Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I just like to play with them.

Author's note: Wrote this after watching 4x19. Just another POliva and Etta ficlet. Takes place somewhere after 2015. I took the route that Olivia did in fact, not die, because I can hardly stand the idea.

Dedication: Elialys, you know this is for you, honey. I know how much you love these POlivia family fics, and I hope you like this one.

On This Night

Tonight, they took shelter in an abandoned subway car, a creaking cabin derailed in a vacated station; another common convenience neglected in aftermath of The Purge.

She watches silent, sedated, as the overhead light blinks out a fluorescent rebellion; fighting like they've been, to stay alive and survive.

Manhattan was taken first, when the war came, then every other municipality in whole; cities crumbling under alien authority that snuck in in the night, merciless encroachers who litter the streets with human carnage.

And every hour brings more bodies, so many countless screams, so many countless fallen there's no untouched ground anymore to bury them in.

Before the day is done, more dead will be burned, set-aflame, and the living will hide, run, or swear allegiance to new order, and even in here, under the blood-stained streets, she can smell the smoke of singed flesh, the fumes of a depravity brought by invasion.

And it stings her nostrils, poisons her blood with an angry defeat that wants to rebel in injustice, cry out to resist.

They came with upper hand, the Observers, with the scientific advantage of their technological progress, and they're ruthless, and vicious;hostile in their supremacy and wrought iron fist.

All around them, as it burns, the world reeks of fear, despair and electrocuted ash; melting away every human autonomy.

Every natural privilage is slipping away.

To thrive, is the only right they have anymore, to find a way somehow to heave through the smoke that's corrupted their lungs, constricted their chests with the violence of a desolate misery.

This fight has taken from them more then mere freedom.

They've been raped of what's rightfully theirs, torn apart from a separation that hollows out ache, cheapens it, makes it pale in comparison to the pain of true loss.

There's nothing but black void in the space of what they no longer have.

And sitting here now, she fights for air as empty becomes her, wrings in her hands the soft red toy that's been warn to thin plush. It's no longer Elmo, but a diffuse paralytic, a black hole that's sucked her bone-gnawing heartache to the after-place only numb knows.

Inconsolably, her heart's been broken to a thousand, tiny pieces.

A thousand tiny pieces like their daughter's thousand tiny laughs.

The day she was born, he gave her a nickname, said nothing would ever pierce his heart as much as her big blue eyes, her deep little dimples.

The day she was brought into this world, he called her Bullet.

It's like being shot with a love-gun, he'd said, as he'd held their baby, tiny, soft and two minutes old, you just can't expect how much you can love something until you're hit with the force of it.

At first, she wasn't a fan of the moniker, and he knew it, amused himself by teasing of her selfless inclination on duty, saying she's always putting her life on the end of one, so why hate bullets now? Though this one's a lot cuter then any he's seen before and even she had to admit, so much cuteness had the power to wound men and kill armies.

Even the Ubermenscher and Bigfoot would die at her feet.

It only took her a week after that, to love the name too, and every time she used it, he'd wear a small smile, coo to their daughter that daddy always has a way of winning mommy over.

That's how she came to be in the first place.

And for a while they knew comfort, were spoiled-rotten with happy, and by the time she was three, Etta outreached all her firsts, could read every billboard, and burned out the Lion King soundtrack and the Dora one too.

She'd worn her "Grandpa did it" shirt so much, the writing lasted two weeks, had tucked so many red vines in little pockets she stained them pink, and stuck so many stickers to her toddler bed, they couldn't find the headboard.

And all of it, every sticky, smudgy, giggly little moment, filled their lives in ways they could never imagine.

For three years, she'd had her corner slice of rare perfection, had free-fallen, helplessly, into the reality of a perfect little family in this fucked up pseudo-science world.

Like the princess castle she made out of craft sticks and scotch tape, Etta had crafted together every good thing, every normal thing in the world with her special little hands.

Grandpa always said she was too smart for her age, too quick with her milestones. Too intelligent even, for the hereditary genius of her Bishop DNA.

Special made her wonderful, special made her theirs.

