A/N: I really want to blame student teaching for how long it took me to get this done. But who am I kidding, I finished student teaching two months ago, so go ahead, blame me, I deserve it.

Just so you know, I've officially stopped pretending I would ever stop writing more of this story. Not saying it will be updated regularly (STOP LAUGHING), just saying it owns my soul, just like these two idiots, so who knows.

Enjoy the smut. I mean, the chapter.

SHIVERED BONES

X.

For months, Peter had contented himself with trickles of information Olivia sometimes divulged about herself.

Like him, she guarded her emotions fiercely, only allowing them to seep out to fuel her actions, making her the most driven person Peter had ever met. The way she did it wasn't exactly calculated, but it always served a greater purpose, a purpose that virtually never revolved around her. Which is why he never ceased to be taken aback whenever she opened up to him, even in the smallest manner.

A glimpse of her childhood, a quiet admission about something weighing her down, a silent plea for comfort when she was scared.

Those moments were as rare as they were unexpected, even if they had increased in frequency over time, and Peter cherished each and every one of them, not knowing when it would happen again.

Even though he's reluctant to put any kind of blame on Olivia for his inability to see past her alternate's deception, in some ways, he knows the thick walls Olivia had built around herself played their part. Back when he was with this other her, he never once found their lack of meaningful conversations odd, telling himself she would open up when she was ready, in hints and crumbs, probably, the way she always had.

In truth, he hadn't been any better with her, during those first two years, his admissions as cautious and sparse, unable to remember when he'd last trusted someone enough to let them see him for who he truly was. To let them see beyond the façade he'd perfected years ago, all smart wit and smug smiles.

She's just what you need, someone who can see right through you.

Considering the rather significant changes in their relationship these past few days, going from being the tangled mess of hurt and grief that had characterized the aftermath of the Switch, to being a tangled mess of limbs, emotions and rushing sensations, Olivia's openness shouldn't surprise him as much as it used to.

And yet, every time she reveals a little more about herself, today, Peter is as captivated as he would have been a year ago. He makes it a point to match her in her honesty, to prove that he's here with her, needing her to know him as much as he needs to know her.

It starts innocently enough on their way out of Boston, as she drives past Fenway Park, the upcoming Red Sox's game being heavily advertised the way these events usually are, and she casually asks him if he likes baseball.

From then on, the topics follow one another, although they remain trivial at first, the mood in the car too light and comfortable for them to want to broach the kind of heavy themes they'd addressed at Massive Dynamic, or in her apartment. They had been brutally honest with each other during those first twenty-four hours, almost out of necessity, needing to put themselves out there to break down the walls that had come up between them after her return.

But another twenty-four hours have gone by since then, including a whole night spent apart, enough time for their defenses to come back up. None of them says it out loud, but they know this is a test of sort, too, them going away together, taking a vacation, stuck together for the next few days.

It isn't long before a new kind of exhilaration begins to take over, though, as they drive on and realize how easy is to talk to one another, the way it used to be.

Their conversation slowly changes, going from arguing over what kind of pet is the superior one, to recalling stories from earlier periods of their lives; by the time they're driving past Albany, Olivia is telling him about the first foster family she and Rachel were put into in that very city, after they'd spent a couple of months being passed around between distant relatives, none of whom had volunteered to take the long term job.

On that first day, they travel back and forth in time, as they make their way to Syracuse, New York.

Peter takes an exit before they reach the city and drives off the main highway, veering right and driving on until they find themselves entering Oswego, right on the edge of Lake Ontario. While some couples might have kept on driving for another two hours until they reached Niagara Falls, none of them cares much about seeing the waterfalls. The decision isn't completely random either, Peter having looked up the address of one of the many places Walter had scribbled on a piece of paper for them.

"Wade's Diner," it said. "Best raisin bread I've ever tasted. Delicious fries, too."

Even though she would never admit it, Peter knows Olivia only agreed to try that one out for the fries.

They park in front of the establishment in the mid afternoon. Once inside, there is a brief moment of hesitation when they're shown to their table, silently wondering if they should share a booth, or keep it more 'casual' and sit on opposite sides of the table.

They cautiously go for casual, still testing the water, not quite certain how they're supposed to behave as a 'couple' in public places yet. Although their sitting arrangement reduces proximity, after spending a good part of the day either staring at the road or at her profile, Peter cannot complain about the view.

The sun is setting outside, now, something he's only aware of because they're sitting by a window, and the shifting nuances of colors envelop Olivia like a halo. They hadn't meant to stay this long, but after they'd easily resumed their conversation, minutes flew by, and minutes turned into hours, entirely focused on one another.

He's not even telling her anything meaningful at the moment, some random story about his time in Poland, and how some language error during what was supposed to be a fairly small con nearly got him flagged by their government.

He keeps on talking, though, because she loves to listen, and he loves watching her even more.

With her elbow on the table, chin resting upon the palm of her hand, her eyes are intent yet soft, just like her smile; although she does ask a couple of pertinent questions here and there, for the most part, she barely speaks when he does, but she nods at all the right moments, and makes the most endearing faces. He feels particularly good whenever he gets a chuckle out of her, although the unwavering fond way she looks at him no matter what he says is enough to cause his slow, exquisite death.

