A/N: Here comes another biiiig part, full of P/O goodness (including more smut, yes, how not shocked are you?), and a couple more things I wanted to explore. Yes, this story should now be 10 parts long. I know, I know, but I'm not exactly sorry xD

In any case, thank you for your support and love, enjoy this one!

SHIVERED BONES

VIII.

Peter lets her be.

He knows she's in her room, now, probably getting dressed for good this time. He could give her the easy way out, stay in his own room while she escaped without having to confront him again; it would be easier for him, too.

He's about done being a coward, though, unable to stand the thought of them parting like this.

He stays in the main part of the loft instead, quickly noticing that she's picked up most of the items they'd dropped on the floor the previous night. As he waits for her to come out, he sits at the piano Walter insisted on getting up here. He's not remotely interested in playing, but he has a direct view of the elevator door from the bench, insuring she won't sneak out.

Some old habits die hard, though, and soon, his fingers rest on the keyboard, drawn to it. They always are, whenever he finds himself sitting at a piano, just like they are drawn to Olivia whenever she's within his reach. As he begins to play, the thought of her slipping through his fingers yet again after having her so close makes him feel hollow.

What happened in the kitchen doesn't even qualify as a fight, but he has his own demons, recent and past events in his life making him prone to quickly dwell in doubts and self-contempt.

He keeps the notes soft and unhurried, his hands traveling effortlessly across the piano, not exactly surprised that the melody he's creating sounds a bit too much like a lament, distant memories melding with his returning gloom. Already, his mother has joined him; she always does when he plays.

He sees her so clearly in his mind's eyes, she could as well be sitting at his side, the way she used to when he was a kid and a young teen. She used to love listening to him play, and he used to love the way she looked when he did, the darkness in her eyes receding for a little while.

It never stayed away long enough.

When Peter's neck starts prickling, he knows Olivia has come out of her room, and is now watching him; he doesn't stop right away. His melody changes, though, as he smoothly begins to favor major chords over minors, the notes that fill the air ringing with timid hope. Eventually, he lets the music fade, soon turning around on the bench to look at her.

As he expected, she's standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She did attempt to get dressed, now wearing pants, her messy hair freed from its bun. She's still wearing his shirt, though, which he takes as a good sign.

Appeased by her presence alone, quite certain that if she intended to leave, she would be long gone, all of his focus is on her face, and on the way she's looking at him. They remain quiet for another minute, simply holding each other's gaze.

"I'm sorry," she eventually says, softly, with another painful smile and a small shake of her head.

"It's alright," he replies, just as quietly.

She shakes her head again. "No, it's not. It was unfair of me, to get mad at you like that."

He's unwilling to let her take the blame for this, though. "I was out of line," he says. "It's not my place to tell you what you should or shouldn't do."

Olivia purses her lips with a vague tilt of her head. "That's not entirely true, though, is it?" Seeing his confusion, she adds: "I don't approve of Broyles using you to keep me in check, but I get why he did it. He knows I usually listen to you, even if I don't like it. You have this annoying habit of being right about a lot of things. And you're right about this, too."

Peter remains silent, waiting for her to elaborate. She looks…peeved, clearly annoyed by his perspicacity indeed.

"I keep on pretending everything's fine, but it's not," she finally admits, reluctantly. "I know I'm not fine. I know I've come back…damaged."

His throat constricts, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard. "Olivia, you're not-" but she cuts him off again.

"Come on, Peter," she says, her annoyance growing, her brow furrowed. "How much more do you need to see? I'm a mess, and you know it, don't try and make excuses for me."

He realizes then that most of her renewed irritation isn't directed towards him, but towards herself.

"I had every intention of leaving, you know," she continues. "I was not happy about that little chat." Her tone and the look on her face match her words, pinching her lips in a tight, sullen smile. "But then, I remembered we're on the 38th floor, which means that if I want to leave, I have to go back in that box," she swoops a hand toward the elevator, her face once again scrunching up in pained aggravation, deeply offended by her own helplessness. "And the last time I went in there when I was too worked up, I had a fucking episode."

Peter is back on his feet, now, slowly walking to her as she continues: "I know I've got issues, but I can't-"

Her hand comes up to her face, pressing it to her nose, before she catches herself doing it and wraps her arms tightly around herself, bringing her gaze back to his, her face constricting.

"I can't stand the thought of you doubting my ability to do my job," she admits with a defeated shrug. "This job…this job is my life, Peter. It's the only thing I had when I-" She closes her eyes, shaking her head as if to clear it. "It's more than that."

