with letting you–"

"No," Peter cuts his doctor off, not bothering to look up. His voice remains lower than usual, more hoarse, too, the way it's been since he woke up, strained in part by pain, but by anger as well.

He feels the woman's eyes on him as he fills in his paperwork, apparently hoping her stare will have more effect than her words. What she doesn't know is that Peter has long been immune to glares of that nature.

When you spend most of your life being a disappointment to people, you tend to collect those a lot.

He ticks a couple more boxes, before closing his eyes shut, swallowing back a grunt. His hand cramps up around the pen, his fingers shaking too much for him to sign properly.

His physical discomfort is getting worse by the minute, but he will not back down from his decision to leave. He'll spend the next three days prostrated on a bed in a motel outside of town if he has to, but he'll escape Boston before the sun rises.

When he reopens his eyes, his shaky hand drops the pen and reaches for his phone (as if he wouldn't have felt it vibrate).

Once again, it only shows him the time of night – almost 3am.

When Walter left his side, a few hours ago, Peter half-expected Olivia to reenter the room. These expectations hadn't been high, but they'd been real. Until now, he'd never thought of Olivia Dunham as being a coward in any way, shape, or form, quite the opposite.

In the aftermath of his confrontation with the man he'd called dad only days ago, though, both her silence and avoidance filled him with such a strong feeling of dejection and treachery that the term 'cowardice' definitely crossed his mind a few times.

Waking up from this little fantasy of his he'd entertained for months, thinking he'd found some solid ground here in Boston, maybe even a family, hurt like hell. It went so far beyond the past year and a half, though.

His whole goddamn existence was a lie.

In the blurred, seething hours that follow his harsh return to reality, Peter's emotions towards everything that made up his life these past eighteen months do such a back-flip that Olivia's decision to stay away is probably wise. While he could bear to see heartbreak all over Walter's face and even use it to fuel his anger, he doesn't possess the same resilience when it comes to her.

When he'd woken up, she'd barely started to show signs of discomfort at his cold stare that he was caving in, smiling at her as if nothing was wrong, even as his heart fractured a little more in his chest.

He only has himself to blame for being so weak. He more or less spent the last year and a half making sure he would never be a source of anguish to her, if he could help it. She dealt with enough bullshit as it was, in both her professional and personal life; what she'd needed was a friend, someone who looked out for her. Someone who cared.

And boy, had he cared.

Somewhere along the way, he'd fooled himself into believing that she cared for him, too.

Just not enough to let him in on the most important secret of his life.

Surely, she was going to reach out, though, once she talked to Walter and realized he knew, to explain herself at least, make up some excuses. She would never beg for forgiveness, obviously, that wasn't her style.

If anything else, he thought he deserved some kind of recognition for his services, as FBI consultant, if not as close friend and confident. He might kick her out of his room again, or hang up on her, but at least it would show him she cared, in some twisted way.

But as the hours passed and his anger and pain grew, Peter remained alone in his room, his phone silent, his aching, overloaded (heart) brain his sole companion.

Even now, as he swallows back the stomach acid that has risen in his throat and makes himself sign the discharge papers, he's too angry to fully grasp what it all means, beyond obvious revelations like childhood trauma, or the unwitting role he played in his mother's suicide just by being here, mixed with the sudden loss of everything that had made up his life in recent months.

While Peter easily ignores his doctor's subsequent protests, he gladly accepts the painkillers she proscribes him. He's popped three more pills by the time he exits the hospital.

Two hours later, he's already well on his to drunk in his motel room when his phone vibrates at last, and Olivia's name flashes on the screen.

Ever since they'd met, he never once ignored one of her calls, even the ones she so often made at ungodly hours of the night.

He always answered, because knowing Olivia, answering her call could very well be the difference between life and death – her life, as well as her death.

Within the next thirty minutes, she calls five times.

He ignores every single one of them, eventually turning his phone off altogether.

Whatever window he'd left ajar for her, she had missed her chance.

...

Sleeping has never been an easy thing to do, for Peter.

Falling asleep isn't the issue; staying asleep is the problem.

Even during the ten years he spent freed of nightmares, he would still regularly wake up in the middle of the night, shaking, drenched with sweat, heart racing, although unable to remember what visions plagued his dreams; a small consolation.