When his story comes to an end, he doesn't jump onto another anecdote, letting a comfortable silence settle between them instead, happy to simply sit there, gazing at each other, enjoying the sweet normality of the moment.

She's still smiling softly when she looks away, her eyes roaming the diner, as if truly taking it in for the first time since they came inside.

"This reminds me of my dad," she tells him.

There is a familiar tug within Peter's chest, a deep ache that twists his insides whenever Olivia opens up to him, even now, after hours spent talking to one another.

She's never mentioned her father before.

He doesn't need to say anything for her to continue, beyond needing words to communicate. She brings her eyes back to him, and he finds himself as mesmerized as ever by the way their colors change depending on their surroundings, just like her emotions. Right now, in the rubescent warmth of the setting sun, they look more gold than green.

Her next smile is of a kind he's quickly becoming familiar with, nostalgic but sweet.

"We moved around a lot when I was little, about once a year," she explains. "My dad had a pretty important job, one that he took very seriously, but he always tried his best to be there on Saturday mornings, because we had 'our thing'. We were both early birds, while Mom definitely wasn't, so she would stay home with Rachel. We would take his car, and he would drive, pretty much in any direction, letting me pick which way I wanted to go at each intersection, until we found a diner. We would have breakfast there, and sometimes, if we were early enough, we got to watch the sun rising outside. Even now, it's still my favorite time of day."

Her eyes have been drawn to the view beyond the window, and although this is dusk not dawn, Peter understands why their current setting would bring such memories forth in her mind.

"He died when I was seven," she continues, quietly. "For a long time, I envied Rachel. She was only four at the time, and even though she missed him and asked for him at first, after a while, she just...forgot, I guess. I was just old enough to remember too much."

Peter watches her, lost in her remembrance, and for what has to be the hundredth time today, he thinks about how beautiful she is. She's as casual as he's ever seen her, in that grey hoodie, hair down and a bit unkempt, not a hint of makeup on. Sharing with him something that has to have been close to her heart since childhood, something few people must know about.

Being confided in by someone so private fills him with a sense of duty, and with a strong sense of trust.

"He was so tall..." she says, distantly. "I guess he always will be, to me. And although I can't really remember his face, I know I have his eyes."

A shadow crosses her face, the sweet nostalgia making way to something darker. She finally looks away from the view outside, meeting Peter's gaze again, as if she'd sensed the shift in him, a reaction to the change in her mood. She offers him a small, pinched smile, shaking her head a little.

"My mom never really got over him, you know," she says, her voice lower. "My stepfather..." she averts her eyes again, staring down at her empty glass. "He destroyed every picture we had of him. Whenever he drank too much, he accused her of sleeping around with men who looked like my dad."

From the look on her face, Peter has no doubt more images are flashing in her mind, moments she may never share with him; not here in plain sight, at least.

"What was he like?" He asks, then, keeping his voice down, nonthreatening. "Your dad."

He'd asked the question hoping it would help her chase away some of her shadows, bringing her focus back to happier memories.

For a moment, he thinks she's not going to answer, still pensive. But when she brings her gaze back to him, a smile is already pulling at the corners of her lips, the one she's given him so many times in the past few hours.

"He was kind," she says simply, her eyes once again warm and soft; trustful.

And for the hundredth time today, Peter falls a little more in love with her.

…

Olivia wakes up the way she fell asleep; peacefully.

She's not used to this new, undisturbed sleep pattern, her nightmares having decided to leave her be for the time being, unable to compete with the quietude that has settled over her soul this week.

It won't last, but for the time being, she more than appreciates the break.

After leaving the diner the previous evening, they had driven for a few more hours before checking in at a motel. She's not sure when exactly they'd drifted off to sleep, though, their relentless talking having carried them long into the night, as intoxicated with this shared honesty as they'd first been with each other's body, back home.

She's not surprised when she meets Peter's gaze as soon as she opens her eyes; they've barely moved at all, still sharing the same pillow and body heat, their legs entangled. He's staring at her intently, a small smirk on his lips. Maybe she should have felt unnerved by it, but she only feels warm, his gaze enough to wake every inch of her, one cell at a time.

"What?" She eventually whispers, unable not to smile herself.

"Nothing," he says with a small shake of his head. "I was just thinking about how we haven't had sex in almost two days. That's pretty impressive."

Olivia lets out a rumbly chuckle, rolling her eyes a little. Men. So much for thinking he might have been contemplating the meaning of life.

Still smiling, she uncurls under the covers, some of her limbs numb and stiff from having been so still all night. The small discomfort does nothing to dim how relaxed and cozy she feels, though, pretending she's not purposefully rubbing her leg between his as she stretches lazily.

"We probably used up our quota for the week on those first couple of days, anyway," she says with a yawn, in response to Peter's comment.

"Yeah, that was more than enough," he agrees, pretending not to feel the slow caress of her skin upon his either. "Some would even say it was too much."

"Excessive, really," she adds as she rolls back onto her side, pinning their bodies together again.

"At this point, we should probably just abstain ourselves until Sunday," he concludes.

She frowns. "Why Sunday?"

"Week two," he explains, matter-of-factly. "Fresh start. Although I guess technically, Saturday night would do."

"It's only Wednesday," she reminds him, his small, cheeky grin letting her know he's actually considering this nonsense. "Morning," she feels the need to add.

