Disclaimer: I do not, have not, and will never own the Fringe series.

AN: Okay. Posted the same chapter twice. Woops.

Here's the actual chapter. As I said before: I AM GOING ON HIATUS UNTIL I CAN COME UP WITH AN ACTUAL PLOT TO USE HERE. THIS IS NOT FOREVER. I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN THIS STORY. BUT I HAVE TO COME UP WITH MORE THAN THE OLIVIA/PETER PART BEFORE I CAN KEEP GOING.

Summary: When the Observer distracted Walternate from the cure, he changed the world. How would the story have gone if he hadn't?

Olivia remembered very little of her past.

She had bits and pieces of her childhood – not much more than the feeling of hugging her mother, jumping rope and holding baby Rachel. But before she hit ten, things got… foggy. It wasn't a total loss of memory; you heard about people who woke up after a bad accident thinking they were years younger, and nothing like that had happened to Olivia. She knew who she was and how old she was, and when asked she had automatic responses to all kinds of questions about that time. Where did you live? What age were you when you hit puberty?

She knew all that – the numbers especially. She could recall her middle-school locker combination… but she couldn't recall the school. She wouldn't have recognized a friend from that time in her life (assuming she had any) if they walked up to her and said hello. She could remember who'd been in books she'd read and movies she'd seen as a kid, but not who she'd seen them with or when.

And she remembered feelings, sometimes. People would casually bring up a date as a reference for sports or something random, and she'd find herself smiling or on the brink of tears for no reason she could come up with.

Which is why, even without any memory of the beginnings of their lives, seeing Rachel and Ella felt like coming home. It was both exhausting and rejuvenating to see her now, when everything was going so wrong. Because Olivia didn't really need to pretend to be happy right now – not when she'd just been abducted by an unknown group and Harris of all people was virtually in control of the Fringe Division. And yet, being around someone who cared so much about her, who loved her so much that they actively watched her to make sure she was happy...

This was family, and Olivia had almost forgotten how it felt.

"Wow, Liv," her sister's melodious voice drifted through the door to Olivia's left. "Your kitchen is spotless."

That's because I haven't used it in months.

Olivia smiled, "Uh – yeah, I've been on a bit of a cleaning kick lately..."

It wasn't true, but what else was she supposed to say? Oh yeah, I've actually spent the last few months holed up with a government sanctioned mad scientist in his Harvard Lab. I would've invited you guys to stay there, but I was a bit nervous about Ella playing so close to all that LSD...

Not likely.

Luckily, she didn't have to pay for her room off Walter's lab, so she'd opted to keep her apartment as a back-up. If Walter was ever deemed capable of living on his own or – god forbid – he got sent back to St. Claire's, Olivia would have something to fall back on.

At some point between setting Ella up in front of the TV and going to the bathroom, Olivia's niece had apparently fallen asleep on the couch. Olivia smiled and tip-toed through the living room, ignoring the cartoon harping on about cupcakes behind her, and gently lifted a blanket over the little girl.

She really has grown. Olivia thought fondly as she pushed aside a silky strand of gold hair. Ella looked more like her grandmother than her mother, and that thought made Olivia both pleased and sad. Aside from their coloring, neither of Marilyn's daughters had gotten much of their looks from their mother.

Thoughts of her own childhood raised to the front of her mind before Olivia savagely buried them. Ella would never go through something like that. Her childhood would be peaceful and innocent, and Olivia would shoot anybody who tried to make it otherwise.

Probably more than once.

She leaned forward and kissed the child on the forehead before standing up and making her way back towards the kitchen. Her sister was waiting beside what was left of the spaghetti, a glass of wine in hand.

"You know, I could've cooked for you."

Olivia snorted, making her way toward the sink. "No thanks, I've tasted your cooking."

"Hey!" Rachel gasped dramatically. "I've gotten really good, you know."

"Oh, yeah?" Olivia smiled and glanced toward her sister, absently filling up the sink with hot, soapy water. She never used her dishwasher because she'd never dirtied enough plates in a day to fill it.

Which... was actually kind of depressing.

