Post #1

[fringekink_mod]

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 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).

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Peter/Olivia/Lincoln, post-A Short Story About Love

Peter and Olivia get their (fairy tale, spinning-slowly-in-an-embrace) happy ending. Now it's Lincoln's turn! Initially sort of awkward, functional threesome. Porn or otherwise -- I just want to see Lincoln made happy by people who care about him!

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 1

[(Anonymous)]

[small spoilers for Nothing Is As It Seems]






He doesn't want to, but he needs to. "Olivia," he says, softly. "About Lincoln."

She looks up, and there's a flash of guilt on her face that's most people wouldn't catch. He loves her for everything she is, but most of all for how she cares. Olivia exhales, says evenly, "Yes?"

"He's not doing well."

"He's doing well in Fringe Division." But he can see her heart isn't in it. Lincoln Lee is in love with her and has been for a while. Peter feels guilty, although he knows his own nudges weren't necessary. Lincoln and Olivia fit well together, everywhere. Olivia glances down at her chipped mug cup of coffee, the newspaper spread out in an oddly un-Dunhamish chaos across the breakfast table in front of her. "Okay, so. Lincoln has feelings for me. What are we going to do about it?"

"I don't know, but we need to do something." Peter thinks about Lincoln, his expressive face and unwavering loyalty. He is a good guy, but that's not all there is because Peter thinks about him in that tank-top too. It's Peter's turn to level his breathing.

Olivia glances at him, and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth is half-serious, half-sweet. "I know. We will."

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 1

[(Anonymous)]

BWEEEEEEEEEEEE

"We will." So much love.

tbc, right? Say yes.

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 2

[(Anonymous)]

"So the plan is to dose Agent Dunham with cortexiphan?" Broyles's voice is low, as ever when he asks the important questions, but Lincoln thinks he could probably be heard at the other edge of the bullpen. Not that it needs to; the three of them are standing in an almost perfect half-circle around his desk: Olivia and Peter and him. 'Almost', because Olivia and Peter always stand a little closer to each other than strictly required these days. And 'perfect' is for these two and these two alone, clearly.

Olivia lifts her hands in a What Can I Say, Sir? apology. "Afraid so."

Broyles doesn't sigh, but it's clearly a close thing. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate."

Peter does. "Walter and I had a breakthrough with the data on the second memory disc -- the one from the shapeshifter killed in the quarry, who was wearing the form of Nadine Park."

"I recall that memory disc was compromised?"

"It was." Peter looks at Broyles, and Lincoln is struck by how different the man seems: still confident, but that's shifted to the inside. Peter's found his inner balance (Peter has found Olivia). Still he appears to realise his overall situation isn't still a little precarious in a universe that isn't his home. Although, come to think of it, it's no longer Olivia's either. She's so...radiant, but Lincoln wonders whether she has considered every angle, or if Peter has. "The disc was damaged, though, when I shot her clean through the side and in turn hampered the self-destruct mechanism. So while a lot of data was lost, a little remained."

Lucky shot. If not so much for the shapeshifter, Lincoln thinks wryly and picks up the thread. "From the fragments of information retrieved, we gathered it's the same shapeshifter that we met in the industrial area at Avon Station." He feels his voice waver for a moment because talking about it makes him recall the scene -- makes him recall the monster wearing Robert's face. No one but him does...except that when he glances at her, Olivia is looking straight at him, a frown of concentration on her face until that fades like clouds in front of the sun and she gives him a sad sideways-smile full of comfort. He swallows. "It seems there was more to the make-shift lab than we realised."

"The one where he tried to manufacture the temporary cure, where Agent Dunham -- our Agent Dunham -- surprised him." Broyles is definitely interested. "Continue, Agent Lee."

"Of course." Lincoln checks with Peter, gets a tiny nod from him. "From the stored data and per Dr. Bishop's assessment, the properties of the initial masking agent of their genetic instability, that temporary cure, as you call it, depended on the precise set-up of the instruments. If we can replicate it, we may be able to reverse-engineer a substance that will safely reveal these creatures."

Broyles doesn't ask about why they continued their old experiments in a different venue. It's answered pretty clearly by the regular notification mails from the Fringe Science Division about their lack of progress on adapting Walternate's weapon, and of course the initial report Peter wrote about how it worked on the man posing as the other universe's Brandon Fayette. What use is anything that reveals and kills in the same instance?

Broyles does ask the pertinent question. "How does the cortexiphan for Agent Dunham come in?" His long fingers spread out over the surface of his desk as if he wanted to hold onto something more tangible than this nexus of technology and transmuted alchemy Lincoln still can't believe is his life.

Olivia inhales. "Walter thinks I will be able to recall the Avon Station laboratory then -- everything in it." They've poured over the files, all of them, each of them; no one but Walter understands cortexiphan and its effects on the mind and everything it stores, except of course William Bell, long deceased in all the universes they know by now. "While it was coursing through my system, I was able to manage two sets of memories. When...the Other Nina stopped dosing me, my memories were being gradually replaced."

"This could be a coincidence, of course," Lincoln adds, tampers down all the misgivings he's already voiced. "We haven't pin-pointed the mechanics of that bleed-through, except that it's not Peter per se."

Peter nods. "Correlation, not causation." His rocks forward on his heels, and when Olivia turns toward him, his eyes are dark, hooded. He's worried for her.

Olivia's eyes soften, but stance remains firm. "It's my decision, though. And yours, ultimately." She gives Broyles a tight-yet-bright smile. "We are aware of the dangers but feel it's our best option."

"I will admit the thought of a shapeshifter in our midst is not exactly putting me at ease." Broyles nods. "I assume the manufacture of more cortexiphan is possible?"

