Post #1

Apr. 16th, 2011 07:02 pm
fringekink_mod: Olivia, in bed and naked under the sheets (what? Totally!), eyes closed, smiling blissfully, hair fanned out on pillow (Default)
[personal profile] fringekink_mod posting in [community profile] fringe_kinkmeme
This is a kinkmeme. You may just be familiar with the concept.

If not: explicit, adult content; read at your own risk, and keep the kids -- wherever that arbitrary line is in your jurisdiction -- out. Also, please wear your seatbelt.

RULES

1. When prompting, use the comment field to jot down character, pairing, or moresome first, then the kink(s), then any other prompt elements; after a line break, you can elaborate via words, images, or links. Like so?



2. When responding, use the subject line for the original prompt (plus your title, if you have one).

3. All kinks are welcome -- sexual, emotional, conceptual, likewise all gen, het, slash, bitextual and other fic from crack to drama.

4. Anon is encouraged but up to you.

5. Mark all spoilers, mmkay?

6. Go for it!

REMINDERS

7. With a view to some prompts: Spell Check is your BFF. Don't make Alt!Astrid cry, please?

8. A kinkmeme's more than a promptmeme. Here's [personal profile] eliade's non-definitive and non-exhaustive (but pretty illustrative) List of Fan-fiction Kinks, Tropes, Clichés, and Fetishes.

9. Could you -- in the subject line or the first line of the body of text -- draw attention to the fact there's rape or non-con, major character death, underage, and/or graphic violence in your response (which is the Archive Of Our Own (AO3) policy).
From: (Anonymous)
(this would be the kink-part of the fic. Warnings for imitations of slash between two women; warnings for unlawful kidnapping, and an apology to the OP, I promise I'll never post a wip to this comm again)



There’s a good reason why Walter began the experiments in a tank of water, for one, it’s a soft landing if Dunham inadvertently jumped universes. Concentrate on where you want to be, except it’s difficult when plummeting to the earth. They materialise mid-air in the bridge-room, feet running on nothing like cartoon characters, three meters up. They hit the concrete with jarring impact, rolling apart, Olivia flat on her back, Dunham curled on her side. There’s blood on Dunham’s mouth, where she’s bitten her lip clean through, holding one arm close to her body as she rocks silently. Olivia let’s loose with string of profanities, trying to shake the pain off as the personnel in the room – momentarily frozen with shock – swarm around them.

***

“Who puts a cemetery near a cliff?” Olivia spits, vicious and hurting. “Bam a husband dies, let the widower take a nice stroll over the grounds, it lacks a certain foresight…and Walter, if you shine that light in my eyes again I swear I'll shoot you.”

“You seem your normal delightful self,” Walter observes candidly.

Her head won’t stop pounding; Olivia doesn’t know if it’s from the fall or what Tyler did, his fingers scrabbling in her mind, she looks away hurriedly. “I couldn’t do anything, Walter. God, how are we meant to *fight* people like that?”

It’s the wrong Walter and the wrong question. The Secretary would have given a rousing speech about defending home and hearth no matter the cost, but for the man who’s partially responsible for these so-called Soldiers, there is no answer. Walter’s eyes are watery, filled with remorse, he opens his mouth twice before he shuts it. You thought we were a threat all the way back in 1981, Olivia wants to accuse. Walter, who has the foresight to build armies decades in advance, doesn’t know how to respond to a question posed face-to-face with his enemy. Olivia wants to shake him by the shoulders.

“It wasn’t about war, not for Belly and me,” Walter defends, his voice wavering. “It was about science, we never intended…”

“You worked for the military,” Olivia interrupts tiredly. “How did you *think* it would pan out?” He conducted experiments on military bases with military brats; it’s at times like this Olivia thinks he’s more of an idiot savant than a true genius. “You don’t think about the consequences, Walter, or how people might use them. They’re nothing but monsters.” It’s the Secretary’s choice of word, but it feels good to let it go, to let the memory of Tyler, the film of black oil that smothered her self-control, drift away.

Walter’s eyes focus on a point over her shoulder.

When Olivia turns her head she sees Dunham walk into the change-rooms, her shoulders erect against any sign of discomfit. Olivia swears again, savage, under her breath.

The showers are hazy with steam. Dunham stands under the spray, eyes closed, water streaming down her body; out of sight of observation she holds one arm stiffly against her ribs and breast. The wing-span of her shoulder’s completely black, the tip of the bruise ending near her ribcage, the colours dwindling into malevolent storm-clouds, shot through with violets and greens. Nothing’s broken, but Dunham won’t be able to move her arm tomorrow. Her eyes are closed, the water on her face resembling tears. One foot’s arched, weight resting lightly on her toes, the line of muscles running from calf to thigh defined in subtle swells. Olivia’s never really looked before, never seen herself with a stranger’s eyes; from the pale column of a throat to the swell of firm breasts, flat stomach supported by the curve of her hips, light hair between her legs, this is the topography of Olivia’s body.