He pushes himself up on his elbow, resting his head on his closed fist, also putting some distance between their bodies. It's not much, but it's there, and she doesn't approve. His grin becomes more daring; he's enjoying this a little too much, and she's annoyed at how responsive she is to the way he looks, bed hair and all.

"We've both gone much, much longer without having sex with each other," he casually reminds her.

Olivia chuckles again, shaking her head in disbelief, before wiggling under the covers to erase that space he'd created, her leg going back to moving over his, applying more pressure, now. But his poker face is on, completely unperturbed.

She remembers her two years of celibacy well, and has no desire whatsoever to deprive herself of something she rather enjoys, thank you very much. Especially not when he's radiating heat against her, his scent strong and enticing after spending so many hours cocooned in this bed together, his eyes piercing hers.

Plus, it's already been two days.

Even as she slips a hand inside his shirt and lightly rakes her nails over his back, he keeps on smirking, as if she didn't feel the shivers she's inducing beneath his skin. She's too old to react to his childish antics, but that smug, defiant grin of his is pushing all of her buttons. Who does he think he is, exactly?

There's no way he can resist her –while she tries convincing herself that she can resist him, absolutely, even though she's just spent the last minute and a half keeping herself from sinking her whole hand into his messy hair, simply because it looks so tempting and she loves the feel of it between her fingers.

"I can wait four more days," she announces, then, in an assertive tone she usually reserves for FBI meetings, forcing herself to adopt the professional demeanor that goes with it, even as she moves, shifts, and pushes to change their positions, nothing short of slithering her way under him, and he follows her lead.

Soon, he's hovering over her, slowly bringing his face down to hers, one of his hands traveling lightly over her chest, while hers remains under his shirt, tracing the bumpy curve of his back, one vertebra at a time.

"Easy," she adds against his mouth, briefly nipping at his bottom lip with her teeth, causing his fingers to become bolder, running over her breast through the fabric of her top.

Her body doesn't care much about their power play, her nipple soon hardening; each time his thumb casually flicks over it, little sparks of pleasure shoot down her spine, adding to the heat already gathering low, but she keeps her breathing slow and measured, her face composed.

"Sure," Peter says, his voice remarkably steady, still smirking a little. "Me too."

When her legs sneak up to enclose his hips between her knees, he merely blinks, his fingers leaving her breast and moving south, palm up. They slide under her, between the mattress and her underwear, cupping a feel. Her mouth quivers, fighting the urge to smile as she mimics him, her hand slipping inside the back of his boxers to cup a feel of her own, sinking her short nails into flesh and muscles.

Deciding to up the ante, she uses the clasp of her legs to push him down, successfully pressing his swelling erection against her as she rolls her hips upwards to meet him, creating a delicious friction. The smile freezes on his lips, his eyes darkening significantly as his grip becomes nothing short of possessive over her backside. Soon, he's squeezing her, pinning her to him and adding momentum to the next slow meeting of their hips. Already, their breathing is louder, inhaling the same hot air, lips inches apart, eyes still locked.

Even though there is absolutely no way this 'waiting until Sunday' crap is going to happen, there is an odd intensity to the moment, as if they had waited far longer than a couple of days. Considering how long they had waited before getting to this point of their relationship, it isn't entirely surprising; the change is recent enough for Olivia to be consumed with the same longing she felt on that first night, mere days ago.

This craving combines with her awareness of how good he feels, how good he makes her feel, enough to excite everything in her. She is just as aware that the intensity of their physical connection is directly linked to that other bond, that bond she'd thought lost for good, less than a week ago.

It's anything but lost, though, especially after spending so many hours talking to each other. With every story shared, every anecdote, and even with every bad joke of his, Olivia feels herself becoming more and more entwined with him, feeling both lighter and heavier as a result of carrying more of him in her heart, the way he carries her, too.

His body might excite hers on a mere cellular level, what feeds her most profound needs is this closeness, this guttural knowledge that Peter sees her, even her broken parts, and instead of pushing him away, it only seems to make him want her more.

Being the recipient of such attention and devotion baffles her, even as it mirrors how she feels about him.

There definitely is an added element of thrill today that comes with their playfulness, daring each other still, stubbornly wanting to be the one who will make the other cave. And as Peter shifts over her to adjust his position, she is more than ready to meet him move for move.

He grabs her wrist to extract her hand from inside his boxers, pinning their fingers upon her pillow, a move he's rather fond of, she's noticed. She barely has time to focus on that thought, though, as he's shifted enough to gain better access, his other hand swiftly disappearing inside her panties.

His palm presses upon her warmth, his fingertips barely dipping inside of her, and although she manages by some miracle to barely shudder at his touch, what he finds there is enough. A hint of smug satisfaction flashes in his eyes at the wet feel of her, confirming that she's just as affected as he is by this ridiculous little game.

She might be strong-willed, she's also very much human, so that when he uses her own slickness to run over her collection of nerves, his palm applying just the right amount of moving pressure, she has no control over the way she bucks against and into him. As her entire body floods with heat, the intoxicating, overpowering kind that shoots straight from her core and spreads all over and beyond, she hears herself let out the oddest noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a moan.