"Yes, it is." Olivia nods; Peter smiles. Even Lincoln, who hasn't exactly had reason to be cheerful lately, relaxes a fraction The vials from Massive Dynamic were gone forever, of course. But buoyed by the thought of a Peter Bishop belonging here now, to him, Walter managed to reconstruct the formula for cortexiphan from his mind with only Astrid, a whiteboard, and an array of drugs they could probably make millions with if marketed, especially to harrowed Harvard students come exam-time.

"Keep me abreast," Broyles tells them, and Olivia promises.

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 3

[(Anonymous)]

In the lab, Walter is already waving a syringe with more enthusiasm than care, and Astrid is wisely stepping back and, just as appropriately, rolling her eyes. "Walter."

"Right, right. I'd say your memories don't need retrieving, my dear." He smiles indulgently at Astrid, teasing a mirror expression out of her, before pivoting until he faces the three of them making their way down the steps. "Come here, Olivia!"

She does, and wonders only for a fleeting moment if she would not if Broyles given any other answer, any other command than the free pass they all received just now. Forks in the road. At any rate, she's still choosing the path less travelled by.

Also, migraines and nausea.

As if he were the one with telepathic abilities, Walter squints at her and says, "By the way, I've added some sumatriptan to be automatically activated in case of an attack so you should not experience any crippling headaches again this time." He raises an expectant eyebrow, so Olivia purses her lips and thanks him, with feeling.

Astrid welcomes her, leading her to the doctor's chair, hands gentle and eyes more so. Her expression is as easy to read as those of Peter and Lincoln. "Are you sure, Olivia?" The back of Astrid's hand brushes hers. She misses her friend, Olivia realises. Misses the fellow field agent who would lean in to share a smile and a joke across a lab table: across no space at all. But there are no matter-of-fact file folders detailing the private moments between her and Astrid; there is nothing Olivia can read up on and learn by heart like a poem crammed in a Jacksonville classroom with pale-blue walls in fourth grade.

"I'm sure," she says, louder than she thought she would, looks over to Peter and Lincoln. When Astrid's hand squeezes hers, she presses back.

The injection itself is...actually anti-climatic.

"How do you feel?" Peter asks her over dinner, and it takes Olivia a moment to take note because she doesn't really feel any different. But he's looking at her, and the recent softness of his face is gradually replaced by the sharpened features she remembers from the man thrown head-first into this brave new world. It's not her perception, though. It's him. Peter is scared of losing her again. The thought makes her heart ache and her arm reach out. She curls her fingers around his next to the plate of penne all'arrabbiata.

"I'm fine." At his expression, she laughs. "Peter, I'm not bending the truth here. No headache. And I'm not forgetting you again."

"What makes you so certain of that?" Oh yes, there's an edge to his words, one not aimed at her but the universe at large, so intent on pulling the rug from under Peter Bishop at regular intervals.

"I've dreamed about you ever since the Bridge was formed. Before the first shot of cortexiphan. You and I, we're real." Little else in this world is, although the comfort of these so-similar versions of her chosen family ground her in ways she probably can't even fathom, from Astrid over Walter to a Lincoln who has throughout this transformation felt so familiar to her, closer than any FBI partnership warrants. She puts down her fork, stands up without letting go of his hand so he has to as well. "Are you done?"

Peter doesn't even look down at the rest of his noodles. "With the food, yeah." The hunger in his eyes is of a different kind.

Something down in her belly blooms hot, spirals lower still. "Good."

And upstairs, in his bedroom, they are just that.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 3

[(Anonymous)]

*sits down happily*

Brilliant start, smart writing with 'science-y' things going on and an actual plot. Loving the relationship between Peter and Olivia, very curious as how and when the cortexiphan memories are going to manifest.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 3

[(Anonymous)]

OP here — this is just wonderful, wonderful. So sharply written and exquisitely characterized. I've read it twice already and I can't wait to see where you take it. Your Peter and Olivia are so lovely and I'm giddy with eagerness to see how Lincoln fits into it all. Already it's everything I wanted from this prompt and more. Thank you! ♥

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 3

[(Anonymous)]

I can haz Peter/Olivia/Lincoln smut nows? ;) pwease?

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 4

[(Anonymous)]

The click of the handcuffs is loud, echoed by steel beams and half-open spaces. His own breathing sounds harsh to Lincoln's ears as he hovers over the perp, one of his knees lodged firmly if inappropriately in the guys' kidneys, and the other one balancing his weight on the concrete floor. In spite of the extreme traction of the cuffs pulling up his shoulders, he doesn't scream, doesn't make any sound at all. Damn, Lincoln really has to add wrestling to his training roster if they keep this up. Flying porcupines and the evil scientists who love them are one thing; one-hundred-years-old, liver-eating mutants with a fetishistic focus are another one entirely.

"Hey," Olivia says, and it's oddly gratifying to hear she too is slightly out of breath, "thanks for getting him."

"No problem," Lincoln says, wrenches the -- guy? creature? up, up and away until he's lost in a sea of blue and yellow jackets. Once out of the throng of agents, he glances at Olivia, who has fallen neatly into step with him. "Did you see the...shrine? The creepy altar?"

"Of mementos of his victims, including the black wool cap I thought I'd lost? Yep." She gives him a smile that's even warmer than the ones he's been getting (and that have slowly been driving him crazy). "I'd been hoping you hadn't seen it all. Yet another item on the list."

Lincoln has to force himself not to react. "The list."

"Of things that make it hard for you --"

"--to sleep, yes. Olivia." He stops abruptly, looks back to check there's no one else around. They've almost reached the eastern staircase, its heavy door. Lincoln's left hand slips on the handle; he balls it into a light fist before he speaks again. "That's from our conversation, conversations-plural. What exactly do you remember?"

Olivia looks down, away from his searching gaze, but it's not that; it's not only that. He can see the blush on her cheeks even in this dimly lit industrial basement. "Everything."

