Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I just like to play with them

Spoilers: A Better Human Being, The End of All Things, especially.

Can't say this is strictly cannon. In my mind, The Observer could have showed up again, un-injured, because of the way they travel along time. I write merely with the intention of penning my ideas. Ultimately, it is one story, just spread into three different chapters due to its length. Thought it would be easier to read that way.

Thanks to all my readers! You guys keep my muse happy. Please R&R. Reviews are like cookies! :)


Four in the morning brings a dimly lit side-street, wet concrete and asphalt reflecting the copper-gold of streetlights.

Her feet trek in memory, through the deep cracks of his sidewalk, watered over fissures in the pavement she re-traces through the black of ripe darkness.

Second-hand rain trickles down the eaves of his roof, falling onto the concrete porch she now stands in, under the soft splatters of a once angry sky.

It's too gray here outside, too cold and too wet, an unnerving atmosphere to reminiscent of the winding emotional storm that brought her here in the first place.

It's a torrid madness that's aching in her head, a tight pull in her chest of longing and fear that threatens to break down every helpless cell in her body.

This is the first time she's been back here, since that night she remembered, since the day when this porch didn't belong to a stranger anymore but a man she's spent four years of her life with in a world time intended to forget.

Four days ago, Peter Bishop was no longer a stranded solider, a valiant, brillant mystery dropped effortlessly into her world of Fringe things, instead he was a welcome memory, a beautiful, warm body fueling her senses with the comfort of a past lost to consequence, and repercussion.

Three years, three years of history had attacked somehow her frontal lobe, visions hewed through migraines and bone to flash, steadily, behind her eyelids and under her skin. Nothing had ever been so vivid, so strikingly aggressive with it's ferocity to claim her, to bind her without chains to a story that re-wrote her before-life.

With confidence, and without fear, her lost-past arrested her, melted into her pores, comforted her through lived experiences, and the skin charged reaction of a cell-binding connection. She felt Peter in her fingertips, crawling up her spine, echoing in her blood with hots spikes of relentless current, impulses firing on the ends of any and every thought-up spectrum.

It was an excitement of her body, filling the brash emptiness of her without-him life.

And four days ago she told him this, and four days ago, after he'd fought his way through the private struggle of a dark grey-confusion, she saw in his eyes that he knew who she was.

Not a version anymore, of a woman he loved, but the very one, the one who carries his pulse in her own with the magnetic adherence of mated souls.

She'd seen, under the green-auroa of a gas station pagoda, the momentary release he'd allowed himself in the glourious seconds he'd accepted her as his. And the memory of his taste hadn't compared to the majestry of his kiss in that car, a desperation swelling passion, and need and love and hunger, his veracity matched with her own, a re-incarnation of all the stolen moments a new time-line tore from them both.

That night, she'd been resurrected by love, only to be buried alive again from it.

She presses into the wood of his door, a waft of damp oak mixed with the air of late wet-winter. It stings her lungs, chills the knuckles she has paused in a fist, the trepidation to knock a rapid anxiety under her sternum.

It's best that I stay away, he'd told her, before he'd left, stranded her outside her taunting cage, the building Jones had trapped her in, the one she'd left smoking in the wake of her cortexpihan exhaustion, her whole body tortured inside out by the power of her ability that knows only his air.

I saw what I'd wanted to see, he'd said, backing away, I don't know what's happening but you can't be mine. And he spoke of betrayal, of loving the alter-version of her in a past where she'd had her once life lived for her, a mistake she long ago forgave him in the waiting arms of thier future. But he wouldn't understand that this wasn't the same, couldn't hear her plead-out bittersweet agony in the tone of a different circumstance.

The her he wants is the her she is now, his greatest desire existing on a different plane of existence.

Standing there, in the pouring rain, he wouldn't see it. Because he wanted to spare her his misery, the kind he blamed himself for sensitizing her with. But she wasn't empathetically familiarizing, because his pain didn't become hers, it was hers, a sinew deep ache that shouted after him in words of love lost and dying hope.

But he still walked away, abandoned her amidst the whirl of sirens and prodding fingers, emergecy responders treating her abrasions, unable to treat at all the wound he'd left her slowly bleeding-out from.

