Disclaimer: I'm a mostly broke student who enjoy writing fanfics. I don't own any of them.

Spoilers: Up to 4x22 'Brave New World Part II'

Rating: T, for smuttiness

A/N: Everyone is writing fluff, so of course I'm writing angst. I'm hopeless. I should have known a little tiny drabble on the matter of Olivia's death and Peter's reaction to it wouldn't be enough. So here comes the massive version of it xD It's a two parters story, because I'm me and I write big oneshots.

Please, ignore the typos and such. Also, don't trust the fluffy beginning, you know they never last long with me.

THE BULLET

"It was something... the way a person's life picked up speed, the way a life was like a bullet aimed at one final target, impossible to slow or turn aside, and like the bullet, you were ignorant of what you were going to hit, would never know anything except the rush and the impact." - Joe Hill

Part One

For a few hours, Peter actually forgets all about the bullet.

In the aftermath of Olivia's unexpected announcement, he is so overwhelmed with genuine joy and relief that he simply stops thinking about what has happened on the ship, earlier today. They have been through quite a lot in a short amount of time, and it seems like his brain has decided to black out anything that is not taking place in the present time. His eyes remain fixed on the woman carrying his child, and he feels dazed by what he swears is a soft halo already surrounding her, completely unable to restrain himself from grinning every time their eyes meet and her lips curl up.

Before he was told about her pregnancy, he had been so eager to take her out of this place the moment her doctor let her be, wanting nothing more than to bring her home and keep her there for probably a few weeks. As it turns out, however, they end up spending another couple of hours in the hospital, celebrating in Astrid's room with actual lemon jello.

His delirious elation even manages to double up when Broyles and Nina join them, to announce that the entire Fringe Division has been promoted -which will make buying that house in Brookline that much more feasible. Before they can start to wonder if they should wait a few days before telling the newcomers about Olivia's pregnancy, Walter decides to share the information by booming 'I'm going to be a grandpa!' the moment Broyles stops talking.

The old man doesn't seem able to stop grinning from ear to ear, beaming at everybody, and Peter doesn't think he has ever seen Nina Sharp that close to tears before. As he watches her give Olivia a warm, loving hug, he silently hopes that this will offer the two women a chance to bond again. They are forced to put an end to the celebrations when a nurse eventually kicks them all out, claiming that the patient –Astrid, needs rest now. Nina offers to take Walter back to the lab, and that is how Peter and Olivia finally find themselves on their way home.

They are not back at her place for more than an hour when Olivia, barely out of the shower, experiences her first bout of nausea, as if to prove some kind of cliché. Good soldier, she jokes about it and says it has to prove the whole 'morning sickness' thing is really psychological, because she's been feeling mostly fine these past few weeks.

She still ends up curled up in their bed, trying to fight off the discomfort in the quietness of their room. After pressing a kiss to her head, Peter leaves the building again, having promised her he'll be back soon with some crackers and ginger ale. He is still so wonderfully oblivious to everything else but his delight at the thought of having a baby with her in a few months that he almost hops down the street to the small supermarket.

Even the cashier gives him a knowing look when she sees his selection –he has added a few withering flowers to his box of crackers and bottles of Canada Dry.

"Morning sickness?" she asks, peering at him over the edge of her glasses.

Peter offers her an impressed nod and smiles a little too brightly. "Is it still what you call it at this hour of the night?"

She starts scanning the items. "Whoever gave that name to this kind of nausea was obviously never pregnant. I'd bet my next pay check it was a man."

Peter chuckles goodheartedly, before asking: "How can you tell?"

The woman smiles kindly, his giddiness obviously contagious, as she puts everything in a bag. "Got four kids of my own, and twice that number of grandchildren. Also, there aren't that many reasons why a man would buy these things together with a grin on his face. She can't be very far along if you're still smiling about it while she's miserable."

"Six weeks," he announces, even though she hasn't exactly asked, still grinning indeed. "We just found out today."