Lincoln suddenly knows why feathers were once upon a time chosen to signify hope: because he feels their soft flutter in his his chest.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 4

[(Anonymous)]

Hello, Eugene Victor Tooms. It's nice to see you again (kind of). Even if it's not exactly you, but some sort of your double..?

Besides, the story is amazing and very well-written. Thank you.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 4

[(Anonymous)]

Lincoln has to force himself not to react.
Oh, Lincoln, so hesitant to dare to hope! Loving every installment of this so hard! Lincoln's quiet longing, Olivia's hesitant unspoken offer...*chinhands*

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 5

[(Anonymous)]

"Okay, what did he do then?" Peter shifts away from the lab table he's been leaning against and lets his voice drop so Astrid can't hear; at least Walter is already engrossed in setting up beakers and distillers, bunsen burners and petri dishes precisely as Olivia told him to. Peter's mouth is dry, and he isn't sure about the feeling in his stomach either. But it's hard to tell anxiety from breathless anticipation: the rush of adrenaline to the system is exactly the same.

It all just depends how you handle it.

Olivia runs a quick hand through her hair and gives him a half-shrug that he'll never find anything but adorable. "Lincoln said that was great, very quietly. That we could gather the data now, re-engineer what he calls 'the shapeshifter potion'." She bites her lip, looks directly at him. "Peter, I wanted to touch him so badly. Just -- reach out and reassure him."

"Yeah." Peter doesn't ask her of what; it's clear as a North Pole summer's day. He hasn't yet seen the two of them together, because Lincoln took off on a mission that, as Olivia relayed with one raised eyebrow of doubt, had to do with utterly essential paperwork. To be fair, it probably is; Lincoln is nothing if not a dilligent agent keen on sharing essential information as soon as possible. But Peter remembers very well the interaction between them just weeks ago, when he thought Olivia-and-Lincoln were a great match, half in love -- more like three-thirds there.

He still thinks so, leagues below the rolling churn of mine, mine, mine. There's something else he has to dive for, but very deep at all. "I get it -- well, parts of it. Not just the ones relating to you."

Olivia almost-smiles and scrunches up her nose. "Relating to Lincoln, you mean." At his stare, she half-laughs. "Your expression when you first brought this up. It's the face you make when you're undecided about sharing something you've done, or felt." The shadow that passes over her face is brief and has nothing to do with this time-line at all.

Peter also lets it go, nods slowly. "Lincoln and I just don't feel like purely platonic pals, and haven't ever since we met. That's actually something you can't remember, because William fucking Bell had hijacked your body."

She tilts her head, and no, that's not a happy memory. "Dana Grey and the electromagnetic cohesion of her physical self. Lincoln came from Hartford to join you on that case; his report said you had pooled your resources perfectly, and that future cooperation would be welcome."

Peter has to grin. And how. "'Cooperation' is only the G-rated term for it. I was pre-occupied with getting you back, Olivia. But he was as hot as he's here, in his nerdy, please-rip-my-starched-shirt-off way. In a whole different world -- one without you -- I would've given it a shot." Even with his mind fully on Olivia and not responding to that level of Lincoln's interest, Peter recalls idly contemplating the fastest way to take this guy's glasses off, not to mention everything else.

"Lincoln and you." Olivia looks at him, and there's no shock or amusement in her eyes. It's a different expression altogether. She smiles, but not at him; it's soft and unfocused. "I'd wondered what you'd been up to before we met."

"Hey, don't knock it till you tried it." He feels himself frown curiously at her. "You haven't --"

"No." Olivia's mouth quirks, and she steps closer. Her fingertips graze the lapels of his coat, slide upward until they come to rest on his shoulders, lightly but if ever an anchor there was. "But I can see it. And as for Lincoln --" she catches his gaze, "he had this partner, Robert."

"Yeah, he told me. Married guy, partners for five years. You mean --"

"He loved him. Like I loved John. And from what he told me and indirectly showed me, he was really close to Robert's wife too, Julie." That one's obvious enough, because in the short time-span they've had this timeline's Lincoln join them, Peter has counted that Lincoln has visited Julie half a dozen times despite Hartford being a two-hour drive away.

"Really really close, you're saying? To both of them?"

"Yep." Her smile is bright, and if this weren't Olivia he was talking to, he'd think it was a little scared as well. "Peter, what are we considering to do here?"

Peter swallows. "The right thing." He knows it is the moment he says it.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 5

[(Anonymous)]

God, I love this. Really really love this.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 5

[(Anonymous)]

Lovely, just lovely. So much focus on their worries about Lincoln being happy! Ah, I love it. 'The right thing' indeed!

(And also? Caught this line after a third reread - the shadow that passes over her face is brief and has nothing to do with this time-line at all." Augh, right in the heart!)

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 6

[(Anonymous)]

Walking down the white-walled corridor to the elevator, Olivia shoves her hands into her coat pockets. She still feels them shaking, but this way at least no one can see. Meeting Nina again has actually let the tremors subside just a little: Nina's face, almost as familiar as her own again (if not from early mornings and late-late nights then a tv screen or the bright-blue Dynamic videochat window on the monitor). Nina's eyes gradually softening with a forgiveness that had made Olivia's own water. Olivia doesn't cry. Usually she doesn't.

Olivia blinks twice, enters the code, and presses the button. When the lift doors whoosh open to the proper floor where Walter is hopefully not being too improper, Lincoln greets her as if he's been waiting for her. "I was just about to -- well, not come and get you." He smiles at her helplessly yet happens to be all the partner help she ever wanted. "I figured you and Nina needed some space."

