A/N: This has been rattling around for a while. Dark and dirty, just how I like my smut :) Intended as a one shot, but I'm a little interested in exploring Peter's POV for the story. . . but alas, we'll see. Rated M for a reason. Inspired by Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb." I just love to see Olivia let loose and Peter come to the rescue... in a tortured sorta way. Enjoy!

No infringement intended, just borrowing for my own devices.

Olivia didn't mind the taste of whisky.

In fact, there was something about the burning sensation as the alcohol crept from her lips down her throat that was oddly comforting when she was feeling out of control; a musky scent that sat sticky on her tongue and she reveled in the feeling.

Olivia Dunham had been drinking whisky since she was fourteen—a private vice she allowed herself to relax into when reality was a bit too hard to deal with. And lately, harsh reality was all there was in her life. Peter had fucked her; the more pleasant version of herself from another universe—his universe. Wrapping your head around the concept seemed so farfetched it was laughable.

Some women worry about men sleeping with their friends, I worry about men sleeping with other versions of me, she thought sardonically as she tipped back the drink and let it drain her. She had been coming to this bar every night after work, not bearing to bring herself to bring her back to her apartment and face the reality there. Not where they slept together in my bed. The image brought knots to the normal place in her stomach.

"'Nother one?" came a voice behind the bar, Tom—the barkeep. She'd seen him so much of late he had her order ready by the time her jacket was off and she was sitting. She smiled back. A fake one, but she was good at faking.

"Make that two," she turned her head to the man who had taken the empty bar seat beside her. Squinting her eyes at him, she tried to pull the hazy, jittery lines of his form through glassy eyes. He was good looking: sandy blonde hair and a mustache. He looked like one of the dicks that work on interpretational art in their garage. Olivia didn't remember seeing him there before. Tom placed both the glasses in front of them.

The man took his glass and raised it, "cheers" he said, an Australian accent diluting his words. Olivia gave a half hearted return, raising her eyebrow, but entirely uninterested on anything but her drink and her thoughts.

"Two more," she heard the man say; looking over her shoulder as he slid the extra toward her. She finished her own and took the proffered one. The man was attractive—feeling with irritation that it had been over two years since she'd been with John, and Christ she needed to get laid. Images of Peter locked into her conscious, swirling around tauntingly with images of her. It was pathetic.

"Thanks," she finally answered—feeling bolder when the liquor set in.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed or how much whisky she had, but she found herself pressed against the cold tile of the small private bathroom toward the back of the bar. She couldn't gage if she followed or was led, but all she could feel was hands and hot mouths and the sweet pain of his lips sucking too hard on the sensitive skin on her neck.

She couldn't focus; everything was spinning too quickly, the harsh florescent lights too bright and she was a little scared but so turned on that this wasn't her. She gripped the man's shirt collar and turned her head, feeling his teeth bite down on her shoulder as his hands fumbled to pull her shirt out of her pants.

She locked in on the toilet in the small room; watching it as it sat there disinterested and felt it too start to spin when his hands simultaneously unzipped her pants and pushed her shirt over her breasts, running his tongue over her bra. When it impeded his mouth, he yanked hard, and Olivia heard buttons ting against the bathroom floor as they fell.

Christ, she was going to get fucked by a total stranger in the bathroom of a bar.

The spinning had become too much—and she was panicking, turning her head to the side when he tried to kiss her mouth, afraid she might be sick. The man seemed undeterred; biting down on her neck instead and she heard the sound of his belt unbuckling with sick realization.

All movement stopped when there was pounding on the door.

The man stilled his hands; Olivia's head pounded furiously against her skull. The pounding continued.

"Fuck off man, occupied." The man's husky voice reverberated in the stall.

The door sounded like it exploded when it was kicked in, splintering off the small lock with a boom so loud that Olivia's eyes rolled back into her skull from the pain. She felt the man ripped violently off her and the thud of fists slapping against skin mixed with exchanges of curses and shouting but she couldn't tell whose voices were which through the spinning.

When she opened her eyes she saw double; a new man approaching her, his face livid and she was sure she was going to be sick. She felt him pull her shirt together and she knew she should be mortified, but couldn't feel anything except his fingers as they pulled up her pants to button them hastily.

