When Olivia escorts Peter Bishop to his new apartment she doesn’t expect to see him again; it affords her the opportunity to be blunt, to ask what the other side’s like. When Peter provides an answer, voice husky with hidden emotion, Olivia excuses herself, returns to Lincoln and Charlie, the comfort of her team.
Her prediction of a media storm doesn’t occur. The next time Olivia meets the Secretary’s son, the ShowMe pinned to his shirt reads as Peter King. There can be no paparazzi if the prodigal son hasn’t returned.
Olivia, familiar with association, taps one nail against the ID pinned on Bishop’s chest and smirks. “Peter Pawn didn’t appeal?”
“It lacks a certain grandiose,” he retorts sarcastically.
Olivia brushes past him, amused, and follows Charlie and Lincoln to a class four event.
They come home dirty with sixty-eight civilians encased in amber. Olivia spots him near Astrid and she’s suddenly, inexplicably, pissed. “What’s Bishop even doing here?”
Lincoln shrugs noncommittally. “The Secretary’s indulging him.”
“Then indulge him at a playschool, he’ll be more useful there.”
Olivia strips her kit off in the change room, one arm braced against the tiles as the water skids off her shoulder, sloughs down the curve of her spine and tumbles off her ass. Sixty-eight civilians, thirty-eight males, seventeen females, thirteen children, their ages ranging from three to seventy-four respectively; there has to be an easier solution, she thinks wearily. Olivia doesn’t leave until Charlie hollers through the doorway about cold water, inconsiderate teammates, and his ailing muscles.
Peter returns the following day.
Olivia observes him out of the corner of her eye. Agent Farnsworth’s brittle in his presence, the staccato beat of her words rapid-fire, they divvy up the Orange computer system between them without conflict. It takes Olivia five hours to realize Peter’s actually *good* with Astrid, as if off-centre minds, poor social skills, are the norm by which he operates.
Peter never looks Astrid in the eye. He talks with his head bent, voice low until the vibration in Astrid’s demeanor levels. It takes Olivia longer to realize the tension Peter was holding (seen but not comprehended), has also diminished - as if Astrid’s presence were a harbor in a riptide ocean - floating safe above skeletal shipwrecks.
Thoughtful, Olivia returns to work.
The Orange O.S has the fastest random statistical program in America. Peter King apparently needs it and has his father’s blessing. Olivia decides as long as he’s out from underfoot, his presence in Fringe Division shouldn’t be too disruptive.
He doesn’t stay in the apartment. Peter stares at the line of comic book frames and feels it’s a mausoleum to a childhood he can’t remember. He’s not comfortable in the flat. Peter’s not comfortable anywhere. He walks the streets at night, braced against the cold, zigzagging from one corner of the city to the other; past Broadway, brothels, river-houses to the slums, he trails one finger over an amber breach, trying to find the pulse of a dying world, digging at the cyst where memory should reside. Inevitably, his journey ends at the Empire State building, forehead resting against cool glass as he watches the dirigibles float in. Sandy, twenty-two with a gap-toothed smile, a shy disposition, lets him be. The docking station never empties of people; their background buzz like the ramblings of a madman who talked all night. Soothed, Peter sleeps, knowing he’s nothing, nobody, to any of them.
The first time Olivia sees Agent Farnsworth smile she almost stumbles over her own feet.
Bishop’s reclined in a chair, legs stretched over the corner of the computer’s flat-screen as he talks; Astrid, per usual, has her eyes angled away. The smile on her face breaks like summer dawn, golden; breathtakingly warm. Asperger’s is a poor cousin to autism, sign-posted by social ineptness and higher mathematical reasoning; unlike its better known relative the emotions aren’t locked away but accessible, highly selective. It’s not unusual for a sufferer to converse with one person to the exclusion of everyone else. In Fringe Division, no one gave a damn what Astrid suffered from so long as she performed her assigned task; for that matter, no one tried to engage her either.
The beauty of Astrid’s smile is a revelation.
Olivia, halfway down the stairs comes to a complete stop, more tellingly, is the relief in Bishop’s eyes when he sees it.
Olivia meets with Lincoln and Charlie at Keggers (Lincoln’s choice) and they pass the night with round after round, their voices loud, rowdy with each outlandish story. Olivia nurses her drink while the boy’s knock theirs back, her stomach tight with laughter, with the joie de vivre she finds with these men. She walks home with Charlie’s arm tossed over her shoulder, with the memory of Lincoln boneless in his seat. Olivia would die for them without question, knows unequivocally they would do the same.
“What do you want with her?” Olivia might not drink with Astrid but she’s protective of anyone who might take advantage. Olivia doesn’t know Bishop, or King or whatever name he’s chosen, well enough to decide his game-plan (she’s actively avoided him since their conversation about the other reality), but where men and women mix there’s tension and she won’t see Astrid hurt.