Space, and time -- the latter will heal them both, she thinks. If she can keep this up. This last hour made worthwhile what she's been wondering about ever since the memories started coming back. It's true she doesn't have any migraines or physical side-effects this time around, as she's been telling Peter and Lincoln thrice-daily. But what she hasn't been telling them in great detail is the twin-set of memories rendering her mind such unsteady ground with trip-wires everywhere.

Olivia did have tears in her eyes that she didn't even wipe away two years ago and didn't need to because Rachel was grinning from ear to ear and doing it for her, using a checkered kitchen towel because that's where Olivia held Eddie in her arms for the first time; Olivia on that same day off rode a rollercoaster with Ella, and what she remembers is not her own utter terror at the dip of the wagon going down but Ella's high-pitched, joyful shriek and her small, warm hand in Olivia's. She rode Bloom to rousing, applause-filled victory, her first one, in nineteen-ninety-two; that same summer she added only the last in a long number of track-and-field medals to the collection hidden, on nails hammered perfectly straight, in the back of her wardrobe: where no one could smash it or, worse, take it away. She'd taken her stepfather's Golden Boy .22 out of the unlocked case (not that it would have mattered) and a shot that hit the mark; the very same shot had only served to make his anger burn less hot but much more steadily.

"Olivia," and then there's Lincoln's hand at her elbow, not hesitant at all. "Please don't give me another I'm fine, okay?" His eyes are wide and earnest, their blues and greys shaded with worry. "Because you and I know that I know you're not." He frowns. "That was unnecessarily complicated, wasn't it?"

She huffs out what she hopes is closer to a laugh than a sob, and the world swims into focus again. "A little." She lets herself lean in into his firm touch, turns toward him. Lincoln's strong underneath his prim suits. Up close, she can see the fine lines around Lincoln's eyes, how the the gentle curve of his mouth has tightened over the last few months. She wants to kiss it, feel it soften under her lips. Because her life really needs more complications such as this one. "Lincoln."

"Yep," he says, and she can feel his words; they're standing so close as to be breathing the same air. She knows there are people around, and a Massive Dynamic hallway really isn't the fitting place for this topic, but she doesn't want to pull away -- doesn't want to do anything at all to change the way Lincoln Lee looks at her right now. "When we're done here and Walter and Peter have instructed the team regarding the injection gun design, let's talk, you and me. About everything." She looks away from his mouth that's shifting into a tiny smile, up into his eyes, bright and keen. "Everything including all of us."

Lincoln's lashes are impossibly long and dark. "I...I'd like that."

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 6

[(Anonymous)]

Wonderful. I'm especially fond of the memory montage in the middle. Poor Olivia! And ah, I didn't realize how much I missed the intimacy between Lincoln and Olivia on the show and it almost hurts a little in a good way to see it here. Another gorgeous update!

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 7

[(Anonymous)]

[Wow, if you want your hurt/comfort fix, come and get it while it's hot.]



He's seen her hands tremble, the way Olivia's jaw clenched: not all the time but in flashes, especially when no one is talking to her. When she or her mind go wandering off. Lincoln can't even reconcile the one reality he lives in any more, and Olivia has to juggle two time-lines in her head, each a multi-verse in turn. He's been asking, sure, but Olivia is not exactly the answering type. It's not even him, he's pretty sure. Peter has been looking frustrated as well, these last few days before their New York trip. Lincoln's Is she okay? was met with an uncharacteristically terse Peter response, Does she look to you like she's okay? Which was bad in and by itself but a relief to Lincoln's selfish side, just like Peter's sigh and follow-up: Olivia isn't big on sharing her burden, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. And it's not like there's a lot of precedent here: We need to keep an open mind. The look and the light but lingering grip on his biceps that Peter gave him made Lincoln nod and fight down the tingle of heat down his spine. Mute, though, because he didn't know how to breach that this wasn't just about Olivia's memories. It was also about what they'd brought back with them.

He stares at the slightly worse-for-wear door of Peter and Olivia's Hotel Pennsylvania room. Of course they are lodging in #42. Of course. He checks his watch; it's not yet 9pm, and he doesn't want to be early. Lincoln's punctuality has made Peter smile ever since they met, a flash of mirth from someone Lincoln thinks made it a point not to be too predictable. But Lincoln doesn't mind being just that; it's probably a factor in Olivia's invitation earlier this day. The back of Lincoln's neck prickles. They're all adults and agents, respectively former rogues, too; he's pretty sure the famed Dunham & Bishop duo has deduced his prior relationship with Robert and Julie. But what went so well with the two of them until death did part them always felt unique, once-in-a-lifetime.

Then again, none of these words hold much truth any more in what are, after all, ever-shifting universes. That you can travel forward and backward and bend to your will sometimes. He should try some of that just about now.

Lincoln tries to calm himself down, calm his body down, because this could all be a huge misunderstanding, and walking in with the beginnings of a hard-on would just add extra sprinkles to the problem sundae. He knocks on the door, firmly.

Olivia opens it, and God, she's breathtaking, back-lit. Her hair is open and in slight disarray as if she's just taken out the ribbon holding it back so sternly; single strands are falling into her face. The blush on her cheeks definitely doesn't stem from a make-up box. "Come in."

Into the fray, which of course is just an ordinary, a little old-fashioned hotel room. But it holds the infinite attraction of a nervous, smiling Olivia, plus Peter lounging in a chair and stretching out his long-long legs as if he were perfectly relaxed. Which he isn't. Lincoln knows him even less well than he knows Olivia, but Lincoln's not become an FBI analyst because of his pretty face. "Hi," he breathes, then can't help but give a little laugh at the expressions on both their faces. "Wow, this is awkward."

Peter's face eases into a grin, "And to think that's only just the beginning." He catches Lincoln's gaze. "If that's what you want."