He brings his face down to hers, his nose once again pressed to her cheekbone, and when she cups his cheek with her free hand, the other one still entrapped in his, she feels the returning smile stretching his skin. She cannot tell if it's a smile of endearment, amusement, or if he's feeling prematurely victorious; all she knows is that she's going to wipe it off his face.

Olivia allows herself a few moments to feel, first. To feel him against her as he warms her up from the inside out, in ways that have little to do with his fingers on her. There is no denying that he is good at this, though, his hot breath already joining his teasing hand in overwhelming her senses, leaving her face and drifting lower over soft skin, stopping in the crook of her neck.

He focuses on a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of her jaw, the feel of his stubble lightly scratching her skin firing up her nerves, soon replaced by soft lips, then wet heat, as his tongue traces slow patterns that follow the rhythm of his hand between her legs, her breathing getting heavier and louder as her heart rate keeps on rising.

It would be so easy, so ridiculously easy, to surrender to this heat, to surrender to him.

When he keeps on moving south and captures one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking at it right through the thin fabric, she moans again as she shudders and arches against him, her free hand now clenching a fistful of his shirt over his shoulder blade, perspiration starting to glisten upon her flushing skin.

She's never been one to give up without a fight, though.

With her next intake of breath, she traps the air inside her lungs, forcing herself to refocus, trying to clear her mind before her body completely takes over. She commands her limbs, conjuring all of her self-control to make herself become completely still again, with the exception of her hand; she lets go of his shirt, grabbing his fingers in hers, wordlessly asking him to stop.

He does so almost right away, seeming a little thrown off by her sudden stillness. This is confirmed a second later when he raises his head, soon moving back up, not yet concerned but curious, searching her gaze.

He's not the only one with a good poker face, though, and she uses hers now, calmly staring back at him, trying to ignore the thumping of her heart against her ears. Against her ears, beneath her ribs, and between her legs, where their hands remain, not to mention the searing, blushing skin of her face that gives her away, no matter how stern her expression.

Without as much as a smile, she tightens her grip on his hand and starts pulling it upwards, while her other hand slips from his loose clasp upon the pillow, going in the opposite direction, back between their legs –his, this time. As soon as she's brought his hand up to her parted lips, she gives him a sharp look, before running the tip of her tongue over the slick pad of his fingers.

There is a crack in the mask, his eyes darkening again, and his entire body tenses at the feel of her hand sneaking inside his boxers to grab ahold of him. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, swallowing convulsively as she begins stroking him, before taking two of his fingers into her mouth, rolling her tongue around them.

When she starts sucking on them, hard, she knows she's won.

His body breaks into waves of shudders, his forehead dropping upon hers as a low, guttural grunt escapes his throat, thrusting into her hand. Moments later, he's pulling his fingers out of her mouth, and they sink into her hair, twisting it in a tight grip as his other arm slips beneath her to circle her waist. He pulls her flush against him, her fingers unrelenting in their caress, causing him to roll into her again. His lips nothing short of crash upon hers with a pleading moan, his tongue not demanding entrance as much as begging for it.

Olivia grants him his wish, opening up to him, seeking him back with equal fervor as they ripple between the sheets. She couldn't have felt further from gloating over this obvious victory, physically aching for him now, her hips rising to meet each of his thrusts, sinking deeper into the warmth, barely able to gasp for air through their heated kissing.

Their next moves are both feverish and calculated, working together to pull her panties off her legs, just as hurriedly combining their effort to push his boxers down his hips, and she lets out a throaty moan when he pushes himself into her.

While their frenzy makes them almost clumsy at first, it is matched by their keen awareness of each other's body, of how to shift and move to increase proximity, resulting in an odd yet thrilling coordination. They sway together a few times, before his thrusting motions halt; she's wrapped herself around him like vine, her legs tightly intertwined over his thighs, pushing him deeper and keeping him there.

His breath is ragged and hot against the side of her face, his kneading hand possessive over her breast, having pushed most of her shirt up. Her own arm has slipped inside his shirt, feeling the skin of his back getting clammier and clammier beneath her palm. She digs her fingernails into the shifting muscles of his shoulder blade as he begins to move again, with some difficulty now, given the way she clutching him to her. She has no intention of loosening her grip, though, and he knows it.

They make do with the firm clasp of her legs, keeping their bodies almost painfully close as he rolls into her more than he thrusts, and although the rippling meeting of their hips lacks proper rhythm, it's passionate and driven. The hold she has on his lower half, she mirrors on his upper body, keeping him pinned to her with that arm across his back. Her fingers are buried deep in his damp hair to insure his face won't leave hers, needing him closer, closer, closer as pleasure swells and thumps like a mad pulsing heart.

She really shouldn't worry about keeping him close, though. His hold on her might be a bit unsteady, it remains strong, his every breath, shudder and moan, all telltales of his yearning for her. It isn't long before the rhythm of his hips becomes even more hectic; combined with the way he shakes against her, Olivia knows it won't be long, just as overwhelmed as her by the carnal intensity of it all.

She's getting there, but he'll get there first, a realization that sends a surge of raw satisfaction through her.

"Olivia..." he soon moans against the skin of her face, as if in agony, admitting defeat.

She knows a mere nothing would be enough to make him come, but she wants to prolong this, not because she's greedy for her own pleasure, though; she greedy for more of him, of them.