"Yeah." Olivia's sister crossed her arms, careful to keep her wineglass safely upright. After a second of pouting, a small, oddly prideful smile snuck onto her face. "No, I haven't."

"I didn't think so."

Olivia rinsed off the first dish and put it aside to dry. She tried to hold onto the relaxed energy her sister seemed to exude, but it was hard to do when so much still had to be done. Why'd she been abducted? Who'd even want her, and what had they needed to use a spinal tap for? How were they going to get passed this Harris situation, and could they even really do anything, considering he technically had purview over even Broyles?

How long would he hold off before firing her?

Despite how frightening the abduction had been, the last question was actually the one that haunted her. When all of this had started, a part of Olivia had actually regretted taking the job in Fringe Division – the hours, the unpredictability, the new roommate... None of it had been what she'd actually wanted in a career, and yet she'd been drawn to it. It was a chance to really help people, to make a difference in the world, and that more than anything else had been Olivia's dream.

After a few months, though, it had gone beyond just being driven. Every time a new case came in, Olivia felt...energized. She'd always known the rules before – how things were done, how suspects could be found or eliminated, how to gather evidence that would secure a conviction. And that had been nice enough, except that that knowledge had come with certain limitations. Just because she knew someone had done something, didn't mean she would actually be able to put them behind bars, and just because they were innocent didn't mean she could save them.

But here, in Fringe... those limitations were gone. There were no rules, no hindering red tape, and for the first time in her life, Olivia felt in control. It was strange and paradoxical, and it didn't make any sense, but because the possibilities were endless, Olivia knew there was always something she could do.

And she loved that feeling.

If Harris fired her, would she ever feel that way again?

"Hard day?" Rachel asked, staring at Olivia with narrowed eyes.

"I honestly wouldn't know what to tell you." Olivia smiled and looked back at the dishes. She let her voice grow teasing, even though every word of what she said was serious. "And if I did... It'd be a felony."

Rachel grinned and shook her head. She turned around and poured a second glass of wine, then leaned in next to her sister. "You have a crazy job."

"Yeah. I have a crazy job." Olivia repeated. For now, anyways.

Olivia smiled and, after grabbing the second glass, stretched it out toward her sister.

"Cheers."

The rims of the glassed tapped together with a clink, and both took a long sip.

After Olivia swallowed, she took a second to enjoy the burn of the alcohol sliding down her throat. Eyes closed and heart aching, she let herself dwell for just an instant on the hopelessness of everything. Then that instant passed.

She let it go and turned toward Rachel, only to find her sister looking equally depressed.

Olivia smiled sadly. "You heard from Greg?"

The teary headshake was enough to tell Olivia she'd been right about the source of her sister's pain. Olivia just kept silently smiling. That was usually the best way to get Rachel to open up.

A few seconds later, she did.

"I don't know how to do this alone."

Olivia's heart clenched at the fear in Rachel's voice. She took a step closer and put one hand on her little sister's shoulder.

"Ella is beautiful and smart and strong and she gets that from you." Olivia consoled. Rachel shook her head, tears finally starting to fall.

"No, you've always been the strong one." Rachel refuted. She turned toward the living room, eyes probably fixing on little Ella, asleep on the couch. "I've only done one thing right in my life..."

"Then you need to be strong for her." Olivia's voice gained a bit of an edge, then. She knew how that felt. She knew what it meant to protect someone you love, and to have to hide the weakness. She did it every time she answered Rachel's calls. Dodging her little sister's sweet-natured concern had become almost second nature now. "Whatever you need, I'm here. And you guys can stay as long as you want."

"Thank you." Rachel whispered thickly with a smile.

An odd instinct came to life in the back of her mind, and Olivia's smile turned hesitant. "… Is there something else, something you're not telling me?"

"No, there's nothing else." Rachel replied with a smile, never quite meeting Olivia's eyes. Rachel turned and walked out of the kitchen without another word.

"Well, she's lying."

Olivia froze.

Unable to help herself, Olivia slowly inched her gaze across the kitchen to the wall behind the fridge where the spectre was leaning. It was the boy again – the teenager she'd been seeing off and on ever since Mr. Jones' little light bulb experiment – and he was smiling at her in that calm way he always did. Olivia closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, determined to ignore him.