"Yes." The word is out before Lincoln can even think, let alone carefully consider his next move. Dimly, he wonders if they should even discuss Olivia's mind and the mess it must be right now, but she seems very much in this moment (and no other).

Olivia looks pleased and surprised when she looks from Peter to him. "Right, the two of you already have an understanding; that's great." There's humour in her voice, tentative, but it's there. "I don't really know how to say it, Lincoln."

Lincoln smiles at her, and it's easy now because when she looks at him, longing and -- a lot more in her eyes, he knows hasn't misread anything at all. "I thought you two would have a cleverly devised plan." He looks around the room. "Or at least champagne."

He would never have bet on it, but Olivia giggles, glancing down. "Peter actually proposed we get some -- three bottles, he said, one eyebrow raised. He thinks that's cute."

"Well it is," Lincoln says before he can second-guess himself, and he loves the low chuckle from Peter in response.

"Told you so, 'livia." There's more than one meaning in this, and Lincoln may have to reconsider his behavioural patterns, because even though Peter is bound to be great at pin-pointing people's true motivations, it's still a little disconcerting that Lincoln's reaction to him him was that obvious. "But you should tell him something."

Olivia snorts, softly, and Lincoln grimaces. "Um, that sounds suspiciously like, throw the poor boy a bone."

"The things I could say...and all of them are double entendres." Peter's smirk is devilish, delighted. Most of all it's real.

"Lincoln," Olivia says and takes a deep breath before coming up to him. Lincoln thinks he should probably looks at something else but her mouth. But it's too much of a challenge right now. "I'm not particularly good with emotions -- putting emotions into words. But." Her smile is so...intimate when she takes his hand, laces his fingers with his. Olivia tugs and Lincoln steps up, steps so close that their bodies are touching and the world shrinks to envelop only this hotel room. With her other hand she touches her fingertips to his cheek, to steady him or her or maybe both, and okay, yes, this is really happening; she's really going --

Olivia's lips are on his, sweet but insistent, and Lincoln opens his mouth. He can't help the shiver and reaches out, blindly, sliding his hands into the small of her back to pull her to him a little harder than intended. Olivia melts into his embrace, kisses him hungrily, as if she's thought about it a dozen, a hundred times, just like him. Her hand slides around his neck, curls around its back to stroke his hair, holds him tight. Possessive. He likes it; he loves how she feels in his arms and how she tastes and oh, he wants more, right now, right here. He wants everything.

When Olivia and he come up for air again, their breathing is definitely not the only thing that's hard. Lincoln doesn't want to let go of her. He mirrors Olivia, though, when she looks back at the armchair and Peter in it. Peter's mouth is half-open, and his eyes are a little glassy. "Okay, you two are just -- there's probably a New York State law against people being this gorgeous."

Olivia laughs, and the roughness of her voice coupled with how joyful she sounds sends another spiral of lust through Lincoln. "What do you think, Peter?"

"Actually," Peter says, his thumb playing with the button of his slacks; there's lot going on below, which makes Lincoln stare before he looks up at Peter's face again, "I'm pretty sure my brain has checked out for the night. Lincoln, I can sit back, if you like."

"This time," Olivia says softly, looking back at Lincoln, her eyes a starburst of green and amber. "I mean, you don't have to -- we both like you. But we haven't done this before," at his millisecond glance over to the chair, the hint of a smile appears on her lips, "no, not even Peter. So we're open to suggestions."

"I guess what we're trying to ask, Lincoln, is -- what do you want?" Peter runs his fingers through his stubble; the soft bristling sound can be heard even these few feet away.

"Oh, um." Lincoln lets his hands slide up again until they are resting lightly on Olivia's hip. He looks at her, then at Peter. "No pressure." He wonders how to tell them: that he's in love with Olivia; that he likes Peter and wants to fuck him and wouldn't mind it the other way around either. Olivia's smile at him is a little lost, but it's luminous, and he smiles back at her. "Can I tell you I'm finally a little freaked out here?"

She does what he'd hoped for, and breaks out into a grin. "Lincoln. Yeah." She laughs, quietly, touches her forehead to his collarbone before exhaling and resting her cheek against his chest. "Me too. Peter too."

"Welcome to the club." Peter's voice is gentle, thoughtful for someone so clearly one inch from shoving his hand down his pants. "I'm not an expert on what people consider normal in the first place -- in fact, I'm pretty sure I don't even remember the concept by now." Peter purses his lips in an expression that reminds Lincoln of no one as much as Olivia. "Olivia's had half a football team living inside her head by now, and let's not even get started on the ever-exciting adventure of keeping two time-lines straight."

"There's nothing straight about this any more." Olivia dead-pans, lifts her head to look at Lincoln. "I think we just have to accept the world as it is, with a twist. And adapt."

"Sometimes you just have to do things differently," Lincoln says slowly, frowns. "Find a new solution together with the ones you love and who love you." It still hurts; he has to look away. It's also a little soon here.

Olivia draws back her hand, but he catches it in his, blinks at her. "It's okay."

"Robert." It's not a question. "He and Julie and you --"

"Yeah." Lincoln knows he's making one of his weird faces but there's no helping it. "After I'd found Robert and her, you see, I thought I was the luckiest guy on earth -- and then he died, and Julie couldn't be with me without him, and I couldn't be with her without him; she and the kids are moving back with her parents in Upstate New York; there's a new head of orthopaedics position opening for her in a university hospital. For me, everything was gone. To feel I can maybe, just maybe," he swallows because yeah, way too early, but what the hell, "have a relationship with people I care for again is...it's pretty overwhelming."