Peter startles, the stubble dark on his cheeks. There are schematics laid out across the desk, hair standing on end as if he’s fisted it. “Good morning to you too,” he drawls.
“Are you trying to sleep with her?” It’s a natural extension, aggressive enough so Olivia can read his reaction. Peter’s expression flickers through half a dozen emotions before it turns ugly. Olivia regrets her choice of words, would snatch them back except the tone and accusation’s already out there.
“She was a friend on the other side, as for sleeping with this Astrid, Julie Henders might object.” The name means nothing to Olivia. Peter’s eyes are flint. “Anything else you’d like to know?”
She wants to know if the other Olivia has more tact, but she posed the question to gain an honest insight. Pandering to social niceties is a luxury Fringe, and Olivia, can’t afford. “Has anyone shown you the SOPs and evac procedures yet?”
Peter blinks. He leans back in his seat, motions toward the second window on his computer-screen. He’s doing his own research, trying to bridge the gap between the world he was raised in and the world he was taken from. The taste in Olivia’s mouth feels like ash, uncomfortable, because no one’s bothered to personally show him. Olivia shifts her stance. The Secretary may have given his son an ivory tower to live in, but he doesn’t spend every waking moment there.
“You have any questions, ask, immediately.”
Peter nods curtly. There’s thunder in his eyes, the earliest warning system known to mankind.
Olivia hesitates then walks away, unsettled as she slips into the pack-comfort of her team. He’s un-tethered, Olivia thinks and wonders briefly if her double would know how to settle him, take some of the wildness out of his runner’s frame. Peter’s an irritant, laced in the clothing beside Olivia’s skin. She finds herself watching him throughout the course of the day.
“Liv,” Lincoln greets, one hip propped against her desk.
“What is it?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
She swivels her seat, eyebrow cocked. “You’re looking clear-eyed today, especially considering last night.”
“You can thank my good looking charms to the wonders of Cold n’ Sobers.”
Olivia laughs. “Better than an espresso shot?”
“If I could remember what espresso tastes like I would agree.” Lincoln smiles disarmingly, and Olivia agrees, Lee’s charming and heartbreakingly young. He angles his head toward Peter. “How’s our kidnap victim?”
“Prickly.”
Lee drums his heel against the desk. “Out-fit him with an air canister and ear-comm, Astrid says the power usage in his apartment’s zilch.”
Olivia meets Lincoln’s eyes, an entire conversation in the space of a second, and nods.
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timeasmymeasure
Extension of a flawed Truth - red lincoln, red olivia, peter
Date: 2011-05-20 03:33 am (UTC)Her prediction of a media storm doesn’t occur. The next time Olivia meets the Secretary’s son, the ShowMe pinned to his shirt reads as Peter King. There can be no paparazzi if the prodigal son hasn’t returned.
Olivia, familiar with association, taps one nail against the ID pinned on Bishop’s chest and smirks. “Peter Pawn didn’t appeal?”
“It lacks a certain grandiose,” he retorts sarcastically.
Olivia brushes past him, amused, and follows Charlie and Lincoln to a class four event.
They come home dirty with sixty-eight civilians encased in amber. Olivia spots him near Astrid and she’s suddenly, inexplicably, pissed. “What’s Bishop even doing here?”
Lincoln shrugs noncommittally. “The Secretary’s indulging him.”
“Then indulge him at a playschool, he’ll be more useful there.”
Olivia strips her kit off in the change room, one arm braced against the tiles as the water skids off her shoulder, sloughs down the curve of her spine and tumbles off her ass. Sixty-eight civilians, thirty-eight males, seventeen females, thirteen children, their ages ranging from three to seventy-four respectively; there has to be an easier solution, she thinks wearily. Olivia doesn’t leave until Charlie hollers through the doorway about cold water, inconsiderate teammates, and his ailing muscles.
Peter returns the following day.
Olivia observes him out of the corner of her eye. Agent Farnsworth’s brittle in his presence, the staccato beat of her words rapid-fire, they divvy up the Orange computer system between them without conflict. It takes Olivia five hours to realize Peter’s actually *good* with Astrid, as if off-centre minds, poor social skills, are the norm by which he operates.
Peter never looks Astrid in the eye. He talks with his head bent, voice low until the vibration in Astrid’s demeanor levels. It takes Olivia longer to realize the tension Peter was holding (seen but not comprehended), has also diminished - as if Astrid’s presence were a harbor in a riptide ocean - floating safe above skeletal shipwrecks.
Thoughtful, Olivia returns to work.
The Orange O.S has the fastest random statistical program in America. Peter King apparently needs it and has his father’s blessing. Olivia decides as long as he’s out from underfoot, his presence in Fringe Division shouldn’t be too disruptive.