Then it wasted no time in taking take her away.

They'll want the child, September had said in the beginning, as he stood with their resistance to fight-off his kind, it's a matter of time now, before they discover her existence, before they realize her importance to the survival of your race.

They didn't understand, not fully, but experience taught them to heed his warning, not question its reason.

So they let the blackness of night hide their movements, shield them like her power shields their minds; a telepathic block of the intrusion the enemy reads everyone else with, but as war grew so did the danger, and to rely only on her ability anymore to save the life of their child was a fool's mission, a fool's hope.

They knew she needed better then a "just maybe it'll work" defense.

They had to stop believing good enough could ever mean absolute.

They couldn't truly protect her here, in the fight, on the run, they couldn't promise her no harm while they risked their lives in the thick of it.

It's why hard decision brought yesterday's choice.

And as Etta laid between them, her little head on her favorite spot on daddy's chest, his eyes spoke of what they're going to do. Sad and gray, they looked down on her, taking in her chubby little cheeks as he'd brushed blond curls with his fingers, the way he always did when he admired her in sleep, when the set of his smile meant she couldn't be more perfect because she couldn't be more theirs.

But there was no smile last night, instead his face was broken, fragile with an ache that cracked her own heart, that plummeted her chest to the place that wrote every sad note in his features. We have to, he'd said finally, his voice soft, breaking under the pain of their reality, It's all we can do now, to keep her safe.

And then she held him, the warmth of their daughter between them as he buried his quiet tears in her shoulder, as he dampened her skin with the salt that's dried on her neck. And when she kissed him, she tasted it, the raw sadness, her own misery leaving trails down her cheeks, damp lines he wiped away with his thumbs, his mouth, and they spent every hour till dawn this way, sharing in a torment no parent should know.

Then too quickly, morning came.

And eight hours ago, they gave her a different last name, and they cut her hair. They dressed her in her favorite pink windbreaker, and told her she was going to Aunt Nina's till they come back to get her.

But her big blue eyes were far away, and her face scrunched up in thought, her little brow privately deliberating the same way daddy's always does. And when her four year old understanding caught on, she'd brought her hand to mommy's cheek, brushed the warm skin there as mommy tried like hell to hold back more tears.

Their brave little girl was holding it in, she could see that, as her little face fought not to cave into sadness, give in to the ache of a separation no child should know, and her little stare liquefied, her little lips quivering as her little body started to shake with a shallow breath.

In the way she'd always been, she was perceptive to the truth. And in the way she'd always been, she was strong for those around her because of it.

I won't cry, mommy, she'd said finally, I know you'll come back soon.

And as mommy's heart broke, her daughter was ripped from her arms, taken under the rouse of a loyalist party, Nina's saving face, her guise to fool the enemy in believing she's one of them.

I promise, she'll be safe here with me, the older woman had said, they'll never know who she is. We have ways to make sure of it. Our technology may not be as advanced as theirs, but it will conceal her identity. They'll never suspect the left hand if we fool them long enough with the right. Be careful, Olivia, and good luck.

And then she was pulled back, urged away from the basement steps of Massive Dynamic by familiar hands, and as Peter guided her to another disposable car they'll trade for footfalls, she felt this nothingness invade her body, this complete void of anything real that left her crumbling inside from the pain of her heartache.

As this night falls, she's only fractured, unfix-able.

She's cold, like the floors they've traded for creature comforts, torn like the collar of his jacket on a battle-heavy night, when Etta wouldn't let go, wouldn't give in to Astrid's hands as she'd pulled her to safety in an underground bunker.

More than anything, she feels like she's flickering out, like the light in this cabin, like the liberties of the country.

She's been raped of her strength.

There's no air here to take in, in this decaying makeshift refuge because every substance, every life-giving thing anymore feels irreconcilably empty.

This is what dying inside feels like.

"I told Walter we're safe." Says the quiet, hoarse voice from afar, and it breaks her cogitation, wants to remind her there's a bench underneath her and hard steel beneath her feet.

But she just can't feel anything anymore.

"I said we'd meet back up as soon as daybreak."