"It's okay," she rasps, her fingers leaving his hair to cup his cheek, before using their momentum to roll them sideways.

She doesn't turn them completely over, this time, stopping their motion once they are on their side, relaxing her various holds on him, easing the clasp of her legs and arms around him. It isn't much, but it does lessen some of the pressure without putting any distance or space between them.

Peter lets out a wobbly breath against her skin, having instinctively buried his face in the crook of her neck as they adjust to this new position. Already, both his hands have slipped inside her shirt, gliding over her shivering back. Their movements have slowed down significantly, but they're far from being idle, rocking almost languidly now.

Her fingers once again in his hair, she tugs on it once, twice, and he responds to her call, bringing his face back to hers. She shivers at the raw passion in his eyes, at the knowledge that she's the sole reason for the way his every trait constricts as if in pain. Her fingers move, then, trailing over his parted lips, pushing damp hair from his forehead, caressing the crease between his eyes; if love left fingerprints, hers would be found all over his skin.

He's brought his own hand to her face, his other arm wrapped around her lower back to press her more firmly to him, and when he pulls her even closer, he kisses her like she's the air his lungs were craving for. He's picking up speed, using his hold on her to increase the pressure between them, and she gladly follows. Before long, her pleasure is swelling again, and she has to let go of his lips when her entire body flushes with heat, meeting his gaze as she breathes out his name.

This, above all else, seems to unravel him completely.

He lets out another constricted moan, rolling them over once more, and without the tight clasp of her legs, he's able to fully thrust in and out of her, his cadence driven by pure need, now. She clings to him, enthralled by his craving for her, and although she tries matching his moves, he's obviously surrendered to the feel of her.

Deciding to help him along, she deliberately clenches around him as she uses both sets of nails upon him, grazing his clammy back while her other hand does the same upon his scalp, breathing out his name again, right into his ear this time, and he simply loses it.

His body stutters and stills, shuddering almost violently against her as his heat unfurls within her and he chokes out her name, before going completely limp over her.

Moments later, he grunts again, the displeased sound muffled against her sweaty neck, and she wants to roll her eyes again. Men.

Despite the discomfort she now feels, having been so close to her own climax, only to be left mostly crushed under the dead weight of her disgruntled lover, Olivia cannot help but smile, her fingers lightly running over his back. For one thing, she highly doubts Peter is going to roll over and go back to sleep – a situation she has found herself in before, although never with this particular man.

Also...

"I win," she whispers in his ear, knowing he can hear the smile in her voice.

He grunts again, before nibbling the soft skin of her neck. Then, he's on the move, still shaky and breathless as he descends on her like a man on a mission, disappearing under the covers.

She hardly calmed down herself, and the sensation of his tongue soon dipping into her navel is enough to send her electrified body back into overdrive, as if he'd grabbed her from beneath and pulled her under, back into the heat.

And as he moves lower and lower, she sinks deeper and deeper.

He's as swift as he's efficient; she barely has time to take a deep, wobbly breath that he is literally grabbing her and pulling her to him. By the time she's exhaling, the air rushes out of her in another deep, throaty moan. Already, every fiber of her being is slave to the hot, hot feel of his mouth and tongue upon her, her fingers twisting the linen in a death grip as she arches, her lower body attempting to leave the bed.

He's keeping her tethered to him, though, even as he helps her soar, both his hands squeezing her buttocks, fingers digging into her flesh and eliciting a nerve response, even as his tongue elicits a much greater one.

Despite the fact that she cares about very little right now beside the waves of pleasure surging from her core and flooding the rest of her limbs, that part of her brain that is always so fond of patterns begins to notice that there is an odd yet deliberate pattern to what he's doing.

He's already on the second letter 'e' by the time she catches up with what he's doing –tracing his name down there, the arrogant bastard. And as she ripples and writhes against and into him, her heavy breath and moans echoing through the room, she pictures him with perfect clarity, grinning through it all, a vision that manages to both irritate her and drive her on.

She might have made it all the way through his last name, just to prove some kind of point. As it turns out, she barely makes it past the second letter, after he decides to give the 'i' a dot by sucking on hers, and she comes so hard, he will have bruises to prove it, where she dug her heels into his back.

She's still basking in the aftermath when he emerges from under the covers, having followed his slow ascension through the feel of his kisses scattered upon her shivering skin. She's not in the least surprised when she meets his eyes again as soon as she opens hers. Judging by his satisfied little smile, he's back to feeling exceedingly smug.

"Stalemate?" He suggests.

Olivia scoffs, answering by grabbing the hem of his shirt. He helps her pull it over his head, before following her lead and letting her roll them over.

Straddling his legs, she quickly makes to discard of her own shirt, peeved at the sticky feel of it. As she does so, Peter's hands move over her thighs, undoubtedly feeling the tremors traveling beneath her skin, her entire body still tingling from the remnants of a particularly good orgasm that has left her boneless and overly sensitive.

Freed from the drenched fabric of her shirt and feeling a lot more comfortable, she brings her hands down upon his chest, anything but done with him, playfully digging her nails into soft muscles.

"What's wrong, Bishop?" She teases him, somewhat breathlessly. "Afraid you won't be able to keep up?" She punctuates her dare with a quick rise of her eyebrow, although his body is already showing signs that keeping 'up' isn't going to be a problem here.