She reopens her eyes, looking up at him, now standing in front of her. "I made a promise, Over There," she says, very quietly. "A man died so that I could come home. He had a family, a wife and a son, people who needed him. But he sacrificed himself for me, because I promised him I would do everything in my power to save his world if he saved me."

The look on her face is agonizing, her head tilting, her eyes brimming with tears he knows she won't let herself cry, as she asks in a whisper: "How exactly am I supposed to take a vacation, when I know there's this little boy out there who lost his dad because of me?"

This time, Peter doesn't wait for a sign of consent before reaching for her, everything in her body language and in the way she looks at him screaming of the quiet pain she's in. His hand disappears into her hair, and she wraps her arms around him, tightly, clenching his sweater in her hands as she presses her face to his chest, his other arm coming around her to draw soothing circles over her back.

They sway on the spot as he soundlessly tries to absorb some of her pain, his nose buried in her hair, hoping that his touch is enough to convey how deeply he feels for her. He wishes nothing more than for that crushing weight on her shoulders to lessen, so that she could breathe; he would carry it all himself, if he was only given the chance.

Eventually, he pulls away to look at her, bringing his hand back to her face. Her eyes remain too bright and slightly reddened, yet she doesn't cry, stubbornly refusing to give in.

"First of all, you're not damaged," he tells her, and although his voice is soft, he says it firmly, adamantly. "You're…bruised."

She makes a face, as if she has half a mind to tell him what she thinks of his metaphor, but he shakes his head, bringing his second hand up to cup her other cheek, tightening his hold on her.

"Things get damaged, not people," he insists. "People, even very strong minded people who have a tendency to push through their pain? They heal. But for that to happen, you have to stop pretending these bruises aren't there, because all you are doing is press on them, over and over again."

With her gaze firmly locked with his, he knows she's listening. "Second of all, I have never doubted your ability to do your job, Olivia, and I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I did. Neither has Broyles. You're…amazing at what you do, he knows that, and so do I. But the responsibilities this job is putting on you should not come at the expense of your wellbeing –I know you don't agree," he stops her before she can interrupt him. "But that doesn't make it any less true. Sometimes, you have to accept the fact that you come first. You can't keep on saving the world and everyone in it if you don't take care of yourself. At the very least, let me take care of you. I'm good at that, remember?"

After a pause, she nods, and her eyes close when he presses his lips to her forehead, one of her hands now holding on to his forearm, the other one still clutching a fistful of his sweater against his ribs.

"You're a good man, Peter," she eventually whispers.

He knows what triggered these words, both of them thinking back to that discussion they had in her hospital room, over a year ago, when she told him he was good at 'that, at taking care of the people he cared about. And again, he aches at the thought of his mother, unable to keep her away.

Be a better man than your father.

He leans his forehead against Olivia's, still holding her face in his hands, needing to share a little bit of his soul with her, the way she just had with him. "When I met my mom on the Other Side, my biological mom, I told her about my mother from this side, about…how sad she was for so many years, because of me."

Already, Olivia has released his sweater, splaying her hand over his back, her touch soft, comforting. Peter keeps on going, though; he's not sharing this with her hoping to get her sympathy. "She said something to me that day, my mom. She told me…in the end, we have to take responsibility for our own decisions."

He moves his face away from hers, just enough to meet her gaze. "You made a promise, and you should honor that promise. But the choice this man made…the choice was his, Olivia. He chose to save your life. Don't let it become a punishment."

Eventually, she nods in his hands, too overwhelmed to even try to speak.

"I won't bring up time off again," he promises, aware of how important this is to her. "Just…think about it, okay?"

And again, when she nods her answer, he knows she's not simply humoring him. He gently bumps her nose with his, and she closes her eyes, almost tiredly, before dropping her head, pressing her face to the side of his neck. He brings his arms back around her, holding her to him as she sinks into his embrace. They let time pass, content to stay like this for now, breathing each other in, taking comfort as much as giving it.

After some time, she begins to move again, her hands releasing his sweater to slip under the shirt beneath. As always, her fingers are colder than his skin, but he doesn't mind. He certainly doesn't mind the way her palms are pressing upon his back as they move up, replaced by the light feel of her nails as they come back down. It's all it takes for his blood to heat up again, already gathering low. His entire body breaks into shivers as her lips part against his skin, and she merely breathes out, pouring hot air over his pulsing point. Soon, she's grabbing the hem of both shirt and sweater, pulling upward.