"Jesus, Olivia…" she felt his rough hands across her forehead, and she wished they were anyone's but his. There was silence as he stared, stone-faced at her. She took in even through the haze how much he looked like his father at that moment, but maybe it was just the alcohol.

She heard the man on the floor moan, and Peter pulled her arm around his shoulder to drag her out of the bathroom, leaving the Australian-sounding man she almost fucked bleeding on the bathroom floor.

The walk through the bar was quick, she heard Peter grunt a "thanks Tom," over his shoulder, but couldn't connect why he'd be thanking him—but then again she didn't care. She was bustled into the cold frigid night air and she felt a little better—the spinning subsiding and the knots in her stomach releasing into a dull ache.

They didn't walk far; he had her into the front seat of the dilapidated station wagon and slamming the door shut before she realized where they were going. She leaned her face against the cold glass of the window and waited. She listened as he climbed into the driver's side and there was another slammed door to punctuate her migraine. She didn't say anything; not trusting herself enough. So she just stared at him.

His was looking forward, hands like steel vices locking on the steering wheel. She thought she saw something like blood on his knuckles and the gravity of the situation hung between them like a ticking bomb.

"What the hell were you thinking?" He grated through clenched teeth. His tone unsettled her. He was staring at her now, the line on his forehead thick with anger. She was fuming; irrationally and drunk—but she wasn't a child. She was an FBI agent, damn it—and no one talked to her that way.

"I was fine…" she spat, her own anger spilling over. Peter cut her off. "Almost having sex with a total stranger when your drunk out of your mind in a bathroom stall—really looks like you're fine, Olivia."

Olivia was reeling; his words a slap to the face. "What I do," she started, "is none of your concern." She spoke as clearly as she could, punctuating each word with spitfulls of venom. He held her gaze with his own, flexing his jaw like he always did when he was uncomfortable. He turned the ignition and shifted into drive with more force than necessary and drove. Olivia settled into the uncomfortable silence, letting hang with smug satisfaction. He made a turn on the next light and she froze.

"Where are we going?" She asked. Peter didn't turn from the road.

"I'm taking you home." He grunted.

Home. Where they had been together. Where they laughed, and watched movies and ate dinner and slept—the spinning came back and she slapped the window with her hand, croaking out a "no!" so forcefully that Peter jumped.

"Please," she begged, her breathing shallow and giving up all facades of being brave, "please don't take me there. "

She felt Peter's eyes find her finally; studying her as she was sure he was doing and make a U turn in the middle of the street back in the other direction. She released the breath she was holding and let the darkness take her in.

It was dark; her spinning head now dull thunder as she laid stretched out in bed. But she wasn't in her room. Breathing in the pillow, she recognized the scent, his scent. She was in Peter's bed. Leaning over to turn on the bedside light, the room flooded in soft light. She was almost achingly disappointed that she was alone. She was laying over the covers with a thick quilt tossed over her, she realized with horror that he must have had to change her from her ruined shirt into one of his. The thin fabric was soft against her skin as she ran her fingers over it, feeling the pebbled MIT adorned across the front. Her shoes, pants and shirt were tossed into a nearby chair in the room.

Wrapping the quilt around her she got out of bed, feeling drunk still, but slightly sharper as she left the room and padded down the stairs—wanting desperately to run away from the embarrassment she was sure she'd feel in the morning, but settling for a glass of water.

She found the kitchen and pulled a glass from the sink, not caring if it were dirty or clean, to fill it with tap water. She downed it in a matter of seconds, gulping at it and feeling it hit her stomach icily.

She heard a grunt from the other room and spun, almost dropping the glass. No one was there. She replaced the glass in the sink and flicked off the light, letting her eyes adjust to the growing darkness. She could see the tiny living room in the distance, and made her way toward it.

