Olivia can taste rapture—the end-of-the-world kind—in her mouth. It tastes like the blood from where she's bitten her tongue, stressed to the point of breaking as she watches Peter stare up at the doomsday device. He'd insisted on coming back—just to look at it, he says, just to see it, and that worries her, because she can sense something off about the way he looks up at, it as if it were the hand of God and he's just now coming to terms with his own divinity. She supposes that the only reassurance she has is that he hadn't wanted to come alone.

"I could end this," he says abruptly, slipping his hands back into the front pockets of his pea coat. "Right now. Couldn't I?"

And she could point out that he has no real idea of how the machine works, no idea of how to use it, but she knows that isn't what he means. So she licks her lips—they are sore, raw from where she has started gnawing at them, the result of nerves and stress –and asks quietly, "Could you?"

For a moment, his eyes harden, although he doesn't look away from his doomsday machine, and she thinks for a moment that he might snap at her; in that instant, she senses something dark and cruel—something cold and strange—inside of him, something foreign that has wrapped itself around his heart. Before he can say whatever battle-ready thing that's lurking on his lips, she speaks again: "I couldn't. And I won't let you. It can't end like this."

He turns his eyes towards her, finally; blue normally, but a stormy grey in this dim light. "This is a war, Olivia. We win or we die. You realize that, don't you?"

"We win, and an entire universe dies. Charlie dies, again—over there, he's alive. Alive and—well, he has arachnids living in his bloodstream, but still. Lincoln dies. Your mother dies." Olivia hesitated before continuing. "She dies."

"And if they win? Do you think I want to watch you die? Walter? Astrid?" Now he's angry; there's something wickedly attractive when his eyes flash with this bloodthirsty cold-bloodedness, but Olivia hates it.

She lips her lips again, tasting the rawness of them; imagines what it might be like to be so sure of herself. To be so willing to discard the other universe: to discard the other Charlie, with his blood brimming with spiders and a little rougher around the edges, but with the same familiar grin; Lincoln, who Olivia had come to love as fiercely as her implanted memories had compelled her to; even Frank, always chasing off and trying to stop some epidemic. Is it because she does have these memories, of what is good about the other universe, that she can't let go? Peter, after all, can't remember his childhood, which means that the only experience with the other universe he can recall is when it is lying and tricking him.

"I don't want to watch anyone die," Olivia says finally, reaching out one of her hands; there is not even a moment of hesitation as Peter pulls one hand free of the pocket and takes her hand in his, although his gaze has drifted back to the doomsday machine. "There is always another way."

He glances at her distractedly. "Is there? I don't know if I'm so sure anymore."

"Well, then, we'll make one." There is simultaneously light and certain about the way she says it, and it pulls his attention back to her; he looks almost lost, like she's the only thing tethering him to what he wants to believe. She swings their intertwined hands back and forth lightly, like a kid. "C'mon, let's go get a drink."

He tugs her closer to him, takes his free hand to tilt her face up so that he can brush his lips against hers; then he pulls back slightly, and offers her a slight smile. "All right, then. Let's go."

They are still holding hands as they leave the warehouse, but Peter is a step or two behind Olivia, and she knows without looking that he is still gazing backwards at the machine, as if he is loath to abandon it.

Outside, the night is pitch-black; midnight and a new moon. Consequently, the parking lot is empty save for the black SUV they drove here in, and they approach it quickly, turning up their collars against the biting wind, still holding hands. Behind them, the warehouse looms, empty and menacing; but Peter has finally torn his eyes away and is fumbling in his pocket with one hand—his dexterity no doubt affected by the frigid temperature—for the keys. He unlocks the driver's side door, climbs in, and leans over to unlock and open Olivia's door for her. She wonders if that counts as chivalry.

The heat was on high when they had turned the car off, and the vents blast a sudden puff of cool air before it starts to warm up; Peter lets one hand fall to cover one of hers as he pulls out of the parking lot. His eyes are on the road, but she knows without a doubt that some part of him—however small—is still staring up at the machine.

She wonders faintly, with this bitter taste in her mouth that has nothing to do with her bitten tongue, what it might be like to be a god; to have the power to destroy universes. Power corrupts, doesn't it? Even if it comes in the shape of some monstrous machine.

As if he knows where her thoughts are, Peter squeezes her hand tightly, suddenly, and glances over at her with a sad little smile. "I couldn't. Just end it all, I mean. You asked me if I could, but I can't."

"Yeah?"

"I hope so."

Peter has these moments where he looks like Armageddon; where there's this twisted magnetic quality to the way that his eyes flash darkly and the curve of his jaw is set in a way that makes you think of cruelty and callousness. And then he has moments like these: where for a split second he looks torn, looks caught by surprise by the thoughts that he has.

Olivia hates it all, and wishes that every day could be like the moments when he smiles.

A/N: Title from Robert Frost's Fire and Ice. Drabble-ish; started, actually, before 6B came and made everything happy for at least a week. More, actually, if Subject 13 doesn't crush all our hopes and dreams, because then we have like a three, four week break, right?