We've Got A Situation

Summary: Everyone knows that Ella loves her bedtime stories. But what happens when she asks a certain Peter Bishop?

Disclaimer: Fringe doesn't belong to me. You think it does? You and I can both dream on.

"Olivia?" Peter turned toward his companion in the passenger seat. She had insisted on driving (of course), but easily gave in to Peter's pleading. What could she really do anyway? It was his and Walter's car.

It didn't matter anyway. Olivia was fast asleep.

Her head rested against window and her long blonde hair previously tucked behind her ear slid forward to cover her cheek. Peter fought hard not to smile… and failed miserably.

He turned his grinning face back to the road, letting his thoughts wander freely. It had simply had been another day in the lab, researching and pouring over paperwork. Walter had asked for "those lollipops with chewing gum inside" on several occasions. Astrid spent most of the day good-naturedly looking for something Walter claimed would help solve their latest case (three headed dogs found in an abandoned building in Danvers), only for him to remember reading it in a book. Olivia suggested they go to Hades. Peter suggested they watch the first Harry Potter. Just another day in the lab.

Peter pulled the car to the curb in front of the Dunham residence, letting the engine idle. He reached a hand out to touch her shoulder, but pulled back. Why should I wake her? She hasn't slept in weeks; even Walter's been noticing her raccoon-esque appearance. But they couldn't sit in the car all night. Someone was bound to call the cops. Not that that would be a big deal. He could imagine the look on whoever they sent when they found an FBI agent and FBI consultant.

"Olivia?" he whispered, secretly hoping she wouldn't wake. "We're, uh, you're home."

No response.

"Do you seriously want me to carry you upstairs? This is probably all part of your secret plot to land me in the hospital," Peter smiled.

No response.

"You asked for it." Peter unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching over to undo Olivia's. His hand brushed against her thigh, his eyes shot to her face to see if she had noticed.

No response.

Peter fumbled with the door handle, annoyed when it stuck. Why did Walter insist on keeping the same old car? Broyles had even offered to get us one. One from this decade. With a swift and mostly silent kick, it slid open, allowing the cold Boston air to fill the car's interior. He pulled his coat tighter around his torso and watched his breath turn to vapor. She's going to freeze. I hope she still keeps that spare key in the same place. Peter pulled open the passenger door (noting it was much easier), stealing a peek at her serene face. He slid a hand under her legs, the other behind her back.

Still no response.

For someone who lives off alcohol and pancakes with Ella, she's heavy! Peter staggered under her weight, somehow managing to lock the car (with his elbow) and close her door (with his back). He clumsily got the front door open and nearly groaned with the strain of bring her up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. You owe me, Olivia Dunham. Big time. Baby-sitting Walter for a week should do it. He loves waking up at three in the morning and rambling about the house. Don't let him eat Necco wafers for breakfast; he'll be crazy, even crazier I should say, all day. Peter accidently hit her door with his foot, and to his surprise, it opened.

A frazzled looking young woman greeted him. Auburn hair was pulled in a messy bun; a cell phone was opened in her right hand. "Is she okay?" the stranger squeaked, looking at Olivia in Peter's arms with fear.

"Shh! Yeah, she's fine," Peter whispered, brushing past her. "Who are you?"

The girl followed Peter closely, nearly stepping on his heels, as he carried Olivia to her bedroom. Spying Ella nestled under the blankets, he smiled. Ella's looking more like Rachel every day. Probably still as outspoken and bold as Olivia though.

Peter gently lay Olivia on the other side of the bed, careful not to wake her. He slid her shoes off and pulled the spare quilt folded on the bed's edge over her, tucking it around her sleeping form. Without thinking, he brushed a blonde strand out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. He let his fingers linger on her cheek perhaps a second longer than required, momentarily unable to pull his eyes away from her familiar face. If only I had a camera. If she could see how, how beautiful she was, maybe she'd stop running. Stop trying to fix what isn't her fault. Stop blaming herself for everything.

"Excuse me?" the young woman asked, snapping Peter out of his reverie. "What's going on? I mean, I expected Olivia to be back at eight, but she never called and I couldn't reach her –"

"Do you want to wake them up?" Peter frowned, silently slipping out of the bedroom. "And the twenty questions, it can stop now. Where's Rachel?"

"She had to go to Chicago, something with the divorce I think, poor thing –"

"You're the baby-sitter?" Peter cut her off.

"Yes, I'm Charlotte. I live downstairs and Olivia called me earlier asking if –"

"What do I owe you?" Peter sighed, pulling out his wallet. Anything to shut her up.

"What?" Charlotte asked, her bright green eyes clouded with confusion.

"Did Olivia already pay you? Or do I need to? And don't dare lie to me, I work with the FBI," Peter answered, loving that he could pull the I'm-with-the-government-not-running-from-it warning.

"She was going to pay me when she came home; I charge ten dollars an hour –"

"Ten dollars? You've got to be kidding me. I'll give you eight." Peter retorted.

"You were late; I was supposed to leave at eight. I should get extra for staying later –"

"Fine," Peter huffed, handing her three twenties. "You're not getting anything more, so don't complain. Just, just go home."

"I'm not sitting again, just wait till I tell Olivia her boyfriend –"

"Goodnight, Charlotte," Peter said, closing the door on the girl's face.

He leaned against the doorframe, closing his eyes. How in the name of alternate universes did he get himself into these situations? Baby-sitting mentally unstable scientists (who happened to be his father), working to solve cases that shouldn't even exist, possibly falling for a certain federal agent…

"Uncle Peter?" a small voice asked.

Great. Ella was awake.