He hears a muttered, Okay, that's it; Jesus, Lincoln, and then Peter is out of the chair and right there, folding them into his arms, Lincoln and Olivia both, and Lincoln shudders and leans into Peter's embrace, breathing him in. Lincoln squeezes his eyes shut and listens to their breathing, three sets of lungs. He doesn't know long it takes for them to even out, in sync, but they slowly do, and only then does Lincoln open his eyes again.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 7

[kerithwyn]

You would not believe the high-pitched noise that comes out of my face every time there's a new part of this. Real FB owed, for real, but right now I'm just flailing all over the place.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 7

[(Anonymous)]

...is it weird to say that I'm tearing up? Because I'm totally tearing up. Lip-wobbly, eye-stinging sniffles! Buh! :') I spent the entire time reading this update with my hands balled into fists and my heart aching. Seriously, I don't even trust myself to be coherent right now after. The focus on Lincoln and all about what makes him happy, it's just...especially after last Friday's episode, it's all I've ever wanted for him. Beautiful!

Lincoln shudders and leans into Peter's embrace, breathing him in. Lincoln squeezes his eyes shut and listens to their breathing, three sets of lungs. He doesn't know long it takes for them to even out, in sync, but they slowly do, and only then does Lincoln open his eyes again.
MY HEART JUST SWELLED AND BURST. I can't think of anything else non-keysmashy to say besides 1) this is perfect - and more than I had dared to hope for when I prompted it 2) I LOVE YOU THANK YOU and 3) how can we get you on the show's writing team to make Lincoln happy there too? :) <3

The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 8 aka THE PORN, plus coda

[(Anonymous)]

"Um, okay." Lincoln blinks at them from under his lashes when they move apart just a little. "That killed the mood pretty effectively."

Peter thinks that is true but beside the point. He catches Olivia's eyes but didn't have to; she's already giving Lincoln a little shrug-smile. "Lincoln, no; I mean --" she breathes, and a more determined expression appears on her face, "we don't have to do anything right now this very moment. We could just...sit. Even talk. Or wait until we're back home."

Taking in Lincoln's doubtful face, Peter adds, "It's like you said, Lincoln -- this is about a relationship." He ponders it for a millisecond, then says what he thinks. "Not that I would mind the sex that comes with it."

The corners of Lincoln's mouth twitch upward. "I hear you." His face goes serious again, each of his words clearly enunciated, "You asked me what I want. I...don't want to go back to my empty hotel room. I want to be with you, both. But I'd like to..I'd love to be with Olivia tonight. If you want to, Olivia."

"Yes," she says, warmth in her voice, and almost hesitantly touches the fabric where Lincoln's dress shirt falls open by the collar between thumb and forefinger. "Lincoln, I'd love to."

The expression on his face is indescribable even to Peter, who considers himself fairly verbose. Lincoln glances at him, not a push but a please, and Peter nods, steps back. It's surprisingly hard: not so much Lincoln and Olivia together but Lincoln and Olivia together without him. But he gets the guy. He's been waiting for, dreaming of this for a while. And Olivia in this time-line who's also here, who's also her, has been falling for Lincoln ever since they met.

He remembers his own elation -- actually, he has to do completely disregard the first time with Olivia. But the second first-time was the charm, and the third first-time of sorts was too, whatever proverbs say about these things. Peter is no fan of numerology. Sinking back into the armchair, he watches them kiss.

Lincoln stands with his legs spaced widely so Olivia fits neatly in-between them, on the same level as Lincoln when she stretches just a little. Which she does, tugging at his buttons now, impatient as ever, and he can't understand her muttered words into Lincoln's ear, but he completely gets Lincoln's answering laugh. Lincoln reaches down, and the rustle of Olivia's pants hitting the floor shouldn't be so loud in his ears. Louder even than the thundering rush of blood in his ears.

Naked, they're works of art, paintings or drawings or statues intertwined in a park. Peter knows Olivia, knows a hundred secrets about her body and the powerful brain that drives it, half of them gathered when they weren't even sleeping with each other yet. But looking at Lincoln, the strong line of his shoulders, chest and stomach muscles that are a sin to hide under stiff suits, he thinks, I want to learn yours too.

On their slow shuffle to the bed, Olivia almost trips over Lincolns belt, the metal part catching on her little toe so she bends down to remove it. "Hey," Lincoln breathes, "we should save some things for later, maybe?" making Olivia huff out a laugh of her own and pull Lincoln in for another open-mouthed kiss. She's flushed already, eyes bright and nipples erect and oh, okay, Lincoln has noticed too, hand closing around first one and then the other of Olivia's breasts. His thumbs are running soft circles across the areolae. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, "but it's not that; you're strong too. You amaze me every day." Olivia shivers, whether at Lincoln's words or his caresses Peter can't tell, but she isn't idle, manages to shove them both onto the king-size bed. Lincoln laughs into her mouth, nips at her collarbone. "Okay," he breathes, "I got it. I got you." Olivia runs her fingers through his hair, eyes half-closed in pleasure when he moves down her body, tongue and fingers on her nipples where, Peter shifts to see it better, Lincoln uses just a hint of teeth, enough to make her moan, moan his name and please, okay.

Lincolns smile could light up a room, Peter thinks. Lincoln moves further down between Olivia's leg and nips at her bellybutton, getting a gasp in return, and then slides his hands and his head down, down to where Peter knows she's hot and wet by now -- he loves how slick Olivia gets, drenching his fingers and tongue, and from Lincolns little groan he does too. "God, Olivia," Lincoln whispers, and she stutters out a laugh. "Not quite," she breathes, and Peter grins because she sounds almost like him, and also, fuck it, there's no manual for this, and if so, Peter would disregard half the chapters anyway. The buttons on his jeans pop open, and -- yeah, thats better. He licks his palm once, twice, strokes his cock firmly but slowly so he has some relief but doesn't miss a thing.

