Spoilers: Set after "Olivia. In the lab. With the revolver." But before "White tulip."

Disclaimer: No inFRINGEment intended. (I have always wanted to use that one.)

Author's note: I was pondering the other day about happiness, what makes us happy? Me? Certainly not Fringe, I always cry during the episodes now; I noticed that I haven't been happy about many things in many years, and this, writing, as pathetic as it's going to sound, makes me happy. So, I want to thank everybody who has ever read, reviewed, alerted or favorited any of my stories, thanks for your time and interest. REALLY.

Sorry about the depressing note, but it needed to be said. I wanted to write something happy, but I think we are at a point in Fringe where I just simply can't, so this is sad.

I want to thanks first to the wonderful babypumpkin for volunteering to prove read my fics, some of the people who read took the time to let me know that my fics had mistakes (thank you!), and babypumpkin voluntereed for the job, I'm forever in your debt. Then, I want to dedicate this one to CiderApples, if you have read her fics probably you know why: Cider, you have a way with words that not everybody (meaning me) don't have and "Standby" gave me the push to write this (and the depressing note), I know it won't even get close to your perfection but I do hope is worthy of your fics.

Wjobsessed: this is 100% Bolivia, I swear. (I still feel like I owe you)

Well, if you are still here I hope you stick around to read and hopefully review. Enjoy!

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The blight

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Blight, noun, affliction, plague, scourge, bane, woe, curse, misfortune, calamity, trouble, tribulation, evil, corruption, pollution, contamination.

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1:56

1:56

1:56

1:57

Olivia turned in her bed again, trying to find a comfortable position to lay awake the rest of the night.

Peter would be gone in the morning.

Walter had said he would tell him, not when exactly, but she could possibly wake up in the morning and he would be gone. This time it was the wait what was keeping her awake.

She looked to the bedside table; the half-empty bottle of whisky was still there, accusing her. She had ingested more of the liquor during the last couple of weeks than what she had done in a year, she knew she was going for a title of alcoholic and that at some point somebody would notice, but she just didn't have the energy to care anymore. The problem with the whisky was now, like Walter, she was building a resistance and every time took more and more to numb her. Tonight it hadn't worked at all; she was as awake as it was six o'clock in the morning.

Getting home after talking to Walter Olivia had directed to the kitchen to grab the last clean glass from the kitchen cabinet, the rest of the evidence was lying on the sink, ridiculous; she didn't even have time to do her dishes now. She had poured the liquid and went to get and ice cube from the freezer when she had remembered she didn't have any, the last couple of those were put to better use on her swollen head. It had been the only thing she had allowed Peter to do for her before sending him home, she had seen him eyeing the glasses in the sink suspiciously. Having him in her apartment, picking things, giving him time and opportunity to see what horrible condition she was in, doing normal things had been a sick joke.

Olivia threw the covers away, what was the point anymore? She took the bottle and poured another shot of the amber liquid, she could feel it going down, the only other sign of it's' effects were her stingy eyes. She wandered around the house with the bottle and glass in hand, if she didn't do something she would be a zombie in the morning.

So what? He isn't going to be here in the morning.

She swallowed another shot.

She suddenly felt like she was going to throw up. Olivia ran to the bathroom but the contents of her stomach, which were not much, decided to stay in place.

She splashed some water on her face, and looked up to the mirror; she was a disaster, the bags under her eyes had bags for themselves, she was pale and her hair was a mess even though she had brushed it, and her eyes, God, her soul was pouring out of them. She opened the cabinet trying to eliminate the reflection and then she saw the bottle.

Walter had given her a bottle of sleeping pills last year after her encounter with Nick Lane, she hadn't used the pills even then, but this situation was even worse, it surpassed her. She felt so defeated.

Olivia left the bathroom, pills in hand and went to retrieve her glass of whisky, she poured another shot. She sat on the bed and looked at the label, the pills were outdated. She looked again at the glass in her hand; she had drunk the liquid without noticing. Her mind was screaming that it was a bad idea to mix high dosages of outdated pills and copious amounts of alcohol, but for once she just didn't care, she just wanted to sleep.

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Peter entered the lab, coffee tray in hand. He had bought her one today, he was sure she would be coming early again.

He felt happy, at home, calm; emotions that would usually make him feel like running, but not this time; this time he wanted to stay.

He delivered the coffees to Astrid and Walter and went to sit on the bench next to Gene to drink his own and eat the apple he had barely snatched from the fridge that morning. Unconspiciously placing her steaming cup of coffee next to his, he bit his apple. He was sure he was smiling like a teenager, but really, things were good, Olivia seemed to be almost back to normal from their Jacksonville excursion, Walter had made taffy and planning a father-son trip which he was actually looking forward to; not because he was going with Walter somewhere, but because he would finally have a couple of days off from this circus (he could still lie to himself, right?). All in all, things were good.

He finished his coffee and apple almost and hour later, dragging it as much as he could waiting for her, but she never came. Maybe he had miscalculated and she wasn't coming today, maybe she was avoiding him again. He sighed. His happiness had just evaporated with the last drops of his coffee. He dropped his empty cup and the untouched one into the trash can and went to occupy his already paranoiac mind into more useful things.

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It was past noon when Peter was thinking of calling Olivia, and dismissing the idea immediately, the telephone rang. Astrid ran to answer, he mid listened to the conversation before Astrid told him Broyles wanted to talk to him.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Agent Dunham hasn't shown up for work; Agent Farnsworth tells me she hasn't gone to the lab either."

"No, she isn't here."

"Has she contacted you?"

"No. Have you called her?"

"She is not answering her cell phone or home line." Peter panicked. A lot. As calmly as he could he started to walk towards the door, coat in hand. "I would like someone to verify her house before ordering a search."

"I'm on my way."

Peter didn't give him time to say anything else before hanging up and looking for the keys of the station wagon inside his coat.

"I'm going out." He yelled not waiting for acknowledgment form Astrid or Walter.

He practically ran to the car and dropped the keys twice before actually open the door. She is fine, she is fine; he kept repeating that to himself on the way to her apartment, but inside he knew something was wrong, Olivia would never miss a day of work even if she was bleeding out, she would have at least called Broyles. He tried her phone several times but Olivia didn't answer.

He parked outside her apartment building trying to remain calm, his heart was pounding on his chest, he was breathing heavily by the time he got to her door. God, he should have called her last night to check on her. He knocked on the door twice. No answer.

Peter was trying to open the door when an old lady went past him carrying a bag of groceries, eyeing him suspiciously; he smiled confidently and the lady entered her apartment probably thinking on calling the police.

He finally opened the door and cautiously entered her apartment. Everything was in order; there was no sign of struggle, nothing. He moved through the apartment looking for any signs of Olivia. Her weapon was on the table of the living room along with her badge and cell phone; she had several missed calls, probably all from him and Broyles. The stove was cold and the glasses were still in the sink. He moved further into the apartment until he got to the bedroom. Since there was no door he was afraid to look not knowing what he would find.

Breathe Peter, just breathe.

She was there. He exhaled with relief.

Olivia was under the covers, looking peaceful, Peter approached the bed, the wooden floor cracking under his shoes, he immediately noticed the almost empty bottle of whisky and the medication flask. Shit. Something was wrong.

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