He raises his arms to let her pull them over his head, bringing his hands to her cheeks a moment later, tilting her face up and leaning down as her fingers resume their movements over his back. The kiss is soft, unhurried, slowly gaining in intensity. Even though it seems to be lacking the impatience that was present every other time, there is definite longing in their touch, especially hers. Before long, she's brought her hands down between them, undoing his belt and popping his jeans open, unambiguous about what she wants and needs from him, now.

Peter knows she's using this, using him, as a means to push away these shadows that refuse to let her be. He was aware of it during the night, after her nightmare, and he's aware of it now. And just like he had then, he gladly obliges, only wanting to help her find some peace.

Considering what was done to him only weeks ago, how that same act was used to fool him, maybe this should bother him. It doesn't. It doesn't, because this is so different with Olivia. She has no ulterior motive but a sheer longing for closeness that equals his own, seeking relief through their embrace.

He feels it in the way her fingers move upon his skin and disappear into his hair, always more a caress than a grip. He sees it when her face constricts in more than desire, in the slightest of ways. And he hears it in the sigh of his name, as his lips trail her skin.

They're on her bed, now, having discarded of their clothes along the way, once again entangled in one another, cocooned in the warmth of their bodies. And again, he's kissing every inch of her, taking his time, resuming the thorough exploration of her body he began earlier today. At the time, he had sought to exhaust her body and cloud her mind, with pleasure instead of fear for once, overflowing her blood with oxytocin so that the next time she slept, she wouldn't even dream.

This time, he focuses on her skin itself, following freckles and scars, loving the way her milky complexion darkens under his touch, his lips attracting the heat within, drawing it up to the surface.

What he could never tell her is that he needs to do this, to carve the shape and feel of her into his brain, charting every inch of her body, in a desperate attempt to overwrite the map he started with the wrong woman. Consciously, he does his best not to compare, but more often than not, he's not given a choice, especially when the physical similarities are so bluntly obvious.

The differences are there, though, and more than anything else, that is what he's after. The fact alone that she lets him do this, explore, is different; this always was much too intimate for this other her to tolerate. Every time Peter finds a scar he'd never seen before, every time she shivers a little stronger, he takes notes, knowing that eventually, Olivia's map will erase everything else.

While his mouth moves over her upper body, keeping himself up on one arm, his free hand is far from being idle, more purposeful as it focuses lower. It moves, caresses, kneads, the pad of his fingers digging into her thigh, sometimes higher, moving across her twitching stomach, sliding through her warmth, curling inside of her. They never remain in one place too long, seeking to please and wake her body to him -and succeeding, judging by her humming sighs, but he's intent on keeping the fire burning low for now, not yet ready to speed things along.

Olivia tried reciprocating some of the attention at first, but every time her fingers had sneaked between them, he gently grabbed them and chased them away, making it clear this was once again about her. Any other time, she might have fought for her right to touch him. The fact that she gives up so quickly, resting her hands almost loosely upon his back, lets him know that she's still shaken by their most recent conversation, accepting his offer and letting him take care of her.

With his lips on her shoulder, he brings his hand back up, reaching for one of her arms, unwrapping it from around him until it rests at her side, pinning it gently to the mattress. As he begins trailing down the soft skin of her upper arm, his thumb brushes the inside of her elbow. She tenses briefly under and around him, followed by a small tug, as she instinctively tries to free her arm from his grip. He knew this reaction would come; he noticed this morning that this was a part of her she didn't want him to focus on, and he'd complied.

Not this time.

He doesn't let go, moving further down instead, until he's looking at the crook of her elbow. There, scattered over her pale, translucent skin, are small, white scars that follow the sinuous line of the vein beneath. Some of them are more noticeable than others; he even sees the faint remains of a couple of needle tracks, where her skin was crudely scratched.

Using her other hand, now in his hair, she pulls gently, yet firmly, silently asking him not to look at them, not to look at this physical reminder and evidence of what was done to her. Still, Peter doesn't move, a low, fiery rage briefly coiling in his gut as he stares at this travesty of a constellation, born from abuse and pain.

He doesn't let his anger spread, doesn't let it take over. He acknowledges it, then pushes it away, before refocusing solely on her, lowering his face until his lips are pressed to her skin, lingering upon these stars. The tugging stops as she listens to his silent words, as clear to her as hers had been to him a moment ago. He knows.

She has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide, not from him.