"Well, congratulation, young man," she grabs a chocolate bar from the candy shelf on display and adds it to the bag. "This one's on the house, for your lady; trust me, she'll be craving it soon enough. Also, tell her to try peanuts if the crackers do no good."

"Will do," he grins, pushing his good hand into the pocket of his coat to retrieve some money. But instead of finding the firm leather of his wallet, the tip of his fingers brush over something small and cold.

His whole body instantly freezes and tenses when he realizes what it is; he feels the smile falter from his lips as all the blood drains from his face, his heart suddenly pumping furiously beneath his ribs. By the time his fingers have curled up around the object and he has brought his hand out again, his pounding pulse has become deafening against his ears.

He opens his fist, and stares at the bullet sitting in the middle of his palm.

He can barely even remember putting it in his pocket in the first place. But his shaky hand had scrambled for it and put it in there, at some point during the hazy moments that had followed Olivia's return to life. She had been stirring on the table, groaning softly in pain, when a mere minute ago, all that had been left of her was a corpse with a trail of blood slowly tracing its way down her forehead.

The bullet is still mostly covered with her blood. It has dried up and turned brown, brown and flaky; he notices how some of the same brownish powder now covers the tip of his fingers.

"Is it…"

The cashier's voice pulls him out of his morbid contemplation. Like him, the smile has gone from her face, replaced by a wary look, indubitably wondering why exactly he's holding out a bloody bullet for her to see, and rightly so.

For a fleeting instant, he pictures himself grinning again and telling her in the same cheery, conversational tone they had been using seconds ago:

"Oh, don't worry, it's nothing. My father shot my pregnant girlfriend in the head earlier today, but she was only dead for a few minutes; she started breathing again as soon as he extracted that bullet from her brain by hammering a metal rod into her skull."

This thought is enough to cause the scene to flash vividly in his mind, more clearly than he had experienced it on the ship, as everything had been blurred out by shock at the time.

He hears the gunshot, sees Olivia's body fall to the ground, her forehead marked with a crimson death seal, the air suddenly reeking of gun powder and burnt flesh. And he sees Walter as he carves another hole in the back of her head, and pushes that rod into the bullet hole, pushing so deep, knowing that if the bullet doesn't come out soon, there is no hope for her.

He finds himself back outside a few seconds later, nothing short of stumbling out of the store, leaving everything behind. Soon, he's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, bent over in half. His only usable hand has closed into a fist around the bullet, a fist now pressed into his thigh as he fights for air. He tries to reason with himself in the hope that it will calm his racing heart and his own violent wave of nausea, but he's having very little success.

His skin already feels clammy under his layers of clothes, and he knows he's shaking, as if he was suddenly experiencing a potent fever. He knows the disease that has crawled into his bloodstream is of a kind that will be hard to fight off, the image of a lifeless Olivia burnt into his heart. Even now, he remembers how long it had taken him a few years back, to get over the sight of Olivia lying motionless and open-eyed in the middle of the street.

And he is powerless against the dreadful scenarios that are now rushing through his mind, filling his head with what ifs. What if the Cortexiphan hadn't worked? What if it had taken too long for Walter to get the bullet out? What if it hadn't come out at all?

But the bullet had come out, he forces himself to think, rationally, fighting to control his breathing.

He feels it, entrapped in his hand, the metal now warm, his grip causing it to dig into his flesh, and he wonders if what is left of her blood is going to seep through his skin, and mark him like a tattoo.

He craves for the sight of her, then, also now wondering with desperate horror if he'll find her lying dead upon their bed.

He isn't exactly sure how he makes it back home, his sickening terror shrinking his perception of the world, every step bringing him closer to her, and yet making him dread what he will find.

When he reaches the bedroom, he stops in the doorway, staring at her through the shadows; until his eyes adjust, she is nothing but a dark form under the covers. Slowly, she gains consistency, and soon, he discerns her limbs under the sheets, the mess of her hair on his pillow, half of her face buried in it. Her forehead is clearly visible.