Olivia's moans are still soft but more frequent now. Her eyes have fluttered closed, and she's tossing her head to the side, but she still, barely manages to utter words -- yes, there and lower and deeper, oh, Lincoln. Peter can't see what exactly Lincoln is doing, but since Olivia is biting her lips and tugging helplessly at Lincoln's hair, he must be doing something right. He gasps too, in-between, and their combined sounds alone are making Peter lose his fucking mind. He tightens his fingers at the base of his cock, presses; he doesn't want this to be over just yet, but then Olivia shudders over there on the bed, lets out the low whine he knows so well, and Peter speeds up his hand and too shivers into bright-bursting sensation, squeezing his eyes shut.

When his eyesight returns enough to look at them again, Lincoln is slowly crawling up Olivia's body, smile somewhere between shy and pretty damn triumphant. There's a light sheen of sweat on his skin, a few drops collecting in the small of his back. Lincoln's still hard, cock curving lightly toward his stomach, glistening at the tip. Peter's mouth is suddenly dry. Olivia props herself up on her elbows, glances at Peter with a lazy smile -- he waves back with a slightly sticky hand, seeing the spark of amusement in her eyes -- and then leans into Lincoln's kiss. "Hey," she says and, "your turn to lie down?" Lincoln nods and sinks down into the sheets, trailing one hand along her hip, her side, but too lightly: making her squeak just for a second. Ticklish, Peter thinks; Olivia will make him learn this too. Lincoln lifts his hand in surprise, letting out what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. It subsides fast when Olivia swings one leg over his hips and, letting out a breathy sigh, slides down on Lincoln's cock.

She starts to move and now, now the grip of Lincoln's hands on her hips, her waist and breasts is firm. Olivia blinks, presses into his touch, inhaling and exhaling fast and faster, rhythmically. "Lincoln," she says, leaning forward, her hair falling over them both, reaching down between her legs, and then Lincoln is lifting himself up, heels digging into the mattress so he can counter each downward with a thrust, until he groans her name, loud and deep and pulls Olivia down, hard. She gasps, half-shifting, half-falling down, stealing -- no, it's not stealing when it's so freely given. They kiss, slower now. Sated.

"Peter," Olivia says, sleepily. "What are you still doing there?"

Lincoln's still on his back, still catching his breath, and obviously -- except for Olivia covering him -- still naked. It's a good look on him. "Yeah," he says, blinking at Peter, and the expression on his face is perfectly sweet. "Join us?"

Well, duh. Peter is feeling too pleasantly sluggish to comment, but he does, gladly.



In sleep, all the worry on Lincoln's face is wiped away. Peter lifts himself up just a little. Lincoln looks gorgeous, and also -- unrelated to this notion of Peter's -- a lot more like his purposefully cheery counterpart (who's hiding quite a lot underneath the handsome hero mask, but at least he does it reasonably well).

An intake of breath, and then Lincoln's eyelids flutter, and he blinks blearily at Peter. "Oh. Um. Good morning?"

"That it is," Peter agrees, because it's due to be a rainy day in New York, but for some reason, the morning is clear, and the light streaming in through the windows is filtered through orange curtains, throws warm patterns of swirls and spirals over their bed. Lincoln turns carefully to look over his shoulder at Olivia, still snoring lightly, and the expression on his face turns dreamy before shifting into something else when he looks back at Peter.

Peter gentles his smile. "If you are a little freaked out at our arrangement, or just at me in your bed --"

"No, no." Lincoln's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. "That part -- you and Olivia and me is fine. It's finer than fine, in fact. Peter, I slept. Through the whole night."

He remembers Olivia telling him now, and the tension in his chest dissipates. "We're a cure for insomnia." Peter smirks at Lincoln. "Exclusive offer, though: for you only."

"I know." Lincoln lets out a breath he must have been holding. "This feels good. Peter --"

"Yeah?"

"Come here." Lincoln props himself up one arm, still slow as not to wake Olivia. His eyes are bright, blue, and there's a dare in his eyes that Peter finds oddly cute.

Peter shuffles forward, still lying on his side, until there's little space between their bodies. Lincoln reaches out to touch his shoulder and pull Peter in. Lincoln kisses like he loves it, gentle but with intent, oddly playful for someone so neat and buttoned-down. Well, not right now, of course. And he wasn't inhibited yesterday night either. Quite to the contrary.

They have to work on communication, because Peter tends to keep secrets (although he's gotten better at sharing them) and Olivia tends to keep in everything (although she too is working on it). But he thinks this man who against the odds managed to make his way to their doors three times now (of a Harvard lab in two timelines and this one now) isn't likely to give up easily. They all will figure it out as they go along. They always do.

Peter closes his eyes and kisses him back, tasting Olivia's on Lincoln's tongue, and a world of promise.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 8 aka THE PORN, plus

[(Anonymous)]

Perfect, perfect story. You really ought to write porn more often because *@#$%^& this was the hottest thing I've read in ages.

They have to work on communication, because Peter tends to keep secrets (although he's gotten better at sharing them) and Olivia tends to keep in everything (although she too is working on it). But he thinks this man who against the odds managed to make his way to their doors three times now (of a Harvard lab in two timelines and this one now) isn't likely to give up easily. They all will figure it out as they go along. They always do.

I want this paragraph framed.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 8 aka THE PORN, plus

[(Anonymous)]

You're killing me with this fic, but this is a pleasant kind of death.

Re: The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain (Lincoln/Olivia/Peter, post-4x16) Part 8 aka THE PORN, plus

[(Anonymous)]

*Long happy sigh* This was the best possible thing to come home to after a terrible day. So many things to love! So hot and sweet and a lovely coda.

