Lincoln wakes suffocating and disoriented, the last thought in his mind before the amber closed in on him that he was as good as dead. Whatever their plans for the future, he wasn't necessary, wasn't a priority. The burn of an injection at his neck clears both lungs and mind, and he draws in a deep breath as Peter grins down at him.
"Welcome back."
Lincoln coughs and tries to push himself upright, fails, flops back against the wall he's leaning again. "Thanks. I think."
"This will help."
He reaches for the bottle of water in Olivia's hand before it registers that, no - not Olivia. He blinks up in confusion, then feels something twist in his chest and realizes that he is completely, utterly screwed.
*****
He's been helping at the surveillance location, running data on the movements of the Observers and their military forces. He remembers Peter telling him about the timeline where he was an analyst, and thinks that really wouldn't have been a bad career. He doubts if analysts get shot at very often, and his ears are still ringing from the firefight they had with a group of loyalists that morning, not that she needs any help sneaking up on him.
Etta leans close, and Lincoln can feel the warmth of her on his back, on the side of his face as she peers over his shoulder.
"Anything good?"
Lincoln keeps his eyes on the monitor in front of him. "Define good."
She grins and looks sidelong at him, her eyes level with his.
"Hey," Peter barks. Etta just smirks at her father and leaves, smile softening when she glances back at Lincoln.
Peter leans against the desk, arms folded over his chest, jaw clenched. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything."
Peter glares.
"I'm not hitting on your daughter. That's just too many shades of weird."
"Good."
"Fine."
"You know," Astrid calls from across the room, "she's not a little girl."
Peter levels a finger at her and says, "You're not helping."
Astrid grins. "Not really trying to help."
*****
There's a crumbling building across from their makeshift headquarters. A few of the upper floors are mostly stable, and on the second, facing away from the bleak view of the city, Lincoln hides. The trees his hiding place over looks are mostly dead, and they sky is sickly gray, but sometimes he can't stand being around them - any of them.
Peter and Olivia vacillate between overwhelming relief at each other's presence and bitter resentment, not necessarily on the same schedule. And of course Lincoln is sure Peter wants to kill him, which doesn't help. Olivia, at least, seems like maybe, possibly she doesn't want to put him back in amber every time he so much as looks at Etta. Walter has good moments and terrible moments, with Astrid trying to tip the balance towards good. And Etta.
Lincoln thumps his head back against the concrete wall and closes his eyes, then thumps his head again. He wonders if he hits his head hard enough if he'll stop falling for people who he can't have.
"You're gonna break the wall if you keep that up."
His head snaps back hard enough to really hurt this time, and he winces. "Ow."
Etta swings over the edge of the ruined balcony and sits next to him. "Poor Lincoln. You want me to ki…"
"No," he says sharply, one hand on the back of his head.
She shrugs and pulls out a cigarette and lighter, and all he can do is frown at her - they've had this conversation to death already. Lincoln's pretty sure that when Peter finds out, he's going to blame Lincoln for it. The smoke curls over her lips and Lincoln stares.
"You actually want him to kill me, don't you?"
She laughs, a low, soft sound. "He's not going to kill you."
"I think maybe you underestimate the difficulty he's having coming to terms with the fact that you aren't four."
"I was three, and you're not having any trouble with that."
"I'm not your father."
"Thank god for that." She takes a drag on the cigarette and blows a perfect smoke ring. "That would be pretty awkward, given how I've been trying to get in your pants since we got you out of the amber." She stubs the cigarette out carefully, saving what's left, and turns to face him. "Lincoln, if you honestly are not interested in me, no feelings for me at all other than as the daughter of your friends, tell me now, and I'll leave you alone."
Lincoln's throat feels tight at the thought of that, the thought of her leaving him, ignoring him. He's frozen, stricken.
Etta leans forward, one hand skating along his jaw. "I didn't think so."
Her mouth is soft, bitter with the taste of smoke, hot against his. She straddles his lap, so close that her chest is pressed against his. He moves his hands without thinking, settling them on her hips. Her tongue is mapping the shape of his mouth, lips slanted over his. She grinds down on him and he arches to meet her, slides his hands into the warmth trapped under her jacket. She grins, teeth pressed into his lips, and Lincoln thinks he can taste the fierceness of her smile.
*****
The apartment is dark and quiet when he creeps back in, sneaking past a snoring Walter, past closed bedroom doors to reach the kitchen. Olivia's leaning against the wall in a shadowed corner where his cot is. He feels a moment of utter dread, then disappointment in himself that he'd gotten it wrong, which of them would kill him.
He holds his hand up and says, "Just make it quick, okay?"
She laughs. "I'm not going to kill you, Lincoln, and neither is Peter."
"Are you sure about that?"
She nods. It's hard to read her expression in the darkness. Lincoln's intensely aware that he smells like sex and cigarets smoke. Olivia pushes away from the wall. "Take care of her, Lincoln."
He says, "Olivia, she doesn't need anyone to take care of her," and he regrets it immediately.
Her face crumples. "Not now, anyway."
"Olivia…"
She shakes her head. "Just be good to her, okay?"
"Of course."