There's no dark hole in the middle of it.

As if finally sensing his presence, she stirs then, not unlike the way she had on that table, unburying her face to look at him through hazy eyes.

"What happened to those crackers?" she asks in a throaty whisper after a few seconds of staring, the ghost of a smile already curling at the corner of her lips.

But Peter cannot smile. His insane panic now gone, he feels weak with relief and sick with emotional exhaustion, as well as physical. And he can tell it is dawning on her, feeling the shift in his demeanor since he has left the apartment.

"What's wrong?" she asks, pushing herself up to a sitting position, but now that she's getting a clearer look at him, she doesn't need him to answer.

She can read it all over his face.

"Peter…" she whispers, because there isn't much more she can say, is there?

His name on her lips is like a call, instantly drawing him to her, and he makes his way from the doorway to the bed in another daze, finding himself sitting awkwardly at the edge of the mattress with her arms wrapped around him, his sling still making it hard for them to embrace correctly. But the feel of her against him is better than the lack of it at that instant, holding on to her as firmly as he dares with his good arm, his nose buried into her skin, pressed against her jugular. He lets the feel of her pulsing heart soothe him, as he drowns his lungs with her scent.

"I'm okay…" she whispers in his ear, before pressing her lips to his jaw, her fingers curled up in his hair, and all he can do is tighten his hold.

He has kept the bullet in his right hand, the one that cannot touch her yet, clenching it with as much force as the left one had in the street, ignoring the dull jolts of pain it sends to his shoulder.

Tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow, he will throw the damn thing away.

But tomorrow comes, and he never does.

…

Not only does he not throw the bullet away that day, but he also finds himself fascinated by it.

It isn't long before he starts the habit of rolling it between his fingers, the dry blood now completely gone. He rolls it, and rolls it, and rolls it, until it becomes warm against the pad of his fingers. He stares at it intently, taking in the smallest details of this tiny thing that almost took away the most important person in his life –did take her away for a few minutes.

Its most obvious characteristic is the way it has bent inward, and he knows perfectly well that this deformation had happened when the lead had hit the hard bone of Olivia's skull at full velocity, perforating her head and destroying all the neural pathways beyond that point.

It is needless to say this behavior, carving the shape, feel and weight of the bullet into his own brain, causes him to feel sickened all over again; he knows he shouldn't be doing this, but again, he also knows that he is not about to forget the vision of Olivia's dead body any time soon, certainly not now, when barely twenty-four hours have passed. He should put it away, though, somewhere he can't see it anymore.

But he keeps on staring instead, rolling it slowly between his fingers; rolling, rolling, rolling…

"How did you get it out?"

Peter is so startled by the sound of Olivia's voice in the room that he drops the bullet, and it spins insanely on the surface of the kitchen table, until he slaps his hand over it a bit too loudly. He turns on his seat to look at her, as she's getting the bottle of ginger ale out of the fridge. It is obvious that she has just woken up from her nap, her hair messy and entangled, her features still puffy with sleep. If her choice of drink hadn't been enough to tell him that she's still feelings nauseous, the lack of color on her face would have been.

He feels like a fool, having been caught like this, the very last thing he had wanted, to be honest, but there is no judgment in her eyes when she meets his gaze, no shock or horror either at the sight of the very thing that had killed her a day ago.

Mostly, she looks curious, which leads him to focus on her question. 'How did you get it out?' His insides twist and turn, as his heart already starts gaining speed beneath his ribs.

"What?" he finds himself asking back, as if wanting to make sure he had heard correctly.

She takes a drink directly from the bottle, before using it to point at his hand, still covering the bullet on the table. "The bullet," she confirms once she's done swallowing. "I've seen enough gunshot wounds to the head to know that, unless the gun is pressed directly to the person's skull, the bullet often doesn't make an exit wound."