Peter was stretched out on the couch; arms folded and ankles crossed—still wearing the clothes he must have had on earlier. His eyes were shut and his face relaxed; asleep. Olivia took in his face greedily, feeling almost pervish staring at him asleep in her underwear and his shirt, but she was beyond caring at this point. The damage was done. He shifted and tightened his arms around himself, but he didn't wake. Olivia pulled the quilt from around her shoulder and laid it over him, probably the same way he did for her, but miles different; the ache she felt stifling. He relaxed under her touch, reaching out as he turned and inadvertently grazing her thigh and the moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

She froze—heart pounding madly as she crouched over him, terrified he'd wake up and catch her little voyeur session. But he shifted back and heaved a sigh; his face relaxed. Olivia felt the ache burning holes in her abdomen; the slight touch of his hand causing her stomach to flip and begged her to have him do it again.

Feeling bold and still slightly drunk, she dropped to her knees beside the couch reaching out and running her hand down the length of the quilt and back up to his face. He shifted, leaning his face into her palm and she felt emblazoned. His eyes fluttered open and stared at her, glassy eyed and confusion etching his features. Without thinking, she lifted up the quilt and crept onto the couch next to him, feeling his hot breath on her face in surprise as she climbed under the blanket with him.

He laid there frozen, his breath coming out in little puff-puffs and she felt satisfied at his unease. She eased her knee over his torso and felt his erection plain as day against his jean and she was suddenly on fire, knees locking on either side of him as she straddled him. God, she needed to touch him, to feel him against her. His hands were tight balls resting on her bare thighs, rigid and unmoving. She wanted desperately for him to touch her. Leaning down next to his face, she whispered into the darkness, "Peter, please." It wasn't a request.

She took his earlobe into her mouth and sucked, feeling his fingers dig into her flesh and it was his turn to groan as she devoured him, trailing her tongue down the rugged terrain of his jaw and knew she had something to prove. She listened intently to his haggard breathing escaping in little gasps as she ran her fingers across his shirt, forcefully and without mercy. She trailed her hands down to the buckle on his pants expertly and he bucked slightly beneath her as she ran her tongue over his throat. His hands wrapped around and gripped her ass. She was so wet it was embarrassing.

Pulling his face away from hers, she heard his voice—it sounded like he was swallowing sand. "Olivia, we can't," he started, but she ground her hips against his and felt in satisfaction the hiss in response.

A sudden image popped into her head; suddenly frantic that maybe she'd done this exact thing to him before—on this couch…

"Olivia," he repeated, taking her face in his hands and forcing her to meet his gaze. "This isn't you," he said, the disappointment dripping from his words. Olivia bit down on her lip.

"that's not the problem," she hissed, feeling pinpricks on her exposed skin. "It's because I'm not her," she spat; reading the guilt on his already pained face. He was back to flexing his jaw again; locking them in a silent face-off, warring with himself. Olivia was sure she had stopped breathing, a little terrified at what the utterance caused.

"You're right," he whispered, the same intense stare holding hers, "You're not her." The statement was so heartbreakingly gentle that she wasn't sure if he used it to wound or as an explanation. She felt her mouth go dry as she twisted her face away from his.

He leaned forward, shifting his weight from under her and clutching her carefully around the thighs as he rolled her backward, and for an instant she thought maybe he would kiss her, but he merely pulled her off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. He stood and stared at her for a moment longer, the quilt had fallen onto the floor in the quick move, but Olivia didn't care that she sat there before her half-naked and rejected, yet again. All she could feel was the hole in her chest.

"Walter likes to wake up early; prepare yourself for naked jumping jacks." She nodded, tears stinging her eyes, but she would be damned if she'd let them fall in front of him. She watched him stride over to the door and jam his feet into his big black boots and grab the keys. She stole a fleeting glance at him staring at her, before he grabbed the keys and disappeared behind the door, clicking it shut behind him.

She closed her eyes, feeling the tears bubbling over onto her cheeks, and she left them there. There was nothing to prove now. Hearing the old Station wagon roar to life outside she knew things were never going to go back the way they were.

She sat there, alone on the couch with her hand pressed hard over her mouth as she struggled against the surge of emotion, wishing that he hadn't stopped her in the bar that night and she got fucked by the blonde man with the moustache, because anything would have been better at this moment than the numb feeling she was engulfed in right now.