When he hears and feels her sharp intake of breath, followed by a quivery exhale, he finally lets go, raising his head to look at her. Her fingers have left his hair, the back of her hand now pressed to her mouth, her face turned away, eyes tightly shut. He moves upward, surrounding her with warmth, taking her fingers in his, away from her face, intertwining them. Pressing their joined hands near her head, he leans down, then, kissing that line between her eyes, the one that always appears whenever her face constricts, whenever she yields to whatever screams inside of her.

His nose brushes away the wet trails that have run down her temples, before his lips find hers again, kissing her with slow and aching urgency. As her free hand comes to rest on his face, her nails grazing his stubble, he slips his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, shifting them, and she gasps into his mouth when he enters her, his turn to be surrounded by warmth.

He's loving her, then, and she responds to him with equal yearning, moving with him, her legs entangled in his, just like their hands upon the mattress, squeezing with each of his thrusts. Her hold on his jaw has tightened, too, as if insuring his face won't leave hers, even when they halt their kissing to breathe or adjust their bodies. Already, the way they move together is becoming more intuitive and smooth, dancing a lovers' dance.

Her leg moves over his, until he feels her heel pressing into the back of his thigh, a wordless request he recognizes. Shifting his weight and his hold on her hips, he increases both the momentum and strength of his next thrusts. Her reaction doesn't disappoint, her fingers swiftly leaving his face as she reaches for the firm muscles of his buttocks, pulling him to her, and he watches as her face constricts, mouth agape, gasping his name, before the sound turns into a long moan.

He could have spent an eternity watching her like this, flushed with heat and growing pleasure, but trapped as he is, in her gaze and her warmth, his control is already slipping, and the crook of her neck is calling him home. He buries his face against her skin, forcing himself not to give in to his own brand of ecstasy as it swells within him, focusing on his pace.

He moves almost languidly, but his thrusts are steady and strong, as affected by the warm, tight feel of her as he is by the exquisite sting of her nails, the clasp of her legs, and her breath near his ear. Even through the thumping of his heart, he hears each of the sounds she makes, every pant, gasp and moan passing through him like a hot blade, his own groans muffled into her neck.

Her movements are out of sync for a moment as she shifts, firmly locking her legs around his hips, releasing her holds on him to press both her hands upon his chest. And again, he quickly understands and doesn't oppose resistance, rolling them over, until she's resting upon him. She doesn't sit up this time, keeping their faces close instead, weaving her fingers through his hair as hers cascades around their heads in a golden waterfall. Her breathing is heavy against his lips, their eyes once again locked as she sets a new pace, faster, but not by much.

She only breaks eye contact to kiss him as she rolls harder into him, driven by his helping hands, moving and pushing upon her lower back to increase the pressure between them. Soon, kissing becomes nonessential, her fingers clenching the sheet on each side of his head, pushing herself off his chest to increase her movements, until she's arching over him with another low, resonating moan. He knows she's reaching that place again, that place where nothing else matters but her fast approaching release, taking him along with her.

Given the way her body curves upon him, head thrown back, her chest and throat are now exposed, at his mercy. Grabbing her waist, his back leaves the mattress, pushing himself up and forward, raking his teeth over her pulsing neck, before bending his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. As he sucks, avidly, he feels her nails in the back of his head, one of her hands now clenching his nape.

The added sensation seems to unravel her, the meeting of their hips becoming more and more erratic, bringing her to the verge of breaking; in a craze, Peter rolls them over again, anything but slow now, maintaining the pace she'd set, pushing deeper within her, his massaging palm and fingers replacing his lips and tongue over her breast. With her nails still digging into the back of his neck, her other hand claws at his lower back as she completely gives into it, into him, absolutely unrestrained, her voice a beautiful music, her rippling body his safe haven.

The incredible feel of her, combined with the keen awareness of her rushing pleasure, is enough for him to surrender to that scorching heat that has been gathering within the most intricate parts of him. Caught up in her surging waves, a tongue of electric fire unleashes from his core, until it spreads through his entire body.

All he can do for the following minute –or ten, is rest limply upon her, his face pressed between her heaving breasts, shaking, and fighting for air, his heart galloping madly in his chest. If they keep this up, he might drive himself into a premature heart-attack; he guesses there are worse ways to die.

He's been focusing on the sound of her slowing heartbeat, and on the feel of her fingers in his hair, awaiting the moment when she'll ask him to move his weight off her. It doesn't come.