He doesn't know what makes him feel the queasiest; the topic itself, or the casual way she talks about it.

He almost answers her, then, because beyond his intense discomfort, he can feel that talking about it with her is the right thing to do, that if he decides right now to make this just one more freak event in the middle of their freak lives, the wound will heal better, if not faster.

He almost answers her, almost tells her how he wasn't the one who got the bullet out, that it was all Walter. But the scene flashes in his mind again, then.

The gunshot. Her body falling. The metal rod being hammered so deep within her skull and the sound it had made.

all Walter all Walter all Walter all Walter all Walter all Walter all Walter all Walter

"Peter?"

Once again, her voice draws him out of his contemplation, her tone soft and slightly concerned now, and he suddenly realizes that he has started rolling the bullet between his fingers again, his eyes fixed on it.

He stops abruptly, getting up from his chair just as hastily, before pushing the bullet into the pocket of his jeans as he turns toward her. She's leaning against the fridge, open bottle still in hand, and she's offering him a look of quiet uncertainty. He forces his features to relax, smiling at her and shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter." He walks to her, his hand instinctively finding its way to her face, and she leans into his touch just as instinctively. "All that matters is that it came out, and that you're okay. You both are."

He kisses her forehead, then, right where the bullet had entered her skull and bent at the impact, twenty four hours ago. His lips linger there, a bit too long, a bit too firmly, as if he could erase the memory of this day with the sheer strength of his love.

But some scars run deeper than others.

That night, he has his first nightmare.

…

What had been what ifs in his waking hours become full blown visions in his sleep.

He dreams that they're back on the ship, but he's not with her when it happens, lost somewhere in the dark corridors. He always hears the gunshot, though, always so clearly, and he screams her name, running to get to her, to get to her in time.

But when he makes it to the room, she's on a table alright, but it's not any table. She's on an autopsy table, her cold body covered with a white drape, her skin paler than the linen itself, if not for the bloody hole in her head.

And he hears her voice, whispering all around him, even though she lies dead on the hard table.

Peter, I'm pregnant…I'm pregnant…I'm pregnant…I'm pregnant…

He's always too late. He always loses them both.

Olivia does her best to calm him down, whenever he immerges from sleep in a panic. He feels weak, for being at the mercy of his subconscious in such ways, for waking up shaking and so distressed, unable to do anything but cling to her for dear life. He's supposed to be strong for her, especially now, but in the dark of night, he feels as frightened as a lost child

She whispers in his ear, reassuring him that she and the baby are okay; she also asks questions, later during the day, prodding gently, trying to make him talk about what worries him so much. She knows, of course, but she's trying to get the word out of him, as one would suck venom out of a snake bite.

She often asks these questions whenever she finds him studying the bullet, another thing he seems unable to stop doing. A few times, she asks about the shooting again, and in his reluctance to address the matter at all, it never occurs to him that she might need to talk about it, as much as he does. At first, he keeps on deviating the subject, but before long, he plainly stops answering at all, and so she stops asking.

Soon, it is as if they are walking on eggshells around each other. The night is full of nightmares and fears, and they hold onto each other with painful desperation, his caused by his terror of losing her, while hers is caused by her inability to soothe him. During the day, they pretend the night hasn't happened, appreciating the fact that the world seems to have decided to give them a break as far as Fringe events go, and they get easily distracted by the fact that Olivia now regularly suffers morning sickness, at any time of the day.

For all of these reasons, they have some difficulty finding their footing in the days that follow the Incident, as he has started to think of it –less upsetting than 'The Day Olivia Died', which results in a building tension between them; unsurprisingly, she's the one who eventually addresses it, the only way that kind of tension can be addressed.

