Admittedly, this is not the best thing I've ever written. In fact I think it's rather awful. But oh well. I didn't feel like actually doing real work today and this was the only other thing that made me feel somewhat productive. I promise I'll write something better next time.

Anywho, I hope you stick around and read it ;) Just pretend that Walter isn't there or something. Or perhaps he's dosed up on Olivia's "no-sleep" medication and dreaming away in the closet. Who knows? Haha!

Since Bad Dreams I've been fascinated with the notion of Peter's touch being able to calm and relax Olivia. So this is the basically what the story centers around. Unbeta'd. Sorry!

He doesn't know how to explain it, but when the soft knock on his door breaks the 2am silence he isn't at all surprised.

Tugging on a faded grey t-shirt that had been discarded on the bedside floor, he pads, barefoot, towards the door and calmly unfastens the latch. Experience should tell him to at least attempt to see who's on the other side. But when that someone is a sleep-deprived Olivia Dunham, safety was merely a waste of effort.

She's staring intently at the floor, face shrouded in shadows cast from dingy hallways lights. Blond hair left undone and wind-blown, framing haunted eyes and lightly pursed lips. With nervous fingers she twists and twines the hem of her cotton shirt about, the wrinkles lingering long after she relents.

Without a word he holds back the obvious question that's so heady against his tongue and steps aside. If she understands nothing of him, she understands the light pressure of his fingers against her hip and follows, dolefully, as he guides her inside.

His hands search, almost blindly, for the bedside lamp, but the curl of her fingers about his wrist stills the movement. A slight shake of her head is the only explanation she gives, chancing a soft smile as a small appreciative gesture of his silence.

He waits as she gathers her thoughts, passing emotions playing across her features like a silent film. Except no one has a script for this particular piece. When she finally lifts her gaze towards his own it is uncharacteristically steady, an underlying sense of calm pushing through. Ever the illusionist.

He smiles. And the illusion falters.

"I couldn't sleep," she breathes in that still, small quality her voice sometimes takes on when she's about to drown in her own honest declarations.

How many conversations, how many sentences, admissions she had begun with such a statement, he can only guess. Together, they've racked up quite their fair share. A feat left to the broken and damned, of that he is sure. He wants to hold her, just for a moment, to lie to her and tell her that she's safe, that tomorrow will be... different. Somehow. But he keeps his hands and his confessions to himself, burying them behind practiced humor.

"I'm pretty sure you didn't drive all the way across town to state the obvious."

She opens her mouth to explain but fails to make it quite that far.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that you're not sick to death of me yet, but –"

"I felt you touch me."

And there it is. That damned thing she does to knock him solidly on his ass and remind him of just how heavy the chains that hold him here really are. Shackles laced with iron and a green-eyed smile. But if there's anything he's learned in the past few months, it's that there was very little that made Olivia Dunham nervous. And even less than made her downright complacent. But he's found that honesty, tainted with more than a hint of uncertainty, was altogether her undoing.

And if he's going to be honest, it scares the hell out of him.

He shakes his head, instinctively knowing where the conversation is leading, and desperately not wanting it to be.

They were both running on less-than-adequate sleep, residual adrenaline, and well-earned fear. To say that even their most sincere words weren't to be trusted was quite the understatement.

"Liv, you don't have to explain."

He isn't ready to make this mistake tonight, to throw aside all the false pretenses and excuses that they've worked so hard to fabricate into truth. And yet for all the reasons why they shouldn't, why they couldn't, he needs only one to make him forget all the rest.

He tastes rather than hears her exhausted sigh, heavy in the stilled air; frustration and a bone-deep fatigue laced with the unmistakable weight of longing. What little he can see of her holds no signs of the woman that he's grown so accustomed to seeing. Gone are the hard lines of determination and drive that etch the contours of her brow. Sharp eyes give way to a defeated gaze that lingers, unashamed, on his mouth.

