"Really, Peter. It might have been better for all of us if you'd just passed out." Walter said, as he resolutely picked the last bits of shrapnel out of his son's blood-covered back.

Peter was laid prone across the dining room table, bleeding heroically. Their latest mission would have been a complete success, except for the last act of defiance of a dying Loyalist guard, who'd lobbed a grenade into the abandoned subway tunnel they'd been fleeing down.

Olivia supposed there was a lesson in that, check your kills or something equally bellicose, but right now she was mainly worried about her husband.

They had picked themselves up and brushed themselves off, but Olivia and Etta hadn't even realized Peter had been injured until they'd emerged from the pitch black tunnels, half an hour later. This fact started a bit of a family fight, as they half dragged him between them, through the moonlit streets to the safe house where they were living, scolding him on the topic of his manly pride from either side. Now, Etta held his hand as her grandfather worked on his back with scalpel and forceps, and Astrid and Olivia took turns fetching things for Walter and pacing nervously.

"I'm not sure my girls could have dragged me here if I passed out," Peter said through gritted teeth.

Olivia and Etta gave identical huffs of exasperation, and Etta thumped him on the shoulder angrily, causing a pained groan. Her hand flew to her face, and her eyes widened in shock.

"Sorry, Dad!" Etta said, chagrined.

Walter dropped a sliver of metal into the bowl held out by Olivia.

"Not then! When I started excising bits of metal from your back! You've caused us a lot of unnecessary stress, with all your moaning and groaning, son."

That bit of weak humor caused Peter to grin. He squeezed Etta's hand in his, and winked, trying to reassure his daughter. Then, another twinge caused him to shudder. "Sorry, everybody... Ow!"

"That's the last piece." Walter declared, "Now for needle and thread."

Astrid handed the requested items to him, as Olivia took the bowl that contained the bits of twisted metal that had been removed from Peter's back and threw the contents in the trash. Then she returned and stood nearby, shuffling from foot to foot, alternating glances between her husband and daughter.

Twenty minutes later, Peter was sewn up and resting, and the others moved into the kitchen to talk without disturbing him.

"He should be alright, thank God," Walter said as he washed his hands in the sink, "None of the shrapnel hit anything important. As long as we keep the wounds free from infection, he'll recover quickly."

Walter produced something from an old pill bottle and handed it to Olivia, who nodded, and started to move toward the living room. A hand on her elbow stopped her.

"Are you okay, Mom?" Etta asked, worry evident in the eyes that looked so much like Peter's.

Olivia and her daughter had trouble communicating on any level other than the simple exchange of information. She found it difficult to connect the three year old she had lost to the young woman standing before her now.

She also felt somewhat jealous of Peter's easy relationship with Etta, and yet ashamed of her jealousy. Only out of the amber a day longer than Olivia, and the two of them were thick as thieves.

"Yeah, I'm...fine. I'm gonna check on him," she managed to stutter. "Oh...thank you Walter."

Olivia disappeared from the kitchen.

Etta shook her head. "Those two."

Astrid smiled. "Don't worry about them. They've been like this for years. They always work things out."

"They should just have intercourse," Walter said, "...the release of oxytocin would do wonders for both of them."

Walter began running water to wash his surgical instruments with, oblivious to the pained silence that filled the kitchen.

Peter was still lying face down on the table when Olivia entered the room.

"You piss me off sometimes, Bishop," Olivia said.

Belying her own words, she bent down and tenderly kissed the crown of his head, then sat down in the chair vacated by Etta, and offered him a half filled tumbler of the distilled spirits they simply called Hooch.

Walter and Peter had built a portable still that they set up in whatever safe house the Bishop family occupied. It was mostly used to barter for goods, but the terrible tasting liquor also served as a disinfectant, industrial cleaner, and intoxicant.

"Ah, but you still love me," Peter said, with as much cockiness as he could muster under the circumstances.

"Yes," Olivia said, "You love me, too."