He doesn't even bother with a reply, reaching up behind her instead, threading his fingers through her hair to pull her down to him.

And once again, she lets herself be pulled, her own fingers curling in his hair, smiling broadly when he chooses to nuzzle her nose first, before kissing the tip of it.

He saves her smile for last.

...

Of all the road trips Peter has taken in his life, he's never done so little driving.

Granted, he's used to doing it alone, with nothing better to do but to drive; considering who he's traveling with this week, the opportunities for distractions are endless. They have a definite tendency to lose track of time, as they lose themselves in each other, both in stories and in ways that require fewer words to be spoken.

They barely leave their room on Wednesday –barely leave the bed, if not for the occasional bathroom breaks, or that one time Peter did drive to the nearest gas station and bought them an avalanche of junk food, along with a few bottles of drinks rich in electrolytes. They spend most of the day talking. Or, not really talking, depending on the hour.

On the next day, they are slightly more productive, making it to Ohio, settling in a little tavern that, according to Walter, 'serves marvelous French onion soup!'

He was not lying about that, although Peter is way more enamored with the woman by his side than he is with the soup –one (now empty) bowl they've been sharing, like they do every other dish they ordered, or even that booth they're not exactly sitting in.

'Cuddling in' would be more appropriate.

They have officially given up all pretenses. No more 'sitting on opposite sides of the table' nonsense, not allowing much distance between their bodies at all, which, after the day they had yesterday, seem unwilling to part much anyway.

While Peter isn't surprised by his constant need to be touching her in any way, shape, or form, he is surprised by how...snuggly Oliva has become. Surprised, but undeniably thrilled.

This is a side of Olivia he's only glimpsed before, all sweetness and smiles –and not the small kind either. These smiles are so bright and wide, they make her eyes crinkle. For as long as he's known her, he always assumed this warm gentleness was reserved for her sister and niece only.

He's more than a little entranced by the fact that he's become the sole recipient of it at the moment.

When he was with her alternate, he believed the changes and her chipper demeanor to be the result of being with him –an arrogant thought that still makes his insides throb with shame. Now that he's allowed to see the genuine, happier side of her, he cannot believe he ever fell for that act.

Sure, there is an inevitable familiarity in her giddiness that reminds him of her, but once again, the differences are numerous, and painfully obvious. Olivia's mood is more akin to having inhaled some of Walter's best Brown Betty by accident, than to having changed her outlook on life altogether, a comparison he's comfortable making, since it perfectly describes his own state of mind.

He's so utterly content to be here, her body pressing against his as much his presses against hers, one arm wrapped around her waist, his hand having lost all utility besides feeling her and the way her stomach twitches every time she chuckles or laughs. One of her hands is equally useless, having taken residency upon his thigh, not exactly teasing, but not doing anything to keep him calm either.

Let's just say he's glad the lighting is dim, and that the table masks most of their lower halves.

Even though they're still on their first pint of local brew, their behavior resembles two people who may have had a little too much to drink, in that carefree, incoherent way one easily adopts when tipsy.

There is no real logic to their conversation, no point at all, having spent the last fifteen minutes going from speculating over Broyles and Nina's rumored affair, to discussing how amazing potatoes are because they can be cooked in so many different ways –three of which are on the table right now, baked, mashed, and in the form of fries.

After sustaining themselves on gas station food these past twenty-four hours, and considering the amount of calories they burned, they scarf down on the dishes with gusto. Peter is aware that they are being disgustingly cute, regularly interrupting their mindless chatting to taste the food on each other's lips, and he's more than okay with it.

Of the two of them, Olivia definitely is the one hitting the brakes whenever he starts getting a little too carried away.

"She's gonna kick us out for indecent PDA," she says at some point after their waitress left their table again, having brought them another bowl of onion soup, with a side of glaring disapproval.

The lady looks old enough to have already been working here back when Walter had to have found this place, and if the narrow-eyed, pinched lips expression she wears every time she comes back with more food is any indication, she most likely objects to premarital sex. To the marital kind, too, probably.

Peter doesn't give a damn, chuckling softly against the side of her neck. They weren't even doing anything that risqué this time around; when she'd brought them their order of chicken wings a while ago, he'd had Olivia pushed to the end of the booth, firmly pinned to the wall.

"You could always flash your badge and say we're here undercover," he suggests, still more interested in peppering her neck with kisses than in the topic itself. Upon her stomach, his hand is getting frisky again, his fingers tentatively sneaking under the hem of her shirt.

He feels her breathless chuckle beneath his palm, her grip on his thigh briefly tightening as she shivers deliciously, and even though there is no way she would ever compromise her integrity by taking this too far, she gets back at him by sliding her hand higher on his leg, making him nearly whimper against her skin, wishing they hadn't left their room today.

The sound of her ringing phone is absolutely unwelcome, as well as absolutely predictable.

Olivia twists in his arms to regain better use of her limbs, throwing him a look. "You know this is your fault, right?" She feels the need to point out, pursing her lips as she gets her phone out and checks the screen.

"You're the one who called them and requested daily updates," he reminds her.

By the time he was coming back from his brief trip to the gas station the previous day, she was on the phone with the bureau; as it turned out, the Fringe Division had opened a new case. Although it was nothing drastic enough to require them to drive back to Boston, Olivia's restlessness at being away while she could be out there investigating was to be expected.

