Characters: Olivia Dunham, Lincoln Lee, Charlie Francis
A/N: This one is for Flor ( myflower ), just because you're awesome and you love Fringe so much. I'm a little rusty at writing and this is unbeta'ed so forgive me for the quality.
You grow, you roar
I know you
You'll learn to know
Your name is Olivia Dunham. You work for the Fringe Division with Charlie Francis and Lincoln Lee. Your boyfriend’s name is Frank.
And yet in the back of your mind, this all feels wrong. But like a dream upon waking up, the reasons for why that is are slowly drifting beyond your reach.
It happens one day unexpectedly. A glimpse into some other life.
“How’s your wife?” You ask Charlie and he stares at you like you’ve gone crazy again.
“Liv, I’m not married.”
You can feel Lincoln’s eyes boring into the back of your skull, his worry apparent even without one look at him. The room is as quiet as Boston encased in amber and filled with the same eerie chill.
You pause for a moment, probing the recesses of your mind, searching for the reason for your words.
His wife had red hair and a sweet smile. You’d had dinner at their house. They were thinking about having a baby.
But that was wrong, all wrong somehow, something from a dream perhaps. And no one would believe you otherwise. So you did the only thing you could think to do; you cracked a joke.
“Aren’t you and that worm in your left arm pretty attached? I thought you two were married by now.”
A snort of laughter erupted from Lincoln. Charlie looked relieved, but he still managed to act disgruntled as he replied, “at least I can settle down. With a face like that Lincoln, it may never happen for you.”
You smile as they fling harmless insults at each other, but inside you still feel shaken.
That night you dream about Charlie with one bullet hole in his head. The blood trailing down his forehead never stops flowing.
Every night you come home to Frank waiting for you. You love Frank, although you never seem to see him enough. You’ll probably end up getting married even if it matters little to either of you. You don’t get scared, it would be hard to deal with your line of work if you did, but having Frank is a comfort that maybe you can have something in your life that doesn’t have to be frozen in amber.
But lately when he kisses you, you feel someone else’s name on the tip of your tongue. His touch doesn’t comfort you in the way that it did. In retrospect, he tastes all wrong.
You’d heard of trauma patients or survivors of cancer feeling differently about their partners after their incident, but you know in your heart that that isn’t it. Though you know everything about him, it’s as if you’ve never really known him at all.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re scared.
It’s your birthday. You get home early to find a card in a white envelope slipped underneath your door. It should mean nothing, just a note, something for your birthday, but you feel yourself trembling as you reach down to pick it up off your floor. You stare at it for what seems like hours, afraid to open and see the words that are echoing through your mind, “thinking of you”. These words haunt you though you hardly know why.
When Frank walks through the door and asks what you have in your hand, you muster the courage to open it. Inside the card, it simply says, “Happy Birthday Sweetheart! Love Mom”.
“It’s a card from my mom,” you say weakly.
And suddenly, although you can’t place the motive, you understand why every time you fire off a round, you never miss.
You’re invited to The Secretary’s house for the first time. Although you believe he loves his wife, you know he rarely stays there. Their bond was quickly severed after the loss of their son.
As you wait for dinner, Mrs. Bishop takes you on a tour around their house. It’s gorgeous, with an overlook over the water and stunning architecture. And yet, you can’t help but notice how empty it feels.
In the living room, there are pictures on the table. Mrs. Bishop as a child, her wedding with The Secretary, the two of them posing with a young boy, presumably their son. But the last one is the one that catches your attention. It’s a candid pose, taken when he had been here only a few months before. He was studying some papers on the table, focused, his head bowed in concentration. You pick it up, absently stroking the frame.
“Did you meet my son Peter?” Mrs. Bishop asks as she looks over your shoulder.
“Only briefly,” you murmur. It’s what your head is telling you, that you meet him at the DOD and took him to his apartment. He was the boy from the stories.
And yet, you know he plays the piano, his favorite music is jazz, and that he carries a coin around in his pocket. He’s sarcastic and kind and maybe just a little bit lost. Inexplicably, he is the most familiar thing to you in this whole world.
And suddenly, you know with absolute clarity that despite everything your mind is telling you, you belong with him.