They clinked glasses, downed the brown liquid, and gasped with revulsion in unison. Then Olivia collected the glasses, put them on the table, and sat back down.

"You just gave me something to put me to sleep, didn't you?" Peter rasped.

Olivia smiled. "Yeah. Walter gave it to me. I don't know what it is, but I feel safe saying you'll be asleep 'til well into tomorrow."

She took his hand in hers and fondly ran her fingers through Peter's hair as he slowly nodded off under her soothing touch. Then she stood up and tossed a blanket over her husband and went to bed herself.

Olivia's dreams that night were as disjointed and anachronic as they had been since being removed from the amber. But this time, instead of her daughter, she dreamed of Peter.

More specifically, she dreamed of Peter's hands – how he could make small objects dance on the back of his knuckles, or build electronic circuits with the skill and precision of an expert surgeon. How he could calm her just by putting his hand on her cheek. How his caresses could set her body ablaze as they made love – something they hadn't done in over twenty years, she realized, and would have to rectify when his wounds healed. He would go on patiently, waiting for her to close the rift between them. Her mind's eye kept returning to the image of Peter's hands on the keys of a piano, the one she had bought him for their second wedding anniversary.

She awoke with a start, suddenly realizing what her subconscious was trying to tell her.

When Olivia rose the next morning, Peter was still asleep on the dining room table. She found the rest of the family eating breakfast in the kitchen, and accepted a cup of coffee chew dissolved in boiling water.

"Etta, could you help me with something?" she asked her daughter, getting a nod in return.

Later that day, Etta led her mother through a mostly depopulated and destroyed neighborhood. They were dressed almost identically, in dark hoodies and blue jeans, and both were armed, for scavengers – human and animal – roamed the ruins also. Their oddly skeletal looking pistols were held in holsters under their sweatshirts.

The neighborhood used to be called Brookline, two decades before. At least Etta claimed they were in Brookline.

"Etta, I've told you I have a photographic memory...I can remember every little detail about the street the house was on, but this doesn't look anything like the pictures in my head."

Her daughter stuck her hands in the pockets of her grey hoodie and made a show of looking around at the devastated structures that surrounded them on all sides.

"Yeah. The old neighborhood has gone to hell since we moved out. This is it, though."

Olivia peered at the piles of wreckage that had once been her neighbors' houses. There was very little here that looked familiar.

"Oh, I believe you. I just don't know how you found the house. And... what happened? This is more than just time."

Etta nodded, and consulted the map projected into thin air by her phone before replying.

"There were a few pitched battles between the Loyalists and Natives over the years. One of them happened here. I was already living in Chicago, so I don't have any first hand information. As for how I found it..."

Etta looked back over her shoulder; and smirked. She might closely resemble Olivia physically, except for Peter's eyes, but she'd gotten a full dose of his cockiness and sarcasm. And Olivia had found, to her silent horror, that she'd also inherited just a hint of Walter's craziness.

Her daughter simply had no fear.

"Sheer determination, mom. I was actively looking for you and dad since my early teens. Naturally, I found the house as soon as I moved back to Boston."

Olivia glared at a trio of scavengers who were showing them a little too much interest, sizing them up. Under her fearsome green-eyed gaze, the scruffy men averted their gaze and slunk back into the shadows.

Etta grinned at her, then cocked her head toward a nearby structure. Olivia looked past Etta, to the house she was leading her towards, and gasped.

It was unmistakably the house that Peter and Olivia had bought together, when they'd decided that this was it, they were together, and they were going to raise a family. But it was in terrible condition; it looked as if the second story had slid off the first, into the back yard. What remained of the first floor yawed drunkenly to one side.

Etta continued walking, ignoring Olivia's surprise at the condition of the former family home.

It took ten minutes of trying to force the front door open for them to look for another way in. They found a side window, the panes of glass long since broken, and simply crawled through, finding themselves in what remained of the first floor bathroom.

