A/N: Takes place after/around the events in Momentum Deferred.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

Bell: And remember this: "Να είναι καλύτερο άνθρωπο από τον πατέρα του." Tell that to Peter. You're going to need him by your side. Tell it to him. He'll know what it means.


"He said I'd need you." It sounded conversational, but it wasn't.

Hidden gravity. Deferred momentum.

Olivia is now more alone and disconnected than she has ever been. The one string tying her to her former life is severed, has been for quite some time now.

And she hadn't even noticed the difference.

"Who said that?"

"William Bell. He said 'you're going to need him by your side.'"

"And he was referring to me?" Fake disbelief.

She smiles. "Yes."

He feels like they shouldn't be talking about this. Inappropriate, somehow. But if she's speaking, he's listening, and reverently.

"Why do you think he said that?" Because he sure as hell hasn't got a clue.

"I think he's trying to look after me." But she doesn't say it like it's a particularly good thing.

"Does it feel that way to you?" Because he still doesn't know what she's getting at.

He's indulging her a bit, and she can tell. She wants to snap at him that she's not fragile; he doesn't have to accept every word she says. But she's shaking with a need no one can satisfy anymore, and she needs to know he'll be present.

She's reaching out.

"It feels a little bit like destiny." She's talking of things not grounded in fact, which is probably the worst way to gain what she's searching for, but it is the fastest way to get his attention.

"Destiny?" Low, flat, sardonic. Exactly what she expected.

"Yeah. I think William Bell knows something about the two of us that we don't."

He doesn't know what to say.

"I think maybe you're meant to be by my side." Enticing? She's trying.

That was supposed to be a secret, Olivia.

That took a lot out of her, to say that, so she's forced to look away. She's reaching her limit for human interaction.

Meanwhile, he can't speak. He can't swallow. He can't stand it. "What is the point you're trying to make?"

"I need you to promise me something."

He's wary. "What?"

She moves closer. "Don't go anywhere." Don't leave me.

His brain isn't functioning anymore, but he does have enough sense to hide his pleasure.

She persists. "Can you promise?" It's a silent dare. She's still smiling but finally, with a bit of focus, he can see through her skin. He understands.

"Yes, I promise." Voice hoarse, he accepts this as his permanency, his way in for good.

A reason to stay.

No going back.

(What I see: full lips, eyes of tears, wisps of her halo, and a brain underneath. Plus a sweet smile I don't trust.

Oh, joy. He could write poetry.

He won't though.)