Instead, he feels her chest twitch under him, in what he recognizes as a silent chuckle, before she lets out a low, pained groan. He raises his head, not an easy feat as the muscles of his neck are still made of pudding.

She meets his gaze, looking as drained as he feels, and just as high. "I couldn't feel half my body," she says in answer to his silent question. "But now that the sensations are coming back, I think it was for the best."

It's his turn to chuckle, before he drops his head again, peppering the soft, soft skin of her breast with kisses, simply because it's right there, and why wouldn't he?

"Think we should call the lobby?" he muses. "Maybe they have a lab that specifies in 'excessive intercourse and its after effects'."

As they both chuckle and snort a bit too much at a comment that wasn't even that funny, he finally forces himself to move, coming up to her level, and working together with cottony hands and legs to bring some covers over their cooling bodies.

They don't really sleep, after that, not entirely awake either, limbs entangled, nose to nose, soft, lazy fingers moving upon skin, a feather-light touch that feels like heaven. Olivia is back to feeling uncharacteristically mellow, her previous bit of anger and ensuing heartache a fading memory.

She hasn't forgotten what happened, but somehow, it feels insignificant at the moment, compared to the feel of Peter's body and warmth, to the momentary peace he makes her feel. They're almost too warm, tangled up under the covers, their skin never having dried off properly from their last bout of love making, trapped as they are in their shared body heat; she doesn't care.

She's had a lifetime worth of feeling cold.

As the minutes pass and the light progressively darkens in the room, she thinks they should probably acknowledge the fact that they will need to drive back to Boston soon. Yet, they don't move. Or not much.

His lips find hers at some point –or maybe she finds his. After that, she loses track of time again, loses track of everything that isn't him and her, as she slowly melts into him. There is something wonderfully soothing in the intimacy of this moment, simply kissing, hands roaming, yet not seeking more for now, discovering each other still.

Their impromptu making-out session isn't completely innocent either, slowly escalating, going from the soft, unhurried brush of lips upon lips, to Olivia eventually being fully pressed into the mattress again. With both her hands pined on each side of her head, fingers intertwined, their tongues languidly imitate some of what their lower-halves will probably be doing again before long, aching body parts be damned, walking is overrated anyway.

That is, until the ringing of a phone pierces through the semi-silence of the room.

She knows the phone is Peter's, the sound coming from his discarded pants on the floor; hers is still in her purse, somewhere in the living room, completely ignored as well as forgotten. Right now, what Olivia wants is for him to ignore his, too, her tingling lips already missing his as he attempts to move off her with a disgruntled grunt.

"Just let it ring," she says, her nails grazing the light hair on his chest, trying to tempt him into staying in bed with her, digging her toes in his calf.

But he shakes his head, kissing her shoulder. "I can't, it could be important."

She sighs as he finally succeeds in extorting himself from the covers, which had somehow gotten quite entangled between their legs. She's a bit annoyed for sure, knowing exactly who's calling. Still, she shamelessly stares and enjoys the sight as he looks for his pants. A few seconds later, her suspicions are confirmed.

"Walter," he greets, offering Olivia a sheepish look in answer to her pursed lips, already coming back to the bed, sitting down.

This time, she actually pays attention to the conversation, her lips on his shoulder blade, and from what she hears of it, his father is probing, trying to find out what exactly he's been up to all day, and when he'll be back. When she finally gets a glance at the clock on the nightstand, she's almost shocked to see it's already past 5pm. Considering they both have a four hours' drive ahead of them, they really need to stop postponing the inevitable.

Her mind now set on taking another shower, she leaves the bed, not without pressing a rather loud kiss on his skin first, only inches from the phone. He lets her shower alone, this time, and she guesses Walter successfully guilted him into coming back.

Gathering up their things doesn't take long, and soon they're standing in front of the elevator. With her bag hooked over her shoulder, she presses the call button with a firm hand, pretending she's not anxious. She also purposefully avoids Peter's eyes, aware that all he has to do is look at her to know she is anxious.

She has no other choice but to look up at him when she feels his fingers on her cheek. She doesn't know what she expected to find in his eyes, but that dark, hungry gleam definitely wasn't it, not now. Before she can as much as frown, he's brought his second hand to her face, pulling her up into a kiss that is as intense as it is unexpected. Even through her slight surprise, her free hand swiftly comes up to his chest, her fingers clenching the hem of his peacoat.