He watches her leave and lets out a long, slow breath before he curls up on the tiny cot and tries to sleep.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-09-30 03:23 am (UTC)Lincoln wakes suffocating and disoriented, the last thought in his mind before the amber closed in on him that he was as good as dead. Whatever their plans for the future, he wasn't necessary, wasn't a priority. The burn of an injection at his neck clears both lungs and mind, and he draws in a deep breath as Peter grins down at him.
"Welcome back."
Lincoln coughs and tries to push himself upright, fails, flops back against the wall he's leaning again. "Thanks. I think."
"This will help."
He reaches for the bottle of water in Olivia's hand before it registers that, no - not Olivia. He blinks up in confusion, then feels something twist in his chest and realizes that he is completely, utterly screwed.
*****
He's been helping at the surveillance location, running data on the movements of the Observers and their military forces. He remembers Peter telling him about the timeline where he was an analyst, and thinks that really wouldn't have been a bad career. He doubts if analysts get shot at very often, and his ears are still ringing from the firefight they had with a group of loyalists that morning, not that she needs any help sneaking up on him.
Etta leans close, and Lincoln can feel the warmth of her on his back, on the side of his face as she peers over his shoulder.
"Anything good?"
Lincoln keeps his eyes on the monitor in front of him. "Define good."
She grins and looks sidelong at him, her eyes level with his.
"Hey," Peter barks. Etta just smirks at her father and leaves, smile softening when she glances back at Lincoln.
Peter leans against the desk, arms folded over his chest, jaw clenched. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything."
Peter glares.
"I'm not hitting on your daughter. That's just too many shades of weird."
"Good."
"Fine."
"You know," Astrid calls from across the room, "she's not a little girl."
Peter levels a finger at her and says, "You're not helping."
Astrid grins. "Not really trying to help."
*****
There's a crumbling building across from their makeshift headquarters. A few of the upper floors are mostly stable, and on the second, facing away from the bleak view of the city, Lincoln hides. The trees his hiding place over looks are mostly dead, and they sky is sickly gray, but sometimes he can't stand being around them - any of them.
Peter and Olivia vacillate between overwhelming relief at each other's presence and bitter resentment, not necessarily on the same schedule. And of course Lincoln is sure Peter wants to kill him, which doesn't help. Olivia, at least, seems like maybe, possibly she doesn't want to put him back in amber every time he so much as looks at Etta. Walter has good moments and terrible moments, with Astrid trying to tip the balance towards good. And Etta.
Lincoln thumps his head back against the concrete wall and closes his eyes, then thumps his head again. He wonders if he hits his head hard enough if he'll stop falling for people who he can't have.
"You're gonna break the wall if you keep that up."
His head snaps back hard enough to really hurt this time, and he winces. "Ow."
Etta swings over the edge of the ruined balcony and sits next to him. "Poor Lincoln. You want me to ki…"
"No," he says sharply, one hand on the back of his head.
She shrugs and pulls out a cigarette and lighter, and all he can do is frown at her - they've had this conversation to death already. Lincoln's pretty sure that when Peter finds out, he's going to blame Lincoln for it. The smoke curls over her lips and Lincoln stares.
"You actually want him to kill me, don't you?"
She laughs, a low, soft sound. "He's not going to kill you."
"I think maybe you underestimate the difficulty he's having coming to terms with the fact that you aren't four."
"I was three, and you're not having any trouble with that."
"I'm not your father."
"Thank god for that." She takes a drag on the cigarette and blows a perfect smoke ring. "That would be pretty awkward, given how I've been trying to get in your pants since we got you out of the amber." She stubs the cigarette out carefully, saving what's left, and turns to face him. "Lincoln, if you honestly are not interested in me, no feelings for me at all other than as the daughter of your friends, tell me now, and I'll leave you alone."
Lincoln's throat feels tight at the thought of that, the thought of her leaving him, ignoring him. He's frozen, stricken.
Etta leans forward, one hand skating along his jaw. "I didn't think so."
Her mouth is soft, bitter with the taste of smoke, hot against his. She straddles his lap, so close that her chest is pressed against his. He moves his hands without thinking, settling them on her hips. Her tongue is mapping the shape of his mouth, lips slanted over his. She grinds down on him and he arches to meet her, slides his hands into the warmth trapped under her jacket. She grins, teeth pressed into his lips, and Lincoln thinks he can taste the fierceness of her smile.
*****
The apartment is dark and quiet when he creeps back in, sneaking past a snoring Walter, past closed bedroom doors to reach the kitchen. Olivia's leaning against the wall in a shadowed corner where his cot is. He feels a moment of utter dread, then disappointment in himself that he'd gotten it wrong, which of them would kill him.
He holds his hand up and says, "Just make it quick, okay?"
She laughs. "I'm not going to kill you, Lincoln, and neither is Peter."
"Are you sure about that?"
She nods. It's hard to read her expression in the darkness. Lincoln's intensely aware that he smells like sex and cigarets smoke. Olivia pushes away from the wall. "Take care of her, Lincoln."
He says, "Olivia, she doesn't need anyone to take care of her," and he regrets it immediately.
Her face crumples. "Not now, anyway."
"Olivia…"
She shakes her head. "Just be good to her, okay?"
"Of course."
He watches her leave and lets out a long, slow breath before he curls up on the tiny cot and tries to sleep.