She'd mentioned him to Walter in the most round-about way she could come up with, and all the old scientist had been able to tell her was that any visitations similar to Johns that hadn't been preceded by an experiment like the one he'd put her through were probably signs of mental instability. She'd posed it as a hypothetical question, but he'd immediately followed up his answer with an offer of free drugs – either to calm the hallucinations or create more vivid ones, should she prefer.

Hypothetically, of course.

Olivia had assured him that wouldn't be necessary and moved on. For the most part it really hadn't been; the boy hadn't visited her anywhere near as often as John had, and although she was still looking for an explanation, most of the time she almost forgot about him.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that." He complained, his tone a little too pleased to sound whining. "You know I'm right."

Olivia opened her eyes and checked to make sure Rachel and Ella were too far away to hear her whisper. "I'm not talking to you."

He watched her for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face, and then shrugged. "If you don't want to, you don't have to. But ignoring me isn't going to make this go away."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She hissed.

He grinned. "I thought you weren't talking to me?"

She sent him a dirty look that only seemed to make him happier. She turned away with a scowl and made to leave the kitchen.

"You really think she doesn't know?"

Despite having no idea what he was talking about, Olivia stopped. She told herself she should keep going – just ignore him and go spend a pleasant evening with her family. But she couldn't bring herself to move.

"You've spent so long hiding from what happened. From who you are. From what you did." He said, voice as calm and gentle as ever. Olivia didn't look at him. "She has questions, you have to know that. But she doesn't push because she knows that you're hiding from it. Because she doesn't want to make you face anything that you aren't ready for."

Olivia watched Rachel bend over the couch with a soft smile, tucking her daughter's hair behind her ear. That was something their mom had done… or Olivia thought she had. She couldn't actually remember.

"But you can't hide from this forever, Olive."

She turned to him this time, and her tone was cold as ice. "I don't know what you are talking about."

He watched her with that same face as before, and then smiled. "Yes you do. You just don't want to look at it, yet. But ignoring me won't make the problem go away, and if you don't find a way to face it, it'll all hit you the moment you're least ready for it."

Olivia blinked, and he was gone.

Hours later, Olivia slipped out of her cab at Harvard. She was planning to stay at her apartment on and off for as long as Rachel was in town – if only to convince her sister she really was living there – but she couldn't afford to leave Walter alone for too long. Luckily, Astrid had agreed to babysit the old man every now and then for the time being.

She was almost to the lab when Broyles stepped around the corner ahead of her. She could see how serious he was by the tilt of his head and the oddly closed expression in his eyes. He had something important to tell her. Something he didn't think she'd like. "Olivia. We need to talk."

"Oh?"

"I realize this has been difficult for you." Broyles continued, glancing toward the empty doorway. "Until recently, our Division hasn't needed more than a few agents active at a time – and most of them have been deployed in long term undercover missions. As one of our only current agents on the field, this recent increase on activity has fallen to you."

He went quiet, still staring at the doorway, but his mind was obviously a million miles away. Olivia cleared her throat and waited until he turned to face her. "What're you getting at, sir?"

"I'm going to assign you a partner."

For a long, horrible moment, Olivia couldn't breathe.

A partner?

Like John?

"With all do respect, sir, I don't need –" Olivia began to protest, but Broyles cut her off. That introspective look had morphed into something a little bit harder. "This is not up for discussion, Ms. Dunham."

Olivia almost opened her mouth to protest again, but the way the skin tightened around his eyes told her not to bother. He'd made up his mind. Instead, she crossed her arms and tilted her chin upward, furious at being trapped like this. "Who?"

Broyles paused for a moment, sharp eyes locked on her face. "We are investigating promising agents. Fringe being what it is –"

She saw her out and jumped on it. "Sir, I'd like to formally suggest Agent Charlie Francis."

"... Excuse me?" Broyles blinked.

"Charlie Francis. He's a good man. He knows how to keep a secret, and he's one of the best field agents I've ever worked with. More importantly –"

"Out of the question."