Figuring out a way to take her mind off work again had not been too difficult.

Olivia chooses to ignore his remark today, bringing the phone to her ear. "Dunham," she greets her interlocutor, already more focused on the call than on him.

For a moment, Peter watches her profile. He's as affected by the sight of her effortlessly becoming 'Agent Dunham' as he was moments ago by her wandering fingers. She's not aware of it, and he has no intention of telling her, but there is something comforting in all these tiny proofs she gives him, proofs that she's herself and no one else.

She lets him see behind the mask, all the while making it clear she still very much is a gun carrying federal agent.

Peter is not a federal agent, though, barely a consultant on occasions –definitely not this week; he therefore has no obligation to act professional. Which is why he swiftly resumes what he was doing before they were rudely interrupted.

She has moved slightly –very slightly- away from him, her body turned more towards the wall, now, although his arm remains around her waist. He's not paying one bit of attention to what she's saying, preferring to bring his free hand to her hair, pushing it slightly aside to expose the curve of her neck. He dips down to brush her skin, and she reacts to the touch, as if tickled. She doesn't make any indication that she wants him to stop, though, so he continues, inducing shivers with his lips and breath alone, being intentionally slow.

After pushing more of her hair aside, he halts his movements, having revealed the tattoo inked in the skin of her nape. Although this is not the first time he notices it this week, it is the first time he's not otherwise occupied, finally able to see more than glimpses of it.

Peter traces the contour of this strange, fiery star, troubled by its presence alone. Granted, until recently, he hadn't had any reason to see the back of her neck, not since the early days of their partnership when his father used to stick metal rods into her spine on a regular basis. While she could have decided to get a tattoo at some point during this two and a half years lapse, it doesn't quite fit her.

Within seconds, Olivia seems to notice the way his focus has diverged and converged upon her nape, and she tenses against him. Before long, she's trying to move away. There isn't much room for her to put distance between them, but he gives her some space anyway, his hand dropping from her neck, while his other arm falls from around her to rest limply at her side.

She's wrapping up her phone conversation, now, her own fingers already up in her hair, distractedly running over the tattoo, the way he was only moments ago. From the pronounced pursing of her lips, added to the loss of colors in her cheeks, Peter is starting to understand when she must have gotten it, and his insides twist at the thought of it being forced upon her skin.

Silence settles between them as soon as she hangs up.

He searches her face, but she's avoiding his eyes, clearly displeased, chewing on the inside of her lip. He doesn't speak, or prod. She proved him many times these past few days that she's comfortable enough with him to share what's on her heart or mind, but he owes it to her not to question her silence when there are topics she doesn't want to discuss.

He does start leaning into her again, his chest gently pressing against her shoulder blade. It's not a nudge, not exactly. He feels the tension in her muscles through this small contact alone. She begins to relax again after a few moments, though, leaning back into him, and he sighs, closing his eyes.

"The tattoo's hers," she confirms eventually in a low voice. "She isn't that fond of them, generally speaking, but it was Frank's idea, to get a matching set for their anniversary. She liked the idea of being marked his, as much as he was marked hers."

It is Peter's turn to tense as his thoughts inevitably turn on her, on that woman who was in a committed relationship by the time she came over here and decided to mark him hers without his consent.

"I keep forgetting it's there, or that it's not even mine," Olivia continues. "I know I should hate it for what it represents, but to be honest, sometimes there still are a lot of little things that get mixed up in my mind, details from her life I think are mine, until I remember they're not."

Despite the thick tension now surrounding them, they are fully leaning against one another again, his cheek resting upon hers. She hasn't spoken about her time Over There since the elevator.

This, how she was made to live her alternate's life for a few weeks, is something Peter knows virtually nothing about. He cannot even begin to imagine what it must be like for her, to have this whole other set of memories in her head, memories that apparently still blend with hers on occasions.

"What was it like?" He asks after another stretch of silence. "Being her?"

He half-expects her to tense up again, to choose not to answer. She doesn't. Her hand moves instead, coming to rest upon his. As she intertwines their fingers together, he brings his arm back around her waist, tightening his hold on her.

"Freeing," she says simply. There is no longing in her voice, no embarrassment either, just honesty. "And it had nothing to do with her being shallow, because she's not. Considering the state of her world, and the tragedy that struck her family a few years back, she's not completely unburdened either but..." She shrugs. "I don't know. There's a light there I can't remember ever having."

Peter shifts, keeping their bodies close, but he needs to see her face. She doesn't meet his eyes, lost in her thoughts.

"I guess...part of it comes from the fact that her mom is still alive," she muses. "Mine died when I was fourteen, but even before that..." She shrugs a shoulder, briefly pursing her lips with a tilt of her head, a fake dismissal that breaks his heart. She finally looks up. "After him, it's like something in her had broken, like he'd...taken something from her." She averts her eyes again, her gaze falling upon the dishes getting cold in front of them, forgotten for the time being.

Olivia had talked about her mother, the day before. Night had fallen by then, because it was easier to whisper these words in semi-darkness than in daylight, as it concealed some of their sorest scars.

She told him about how, after shooting her stepfather, her mom barely looked at her anymore; how she'd sunk so deep in depression that when she was diagnosed with cancer, a few years later, she didn't have the strength to fight it, not even for her daughters.