When she hears the doors opening, he doesn't give her a moment to think, kicking his traveling bag inside the elevator before pushing her in as well. He only briefly lets go of her to press the button that will take them all the way down to the parking level, before he resumes his forward motion, until she's pinned to the wall.

"What are you doing?" She asks as he leans down to kiss her again.

She registers the closing doors, feels the bulging return of this oppressing breathlessness that always takes over her when she finds herself enclosed in the small space. Yet, it seems more…distant, too caught up in Peter's gaze and the pressure of his body against hers to fully register it.

"I'm distracting you," he replies simply. "I thought that was obvious."

She gives him a look. "Well, yeah. But we're not in a lockdown anymore, that camera over there is working again. Do you really want to give them that kind of footage?"

His face scrunches up in an exaggerated frown. "My father owns the place," he says, with that hint of cockiness she enjoys a bit too much. "You and I both know he would probably cry watching a tape of this."

Almost to her surprise, Olivia finds herself chuckling good-heartedly, the sound soon muffled by his lips, not giving her much of a choice, only because he knows she's perfectly willing. The feel of him is entrancing as he kisses her deep, and slow, pressing her more and more firmly into the wall. Before long, her bag drops to the floor, swiftly discarded as she wraps both her arms around his neck, feeling the subtle yet unmistakable roll of his hips into hers.

She realizes how successful his distraction is when she feels the elevator come to a stop, her foggy brain even registering the doors opening. For a moment, she thinks they may have made it all the way down, until she hears the distinctive sound of someone politely clearing their throat.

She lets go of his lips, pushing herself up on her toes to look over his shoulder, meeting Nina Sharp's gaze in the process.

"Oh shit," Olivia breathes out as she falls back on her heels, now pushing Peter away from her not so gently. He lets her go swiftly enough, turning around to face the new arrival.

"Good evening Miss Sharp," he says, smugly, not even slightly embarrassed, while Olivia feels herself becoming as red as Nina's lipstick.

"Peter, Olivia," she greets them with a polite nod, the faintest of smile on her lips as the elevator begins moving again. "I have to say, this is…surprising. The last time I spoke to Walter, he told me the two of you had a falling out. I take it you've reconciled, then?"

"We sure did," Peter confirms, in a tone so suggestive he could as well have been giving her details on how many times they'd 'reconciled'. If she hadn't been standing frozen to the spot, Olivia would have elbowed him in the ribs, hard.

Nina simply keeps on smiling that tiny smile of hers. "Well, that is excellent news," she says. "You certainly deserve to be happy."

The elevator stops again, opening up to the lobby, saving Olivia the need to say anything at all. Ever so elegant, Nina merely nods her head at them. "You two have a good night," she says with the slightest rise of her eyebrow, and then she's gone.

As the doors close again, Olivia brings both her hands to her flushed face with an embarrassed groan, while Peter snorts at her sides.

"This is not funny," she reprimands him a second later, slapping his shoulder.

"It's a little funny," he contests. His grin dims when he takes in the disgruntled, mortified look on her face. "C'mon, don't worry about it. She won't gossip. If someone can keep a secret, it's Nina Sharp."

Olivia can hardly argue with that. If anything else, between Peter and Nina, she's been successfully distracted, soon able to exit the elevator.

They walk to her car, first, and already, most of the glee she's been feeling today seems to have been drained out of her again. She could blame it on her lingering embarrassment at being caught making-out in a Massive Dynamic elevator by the company's acting CEO, but the incident barely matters.

Her returning pessimism has little to do with embarrassment, and everything to do with having to put an end to what she and Peter had here today, about to spend four hours alone in her car, with nothing to do but overthink everything.

The truth is, she's not thrilled about having to let go of him. Life has a tendency to yank him away from her whenever she allows herself to hope a little too much.

As she turns to look up at him after dropping her bag in her trunk, she knows the moment she meets his eyes that he feels it, too. They don't speak, sharing more in their silence than they could with words. Already, he's cupping her face again, and when he leans down to kiss her, it couldn't be more different from their last embrace, and his tenderness is as entrancing as his passion; it always is. Olivia lets the kiss stretch, once again holding on to the hem of his coat, wishing nothing more than to disappear inside the fabric and remain there, indefinitely.

When he eventually pulls away from her, just enough for their eyes to meet, his gaze is beautifully serene, yet filled with that perpetual warmth and yearning for her that make her toes curl in her shoes.

"So," he says softly against her lips. "Your place or mine?"