Please don't dream tonight. Please don't dream tonight. Please don't dream tonight.

Only a few months ago, Peter told Olivia how helpful this mantra had been, taught by a seemingly well-meaning father. What he'd failed to remember at the time was that back then, Walter had been adamant about his son learning to control what he saw (or did not) when he slept.

Even now, the barrier that exists in his subconscious is too strong for him to remember anything of the kidnapping itself, or of the following months. Nor does he remember any of the seven years that came before that.

But he does remember Walter checking on him every night, after he'd admitted being terrified of being pulled away in his sleep, by some monster that might hide under his bed.

Remember your mantra, son, Walter would say, never leaning down to kiss him goodnight anymore (had he ever?), offering him a smile that may have appeared warm to some, rarely to Peter. Mind over matter. If you will your mind to obey your wishes, you'll be amazed how much you can accomplish.

And it worked.

At least, until his mother killed herself, at which point his brain decided that, fuck your mantra, he was going to have to deal with some of his locked-up emotions.

But if Peter was good at anything, it was at willing his mind to obey his wishes.

Mind over matter.

Throughout the following decade, he moved around enough, and gave himself plenty of distractions, so that sleep happened when it happened, and if he was having a particularly rough week, well, he could always find himself a night time companion to help him fill the dark hours before sunrise.

Back in Boston, things were different.

Oddly enough, despite the horrors he saw every day, he had very few nightmares. The main problem had been being allowed to sleep through the night; most people put their phones on vibrate at night in order to ignore potential callers.

But to Peter, the sound his device made as it shook on his nightstand had become louder than any ringtone, Olivia's name the first thing he saw upon awaking at 2 or 3am (his favorite night time companion).

He's not sleeping well, these days.

When he does fall asleep, he dreams of cold water, and wake up shaking, drenched in sweat, heart racing.

He thinks he might go to ocean, next, follow the coast all the way up to Canada.

As it turns out, Peter doesn't even make it thirty miles west of his last motel in Noyo County when he decides to stop, too bone–tired after the events of the past few days to drive one more minute on those damn, sinuous roads.

He falls asleep the way he always does; fast. He's awoken the way he often is; even faster.

His phone is vibrating.

He's confused for a moment, aware that it's too early for his daily round of 'let's–ignore–Olivia'.

Almost against his will, he picks up the buzzing device. When he sees the name on the screen, though, all traces of sleepiness leave him, still feeling involved enough for worry to sneak back in at once.

"Hello?" He answers as he sits up.

"Hey Peter, it's sheriff Mathis."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing, nothing serious anyway, but I thought you should know I had an interesting visit today. Someone's looking for you."

His brain might still be a bit muddled, as it immediately jumps to hasty conclusions, adrenaline quick to flood his blood.

"Newton," he almost growls.

"Uhm, no," Mathis replies, sounding slightly judgmental at this dumb assumption. "Female, blonde, five-feet-eight, carries a gun?"

His breathing halts for a second as he processes her words, his heart speeding up even more than it had at the thought of Newton.

"You talked to Olivia."

"I did," Mathis confirms. "Twice actually. In person. She went looking for you at your motel, then came back to see me upon finding you gone."

Peter remains silent, already understanding that Broyles must have spilled the beans. Granted, he never specified he shouldn't tell Olivia where he was, but he thought it was obvious enough, considering he'd called him instead of her.

"What did she want?" He asks, his voice lower; colder, too.

"What do you think?" Mathis retorts.

"I think that if she flew all the way to Noyo County to try and find me, it must be pretty bad. You may want to say goodbye to your loved ones."

That was unfair, on both Olivia and the woman he's speaking to, he knows it the moment the words leave his mouth.

"First of all, that's not funny," Mathis tells him, and there's reproach in her voice, rightfully irked by his attitude now. "Second of all, I don't know you well enough to pretend I understand what happened to you, or why you're acting the way you are. What I do know though is that if the FBI wanted to contact you, they would have done it already, so why don't you stop feeling sorry for yourself for five minutes, at least long enough to let that girl talk to you. Unless you really think she flew all the way across the country because of her job, in which case, she's probably better off."

Peter sighs, cornered. The truth is, he doesn't want to think about Olivia coming after him for reasons other than professionals, because it doesn't match the picture of her he's painted in his mind over the past three weeks. Her phone calls, he can excuse easily enough, but this...not so much.