As he sits next to her, he pockets the transmitter, yet another untraceable piece of tech they'll discard tomorrow to keep the enemy at bay.

And it grows to quiet again, the broken train, the broken atmosphere, too suffocating to harbor anything but a choke-hold.

So he blows out a long breath, as exhausted and shaken as she, and she feels his agony push into her, his quiet pain echo into every space under her skin.

And suddenly gravity itself, is crushing her bones, threatening to decimate her into dust, into worthlessness, into the same blackness he's fighting with too.

"I've always told myself I can live through anything," she says, breaking the silence, her eyes on the fuzzy toy but her focus on nothing, "I've always believed that I can survive anything," she turns the character over, smooths down the frazzled hairs stuck up from dried juice, "but this-this pain is so close to unbearable, I feel like I'll die from it."

And her breath labors, her whole body outwardly overcome now with the force of her torture, and her lungs hurt, burn under the weight of her threatening tears.

"I feel like my heart's just been ripped from my chest."

She finishes, finally breaking, and suddenly, he's pulled her into the nook of his arm, into the spot that smells, constantly, like strawberry-apple shampoo, and silently, she cries into it, wants to inhale every last trace of the world they gave up.

"Our baby girl, Peter," she says, her cheeks hot from his warmth, wet with her tears, "We gave up our baby girl."

And because she can't breathe anymore in the crevice of his body, her hands fist in his jacket, pull at the fabric that's tight along his shoulders, and she prays, prays that she can just die here, suffocate her pain here, but her veins only burn from the numbness, the emptiness.

He's whispering something, but she doesn't hear, is planting kisses through her hair, on her temples, but she only sees him embracing their daughter with the same soft touch, with the same tender comfort.

And she presses herself so tightly into him, she can smell his skin through the layers of cotton, can smell her sweat in his, and the baby oil scent that fits him so beautifully, he was born to wear fatherhood.

"What if we never see her again?"

One hand is raking through her hair now, as the other caresses her back, and as she clutches on to him, her lips brush his neck, the bare place where a chain once hung above the place of his heart.

I want to give it to her, she'd said last night, as she traced the metal links with her finger, as she followed the cool length to the pendant it held. I want to give it to her so she knows, so she remembers her name, so she remembers us. And in her palm, the bullet gleamed, the gift she'd given him on his thirty-fourth birthday, so no matter what, their daughter can be with him wherever he goes.

The nickname had been etched in its threads, the same way "forever" is etched into the silver band on her left hand, the only material thing anymore she'll never let go of.

It's more then a ring, it's a seal of belonging, an emblem of her home.

And she wanted Henrietta to have such a totem, to know the same comfort, to know the same kind of promise that beats under her skin.

But it's daddy's, she'd said, in the back of the car, when mommy slipped it on her neck with a kiss, won't he miss it? More then you'll know, baby girl, mommy thought, more than you'll know he'll miss you.

No honey, she'd answered, grappling back wet-heat, Daddy wants you to hold on to it, and for the sake of four year old assurance, she'd tried to smile but her breath shook instead. You gotta take care of it, okay, sweetheart? It's gonna be yours now for a while. You have to keep it safe until we come back.

Her big eyes glinted then, just like her fathers do, twinkled with a silver-blue sparkle of pride. I will, mommy, I'll protect it for daddy. And when she'd toyed with the gold cartridge, turned it over with her fingers where it hung on her chest, that pride turned to something else, something hopeful. I'll make sure it's safe, and when daddy starts to miss it, then you'll come back to get it, she'd said because to her tiny little toddler mind it was fact, it was answer, then we'll all be together again, and he won't miss it anymore. And to nod, was all mommy could do to keep from breaking down completely.

Then she'd kissed her little head, took in the fruity scent tangled in tiny blond curls.

And Etta reached beside her then, plucked up the stuffed toy between mommy's lap and her car-seat. Here mommy, her daughter had said, pressing the Elmo into her hands, now you and daddy have something to keep safe for me, too. Give him lotsa hugs, okay? He likes those best. And if he gets scared, let him know that I'll give him the biggest hug ever when you and daddy come home.