With any other couple, this question about where they want to spend the night would have been simple, the place not mattering much as long as they got to spend it together. But they are not a typical pair, never were, and never will be.

The meaning behind his question is heavy, and it hangs in the air, surrounds them like a thick blanket. Going to his place means Walter and his over-enthusiastic, tactless self. Going to her place means acknowledging and dealing with the fact it won't be the first night he'd spend in her bed.

Walter, or her ghosts?

"My place," she eventually answers, quietly, trying to smile, but not quite managing it. Peter doesn't smile either, perfectly attuned to her, for which she is grateful.

She's aware that going to his place would be less straining, emotionally speaking, but she hopes that the sooner they get through this, the faster they can move on.

"Okay," he says softly with a nod. "I'll have to make a quick stop at mine first, though, talk to Walter. What about you go home, and I'll bring us some dinner when I come over?"

She nods in his hands, too fast. "Sounds good," she says, but already, her voice is lower, feeling her throat constricting slightly.

This is ridiculous.

She knows that her emotions have been unmanageable all day long, which has to be a combined effect from the emotional breakdown she had the previous night, and some chemical unbalance caused by the day's activities. The physiological explanation doesn't matter much.

She feels absolutely bare right now, even under her three layers of clothes. She has let herself be completely vulnerable and raw with him, and she has yet to find a way to put her defenses back up.

Still, it doesn't make the fact that she's getting choked up because they have to drive back to Boston in separate cars any less embarrassing.

Peter is aware of her turmoil. He doesn't say anything, pressing a kiss to her forehead instead, before wrapping her in his arms, tightly. She responds in kind, clinging a little too hard as she buries her face against his neck, as intoxicated as ever by the smell of his skin.

Eventually, he pulls away from her, bending down to pick up his bag. When he brings a hand back to her face, he curls a finger under her chin, pressing a quick but loving kiss upon her lips. "I'll see you in a few hours," he promises, his eyes boring into hers. Then he's walking away, swiftly.

He doesn't turn back once, and it's better that way.

When she gets into her car, Olivia doesn't start driving; she's not in a hurry. The faster she gets back to her place, the longer she'll have to wait for him to join her, and she's not exactly looking forward to pacing from one room to the other.

She gets her phone out instead, quite honestly surprised that it doesn't even display one missed call or text message. It's as if the universes have come together to give her this much needed twenty-four hours break.

Her thoughts drift to the 'conversation' she and Peter had earlier in the kitchen, and how upset she'd become when he suggested that she might need a real break from work. She remembers what he told her, some time later, unable not to recognize the fact that he was, once again, right.

She has to stop pushing, to stop pretending it will all go away on its own. She has to give her bruises time to heal.

Quite impulsively, Olivia finds herself dialing Broyles' number, bringing the phone to her ear before she can change her mind.

"Dunham," he greets her.

"Sir," she begins. Then, she's at a loss for words. How on earth is she supposed to say this? "Uhm, I was wondering…well, I know it's a bit…short noticed but uhm, I was thinking maybe…"

The silence stretches for a few seconds. "What is it about, Olivia?" He asks, a little less gruffly than usual. The use of her first name is telling enough.

She takes a steadying breath. "I would like to take a few days off work."

There is another pause, and then: "Very well."

Very well?

He's not even going to argue a little over this? Fight for his supposedly best agent not to abandon ship in the middle of a universal war?

"I…I can be back before the end of the week if you need-"

"Dunham," he cuts her off curtly, back to his usual self. "Do you know how many days off you've taken over the past two and a half years?"

"Uh…"

"Exactly," he says. "I know how to reach you if your presence here becomes indispensable. Which it is, most of the time, I hope you know that."

"Thank you, sir."

"That being said, take as much time as you need. You more than deserve the break. And I won't accept anything less than a full week off."

And on those words, he hangs up on her.

Olivia remains motionless for a moment, still frowning, mouth pursed. This was…easier than she expected. Although she probably won't realize she's officially off work until she finds herself bored to death and restless in her apartment in the upcoming days.

Once again, Peter's words come back to her, so clearly that he could as well be sitting right there next to her, his clear blue eyes piercing through her.

You could use that time to go visit your sister in Chicago.

Olivia is staring at her phone again, her heart already beating faster. She hasn't talked to her sister in months, not since that morning she gave Ella her cross and kissed them both goodbye.

Rachel has made quite a few attempts since she's been back, mostly short texts or messages left on her machine asking if she's alright, telling her to call her back whenever she has the time. Olivia deleted them all, burying it all inside, like she does so many other things.