Olivia stood and brushed herself off, then looked around with a curious expression on her face, then glanced at Etta.

"What?" Etta asked.

"Memories..." Olivia said, "You tried to wash the cat in the toilet once. I came home from work, the bathroom was a hellish mess, Peter was all scratched up, and you were singing to yourself in the living room like nothing happened. The cat avoided you after that."

"Oh my," Etta said, "Was I...difficult?"

"You were precocious. A few months ahead in your development, in everything. We were very proud of you, but you could be a handful."

"I guess some things never change," Etta said.

"What makes you say that?" Olivia asked.

"Well, I went through three sets of foster parents growing up. I guess I'd just get to be too much to handle, and they'd shuffle me off to another family. The first couple that had me – I still feel sorry for them."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Etta," Olivia's voice was tense, "I spent time in foster care myself...I don't know how to..."

Etta shrugged.

"You don't have anything to apologize for. I mean...there was nothing you could have done, really."

Olivia nodded, still unhappy.

"Let's see..." Olivia said, "the piano was in the living room, across from the fireplace..."

She walked down the central corridor of the house, sweeping cobwebs out of her face as she went, followed closely by Etta.

"I remember, you know? Dad playing the piano. I even remember him trying to teach me. He'd put me in his lap and move my fingers on the keys."

Olivia smiled at the memory. "You were a little young, and fidgety. And..."

Olivia hesitated, still too unsure of her relationship with her daughter.

"...I didn't have much interest, or ability with music." Etta finished for her, "Dad tried to explain music in terms of math to me a few days ago. I just nodded like I understood, so he wouldn't feel bad...and it occurs to me, how are we going to move..."

They entered the living room, and both stared silently at the blank space where the musical instrument they were discussing should have been, save for the effects of time and entropy. Instead there was a large, rectangular blank space, sharply delineated in the dust the covered the floor. There were also several sets of footprints left behind in the dust.

"What the fuck?" exploded Etta, "It was here! Two years ago! I saw it! Who the hell steals a piano? The wires and pipes are worth more, these days!"

Olivia glared at her daughter, shocked at her language, then saw something lying in the dirt, and bent over to pick it up. It was a small piece of cheap cardboard with garish printing – a business card.

Markham's Used Goods!

Only the best – we leave the rest!

Olivia sighed in exasperation, and handed the card to Etta. "Markham...he knew our house was unoccupied, and came to take Peter's piano."

"What? That's the guy that used you as his coffee table..." Etta exclaimed as she examined the card.

"Yeah...he was...I guess you could say he was a friend of Peter's. He was a good source for obscure information. Helped us a little on a few Fringe cases back in the day."

"That little pervert was Dad's friend?" Etta marveled. "Do you think he has my grandma in amber, too?"

"Sadly, no." She fished her phone out of her pocket, made a call. "Hello, Astrid? Etta and I have to make a trip to New York. Yes, we'll be careful."

It was a perfect autumn day, warm not hot, with a clear blue sky and just a slight breeze.

Peter lazed with his head pillowed on the small of Olivia's back as she read, watching Henrietta and fighting the urge to simply take a nap. He almost sprinted for his daughter when she picked up some sort of worm, fearing she would put it in her mouth, but she put it back down after playing with it for a minute. Maybe she learned her lesson last time.

"We really should have brought Walter," Peter said, "...he would have loved this."

He felt the vibrations of Olivia's chuckles in his shoulders, imagined her smile.

"We really should collect Etta and get her home. Time for her bath." Olivia said.

"Yup."

Collecting Etta was Peter's job. He sat up and yelled, "Etta! Come here, honey!"

Three year old Etta looked up, stood and began running toward his opened arms. As she ran she grew taller and filled out, morphing in seconds into seven year old Etta in jeans and blouse, then to eleven year old Etta in a soccer uniform.