Given how restless their previous nights have been, he is more than a little reluctant at the idea of going to sleep, and so he busies himself while she's in the shower. He goes around the bedroom, sprawling himself on the floor to extract the pieces of clothing that have found their way under the bed, his mind set on doing some laundry – in Olivia's case, the nesting instinct that is supposed to come with pregnancy obviously hasn't kicked in yet.

This distraction works for a while, until he finds himself dropping clothes in the washing machine, and he notices the dark stains that cover the back collar of one of her shirts. It only takes him a second to realize what shirt it is, and what the stains are.

Blood tends to spill when a letter opener is used to carve a hole in someone's skull, and blood splatters when a bullet is then pushed out of one's brain.

"Peter."

He hasn't even heard her come out of the bathroom; she's standing in the doorway, now, a few steps away from him, wearing nothing but a simple black robe, her hair still dripping from her shower. He can't say he's surprised upon realizing that, while lost in the contemplation her shirt, his other hand has gotten the bullet out his pants' pocket once more, his fingers now making it roll in a pattern that has become eerily familiar.

He is not surprised, no, but as usual, he's most definitely appalled by what is becoming a habit of his, even more so by the fact that she's witnessing him doing it. All he can hope is that she understands, somehow, that she knows this is not some kind of morbid fascination, but an ongoing realization of how badly he has failed her.

His shame throbs deep, but there is only sad comprehension in her eyes, as they stare at each other, letting him know that she does understand, on some level. And she has never looked more solemn when she slowly starts to untie the knot of her robe, before opening it, eventually letting it slide on the ground, leaving her standing stark naked, only a few feet away from where he stands himself.

It is almost as if she's daring him, now, daring him to take a good look at her, and see every undeniable proof that screams of how alive she definitely is. It is there, from the way her chest rises and falls with every breath she takes, to the way her body has already started to quiver slightly from the cold, or maybe from something else; goosebumps promptly erupt all over skin, her nipples tensing too, as drops of water from her wet hair travel over her breasts.

He stares, stirred more profoundly than he could ever explain by this act, instantly overwhelmed by the almost violent wave of desire that crashes through him, then; if the darkening look in her eyes is any indication, she more than reciprocates the feeling, and his body starts humming vibrantly when she walks to him.

Despite the returning tension that now crackles between them, when none of them has even said a word, she still moves slowly, almost tranquilly, and the same calm inhabit her every move as she reaches up for his face. She pins her body to his, pushing herself up on her toes until their noses touch, and he feels her hard nipples graze his chest over his shirt; when she unhurriedly trails her fingers from his face to his hair, a caress that instantly causes violent shivers to break under his skin, it becomes physically impossible for him to remain still, needing to touch her.

He doesn't know when exactly both his hands have opened up, and ultimately, he doesn't care; while the stained shirt falls silently, he briefly registers the sound the bullet makes when it hits the ground and rolls away, but by that time, it has become completely irrelevant. Wrapping her firmly in both his arms, he pulls her up and closer, aching for the feel of her, and almost sighing in relief when their lips meet in an ardent kiss, instantly greatly appreciative of every quiver of her flesh he feels under his palms. Before long, he is almost sitting upon the washing machine, leaning most of their weight against it, until the physical strain causes the dull pain in his right shoulder to spike, soon forcing him to lower her down.

He doesn't loosen his grip on her, though, pulling away slightly, just enough to be able to meet her eyes. His left hand swiftly comes up to her face, and his thumb gently brushes the soft and flushed skin of her cheek, following a line of freckles that is almost invisible right now, but he knows the dots are there.

She brings her hand up to meet his, taking his fingers in hers and slowly directing it lower to place it above her breast; she presses down firmly, so that he can feel the pounding of her heart under his palm. He bends his head down until their foreheads meet, his own heart galloping as it suddenly becomes harder to breathe, his throat painfully constricted. She moves their hands again, leading him downward, now placing his palm over the flat expanse of her stomach, both of them knowing that it won't stay flat for much longer. As she pushes his fingers against the place that is hiding this little miracle of theirs, her other hand goes back to his hair, and her touch is like her eyes; soft, loving, soothing.