For however long it takes, their daughter will wait with wide open arms. Not truly for Elmo, but the loving hands of home that will bring him back to her.

"Liv, don't do this, don't think like that," he says now, pulling her from herself, cooing a comfort she can't grasp into the confines of her hair. "We gave her up so she could survive. We hid her so she could survive. And we have to believe that she's gonna be okay. We won't make it out of this if we don't."

He pushes her back now, peels her away from his chest and she's hit with cold air, violated, deprived of the heat he's stolen away from her body.

"We can't lose hope now," he says, his voice a whisper as he cups her face in his palms, "We can't let ourselves fail by falling apart. We have to be strong for her."

And his breath falls on her cheeks, as he presses his forehead to hers, heats her tears again with every exhalation.

"It's what she needs from us now."

He's fighting his own private sorrow, when he lifts her chin, forces her to see him, to take in red-rimmed eyes of gray-slate under the sad set of his forehead, his face creased in the same pain that's robbed her of stable senses.

"And she's gonna grow up and she's gonna be beautiful, and brave," he says, his voice hoarse, seeking strength for her sake, "and she's gonna know that we loved her enough to want more then this world for her."

She thought she couldn't hurt more inside, then she does already, but as he peers into her, the break of his soul demolishes hers, sends it to the same aching place where nothingness lives.

"And I know it's going to kill us inside everyday she's apart from us, and it hurts like hell now to even breathe, but Liv, Etta's going to know that we loved her enough to make this kind of choice."

Through the pain, his gaze softens suddenly, a glimmer of something she can't feel that turns it pale blue, an optimism she recognizes in the crinkle lines at his eye's edge, a hope caught in the crowning lines of his brow. "She's gonna know we loved her, Olivia. As hard as it seems now, as hard as all this feels right now, she's gonna know."

"And if we don't believe that, if we can't trust in that, we won't win this fight. We won't live long enough to see our little girl again. And we have to. We have to be able to tell her again, ourselves, how much we love her. "

These words do nothing to console her, as much as he wants them to, she only still feels hollow, and it makes her fall into him again, clutch onto his body because he's the only thing anymore that feels even real.

"Oh god Peter, I just-"

She can't finish, because her voice is gone, buried into his coat, like their daughter's face used to be when she'd play hide and seek.

"I know, honey," he says, "I wish she could be here with us too." Then she feels his body shake, his words crack. "I want her back with us too."

And when his arms entrap her tighter, she collapses completely, every breath she fights for hefting her chest against his, her body, entirely helpless as all her numb melts into his heat.

And her hands pry away from their clench to find his sides, digesting the realness of his body under her finger-pads, and somehow it's diffusing her sorrow, crying out for a distraction that can make her feel more than heartache, know more then this pain.

So desperately, she grasps at his shirt, untucking the thin threads till she finds skin underneath. And unexpecting, his muscles tense in surprise, then he leans back, searches her face, and his eyes are a dark-gray question under the brave little light, his face shadowed in angles of a carefully soft study.

Take it away, she pleads, wordlessly, as she sits up straighter, feels her body coil under her own instigation, please, Peter, I want to feel more then this.

I don't want to feel this.

And when her thumbs find his bottom lip, trace the flesh there, she feels her body hum with new current, an electric pulse in her system that ignites from his skin.

And his lashes fall, in response, a heavy-lidding of instant desire that's darkened gray to steel-blue, slowed his breath with the hard bite of lust cursing into her.

Already his effect is white-washing her heartache, covering it up for a chance to pretend nothing hurts, to make-believe the curve of his cheekbones wasn't shared with a cherubic little other.

But despite his own want, he pushes her back, uncertainty flashing over stubble planes and smooth arcs, he's not assured of her state, worried she's too tired, exhausted, incoherent from her misery, but she won't let him have this, won't let him take away from her another saving grace.

So she leans into him, braces her weight on her knees, raises herself into his lap as she peers down at his face.

Just take it away, she begs, silently, as she digs her hands into his shoulders, just make it all go away.