Behind her, the Federal Building disintegrated in a flash of light, as tall men in suits flashed into existence at the far end of the park. Peter was on his feet and screaming, running toward his daughter now.

Rebellious fifteen year old Etta in a black leather motorcycle jacket and purple hair lengthened her stride as the blast wave gained on her. "Dad!"

Behind him he heard Olivia screaming, and running too, no doubt, but his longer stride and head start meant he would reach their daughter first.

"Etta!" Peter sprinted for her, covering half the remaining distance between them as Etta morphed into the young woman he'd met only recently. They collided, their mutual embrace the only thing keeping them standing.

"I love you, Dad," Etta said into his ear.

The blast tore them to pieces and scattered them like dandelion seeds in the wind.

Peter jerked awake when the effects of whatever tranquilizer Walter had given him wore off. The sudden motion, after hours of stillness, caused an inferno of pain in his back, making him groan loudly.

Going strictly by calendar years, he would be fifty nine years old today, but this morning he felt even older.

His dreams had been mixed-up flashes of events in his life, out of any sort of chronological order. Of course, a good chunk of his life had been lived out of chronological order. If you believed mainstream theories about the purpose of dreaming, his brain was attempting to sort out and make sense of the events.

Peter didn't envy his brain. In addition to twenty years of dreaming about losing Etta in the park, he had an entirely separate branch of memories that had never happened, in any objective sense. His memory was bifurcated, at the point where he had stepped into the dreaded Wave Sync Device.

Hearing someone enter the room, he looked up and nodded at Astrid.

"Good morning, Peter." Astrid said, "We saved you a bacon slurpee and some coffee chews."

Peter groaned again, though not from physical pain this time. Astrid helped him into a sitting position and helped him put on a plaid shirt she'd brought from the other room. Peter followed her into the kitchen, walking stiffly. The stitches in his back pulled and pinched with every move.

"Where is everybody?" he asked.

"Walter is out back, communing with nature. Olivia and Etta left on some errand, said they'd be back tonight. Oh, happy birthday! I would bake you a cake, but all I have is egg sticks."

Peter groaned.

Olivia had to give the Observers this: the automated high speed monorail system worked well. You couldn't beat a half hour trip to New York from Boston. Too bad it was hardly ever used.

"It's a little weird you know," Etta said, giving her a sidelong glance.

The two of them sat next to each other on a monorail bound for New York. Typically, they had the compartment to themselves, but had chosen to sit next to one another, and even more typically, they were finding it awkward to be around each other.

The first half of the trip was spent in silence.

"What is, honey?" Olivia asked.

"You and Dad, being so close to me in age."

Olivia snickered. She thought it was weird?

"You should try waking up to a daughter who was just three years old, and is now suddenly a young woman," she replied. "Although Peter, being a Bishop, mind you, would say we are no closer to you in age than before, if we go by birthdate."

Etta chuckled. "You aren't fifty eight years old, Mom."

"I agree. Some days... I have to remind myself that you're not my little girl. I have to stop myself from getting you a sippy-cup of juice from the fridge, or putting you down for your afternoon nap."

Etta laughed.

"And Peter does it too. I see him get up at 5 a.m. to check if you're still breathing. He used to do that, and I guess it hasn't occurred to him not to do it anymore."

Etta sobered. "The first time he did that, I almost shot him...I woke up and there's this big guy standing over my bed. He said he'd stop, but he still does it. I don't mind."

"Let's agree to make allowances. You don't get angry when Peter or I unthinkingly treat you...like well, our baby. And I won't wash your mouth out with soap when you cuss."

Etta gave a smile that reminded her of Peter so much it caused her heart to flutter. Maybe she could use their mutual love for him as a way to bridge the gap between them? It was worth a try.

The monorail pulled into the station. Fifteen minutes later, they were on the streets of New York. After a brief discussion, they decided to try Markham's apartment, as it was already late in the day.