And as she stands here now, under the only dry patch of his doorway, she feels the raw-red of the cut that aches in every part of her, that spills into some mild form of panic that seizes her every muscle.

He seeks distance, in a stubbornly, misguided attempt to help her re-claim what identity he thinks he's stolen from her. I can't be near her, he'd told Astrid, who hours later relayed the message, for her sake, it's best I stay away. And so he's expecting she oblige him, counting on her respect for his boundaries to keep her away from this doorstep, but she can't put respect in a search that has no end to its suspect.

There's isn't a way he can find what isn't really there. He'll never go back to where he's never been.

As convinced as she is of all of it, of who she is, and who she's been, of who he is and where they are, she has the most confidence in the why of it all, in the how of how they got here, in the how of why he stayed.

Most especially, she feels the truth of revelation beating her heart to a wild drum, answers that led her here, to his house, waiting to be set free behind a threshold she was urged to crossover.

In this world, and the last.


It happened three hours ago, when the watching man appeared, rustling her awake from a sleep she found no solace in anyway.

"I do not have much time."

He'd said, with an odd cadence, after she'd instinctively grabbed her weapon in the prime of surprise. Between fear and panic had been recognition, knowledge of the familiar voice in the darkness of her room, the words of a shadow lurking at the foot of her bed.

"What do you want? Why are you here?"

She'd asked, and he moved, inched closer to the end of her drawn gun, an illumination of bald flesh tones under the slates of moonlight drawn in from her window.

"You must make him understand before it is too late."

His eyes were beady, unfocused, trying to grasp on to her face in the blind depth of early morning. And she couldn't make sense of him, not his presence or his meaning, and though she knew he carried no threat, she hugged the black steel tighter in her palms.

"What are you talking about? Make who understand?"

Her mind was delirious, grappling on the verge of confusion, when the bald man tilts his head, cocks it tight like a straighting pin.

"He did not receive my communication as I had intended." he's said. " I could not comprehend why he has reappeared, but I suspect it is because of you, of your connection to him. You would not let him be erased."

This makes her think, grasp at points through indistinction, and as she latches on to clear thought , her grip slackens, overwhelmed now instead at the mention of a man whose own mind encountered this being's fanatical psyche.

He'd come to her, because of Peter, the Observer, and he'd paid her a visit out of a pressing importance, a re-analyzing of a subconscious state shared through the integration of brain waves and wires.

A re-direct of a lost man's mis-perception, this had been the motive of her one a.m visitor, she'd made this out from the dots she'd been connecting through her deductive intuition.

Whatever he'd told Peter days ago, fell on misinterpretation's deaf ears.

She tried to question that what, but before she grasped onto the words, he echoed, without speaking, into the halls of her own mind.

"You are capable of so much Olivia." It was a slow, careful reverberation of a hair-raising telepathy. "Things must be set right now. He must realize where he is. You must make him understand what you have done."

"Wh-"

Again, she hasn't the seconds to ask, can't question the renewed confusion rising up from alarm because she'd been knocked back, overwhelmed by a head-crushing pain that threw her violently against the headboard. It was almost unbearable, the bone-breaking abrasiveness of such a clench, stealing away her breath in the swift grinding madness of her temperal lobe and skull.

There are pictures, memories, visions she remembers that play out through the pain, reels of monumental footage that burn the inside of her cranium and melt into her conscious. There are voices, too, the low auditory recordings of past years, the one's ingrained into her ear muscle that speak of hidden answers in a mislead search.

And as instantly as it hit her, it stops, taking with it any trace of the violation that tacked her molars together in an outcry of relief.

And somehow in the wake of this, after she's loosened the grip that wore her blanket's feathers to bare barbs, she knows, she understands.

Somehow what's attacked her are the answers to the questions asked of a re-written timeline, the remote comprehension of the how and why thats escaped the grasps of two brilliant Bishop minds to be revealed by a familiarly mysterious entity.

He'd pulled Peter from broken icy-water once, and twenty five years later, again, reaching out to her before disappearing abruptly, he'd meant to pull him back from a different fragmented abyss.

Peter's own.

And this time, she'd be the hand that broke through the surface.