And before he can say her name, before he can ask if she's sure she wants this, here of all places, her mouth crushes his, the flavor of his lips a surge through her boneless-ness, a re-awakening of her blood cells with the sweet taste of honey, salt and shared sacrifice.

And she feels him, deep in her skin, she feels him latch on to this rouse, to this temporary escape, because secretly, just as badly, his heart was begging for her like this too.

This is a different kingdom, the only other wonder of the world that hasn't been lost to them.

And it's crazing her, fueling her, making her claw at his clothes with a desperate need for his bare skin, and she feels him come alive in her hands, respond with fervor when her tongue traces his. Primal and raw, reeling lust buries into her, hitches her breath with hot incitement, and against his mouth, she groans, presses her lower half into his and the sensation's a shock-wave through them both, tensing his back while it shoots to her fingertips.

There's an impulsive, static ache now, in everything under her flesh, an echo of his synchrony that's chemically electric, kinetically hot, and when his hands find her waist, push under her shirt, her whole body jumps from the cool ring on his left hand.

And the thrill feeds her furor, as his aggression turns to fever, and his fingers roam down her ribs, before gripping her hips, and she knows he's moving her, lifting her, but she's only conscious of the fire that's burning her inside and out. And suddenly she's on top of the bench, her back pressing into the ledge of a window while her body pins between his own and the side-rail, caught between his heat and cold steel. With purpose, his lips leave hers to find her jaw, her neck, marking it red from the stubble that sends aftershock to her toes.

Like only he can, he's taking all her self-control as his touch and mouth imprint her, his hands finding the underside of her bra while his jeans friction against the exposed skin of her middle. And he pushes his weight into her, into the spot between her thighs where she nestles his pose, and that rapid-fire ache becomes a searing throb, a pulse that shoots hot stars up and through the whole span of her body.

And the promise of pleasure grinds her hard into the steel pane, guiltlessly knocking away her breath as she struggles to do away with his jacket, his shirt, but his working mouth is restricting her, benumbing her.

Need is teeming her with frustration now, rapaciousness, her skin so hot to meet his that her nerve-ends burn with blinding delirium. So she groans his name, pleads it out with greedy breath as she tugs on his coat, and obliging, he pulls back, lets her have her way as the barrier drops to the ground. Then it's his shirt she lifts off, and her bomber that follows, stripped away with her top by his expertly skilled fingers.

And it attacks her with cold air, her hot skin violated by the breeze introduced, and he captures her shiver, swallows it down with his mouth, his fingers gliding over the swell of her breast. And it's too much for her to take now, this excitement, this white-hot frenzy of everything under her flesh.

It's scalding her lucidity, scorching her to madness, but before she can push into him, before she can envelope herself in anymore of his bare skin, he pulls back, leaves her body aching in the tease of release.

And as she fights for why, his hand brushes the side of her neck, softly, gently, a new spark of tenderness amidst their primal exchange, and it re-directs the air to the soft place in his eyes.

This is his worship of her, his twilight gray admiration bleeding from his innermost core, and the strength stuns her, rail-roads her sideways with the depth of his soul that's breaking through to her own.

Unimaginable, is the force of his love for her.

And when he speaks his voice is almost a whisper, laced with more emotion then should be allowed any words.

"You have no idea how much I love you."

And for a moment she's dying of pain's opposite, as her body sighs, her heart swelling with feelings of its own, her chest tightening with eight million degrees of its own fierce affection.

And suddenly, she feels like crying again, struck through and through by the heart-wrenching power of his gaze, and on her finger, her band reacts, a nine-times heavier weight that radiates into and under her flesh with its promise, a phantom permeation of his vow that fills her with the slow-burn of his love for her.

This is what she has; it's her real, her anchor, her tourniquet.

He is her here, when here seems gone forever. This is where she'll find the strength to press on, to know courage.

Inextricably, in the way they've become, he understands this too, knows it's only together they have a chance to make it, their lives dependent on the taste of the other, the feel.

So both his hands find her face now, as he leans his forehead to hers, his breath as heavy as it is hot.

And sinking into her is a whisper of his sadness, the prime ache they just hid with sexual scourge and it makes her grip his bare sides, pray the emptiness will stay away this time if she holds onto him tight enough.