Peter walked down the street toward the big Colonial he lived in with his wife, Olivia and his niece, Ella. He was bundled in a heavy jacket – although the winter's snow and ice was thawing it was still a very cold, early spring day in New York.

He took these walks daily – an opportunity to reflect on his life, and the world that was falling apart at the seams as a result of his actions inside the Machine. No one truly blamed him – how could he have known that turning the vortices created by the Machine on the other side back on themselves would have a delayed effect on their universe.

Far out in the fields of memory, he reached the mailbox in front of the house. He opened the mailbox, took out the mail and tucked it into his armpit. As he closed the mailbox and turned toward the house – something, or rather the absence of something caught his eye.

The address plate on the mailbox was blank. Confused, he walked around to the other side of the mailbox, but that was as blank as the other one. He had forgotten the address of his house.

Such gaps in his memory of that averted timeline were becoming more common. At first he'd thought it only the natural effects of time. But the gaps were multiplying exponentially. In a few months, he figured he would forget that period of his life, and anything he learned from it – possibly putting the world in jeopardy again. History doomed to repeat and all that.

As he walked up the flagstone pathway toward the front door, he heard a greeting.

"Hi, Uncle Peter!" Ella said. She was sitting on the front steps, as she was wont to do when she was in a foul mood.

When Peter looked up, he did a double take. Where Ella's face should be there was simply nothing. A blank space. Then his panicked brain tried to fill it in by superimposing Ella's visage as an eight year old, and the effect was so disturbing that it jarred him out of his reverie.

He sighed and finished his last egg stick, downed the dregs of the bacon slurpee Astrid had prepared for him, and went looking for his father, who might have some advice about memory issues.

Peter found Walter in the garden, such as it was, sitting in the autumn sunshine on the rickety old bench. Beside him on the ground was a thermos and a stack of plastic cups.

"Peter!" he exclaimed, "Happy birthday! You're just in time to join me for a bit of tea. How are you feeling?"

Peter walked over to the bench, slowly and stiffly, and sat down. "Everything hurts."

"Well, that might be a signal that you shouldn't be up and about."

Walter held his hand to Peter's forehead for a moment. "You don't seem to have a fever...that's a good sign. I'll have a look at your back when we go back inside."

Walter poured them each a cup of tea and they sat sipping in companionable silence until they finished.

Finally, Peter sighed. "I'm starting to forget things, Walter."

Walter immediately began running his hands around his head. "Any blurring of vision? Hearing loss? What's your daughter's name?"

Peter chuckled; he really should have anticipated that reaction.

"No Walter. I don't have any shrapnel in my head."

"You might not know it. The brain itself doesn't have pain receptors..."

Walter continued running his hands through Peter's hair.

"No...Stop it!" Peter gently slapped Walter's hands away from his head, "I'm forgetting things from the other timeline. Stuff I'd like to remember."

Walter looked at him, curious. "What...stuff?"

"That's just it. I can go for days or weeks without thinking about it. Then when I try to take a walk down memory lane, it's just gone. But I can feel the gap in my memory."

Peter shifted his attention to the cup of tea in his hands, unwilling to look into Walter's eyes while discussing this.

"Last week, I tried to remember Ella's fifteenth birthday. Olivia and I were raising her by that time, and we threw her a big party, just...the works. I thought back...and I couldn't remember Ella's face. We raised her, from when she was eleven and her parents died...and I can't remember what she looked like."

Walter stared at him, moved at the admission. "I'm so sorry, son."

Peter sighed.

"I shouldn't let it bother me. That timeline was averted, I'm the only one who remembers it. But I feel obligated. Someone should remember. And I'm the only one that possibly could."

They sat in silence for a time. Peter knew that Walter was analyzing the problem he'd just given him, looking at it from angles no one else he'd ever known could have. The silent minutes stretched on.

Finally, Walter shook his head unhappily.