"I just want to sleep, Peter. I just --"

"Shhh…"

For her, for tonight, he pushes the reasons aside.

The tension in her shoulders begins to ease beneath his touch. Her breath catches, only just, as steady hands brush moon-stained strands aside, sliding along her neck, and cradling her face as he had just hours before.

He smiles, held captive, as her eyes begin to slip shut, a soft sound of what feels like relief escaping her lips.

Since day one he knows he's given her nothing short of grief. Over his father, her job, his undisciplined need for escape. If it had been him he would have left his sorry ass back in Iraq and never spared him a second thought.

But she hadn't.

She still isn't.

She had looked after him, given him some small reason to abandon the worn out role of the Prodigal Son. If all she asked in return was for one night of uninterrupted sleep, who was he to deny her?

He expects her to protest, or at least give a second thought to what they're about to do, as he grasps the still-wrinkled hem of her shirt and inches it upwards. But when none comes, he allows himself to relax and she allows him to remove it without a word. A gentle tug and the errant material falls to the floor, forgotten.

She watches him, conscious and aware of his every motion he makes as his shirt joins her own, replaced by curious hands that cause his heart to race. Russet-colored skin is painted pale by the moonlight and while he doesn't want this to be about him, he makes no move to still her.

Socks, shoes, jeans, and inhibitions find their way to the ever-growing pile of discarded barriers until she's pressed against him, skin on skin, the constant beating of her heart the only sound in the empty room.

Some part of him wonders how she can be so calm, so collected, while their world around them seems to be tearing at the seams. But another small part, the part that cedes his battles to the impossibilities, already knows the answer.

No matter how telling.

He'd have to be a blind fool to not have seen the immediate effect one simple, hesitant touch had had on her. Even in her deepest sleep she had recognized him and had responded in the last way he thought possible.

His chest tightens at the memory, the implications proving far too dangerous than he was willing to admit.

And still…

Staunching down his rising fear he steers her towards the edge of the bed, backing her against it until their legs graze the sheets.

"Lay down."

She obeys and even the blanketing darkness is not enough to hide the brief moment of panic he sees in her eyes. But as soon as his hand comes to rest on her own, it disappears. He accepts her hooded smile as her own way of granting him permission, and he accepts it in kind.

He can taste the shudder that runs through her body as his lips touch themselves to the inside of her ankle. His name, bare and breath-filled, escapes her with a groan of complacency as he traces a slow, warm trail of kisses along the feminine slop of her calf. First one, then the other, patient hands soothing away the burn of stubble against her skin. He takes his time, heedless of the hour, careful to leave no place untouched. The backs of her knees, her inner thighs, the flair of her hips. And he swears he hears her whine of disappointment as he passes over the sensitive region still covered by no-nonsense black cotton.

"Next time," he promises.

He lavishes the same attention to the rest of her body, running the tip of his tongue along a puckered scar near the small of her back that could only have been made by a bullet. Anger, perhaps possession, seizes him for a moment and he allows himself to soak it in, pushing him onwards. She lets him raise her hand to his face and he draws the tip of her final finger into his mouth before placing a soft kiss to the delicate skin on the inside of her wrists. He knows she's watching him, silent and still, and he decides that he quite enjoys her voyeuristic notions. They are more of a comfort than a source of shame, quite different from anything he ever expected.

On any other occasion he might feel dismayed at her maintained composure, wanting instead for her skin to be flush with desire and blatant need for him and his touch alone. But she is none of these things, and he feels anything but dissatisfied.

Brushing a final kiss to the corner of her mouth, she tilts her head, just enough, and kisses him softly. A silent thank you that he doesn't need to have in words to know it's the truth.

This time, it is she who guides him, yawning and smiling and pulling the sheets over their tangled forms.

Falling into a dreamless sleep.

Author's note: In my head Peter still had boxers on and Olivia still had her undergarments. It wasn't completely meant to be sexual really. But it can be if you wanted it to be. Hehe!