After a silence that stretches for long seconds, he hangs his head, defeated, before speaking again, his voice softer, having lost its sharp edge. "How was she?"

But Mathis will have none of it. "Uh uh," she refuses. "I'm not doing this with you, too. If you want to know how she's doing, ask her yourself. And by the way, 'If we call the FBI, they're gonna descend on this place and these people will disappear'? It's a good thing you did find Ferguson on your own, Bishop, because that was one lame, selfish, and cowardly excuse not to have your girlfriend find out where you were."

"She's not my girlfriend," he hears himself say.

"Sure," Mathis says, matching his sarcasm now. "She's just your partner, right?"

And she hangs up on him.

...

When his phone begins to vibrate again, a couple of hours later, Peter stares at it, still debating with himself, the way he's been for the last one-hundred-and-thirteen minutes.

Mathis had said just enough to make him crave for more.

She'd talked to Olivia.

One

She'd seen Olivia. Twice. Which is quite a lot more than he had, these past seventeen days.

And now, she's calling.

Two.

He's still mad at her.

Three.

He also misses her.

Four.

Scowling at himself, Peter picks up the phone and accepts the call before it goes to voicemail, bringing the device to his ear.

At first, there is only silence.

He knows the exact moment she realizes the line has stopped ringing and is actually open, hearing her sharp intake of breath.

Another second goes by, then two, three...

"Peter?"

She breathes out his name more than she says it. And yet, she says it, in that damn way of hers.

Peter closes his eyes, his stomach sinking as his heart thumps beneath his ribs. He swallows hard, forcing himself to breathe in deeply, in the hope that he will sound more composed than he feels.

"Hey," he finally answers, failing. His voice is too low, and there's already a lump forming at the back of his throat.

And then, more silence, although they're not completely quiet either.

She's breathing too fast, the sound of her respiration perfectly audible, and she probably hear his, too. She doesn't say anything, though, and it could almost make him smile, how she's tried calling him every night relentlessly for two and a half weeks, yet didn't think much about what to say if he ever picked up.

There's also the fact that she's, well...Olivia.

No matter what happened, what grudges he may (or may not) still hold against her, some fundamental facts jump to his mind: Olivia isn't good at this. Olivia retreats and shuts down when put in a vulnerable position.

Olivia is never going to be able to say whatever she wants to say over the phone.

Peter runs a hand over his face, already kicking himself for what he's about to say, but the truth is, he's been doomed the moment he heard her voice again.

"Where are you?" he asks, his tone more polite than kind.

Inhale. Exhale.

"I'm...we're at the Northwest Passage."

He doesn't miss the way she corrected herself, and he clenches his jaw, feeling the all too familiar anger constricting his chest. "Walter's with you." It's not a question.

"Yeah," she breathes out again. "Couple of rooms down from mine. He's...sedated, I guess."

Another stretch of silence follows as Peter debates with himself once more, and Olivia probably does the same on her end of the line, trying to work up the nerves to say more than two words to him.

She doesn't, which is really all the persuading he needs.

"Which room are you in?" The question is unambiguous, and by the way she breathes in too sharply again, she understands what he's implying.

"Uhm." There's a pause. "Four."

Peter recognizes the room number as the one he had occupied the previous night, and somehow, he highly doubts this is a coincidence. He can picture her blushing, now, caught in the act of missing him more than he'd let himself think she might, and he feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

He's picturing her too well, sitting tensed and uneasy at the edge of her bed, hair down, jacket off, otherwise still in her typical work attire. With her eyes closed, her face might even be slightly scrunched up in embarrassment.

He sees her in his mind's eyes, yet the image is somewhat blurred, as if details he used to know by heart are already starting to fade.

In almost two years, they'd rarely spent more than a handful of days apart from each other.

When they did, they'd stayed in touch, especially these past six months, one of them always checking on the other, their phone conversations never lengthy, but genuine enough.

Even on those few occasions when she'd deliberately tried avoiding him, the way she had during the weeks that preceded his departure, they'd still seen each other on a daily basis, part of each other's life, for better or for worse.

Spending eighteen hours a day with someone for twenty odd months, then nothing at all for nearly three weeks...

God he misses her.

"I'll be there in an hour."

TBC...

*insert Walter's little shippy dance*