"Memories can sometimes be recovered by using association. A technique you're quite good at using with me, I've noticed. But in your case, there's nothing in existence to help jog your memory. Neither I nor Olivia share any of those memories with you. But give me some time to consider the problem. There may be a way to work around it."

Peter nodded.

"I'm sure twenty years in amber didn't help. Thanks, I know you'll do your best, Walter."

"This is it." Etta said, indicating a door. "I'm guessing he won't be happy to see us again, especially so soon. Seeing as we stole his coffee table and all."

Olivia gave her a mock glare before rapping on the door.

"Markham?" she yelled. "It's Olivia. Open the door, please."

"Olivia!" came the immediate reply. "My Queen! You've come back to me!"

"Oh, God," Etta muttered. "I feel the need to shoot him already."

Through the door, they heard a commotion, the thumping of feet on a wooden floor, and then, a clatter and a loud crash they felt through the floorboards under their feet.

"I'm okay!" Markham yelled, unbidden.

A minute later, the door was opened, and they faced the diminutive and disheveled man himself.

"Olivia..." Markham cooed, holding his arms wide, as if he expected a hug.

There was a moment of awkward silence that lasted until the dwarf noticed Etta, and realized no embrace would be forthcoming. He withdrew his arms, and his manner became churlish as he turned back to his apartment.

"What do you want this time?" he snarled, "My futon? My best china?"

"Peter's piano," Olivia interrupted, "...the one I bought him two...er, twenty two years ago."

"We know you have it. We found your card at the house," Etta said, her eyes roaming the apartment.

"Oh that...yeah I have it. I was going to teach myself how to play."

Markham looked a little remorseful, more than when he'd had Olivia in amber. He walked over to one corner and began removing items from a pile of knick-knacks. Olivia and Etta moved to help him, and after a few minutes, they had uncovered the piano in question, in surprisingly good condition.

"Yeah, I re-stained it and fixed the leg. Then I just...started piling stuff on top."

"We'll buy it off you. We have money..." Olivia paused to look at the contents of a paper bag Etta crammed into her hands, "And pistachios?"

Markham was silent for a moment.

"I'll tell you what I want. I don't want your money, or your pistachios. I want a kiss!"

"You little..." Etta started to object, but was restrained by Olivia's hand on her arm.

"I've got this," Olivia said.

Markham drew himself to his full height, closed his eyes and puckered his lips. Olivia stepped forward, bent over, and kissed the crown of his head.

Markham smirked, and sighed.

"Walked into that, didn't I? Good enough. I'll call my truck guy. Where do you want it delivered?"

Olivia and Etta made it back to the house five minutes before curfew started, and walked right into a hug from Peter made awkward by the need to avoid tearing the stitches in his back.

"Where have you two been? I was worried!" Peter said, as he stepped back and winced.

"All around!" Etta said. "Have you guys packed? I have the next house picked out."

Mother and daughter shared a knowing smirk.

It was some sort of by-law or regulation in the Resistance; you could only stay three nights in any given safe house. Tonight was their third night.

"Yes, not that Walter or Astrid let me do anything," Peter grumbled.

"You're injured," Olivia said, running her hand down his forearm until she clasped his hand. "Shouldn't you be resting, or something? We have another long day tomorrow."

"Yes, mother. I'm glad you're both home and safe. Good night, everybody." Peter walked sullenly toward the bedroom in the back.

Olivia turned to Etta and smiled. "Thanks honey, for everything."

Etta grinned, "It'll be worth it to see Dad's face tomorrow."

Olivia took her time washing up and changing before retiring for the night. Since she'd been extracted from her amber prison, she and Peter had shared a room but not a bed.

She crept from the bathroom down the hall. As quietly as she could, she opened the door to their room, let herself inside, and shut the door. Then she tripped over Peter, who was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.

"Ow! Dammit!" he exclaimed, followed by a brief string of profanity as Olivia flailed her arms and frantically shifted her weight in the darkness to avoid falling on him. When she finally managed to stabilize herself, she turned to him, and winced in sympathy when she got a glimpse in the moonlight, of the jigsaw pattern of stitches on his back.

