His Olivia

The clothes she wore were all wrong. The color of her eyes were all wrong. The way she walked, talked and ran was wrong. She wasn't Olivia Dunham by nature; she wasn't even Olivia Dunham by molecules. He'd seen every inch of her skin but never the tattoo on her neck. The real Olivia Dunham was trapped in a cold, dark cell in the other universe.

But Peter Bishop didn't know that.

He walks around in his own self-centered bubbled in this world, wallowing in pity and trying to see Walter's point of view for taking him. But he's distracted by her, by her scent, her lips, her eyes-her everything. He can't seem to find a reason in anything anymore, but he's trying. Because he wants to be with her, because he wants to be with his Olivia, a beautiful blonde haired woman who always seems to be making up for something.

Peter lies awake in the dark of his room, a dim crack of light peering under the door as Walter paces downstairs or cooks or cleans. Walter doesn't sleep anymore. Peter senses his restlessness and he wallows deeper in pity and anger, blind to the unsettling feeling that begins to rest in his stomach. He tries to think of Walter's reasons, but he's blinded by anger and pity and the feeling of not belonging. He can't sense the feeling crawling under his skin raising bubbles in his blood and the hairs on his arms.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, rolling over in his bed and onto his side. But he can't. It's in his dreams. Olivia is there in his dreams, her deep green eyes and blonde hair. How he missed her blonde hair so much. Her scent was still fresh in his mind, her eyes and the taste of her lips. How he could simply drink from her lips and have her so willingly give the sweet nectar to him. She needs him just as he needs her. He loves her. She loves him. And just as he replays her kiss in his mind-

Peter.

He jolts awake, eyes snapped open and sitting up. He's panting and the cold sweat creeps down his body. That voice, it belongs to her. She's here, not just in his dreams, but in his room. His heart races as he flips the lights on. But no one is there. Her voice was a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear. It didn't sound like she was happy, she sounded scared. He rubbed his eyes and settles back down into the blackness.

Peter.

Her voice wakes him again. It's loud and clear, so very her, and the panic is clear. She's frightened and alone. He could hear it in her voice. But why is she scared? Why is her voice scared in his mind? He can sense her there, but he can't see her. Why is she so scared? His mind is fooling him so easily. He looks over and stares at the crack in the door, the light still on. Could she be downstairs and calling for him? Is she hurt? Does she need him there? Could the side effects be hurting her from the trip between universes? He feels the panic rising and decides he is acting silly before rolling over again.

Peter!

This time the voice is desperate, loud and pleading. He could practically hear the tears in Olivia's voice. He wants to believe he is dreaming, but he's not. He heard her. Flinging himself from his bed, he bothers not to pull a shirt on before yanking the door back. Flying down the stairs, Peter comes faces to face with Walter in the kitchen, his head down and staring at the paper that the observer gave him. Peter feels the boiling of anger in his blood as he sees Walter there in the kitchen. Walter looks up.

"Peter," he says painfully. Peter's gaze is frantic as he searches the kitchen.

"Olivia?" he asks. Walter's eyes fuzz and become confused.

"She's at her house," he answers as Peter looks in the other room. Peter doesn't believe it and shakes his head.

"She's here," he says forcefully, "I heard her. Where is she?"

"She's at her house Peter-"

"She's not! She's here! I heard her!"

"Peter-"

"No!" the panic rises in his throat as he throws aside doors and turns lights on. She was somewhere and she was scared. He heard her; she was calling for him.

But he didn't find her because he didn't know. He reaches into the closet and pulls on a coat, not caring about only being in his boxers and jacket. He can feel there is something off; he can feel there is something wrong. He flies upstairs and retrieves the keys to his car and his cell phone before flying downstairs and out the door. It was nearly 2 in the morning, but he didn't care. He had to know that she was not alone and frightened and that she slept soundly in her bed.

He arrives at her house in record time. He sees there is a light on in the living room and he knows she's home. There was a slight feeling of rest in his soul a he looked in. He wants to knock on her door, but he's not wearing pants. He's hoping she'll pass the window, a glass of wine in her fingers and her hair dyed back. Olivia had always been fond of her blonde hair. But he sits there for thirty minutes. The light stays on but she does not come by the window. He wonders if he should honk.

Instead he reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. He ignores the bubbling sensation in his stomach as he presses the speed dial number for her -2. The phones rings, once, twice, three times. It clicks on and he can hear her. It sounds just like his dreams.

"Peter? Peter please, Peter you have to help me, she's not me, she's her. I'm trapped."