The thought of her sister and niece interacting with her Alternate and not seeing through her deception any more than the others…she just couldn't bear it.

But Peter said they weren't even in Boston anymore by the time they arrived back from the Other Side, which is a bit odd, considering they'd been staying at her place when she left. As far as his claims about the other her not going to visit them…He couldn't be exactly sure of what she'd been doing on her free time, could he?

Yet again, why would this other Olivia have risked meeting with her sister, who supposedly knew her best, knew her the longest at the very least? Even meeting her seven year old niece would have been risky; children are oddly perceptive. Tactically, visiting them wouldn't have made any sense.

And so, for the second time in minutes, Olivia impulsively dials a number, taking a few calming breaths as the line rings.

"Hello?"

The moment she hears her little sister's voice, some of the pressure on her chest disappears. She hadn't realized just how much she'd missed the sound of it.

"Hey, it's me," she says, thankfully sounding a lot less shaken than she feels.

"Liv!" Rachel exclaims, and her thrill is genuine. "Thank god, I was seriously getting worried about you!"

"I'm…sorry," Olivia shakes her head, pointlessly. "I've been…life's been crazy."

"Yeah, I know, you told me it would be, but still, I was starting to think you were mad at me or something."

Already, Olivia's heart is sinking again. When had she told her that?

"Why…why would I be mad at you?" She tries her best to sound a little amused at the thought, when she couldn't be further from it.

"Well, I figured it had something to do with Ella and me taking off so abruptly when you were away, after I got called back at work? That's when you started ignoring all of my calls, well, never answered any of them, anyway. All I got was that short email you sent me a few days later, when you told me you were gonna be on some kind of 'special assignment' and wouldn't be reachable for some time? I don't know, Liv, it was all so unlike you. And then, Ella kept on telling me you actually tried calling her on her birthday?"

Olivia is physically unable to speak for a moment, aware that she's fighting a losing battle, overwhelmed by her own relief. Peter had been right; her Alternate hadn't tried talking to Rachel at all, not even on the phone.

And if she were honest with herself, Olivia knows this probably had nothing to do with the woman trying to protect her cover at all cost, and more to do with staying away from a loved one who was dead on her side.

She still has the memories of Rachel's death in her head, she knows how devastating it had been for her Alternate. Hadn't she herself stayed away from her mother during her last few days on the Other Side, once she became aware of who she was again?

"Olivia?" Rachel sounds worried now, probably hearing her sister's breathing, which is a bit too loud, as she tries to keep her emotions under control.

"I'm here," she says, her tone reassuring, although her voice is too thick.

"Are you –oh, ouch! Wait-" There is some shuffling noises, muffled voices, until…

"Aunt Liv!"

Ella's thrilling voice would have caused anyone else to take the phone away from their ear, but Olivia only presses it more firmly to it.

"Hi," she greets her niece warmly, and she knows she's smiling more widely than she has in months. Her heart certainly feels lighter, and about a thousand times bigger.

"Aunt Liv, you've got to tell mom I'm not lying," Ella says, emphatically, in that dramatic tone children are so good at using. "I told her you called me on my birthday, but she says it wasn't you, because you'd have called back later if you really had. But you called me, right?"

Olivia has closed her eyes, feeling the hot streaks of tears finally running down her face. She lets them be, because she's still smiling, comforted by her niece's voice, by the confirmation that some parts of her life have been left untouched, after all.

And this part of her is particularly precious to her.

She remembers with perfect clarity how that little person had recognized her voice with just one word, how she had called out to her in excitement and delight.

Aunt Liv! I knew you wouldn't forget my birthday!

She remembers the flood of memories that had rushed through her, how everything had shifted and come back into place. While it was her love and grief for her deceased mother that had broken her will to fight off the foreign memories that were forced upon her, it was her love for her niece that broke through the delusion, setting her mind free at last.

"I did, baby girl," Olivia eventually answers, almost as a thank you, as she finally resumes the phone call she never got to finish, all these weeks ago. "I wouldn't forget your birthday for the world."

Not even for two.

A/N: Dear show, I love you, but you never brought back Rachel and Ella after that phone call on Ella's birthday (not counting 3x22), when they were such a big part of Olivia's life in the first 2 seasons. What was that about? So, I'm dealing with this, too. And I'll deal with it a bit more, because I can.

In any case, I hope you liked this part! More will come, obviously, but until then…don't forget the review! :)