What she is telling him without a single word is that he has not lost her, and above all, they have this to look forward to, now, this future they've made together, one that is entirely theirs.

He wishes he could speak, but even if he had found the right words to convey his emotions, he would never have been able to get them out, a large lump now blocking his throat. Sensing this, it isn't long before she sets their hands into motion again, farther down and between her legs. She ceaselessly shudders when he touches her, closing her eyes and pressing her face against his, her grip on his hair tightening as she guides his movements. Once she is assured that he won't stop, she lets go, her fingers grasping his shirt instead, trying to keep some sort of balance; when she lets out her first low moan, so close to his ear, her breath scorching his skin, it pierces him like a hot blade.

A timeless moment later, they are stumbling towards the bed.

She may have been the one initiating it, but before long, he's the one setting the pace, his yearning for her having reached a painful intensity. He wants nothing more than to be slow and gentle with her, to love her with the tender reverence she deserves to get, now more than ever. But it becomes clear rather fast that slow and gentle will not be a possibility tonight; he is powerless within moments as he moves over her upon their bed, and she's quick to match his frenzy, her hands pulling and pushing to get his clothes off him.

There definitely is no tender reverence in the way she almost rips them off his skin, her nails then clawing at his bare back as her legs lock around him to keep him as close as possible, her body moving with his with an energy that is as insane as it is intoxicating. He feels like he might break, right here and now, break in half at this feeling of forceful unison, as she swallows him whole, body and soul, their eyes never once leaving the other. In that instant, it is as if she wants to prove herself as much as him, that she is indeed alive.

And she is as alive as she will ever be, beneath him, all around him. There is no heavy limpness, no pallor, no stillness or lack of life. Her skin is flushed, electrified, her breath hot and loud as it melds with his; she is master of her every move.

She is life, and she is blood, a combination that has merged with his own to create that beautiful hope now growing within herself. She is home, his family, what keeps him tethered and makes him whole.

And had she died, he would have died, too.

In the aftermath of their climax, it takes him a few moments to really notice the way his chest still heaves too irregularly as he lies there on top of her, his damp forehead pressed upon hers; his breathing is too loud, and his eyes burn furiously. He knows he should move off her, but he can't. Olivia does move, though, one of her hands already back in his hair, while the other reaches for his face, her fingertips gently wiping the wetness off his cheeks.

"Talk to me…" she whispers, and there is a note of desperation in her voice.

But even if he could talk to her, he doesn't know what he could say, or how to say it. How can he explain the dread he feels, and the smothering shame compressing his heart?

He had promised her. He had assured her that nothing wrong would happen to her, that he would never lose her again.

Mere hours later, she was lying dead on the ground.

He had failed her in the past, in ways that still make him feel sick whenever he focuses his thoughts too long on it, but this, this is worse than anything else. It has become so crystal clear on that ship, just how ephemeral all of this is, how she can be ripped away from him again at any given moment, her, and the child she's carrying, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

He can't protect them.

Rendered speechless by his sad ruminations, he chooses the easy way out, the only one he really knows, lowering his face to hers, and letting his nose trace a slow line upon her skin; over her cheekbone, her temple, and then lower. He does move, eventually, just enough to get the worst of his weight off her so that she can breathe more freely. He remains mostly entangled in her limbs, his ear pressed upon her breast as she draws soothing circles in his hair, knowing that he's failing her again in his inability to talk to her.

Peter doesn't know how to tell her; he doesn't know how to tell her how he feels like he's now the one with a bullet lodged in his flesh, deep within his heart, with no exit wound to let it out.

TBC...

A/N: Well. I'm hoping I'll be able to write and publish the second half within a week. Meanwhile, you should try out the new fancy REVIEW button at the bottom of this page, and tell me what you think of it (the story, not the button), it would motivate me like nothing else :D