"We'll get through this."

He says, his voice soft, and she knows he needs to believe it as much as she needs to hear it.

"We'll get through this Liv, I promise."

She's speechless, in response, any words to choked-up now through heartsore's re-emerging, but she's a solider in his hands, a fighter, so she battles it back with determinate will, trying like hell not to let it sting so goddamn deep anymore.

So she does the only thing she can, re-initiates the only salvation they'll truly have, and she kisses him, soft this time, and delicate until he deepens it with his tongue, until he's pressing her into the train again with the length of his half-naked body.

And it elicits a moan from her, a conceding sigh that has her pushing into his heat, into his skin, and again, her nerve-ends have a mind of their own, firing erratically downward, insanely haywire, unhinging any feeling besides reeling desire.

It's making her dizzy again, this bedlam, this madhouse of her senses that uproar from his taste, and she wants more of it, needs all of him now to finally satiate this hunger, this ache that pulses so deep it takes every part of her. So her fingers work at his belt, while his slip down from her bare waist, and she catches the thrill of it in the back of her throat, feels it against his mouth when his touch finds her hipbones, over-sensitizing the space in-between them till hot spikes could burn through her flesh.

And the sensation rocks her so intensely she has to bury her face into his neck, carnal urge careening through her like fast lightening in a heat-storm.

Patience anymore, is a lost cause, a forgotten past-time, and she just wants to strip them both of every fabric still impeding their raw devour, their bare closeness.

And because she'll say his name, beg him again to just have her, to just take her before she burns alive, he'll give her what she wants.

They'll levitate their bodies sore, gratification spiraled into otherworldly release, a fireworks through hot skin and veins that reminds her, every time they're humming and spent, grasping for air in the clutch of each other, how perfect they marry together in every sense of the word.

There'll be a church there, under invisible sheets, a wonder-wall of the only religion she needs put her trust in.

And that definition will be enough for now, to hold them, to grant them the bravery they need to be strong for their daughter.

I do know, she'll tell him a time later, when she's hugged into his body, when they'll wait out another night in a different cold safe-house, I know how much you love me. And she'll peer into his eyes, and they'll be deep with an inviting gray, a fall into serenity from only his air. You gave me our daughter, she'll whisper, before she'll kiss his chest in the place a little head once rested. And she'll wrestle back wet-salt, as her palm will press to the place of his heart. You gave me a family. No love could be stronger than that.

Scarce as they'll become, reserved only in moments with her, he'll smile, a slow drag and curve of a beauty that will catch in her lungs. I'd say that makes us damn near invincible then, wouldn't you?

Her mouth will move in kind, in response, a tiny curl of her lips that's no longer a stranger, and with the familiarity will come new faith, a jump of her heart-muscle that reminds her why all the hope it can muster hangs on his confidence, his optimism, the spell-binding blue ore that'll fleck through his soft lashes.

Then she'll kiss him, validating his words with the strength of her embrace, with a hand through his hair, before he'll brush a strand from her face.

We're gonna make it Liv, we'll be okay. We're gonna be a family again.

Then he'll press his hand to her abdomen, his thumb a circular caress atop her shirt, his wedding ring a hot pulse melting straight through it.

All four of us.

And even bigger, she'll smile, wrap her arms around him, kiss his neck and his jaw and his cheek in the same way he did Etta, the same way he'll do again in eight months, when he's holding the baby they made the night they comforted each other in a train-car.

Another miracle's been given them, another life of their love that makes no sense of space and time.

But like their beautiful little girl, it's perfect; too wonderful anyway.

So they'll continue to hope, fight to believe the world can get better, that it will, that they'll find again the freedom of happiness in a reality where their children can be safe and together and dare to know joy.

They'll press on in believing that one day they'll be whole again, complete in a love that only takes fulfillment for answer.

To win this, all this, they'll hold to each other, resolute in fighting to get their Bullet back, their lives reclaimed, their everything mended.

Together, they'll never shatter like worlds can.

Infinity itself, will fall before they do.