Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe.

Author's Note: I'm not quite sure what this is. It started off as wanting to write something about drunk!Olivia, taking place after the season premiere, and it turned into this..a strange follow-up, if you could say that.

Empty

She most likely had a concussion, but had been too stubborn to go the hospital when a ride had been offered. Instead, she ignored Astrid's concern, though it was certainly warranted, if the pain in her head was any indication.

The case wasn't by any means over, but there was nothing more she could do. Walter would examine the bodies, but there was no need for her to be there. She didn't say anything, not when she had a status to uphold, especially in front of Agent Lee, but truthfully, she was hurting, in more ways than one.

It wasn't only that she was outwardly detached. She felt numb inside, too, with that hole a raw spot, dulling any other emotions. She had no one to care for outside of work, save for the little family she had, though they were too far away for her to consider attempting to speak to. There was no one she could go to unwind with; Walter was an incredible mind, but emotionally volatile, a strange shell of a man. Astrid was sweet, yes, but their only connection was work.

Olivia was used to the loneliness. It was a pervasive presence, a nagging at the back of her mind. It was almost a comfort to know that it was still there, because it meant she was still somewhat aware of the fact that yes, she was still capable of emotions. Her social skills had gone a bit askew in the past three years; work has invaded her life, and she shut out everything else, in what she now knew to be a vain attempt to find the answers she had been searching for her entire life.

The loneliness also means that she hadn't found those answers yet. She goes to sleep to it, wakes up to it, and though she had grown used to it by now, all she wanted to do was forget.

The past week, Walter had continually made the point of mentioning that something felt "off" in the laboratory. He wouldn't know, but it wasn't just the atmosphere of the lab that felt strange. It was wherever she went. It was as if something was off, though she couldn't quite pinpoint what it was exactly. It was similar to knowing a word, though being unable to think of it at the time. She knew something was off, and she knew what it was, but couldn't quite think of it at the time.

An empty apartment wasn't exactly appealing, but the thought of dragging herself to a bar was even less so. A bar also meant the chance of interaction with other people, something she wasn't quite up to either. It seemed like it had been ages—and truly, it had been—since she'd been in any sort of normal relationship, romantic or otherwise. Somehow, she wasn't too bothered by the fact. She had stopped caring about anything other than work long ago, in her almost-obsessive search for answers.

She kicked off her shoes once inside, tossing her jacket over the back of a chair on her way to the kitchen. She supposed she should eat, but she wasn't hungry; food was replaced by a bottle of whisky and a glass. She stood at the counter, downing a glass, appreciating the burn as it slid down her throat, shutting her eyes against the world.

Is this how she had expected things to end up, when she'd first joined the Fringe division? Not at all. She hadn't expected to be kidnapped and replaced by an alternate version of herself, nor had she thought that a Bridge would be created, allowing them the unfortunate privilege of working together.

As much as it pained her to admit it, however, living the life of her alternate, despite the fact that she'd been tricked, her memories altered to fit the needs of Walternate, hadn't been so bad. She had friends, and someone to go home to each night. Not too bad. The contrasts made Olivia's own life seem so insignificant, in her own mind.

She carried the glass and bottle with her into the bathroom, starting a bath and sitting on the edge of the tub. Perhaps alcohol hadn't been the best choice after taking such a beating; her head was pounding. The water, though, felt nice, once she'd stripped and slipped into the bath. Another glass of whisky, and a pleasant buzz began to dull the pain. Onto her third, and her cell phone, deep in her pants pocket on the floor, began to ring. She sighed, reaching for it.

"Dunham."

"Olivia, it's Astrid." Worry lathered her voice. "Listen, I know you're probably fine, but I just wanted to check in."

"I appreciate the concern," she said, words slurred only slightly, "but you're right, I am fine." Her tone was bitterer than she'd intended.

"Well, okay, but you can call me if you need anything. You know that, right?"

She closed her eyes, titling her head back, pressed against the tiled wall. "I'll see you tomorrow, Astrid."

She tossed the phone back onto the pile of clothes.

She'd nearly fallen asleep after a while, both from the alcohol and exhaustion, when she heard a noise. Of course, stray noises weren't uncommon—creaking pipes, the wood contracting and expanding as the temperature changed—but this wasn't merely a stray noise. Her eyes opened, and she leaned toward the door, listening. There it was again.

Footsteps.

She hadn't heard the door open, and she swore she'd locked it when she'd come in. Strange occurrences, though, weren't exactly new to her. There were other ways someone could get into an apartment. She stood, the sudden movement making her head spin; when it had calmed down, she wrapped a towel around herself. Her gun was near the front door, because she'd left it there when she'd first come in, and there was no way she was leaving the bathroom without some sort of weapon. She settled for the towel bar, easily removed from the wall with a slight tug.

No one was immediately outside the bathroom, waiting for her, she found as she opened the door. Rather, she found nothing, and suddenly felt foolish, standing there, dripping wet, wrapped in a towel with a metal bar clutched in her hands. It must've been her ears playing tricks on her, or the alcohol. She stumbled into the bedroom, letting the bar drop to the ground, while she herself dropped to the bed, her head in her hands, wet hair sticking to her flesh.

"No one's here," she murmured to herself, almost with a chuckle. Paranoid, wonderful; another lovely trait to add to her list.

"I'm here." It wasn't footsteps now, but a voice, and one that was eerily familiar. She brought her head slowly out of her hands. Still, no one was there, and she wondered if perhaps the blow to her head had been worse than she'd thought. "Olivia! Can't you hear me? I'm here, Olivia." It was a man's voice, desperate and sad.

She sat there for a long while, listening. The voice never returned.

She did take notice, in a state of half-lucidity as she was falling asleep, that the loneliness had left her during that short burst of adrenaline, when she'd heard the voice and footsteps. It'd been replaced with a strange sense of warmth, one that she feared she'd never be able to explain.