He doesn’t stay in the apartment. Peter stares at the line of comic book frames and feels it’s a mausoleum to a childhood he can’t remember. He’s not comfortable in the flat. Peter’s not comfortable anywhere. He walks the streets at night, braced against the cold, zigzagging from one corner of the city to the other; past Broadway, brothels, river-houses to the slums, he trails one finger over an amber breach, trying to find the pulse of a dying world, digging at the cyst where memory should reside. Inevitably, his journey ends at the Empire State building, forehead resting against cool glass as he watches the dirigibles float in. Sandy, twenty-two with a gap-toothed smile, a shy disposition, lets him be. The docking station never empties of people; their background buzz like the ramblings of a madman who talked all night. Soothed, Peter sleeps, knowing he’s nothing, nobody, to any of them.
The first time Olivia sees Agent Farnsworth smile she almost stumbles over her own feet.
Bishop’s reclined in a chair, legs stretched over the corner of the computer’s flat-screen as he talks; Astrid, per usual, has her eyes angled away. The smile on her face breaks like summer dawn, golden; breathtakingly warm. Asperger’s is a poor cousin to autism, sign-posted by social ineptness and higher mathematical reasoning; unlike its better known relative the emotions aren’t locked away but accessible, highly selective. It’s not unusual for a sufferer to converse with one person to the exclusion of everyone else. In Fringe Division, no one gave a damn what Astrid suffered from so long as she performed her assigned task; for that matter, no one tried to engage her either.
The beauty of Astrid’s smile is a revelation.
Olivia, halfway down the stairs comes to a complete stop, more tellingly, is the relief in Bishop’s eyes when he sees it.
Olivia meets with Lincoln and Charlie at Keggers (Lincoln’s choice) and they pass the night with round after round, their voices loud, rowdy with each outlandish story. Olivia nurses her drink while the boy’s knock theirs back, her stomach tight with laughter, with the joie de vivre she finds with these men. She walks home with Charlie’s arm tossed over her shoulder, with the memory of Lincoln boneless in his seat. Olivia would die for them without question, knows unequivocally they would do the same.
“What do you want with her?” Olivia might not drink with Astrid but she’s protective of anyone who might take advantage. Olivia doesn’t know Bishop, or King or whatever name he’s chosen, well enough to decide his game-plan (she’s actively avoided him since their conversation about the other reality), but where men and women mix there’s tension and she won’t see Astrid hurt.
Peter startles, the stubble dark on his cheeks. There are schematics laid out across the desk, hair standing on end as if he’s fisted it. “Good morning to you too,” he drawls.
“Are you trying to sleep with her?” It’s a natural extension, aggressive enough so Olivia can read his reaction. Peter’s expression flickers through half a dozen emotions before it turns ugly. Olivia regrets her choice of words, would snatch them back except the tone and accusation’s already out there.
“She was a friend on the other side, as for sleeping with this Astrid, Julie Henders might object.” The name means nothing to Olivia. Peter’s eyes are flint. “Anything else you’d like to know?”
She wants to know if the other Olivia has more tact, but she posed the question to gain an honest insight. Pandering to social niceties is a luxury Fringe, and Olivia, can’t afford. “Has anyone shown you the SOPs and evac procedures yet?”
Peter blinks. He leans back in his seat, motions toward the second window on his computer-screen. He’s doing his own research, trying to bridge the gap between the world he was raised in and the world he was taken from. The taste in Olivia’s mouth feels like ash, uncomfortable, because no one’s bothered to personally show him. Olivia shifts her stance. The Secretary may have given his son an ivory tower to live in, but he doesn’t spend every waking moment there.
“You have any questions, ask, immediately.”
Peter nods curtly. There’s thunder in his eyes, the earliest warning system known to mankind.
Olivia hesitates then walks away, unsettled as she slips into the pack-comfort of her team. He’s un-tethered, Olivia thinks and wonders briefly if her double would know how to settle him, take some of the wildness out of his runner’s frame. Peter’s an irritant, laced in the clothing beside Olivia’s skin. She finds herself watching him throughout the course of the day.
“Liv,” Lincoln greets, one hip propped against her desk.
“What is it?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
She swivels her seat, eyebrow cocked. “You’re looking clear-eyed today, especially considering last night.”
“You can thank my good looking charms to the wonders of Cold n’ Sobers.”
Olivia laughs. “Better than an espresso shot?”
“If I could remember what espresso tastes like I would agree.” Lincoln smiles disarmingly, and Olivia agrees, Lee’s charming and heartbreakingly young. He angles his head toward Peter. “How’s our kidnap victim?”
“Prickly.”
Lee drums his heel against the desk. “Out-fit him with an air canister and ear-comm, Astrid says the power usage in his apartment’s zilch.”
Olivia meets Lincoln’s eyes, an entire conversation in the space of a second, and nods.
tbc