"Peter, why are you sleeping on the floor?" she asked.

"My turn."

They did in fact alternate nights in the cot or on the floor, but she thought the rule deserved amending.

"You're injured. You don't have to sleep on the floor."

Stubborn silence was her only reply.

Olivia carefully moved around him, to the cot and sat down, wincing at the loud creak it made.

"We can share the cot," she offered, knowing his stubborn pride wouldn't let him simply trade positions out of the agreed upon order.

"Are you sure?" he asked, an odd tone in his voice.

Exasperation won the day. "Dammit Peter, sleep with me!"

Peter chuckled, then groaned as he stood up, moving slowly. "You said the magic words."

Normally, they slept in a spooning position with Olivia's back pressed into Peter's chest. But with Peter's stitches and consequent limited mobility, they just ended up in a tangled mass of limbs, tucked against each other. He fell asleep almost immediately, his face nestled in the space between her shoulder and neck. Olivia stayed awake for a while longer, lulling herself to sleep by running her fingers through Peter's hair and listening to his breathing.

That night, embracing Peter as she slept, Olivia had no dreams that she could recall, and took it as a good sign for their gradual reconciliation.

The next morning, the family rose before sunrise and ate a quick breakfast before piling into Etta's SUV, already packed with their meager belongings. After that, it was a short trip across the river to a mid-size Colonial that had seen better days. Peter would have been tempted to fix it up if he hadn't known they'd be gone in three days.

"How many of these do you know of, Etta?" he asked.

"They give us a randomized list that we're supposed to memorize and destroy, and we're not supposed to share the list with anyone else. I know enough to last a few weeks before we have to start over again."

Peter nodded, but looked glum as he watched the others get out of the vehicle and start to gather items to take into the house. Injured, he was certain none of them would let him help with lifting anything, but at least he could inspect the premises, and plan accommodations.

Olivia and Etta shared a conspiratorial look behind his back as he entered the house.

Peter wandered the bare rooms of the house, making mental notes on where to put their simple possessions. When he entered the living room he stopped short, and raised an eyebrow in surprise.

The living room had a Steinway piano in the center, looking very out of place in the otherwise very empty and not well maintained room. It looked very much like the one Olivia had bought for him, years ago.

"It's yours, Peter." Olivia said from behind him.

"What?" Peter asked, and turned to see all of them – Olivia, Etta, Astrid and Walter – gathered in the hallway, beaming at him.

"That's the piano I bought you, for our anniversary. Markham had it at his apartment. That's what Etta and I were doing yesterday."

"Happy Birthday!" Etta said.

They were treated to the sight of a certified genius struck dumb, his mouth wide open in shock. When Peter finally recovered his faculties, he stepped forward to inspect the instrument, running his hands lovingly over the wood, inspecting the strings.

"This is it," he marveled, "...it's a little worn, a little water damage on the exterior, but it's the very one."

"Play something!" Astrid crowed.

Peter nodded, cracked his knuckles and stepped up to the piano. He carefully sat down at the bench, and began to caress the keys. The first notes he played – the openings of several old jazz standards - were a little hesitant and out of rhythm, but he doubted anyone other than Walter noticed. Knowing his girls were generally so musically disinclined actually made the gift sweeter.

Finally, he launched into "In a Sentimental Mood", and his fingers knew the tune well enough that his mind could wander, traveling back over the times he'd played the tune. To his surprise, he found that the last time he had played it – although the concept was problematic, at best – had been in the orphaned timeline, at Ella's fifteenth birthday. She'd sat next to on a bench, at a different piano in a different time, and they'd blended the parts of the song together.

Suddenly her face became clear in his mind's eye. He faltered slightly in surprise – which Walter certainly noticed – but he continued, feeling something wet on his cheeks.