"– I trust... What?" Olivia, still in the middle of presenting her case, almost didn't hear him. That hopeful feeling was fading just as quickly as it'd formed. But if it wasn't going to be Charlie, then who? And how would she ever learn to trust another person now? "Why the hell not?"

Broyles gave her a mildly scolding look for the curse. "Because you trust him."

"I..." Olivia stuttered, confusion and building hurt bubbling up in her voice. "I don't understand. Is this... Is this because of my relationship with John Scott?"

"No, Olivia. Your judgment is not in question."

"Then why?" Olivia blurted, hating herself for her obvious emotions. For any other debate, she'd be able to keep control – her face, her voice, her mannerisms; she'd long ago perfected faking calm. But this... The whole idea of bringing a stranger into her life, of letting somebody she didn't know watch her back... She'd trusted John implicitly. She couldn't take another betrayal.

Broyles expression shifted slightly again. That seemed to be a habit of his, actually – he never made exaggerated facial expressions. Whatever he let show was always small, but intense. Constant eye contact, no excess movement... all of his body language dedicated to each tiny smile, every microscopic scowl. Now even the slight furrow between his eyebrows told Olivia he was frustrated.

"Tell me something." He finally responded, eyes – as always – focused firmly on her face. "If Charlie did join the Division and somewhere along the line you began to suspect his loyalties... What would you do?"

Olivia grit her teeth against the automatic response, I'd report it. She could imagine several different situations that would lead her to believe somebody was defecting when they weren't. To say she'd turn Charlie in when Broyles hadn't even bothered to describe a specific scenario... it would be a lie.

Broyles' smiled faintly. "He was aware of your relationship with John, Ms. Dunham. And despite the fact that he knew it was against protocol, he did not report it."

This time, Olivia felt a deep rooted disbelief. Charlie was a good man who'd been protecting his friends! How could Broyles think he was a bad person for that? "You can't seriously be saying that you blame Charlie for Scott's defection! You let me in, and I was sleeping with him –"

"Exactly." Broyles stepped forward, mere inches from her face now, and when he continued his voice was filled with a thousand tiny sharp edges. "You broke the rules, Olivia. And to keep you from losing your job, he kept that information to himself. As an FBI agent, that was bad enough –"

"He didn't –"

"But as a Fringe operative, even something as simple as that could potentially cost people their lives. There are no secrets in this Division. There can't be."

"… Are you kidding me? Of course there are secrets, this entire Division is based on investigating things we can't even tell other agents in the FBI –"

"There will be no further discussion on this."

Olivia stopped mid-sentence, mouth gaping open in shock. It took a moment to register the rigid stance he'd taken, to realize that nothing she could say was going to change his mind right now… and then she seethed.

"Yes, sir." She snapped, her own subtle expression just as intense as his.

His gaze was flat and unimpressed. He waited a few seconds in silence as if expecting her to argue further before he nodded and turned to walk away.

"Regardless, we already have another agent in mind."

Olivia swallowed. "Oh?"

*_On the Other Side_*

Peter stayed in the car this time.

He'd started to actually settle in, lately; he'd even helped break a couple of decent cases, which had done a world of good in getting most of the Fringe Agents off his back. Dunham still didn't like him, and Lincoln was caught between supporting his crush and his need to be professional, but Charlie at least seemed to finally feel like Peter was a part of the group.

Still, that didn't mean he liked handling breaches any more now than he had before.

He took another sip, listening to somebody in the crowd start to cry. None of the Fringe employees showed any sign of guilt or sadness, or even seemed to notice the atmosphere. Not that Peter was surprised – he'd tagged along on a number of these little trips by now, and one thing he'd learned pretty quick was that the employees of Fringe were totally convinced of the morality of their job, and after having done it as long as they had, they'd gotten fairly good at tuning out the collateral damage.

Without a sound, Peter turned back to his book.

We think we understand reality, but our universe is only one of many. The unknown truths of the way to travel between them has already been discovered by beings much like us but who's history is slightly ahead of our own. The negative aspects of such visitations will be irreversible both to our world and to theirs. It will begin with a series of unnatural occurrences, difficult to notice at first, but growing, not unlike a cancer, till a simple fact becomes undeniable; only one world will survive. It will either be us… or them.