Olivia pulls her shirt off and skims out of her cargo’s, shares the same water under the same spray. If Dunham overheard her, Olivia can’t muster an apology. She thinks somewhere in Dunham’s hindbrain she agrees with what Olivia said; it twists her up inside, makes Olivia ache, as if it’s her own body bruised from multiple falls. She takes the soap and the wash-cloth, her actions meditative, quiet, and runs the cloth down the other woman’s back, gentle over the bruise, firm across the swell of her buttocks, discreet between her legs. Olivia takes her time, eyes lowered to the task, shares the silence, the ritual of wiping something clean and turns the other woman into the spray, lets the suds run from her body. Olivia stands upright, staring into eyes moss green. Dunham fits, perfect height, perfect size, the other woman drops her head and Olivia catches her, her breath moist and wet, her body juddering quietly, face tucked into the crook of Olivia’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia doesn’t say.

***

“I want to try one more time,” Dunham says a week later.

The Secretary frowns, he’s been pressing on them to return to the last reality, where Tyler was, where they know for sure Peter’s body can be found. Olivia turns from him and focuses on Walter. “Would you like to choose again?”

There are only a handful of snow-globes on the table. Walter hesitates then selects the one furthest to the left, holding it toward Dunham as if it’s precious, infinitely fragile.

Dunham holds her hand out and Olivia takes it, fingers intertwining, letting Dunham slip into distance, the celestial space she requires. Nothing happens, until suddenly it does. It’s not a bluff and it’s not a grave. They’re standing in the hallway to a motel, doors leading to either side, the muted sound of a television competing against quiet conversation. The import doesn’t strike Olivia until Dunham turns, her face sharp, predatory, and says. “He’s here.”

***

Peter walks on the edges of his feet, soundless, weapon canted toward the ground. Merrill’s hut lies fifteen minutes away, due west, a broken old pick-up’s parked on the property; Peter can hotwire it in less than five seconds. There’s a low mist hugging the ground, the moon’s weak light only bright enough to be misleading. Peter hears the woman before he sees her and drops into a crouch. FBI sounds suspiciously official but it’s nothing Peter’s heard before. He’s had a few run ins with the CCD but most people who expend energy finding him don’t have Peter’s best interests at heart.

And CCD doesn’t allow relatives to work together, let alone twins.

The blonde’s had military training at some stage, unlike Peter she doesn’t keep her weapon canted down but level with her eyesight, wherever her head turns the weapon follows. It cuts down on crucial seconds if there’s a gunfight. Peter’s earlier hope she might be less efficient than her partner, dwindles.

This better not be another ghost from his father’s past, he thinks bitterly.

It’s a universal habit for people to waste time assigning blame on someone else – Walter Bishop was executed twenty-six years ago for unlawful experimentation – but it hasn’t stopped people from turning the surname Bishop into a pariah. It hasn’t stopped people from trying to extract revenge on Walter’s remaining family. Peter grew up in schools where kids spat on the pavement as he walked past, where he came through the doorway of his house with bloody noses and torn clothes.

He watched his mother grow dark; her hands beginning to shake with tremors, reaching for alcohol, pills, escape. They moved houses so often Peter lost count. He’s come home to windows smashed in - to walls graffitied with animal’s blood - he’s come home to a cooling body, her hair a mess of riotous curls, a parentless house. Peter’s thirty-three years old; he’s had more names than a Russian novel and he’s been hated long enough to know the best defence is, hating everyone else in kind. He’s more criminal than legitimate; he’s own personal way of saying ‘fuck-you’ to the system that branded him before he reached ten.

If someone’s trying to shoot Peter in the middle of the night, he wants to know why.

The blonde walks past mere feet away and Peter rises, pivoting on one foot, one hand to her nape, the other on her upper shoulder, and slams her forehead into the tree. The punch is angled under her diaphragm, a quick jab, little force with maximum damage and the woman drops her weapon, feet buckling. She strikes out anyway, rattlesnake quick, one foot driving into his instep. Eerily, the fight’s silent, Peter from necessity, the woman out of self-habit.

Peter lifts her bodily and throws her, snatches the weapon she dropped on the ground, and aims, breath frosting the air.

She rolls into a crouch, one leg extended to the side, hand braced against exposed roots. She’s bleeding from a cut above her eyebrow and the expression on her face is nothing but fierce. She’s not the type to go quietly, there’s a part of Peter, locked down tight with control, which admires the tenacity. She’s beautiful; in a scary terminator kind of way, Peter lets his mouth tilt and asks cordially. “Were you looking for me?”

He’s perfectly happy being polite if he’s the one holding the gun.

She’s staring at him like a ghost; like Peter’s someone she didn’t expect to find. Her voice is low, musical. “Are you Peter Bishop?” When he doesn’t respond the woman frowns; she shifts position, drawing her leg in until she’s balanced on her haunches, arms resting carelessly on her thighs. “My name’s Olivia Dunham, we need your help.”