Peter finally stopped playing, forced to wipe the tears from his face.

"Dad?" Etta asked "...what's wrong?"

"Peter?" Olivia said, sounding even more concerned than their daughter.

Peter shook his head, and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice his happy, joyous even, but the tears refused to stop flowing.

"Nothing," he said, "It's just...I remember Ella's face!"

The others didn't understand, as they hadn't been present for their conversation in the garden, but Walter's smile was golden, and he stepped forward to embrace his son, and was joined by the rest of them a moment later.

Olivia woke to the soft notes of a piano playing in the dead of night. It took her a few moments to register that Peter wasn't in the room, and that he must be the one playing. She rose and sat on the edge of the cot, rubbed at her eyes and listened.

Peter would softly play a few bars from one song, then pause and start another one. She didn't recognize the tunes, but could tell that much. He seemed to be running through his musical repertoire, seeing what he remembered. After listening for a few minutes she quietly made her way to the living room.

Olivia walked up behind Peter and bent down to nuzzle the nape of his neck as she ran her fingers up under his shirt, caressing his chest, making him shiver under her touch. Then she sat down on the bench beside him, facing the other way so she could gaze at his face as they talked.

"Liv," he greeted her, slipping an arm around her waist, "Are we good enough to have the talk, now?"

She watched his eyes, and nodded. "It felt like you abandoned me, when you wouldn't come to New York. It wasn't that you wanted to keep looking for Etta - I understood that - it's that you wouldn't put it aside, even for a little while, not even for me."

Peter took it in, sighed deeply and nodded.

"I felt like the worst father in the world. You know my issues. So I had to find her, had to. And in the midst of that, you had to go off and save the world - which I would normally be behind one hundred percent. But Etta was my world."

"I'm sorry," they said in unison.

They gazed into each other's eyes for a long moment, then Peter leaned towards her and Olivia kissed him on the mouth. The first kiss was absolute tenderness, their lips barely touching, the ones that followed gradually moved up the scale towards lust. Their hands gradually began to wander, his on her thigh, hers caressing his chest.

Finally, Olivia had to come up for air. She broke the kiss and leaned her forehead against his to look into his eyes, and let him see the desire in hers.

"Peter," she breathed, "...are you up for some makeup sex?"

"Are you kidding? I've been celibate for twenty years!"

Generally speaking, Olivia Dunham liked to be in control of her life, and that included sex. She liked to be on top of things, especially her partner. But Peter's injuries prevented that sort of activity.

Olivia had been lying on her back on the mattress on the floor of their room for what seemed like an eternity of alternating bliss and frustration. Peter held her wrists gently pinned to the mattress as he used his lips and tongue on her.

Time and again he would bring her to the edge, then retreat by moving his attention to less erotically sensitive areas, nibbling at the inside of her thighs, or licking the soft skin of her belly. It was almost unbearable and she wouldn't have missed it for he world.

"Peterrrr..." She growled, letting her voice carry her frustration and lust. She felt him chuckle, and arched her back as he brought her to the brink again. She gave a moan that almost became a sob, expecting him to back off again, but this time his tongue found that spot, and the wave of pleasure he released consumed her.

As the waves subsided, Peter kissed his way up her body until they were face to face. Olivia spread herself wide and accepted him inside her with a faint gasp. Soon they found a slow and satisfying rhythm, looking into each others eyes, whispering endearments.

Peter's hands roamed her body, and damn, what his hands could do. Only occasionally would they find their way to her breasts, or more sensitive areas, otherwise they spread fire to the rest of her body.

Olivia moved her hands on a circuit, from the nape of Peter's neck, down his bare sides to his naked ass, then back up. He flinched as her fingers brushed across a stitched gash.

"Sorry!" Olivia whispered.

She saw him shake his head and grin down at her.

"Pain and pleasure, Liv. It's how you know you're alive."

All the thanks to my beta, DixieGirl, who substantially improved this story.