It was one of the first paragraphs of the book, but Peter had come back to read it almost a dozen times. He'd realized after translating the title that this book was the mirror image of his father's best-selling – and almost entirely bullshit – best seller. But aside from the name, the two books were nothing alike. For one thing, his father's book was still in print; Peter had never seen a copy as old and beaten up as the one he'd found on the guy they'd arrested. This thing looked almost antique.

That should've been his first clue, actually. The one that had actually caught his attention was the line "slightly ahead of our own". He'd seen the other world, and judging by the technology and styles he'd seen through the Window, this book had to have come from the other side. From Olivia's side.

Realizing that had instantly made him feel like he was a hundred times closer to his goal than before. But it had caused just as many problems in his mind, because of one simple problem.

His father's book was different because it had been all about taking an optimistic view of a grim reality. Granted, that reality was actually a massive fiction his father had created to keep people from discovering an even darker truth, but still. Silver linings, right? This, though… this was brutally upfront about what was really going on, and Peter would've been impressed by the sheer boldness of it if the tone and general violence of it hadn't read more like a terrorists manifesto than a scientific study.

It was undeniable proof that at least someone on the other side was actively planning not just war with Peter's world, but the destruction of it.

That didn't mean anything, of course. For one thing, this book wasn't anywhere near as popular as his father's – the amateur publishing style alone was proof of that. And just because there was one psycho over there somewhere wanting to destroy Peter's world didn't mean the entire population on the other side agreed with him.

Peter rubbed the spine of the book and absently let it fall closed.

All it really meant was that he'd have to work faster and smarter. He wasn't just up against his father, anymore – he was up against someone on the other side, too.

He'd been developing some things on his own using technology he'd run across on different cases. He'd also been working on developing a Window of his own, and although he was sure he was working more quickly than his father would (as Bishop had always been more of a biologist to Peter's mechanist), he was still only about halfway there.

He needed to start cutting corners.

"Alright," Charlie said, his voice muffled through the metal shell of the SUV. Peter casually reached up and tucked the book in an inside pocket of his leather jacket. "Time to go home."

"Yeah, right." Dunham scoffed cheerfully, coming up to stand next to the vehicle Peter was sitting in. She pulled open the door and instantly the sound got clearer. "You're just trying to get out of buying that round of beers."

"You guys had inside information." Charlie argued, out of sight. "You talked to that old lady, remember?"

"So what?" Dunham laughed.

Lincoln piped up from somewhere. "Doesn't count. Witnesses are never reliable about Breaches."

Dunham smiled and cocked one shoulder, pulling on the innocently playful expression that always seemed to get her what she wanted. Peter looked away, still a little disconcerted to see somebody who looked so much like Olive do something so obviously... not.

"Admit it, Charlie." She wrinkled her nose. "You're just being a cheapskate."

There was a moment of silence before Charlie apparently gave some sign of his answer. Olivia's smile grew and she nodded back towards where the other two voices had come from. "Let me just drop Bishop off first, and we'll meet you there."

"Bring him along." Charlie insisted, after the smallest of hesitations.

Dunham's grin dimmed immediately, and the silence that followed was awkward. Peter was just about ready to speak up and tell them he had other plans when Dunham's grin came back and she shrugged. "Yeah, sure. See you there."

He didn't try to argue the decision; in fact, he figured it would probably be best if he went along with this unexpected gesture of friendship and made an effort. If nothing else, showing an allied front to Walter might be exactly the push he needed to let Peter in on his dealings with the alternate dimension.

For a long time they sat in total silence, Dunham casting him less than covert looks as he did his best to totally ignore her. After a while she got visibly twitchy and sighed.

"Okay. Look." Dunham said, hands tightening on the wheel. "I know you don't like me, and to be honest, I don't really like you either. But for whatever reason Charlie actually does seem to like you, so I think the two of us are just going to have to start being civil to each other."