There’s something laughable about that, considering he’s been shot and chased from his motel. Peter lets his tone turn condescending, as rude as he can possibly be. “Darling, I’m all for having three beautiful women in my room, but there’s a little formality called ‘invitation’, and I don’t recall extending it.” He lets the smile drop, leans forward. “Who do you work for?”

“The FBI,” Olivia says evenly, as if the acronym isn’t gibberish.

“And what does that stand for?” Peter says sarcastically. “The Federal Bureau of Insanity?”

“A closer descriptive than I care to admit.” Her mouth curves; oddly, Olivia doesn’t seem phased by her position, her body relaxed, bright and intent. She wipes the blood from her eye as if it’s nothing but an irritant. “I need you to stay put for a minute and listen to what I have to say.”

“While your partner approaches from behind?” Peter puts his back to the tree, his voice nonchalant, at odds with the tension in his frame. He looks past Olivia and calls out. “You’re not going to kill me, you already had the chance, and you’re making my trigger-finger itchy standing in the shadows.”

The redhead emerges, weapon pointed true. “How’s the arm?”

“Peachy.”

She smirks, her eyes taking in the blood on Dunham’s face. “Liv?” she asks quietly.

The blonde shakes her head, the smile slipping the corner of her mouth up, a token reassurance as the three of them stand off against one another. “I’m going to tell you a story, Peter, and you’re going to listen, if you don’t, Olivia here will shoot you in the leg, and trust me, their medical technology can fix any injury she inflicts.”

He blinks rapidly, parsing out her sentence and coming up short. “You have a strange way of asking for help.”

“It’s true,” the redhead mutters, half under her breath.

Dunham lays the story out, the bare-bones of a universal cock-up, a war barely averted, a Bridge that needs to be separated, and a DNA code, a force of will to guide it. Peter doesn’t blink throughout the recital, nor does he lower the weapon. The redhead doesn’t shift position either and Peter feels she could stand there forever, her aim never wavering. When Dunham finishes there’s silence for almost two minutes.

“You’re telling me he built a Bridge, and in doing so, wiped himself out of existence. And now that you’ve found the solution, you want me to dismantle the same Bridge and…what? Wipe myself out of existence, too?” Peter’s smile is all teeth. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry to say, but colour me unenthused.”

“You did it before.” Olivia says, the gun a comfortable weight in her palm

Peter looks over defiantly, words sharp enough to cut glass. “Whatever experiences *your* Peter had, they’re not mine. Find yourself another solution.” He slips to the left, leaving the shelter of the tree. “I'm sorry ladies, but I can’t help you.”

Olivia refocuses, drops the sight a fraction to the left. Dunham waves her hand, watching Peter intently. He’s almost out of sight when Dunham sighs, palm upturned, and Olivia remembers Tyler, telekinesis or mind-control, her will pushed down like a bug in her own skin.

Peter drops abruptly, face down on the ground, all four limbs stretched as if chained, the muscles in his body corded, spine arched. Olivia hears him grunt, lungs expelling air. Dunham says tonelessly. “Stop fighting.”

Olivia holsters her weapon, trots over briskly and snaps the cuffs on his wrist, binding his hands behind his back. Peter's eyes are squeezed shut, blood flowing from his nose as he struggles. Olivia ruffles his hair in commiseration. “It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Whatever’s holding him releases. Peter curls inward, coughing helplessly. Olivia snags her finger on the chain and forces him upright onto his knees. He twists to stare over his shoulder, searching for Dunham. Up close he’s younger than Olivia first thought, the stubble hiding it well. His eyes are blown wide, startled. Olivia stands, waits until Dunham’s close, then wipes the blood from her forehead, kisses her once on the lips in celebration, a barely-there touch, because this is it, they found him. “You wanted to know what Peter Bishop was like,” she teases.

Dunham looks at her solemnly, regret already written in her eyes.

“Wait,” Peter says, he’s dropped the attitude, his voice raw. “Wait…please. If you take me *anywhere* against my will, if you put me near that Machine, I swear to god I’ll make your life difficult.” He looks between them, reading their combined expression as if it’s the written page. “Please…”

Dunham wraps her fingers in Olivia’s hand, blood tacky between them. With the other, she wraps her hand around Peter’s neck, palm against throat, her thumb jabbing into the soft flesh under his chin, forcing his head backward. “I’m sorry,” Dunham whispers, and lets his world fall away.
From: (Anonymous)
Jesus Christ. It was amazing. Thanks, thanks, thanks a lot.
From: (Anonymous)
Damn. This is one of the best Fringe stories I've ever read. I love this so very much.
From: (Anonymous)
Love love love.
goodbyebird: Fringe: Two versions of Olivia, one blue and one red. (Fringe and then there were two)
From: [personal profile] goodbyebird
Absolutely marvelous! Straight into my Top Ten. *snuggles this forever*

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