Honoring their unspoken oath of reciprocity, Peter told her about his mom, too, about the one who'd spent years fighting against the same darkness. He told her about the bottles, stashed all over their house in places she thought he wouldn't find; how he'd hunted for them, once, and how his mom had watched as he shattered them all against the garage's wall; how she'd bravely stayed sober for nearly five weeks afterwards, until Peter's birthday came around, a day that always pushed her back into the dark.

Confessing these memories to each other and to the night left them feeling raw and exposed, but they found the same solace in this shared understanding. In the realization that these scars they tried so hard to hide, for fear that they might reveal too much, these scars were already etched upon their lover's heart.

In the aftermath of that one particular talk, they'd found solace in one another, too, seeking to comfort and to heal, maybe. There was a beautiful, aching intensity to their love making, conveying through touch the kind of emotions words couldn't begin to grasp.

Above all, what they found in each other was an unquestionable sense of belonging, of home.

When Olivia speaks again, today, it's not to him; not really.

"On the Other Side, my mom –her mom, she was whole," she says. "Even after losing Rachel and her baby, she never gave up."

Peter watches her, lost in memories that are both hers and someone else's, unable not to think about this other similarity. They had lost their mothers, on this side, both orphans before the age of twenty, since Walter had been as good as dead to him at the time.

Yet, through a succession of events that were as inexplicable as they were odd, both he and Olivia were given the chance to see them again, these mothers from another world. Other versions of them, undeniably, but if Peter's mistakes proved anything, it is that the heart can be deceptive, especially when the love involved runs deep.

"Maybe that's nature's way of seeking balance," Peter ponders after a while, his voice low and soft. "My mom Over There, she never gave up either, even though I was gone. Maybe living in a crumbling world makes people more resilient."

More desperate to hold on to life.

Olivia moves slightly, looking up at him. "How long were you with her, Over There? Your mother?" Like him, her voice is soft, as if afraid to speak the words.

He shakes his head a little. "Not long. A few hours, maybe." His voice actually falters on the last word, swallowing past the growing lump in his throat.

Meeting his mom, his biological mom, was one of the most surreal experiences of his life. He'd thought about her, of course, after learning the truth about his origins, thought about both versions of her, the one he'd unintentionally driven to an early grave, and the one he'd hoped hadn't met the same fate in that other world he tried to accept as his.

Yet, when he'd agreed to cross back over with the man he'd called Father for a handful of days, Peter hadn't thought about his mother at all. For the most part, his thoughts had been directed towards this universe he was about to leave, coming from a place of hurt and bitterness.

Good riddance, or something of the sort, so arrogantly convinced he wouldn't miss it at all.

He hadn't been awake a full day that the repercussions of his choice were hitting him hard, as he realized that he didn't feel any less out of place in this universe than he did in the other one, already longing for what he'd lost in his hasty escape, for what he'd given up for good.

For whom he'd left behind.

It quickly became clear that being able to see his mother again was going to be his only consolation, as he tried persuading his aching heart that it was enough, had to be enough.

But the truth is, by the time Olivia was prudently reaching up for him, one hand on his nape, the other splayed upon his heart, he was already gone.

Peter sees it again, today, that haunted look in her eyes. What squeezes his heart is the knowledge that she's hurting for him.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, with a shake of her head and a small, painful smile.

Peter frowns, realizing that she isn't simply apologizing for the pain he feels at the loss of his mother. He searches her gaze, but she's already averted her eyes. "What for?"

She merely shakes her head again, but the meaning behind her demeanor becomes clear.

She blames herself for how little time he got to spend with his mom, a reaction that is typically hers.

While she had been the one who'd asked him to leave it all behind and come back with her, the choice had been his and no one else's, certainly not hers.

His hand finds its way up to her face, cupping her cheek and weaving his fingers through her hair to pull her to him, until they are forehead to forehead, nose to nose. He shakes his head against hers. "Don't," he says softly. "I had to come home. I know she understands that."

Peter had left his mother a note before they'd escaped the apartment, his message succinct but genuine, telling her what he just told Olivia; that he loved her, but that he had to go home, and that he was sorry.

Like the rest of his time Over There, the few hours he spent with his mom feel more like a dream than anything else, now. While he will always feel a twinge of guilt and pain at the thought of her, he means it when he says he knows she understands.

The version of her that had raised him might have been fighting a darker battle, she might have given up, she had instilled in him values that are inherent to any Elizabeth Bishop, no matter the universe.

Values that lead him to be inexorably drawn back to family, no matter how far he runs.

And as Olivia moves, shifting her body to better wrap her arm around him and press her face to his neck, breathing deep against his skin, Peter has never felt more certain of his choice.

A/N: You know what's ridiculous? The fact that I spend hours and hours writing and editing these things, yet still find myself crying over the same bits during my very last round of edits. Ridiculous.

To give credit where credit is due, I have been (re)reading a LOT of old fanfictions these past few months, and the idea of Peter leaving a note to his mom Over There definitely comes from a story called "Where a world ends and where the other begins" by sam carter 1013, which I obviously recommend if you haven't read it yet.

You know me and reviews. I love them almost as much as I love writing Peter nuzzling Olivia's face. ALMOST.