Emily Dickinson said that hope was the thing with feathers. She was wrong, of course.

Hope is the thing with a smile that stretches just a little too wide, and hair that's been dyed back just a little too blonde. It's the thing that whispers things to you and kisses you, lies to you and uses you, until one morning you wake up – no, no, get woken up by a woman calling from the fucking Statue of Liberty – and find out that all of this hope was just a cold wet clump of despair in disguise.

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Peter isn't mad at Olivia, of course. He's mad at himself, and at the other Olivia, and at the world, for letting him think just once that he could have something nice, have something happy, have something beautiful, without it being wrecked. Olivia's right, of course. He should have known better.

The worst part is the fact that he touched her, touched that other Olivia; let her touch him. He feels so violated, so tainted, so fucking dirty and he doubts that no matter how hard he scrubs, no matter how much skin he scrapes away in the process, he'll never be clean again.

The worst part is the fact that now he'll never have Olivia; never ever, and how can he blame her? He has only himself to hate for this, only himself to resent for the fact that he will never truly know what it's like to lie next to her and watch his fingertips ghost across her skin, drawing goosebumps and gasps from her flesh and from her mouth.

The worst part is the fact that he could have had that happy, beautiful thing. Because he saw her when she first came back, saw that she melted a little, softened, warmed, whenever she saw him. Sees it even now, as much as it seems to revolt her; she loves him but she's afraid that it isn't her that he loves in return. And if it weren't for this self-inflicted taintedness, this dirtiness, they would be fine.

The worst part is the fact that Olivia is hurting so much, and he can't help her.

Rip Van Winkle, she says, and so he wonders if he should point out that Rip Van Winkle never had a second chance at the life of his that went on without him.

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(He wants to take bleach to his skin; maybe industrial cleaner.)

And it hurts, and he hurts, and it's everywhere; and he just wants everything better, wants her to smile at him again without that flicker of pain and hesitation.

Is it wrong, selfish, for him to hurt, too?

Because it hurts, and he hurts, and it's everywhere; and there's some tiny part of him that's glad for the ache, because it means that it's real and she's real and the world is if not right, at least getting there.

xx

Hope is the thing in his chest that flutters and forgets the ache whenever there's those few seconds she can smile at him and not flinch.

A/N: This amounts to word vomit, sort of? I've been feeling really sorry for Peter lately, as well as Olivia. It just sucks.

Also, tonight's episode nearly killed me dead.