Peter glanced at her, wondering if he should point out that he wasn't usually the uncivil one. After a second of silence, he reluctantly decided against it; he'd had a couple pretty bad moments himself.

He sighed and made an impulsive decision to be honest. "It's not that I don't like you, Dunham, it's just... It's complicated, and you really don't want to know."

Dunham glanced at him again, and the little half smile he'd come to realize was a nervous tic of hers pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Oh, yeah? You ever think maybe I have a right to know? I mean, considering you've only been pulling this disagreeable ass act with me."

Peter rolled his eyes and strongly considered ignoring her. He hadn't lied when he said it hadn't been about her – it was about Olive, and how ridiculously uncomfortable it was to have one of the most confused and painful pieces of his childhood shoved in his face on a daily basis. But ultimately… it really wasn't her fault.

He took a breath and looked at the window, already mentally editing out all the important bits.

"You remind me of someone."

Olivia blinked and, after a moment of silence, turned an incredulous look his way. "That's… that's it? That's your whole problem with me?"

Peter glared at the windshield. "A girl I met knew I was young." He finally started, thinking back to the first time he'd seen her in the grass, all huddled up and scared. "I didn't have a lot of friends, but she was one of them. We pretty much grew up together…"

He trailed off into silence, remembering all the little things they'd done together. She'd taught him how to play poker. He'd taught her how to roll a coin over her knuckles. They'd ridden bikes to the river when it was warm and made snow people in the meadow every winter. Years…

They'd been friends for years.

He came back to himself then. He cleared his throat awkwardly and turned to stare out his window. From there he could see Dunham's reflection peeking at him from the driver's seat.

He decided not to tell her that they'd dated. That would just lean way too close to some kind of cheesy pick-up line – telling her that she reminded him of an old girlfriend – and he wouldn't cheapen the story that way.

"I found out her step dad was beating her and I… I don't know, I guess I thought I could help her. We had this plan to run away together, but she never showed up. I looked for her later and couldn't find her. After a while, I just... I gave up."

He didn't say anything else, but he didn't have to. Dunham got the point.

Peter could still remember that day. Showing up in the clearing with a suitcase and the biggest smile on his face, expecting to see her standing there, smiling back. When he'd realized she wasn't where she should be, he hadn't been worried – she'd probably just been held up. But she'd get there.

Then hours had passed, and Peter had gotten frantic. At the time he'd had absolutely no doubts that she'd have shown up, if she could have. If she wasn't there, then something had to have kept her.

He'd spent weeks looking for her. He'd asked the police department, the hospitals. The morgue. But nobody had been able to tell him anything about a blonde, seventeen year old girl in the area. Eventually, he'd started to believe that either she was dead and buried somewhere where no one had found her yet, or she'd just changed her mind and hadn't had the guts to tell him.

Of course, now he knew better.

Although, he thought with a sick little burst of nausea. That doesn't mean she isn't dead.

"What happened to her?" Dunham asked, voice hushed.

Peter glanced at her, taking in the rapt sympathy in her eyes, and smiled sadly. He didn't buy it for a moment. Oh, she felt bad for him, but the intimacy of her reaction had more to do with the whole good listener vibe she used so well on witnesses and criminals alike than with him. "I don't know. She never showed up."

The look of pity on her face made Peter want to cringe – he didn't want to see that look on that face right now. He fought back the urge, leaned his head back and closed his eyes so he didn't have to see it anymore.

"I'm sorry." She said softly, and the lack of any bite to her voice told him he'd made a wise decision in telling her. He felt vulnerable and depressed, having pulled upon an old would to share it with somebody he barely knew. But his mind was already running through the pros and cons of the choice, projecting different responses, planning ahead. If she spilled the story to Walter, the things he'd said and implied wouldn't give away anything that would hurt his cause – it would probably even convince his father he was bonding – and if she didn't, his telling her would serve to gain the support of good ally.

It was the right choice.

But damn if it hadn't made him feel just a little bit dirty.

AN: Please forgive any mistakes – didn't really have the time to edit. I'm going to try and keep posting as long as I can, but I'd really like somebody to take over.

HIATUS HIATUS HIATUS.