It's surprisingly hard: not so much Lincoln and Olivia together but Lincoln and Olivia together without him.
THIS. I love this. That Peter's not jealous of Lincoln and Olivia, but rather the fact that he can't join them :)

Fuck it, there's no manual for this, and if so, Peter would disregard half the chapters anyway.
that he would. ♥

And that last paragraph? You say much about these characters with so few words. Gorgeous. I don't have enough hug .gifs to thank you for the incredible fill! <3

Just like That - Lincoln/Olivia/Peter

[(Anonymous)]

“Ow.”

“Seriously? You’re going with ‘ow’? I’m not sure if your parents ought to be congratulated or examined for child abuse.”

They stumble inelegantly; or rather they sink knee-deep into the snow. The landscape is paper white against a line of burnt trees, black bars that remain gaunt and brittle with ice. The forest was scorched summer last, the leaves long since gone with passing seasons. The sky is white, the ground white; the blackened trees are the only contrast colour aside from Peter’s scarf and Lincoln’s blood.

“Sasquatch,” Lincoln mutters, his breath a dragon’s cloud. “Who would have guessed?”

“You will not mention that name in my presence again,” Peter says stoically.

“Walter will be thrilled. *Sasquatch*.”

“Don’t exist.”

“Have the torn shoulder to prove otherwise.”

“You’re just being difficult.”

Lincoln blinks up at the sky, his mouth pulling into a grimace or a smirk. “I believe in Sasquatch’s, it’s why Walter likes me best.”

“Walter likes you best because you play chess with him,” Peter snorts. He readjusts his grip, pulling Lincoln into his side, one arm gentle around his shoulders. “Move it, usurper, before your Sasquatch decides to finish the job.”

He’s cold, blood leaking sluggish down his side. Lincoln can’t feel his toes or his fingers or his right arm for that matter and there are no visible tracks within eyesight. “You sure we came this way?”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and pushes through the snow again.

Lincoln keeps his left hand curled around the barrel of the gun. The clip is spent, what warmth the chamber once held after rapid firing has long since gone. He figures he can club the damn thing over the ears if it decides to come back, box him on the nose. Peter’s a live-wire against him, eyes narrowed against the glare, cheeks wind-swept and pink with cold. “Jesus fuck,” he snarls when they sink to waist level.

Lincoln gathers himself, slogging through the worst of it until the snow’s back to their knees, shins, falling to ankle-height. Both of them are sodden through. In the distance, he can see yellow light, a headlight beam crossing their barren landscape. Worryingly, his teeth have stopped chattering. Lincoln blinks, eyes hurting under so much relentless white, and forces himself to say. “Maybe a Yeti, then?”

“Nope.”

“Bunyip?”

“Wrong continent.”

“Science project gone horribly wrong?”

“That I could believe.”

In the distance, four shots are fired. One...two… the next so closely spaced together the report sounds as one. Peter drops him, left arm stiff with the weapon he raises. “Liv?”

Lincoln’s fingers sink into the snow, his right shoulder jolted brutally with the fall, ears ringing as if he’d attended a live concert, saw ACDC from the front row. That buzz is getting ominously louder and Peter’s gun only has one cartridge left. “Don’t go.” He’s not sure if he can stand and he doesn’t want to be eaten alive. Sasquatch, bears, and cougars, oh my. Leather gloves touch the back of his neck, curl around his nape in reassurance.

Peter draws one deep breath and bellows. “Liv?”

The resounding shout is distant, undoubtedly her. “Clear.”

He can’t see Peter’s face, everything is white, turning whiter, phasing out into glare. Peter sounds distant, relieved and irritated, coming from too far away. “We have this rule, see. It’s a great rule. One might even say genius. Where field agents don’t wander off by themselves, but stick with their partners, who in this case would be Olivia. Dunham. Senior Agent. Compliance with this rule means you don’t get torn apart by weird science projects gone horribly wrong.”

“Sasquatch,” Lincoln insists stubbornly, only to hear Peter swear.

***

He wakes up in the back of the SUV. It’s perishingly cold. The wind howls through the broken window and the airbags are deployed, flopped across the front seat like a discarded condom, soggy and opaque white. The keys are in the ignition, the nose of their sorry vehicle crumpled with impact.

“…must have doubled back,” he hears Olivia say.

“It’s dead?”

“Half buried in the snowdrift over there.”

There’s silence. Lincoln imagines they’re touching, foreheads resting together, bodies sidled close. He breathes out against the pain, wonders how much of his shirt is embedded inside his chest, if the claw marks on his torso match the ones down his shoulder-blade. A matching set – from flying porcupines to snow Yeti’s. Peter mutters despondently. “The engine’s totalled.”

They tried their cell-phones when they first hit the Sasquatch, when it stumbled out of the snowstorm and onto the road as if blinded. The SUV had flipped twice on impact before landing upright, the headlights shining down the road they just travelled, two of the tyres blown out and Lincoln had seen it lumbering into the woods when the others were gathering their senses. Hadn’t believed it, wanted to see it again, and he’d given chase without thought, skidding out of the car and onto the road, diving into the woods.

He winces now because Peter’s right. It was stupidly stupid in a magnitude of stupidity. His curiosity always did get the better of him.

It’s still white outside, the snow falling in a sideways slant, if Lincoln cranes his neck, tries to judge where the sky kisses the ground, he thinks the shade is slowly turning charcoal. His watch says it’s quarter past five and the temperature’s surely dropping.

“The GPS said there was a building maybe eight miles down the road.”

“He’s lost blood.”

They seem to communicate in half sentences sometimes, ideas and thoughts shared in the common space of silence. Lincoln tucks his chin against his chest and blinks owlishly when the door is wrenched open. Olivia ducks into the back seat with him, her beanie pulled low over her eyebrows and ears, the coat buttoned to her chin. Peter stands on the road, shifting from foot to foot.

“Be quick,” Olivia says bluntly.

“Yes, ma’am.” The grin is cocky. Peter’s eyes slide past her and land on Lincoln. He pulls his beanie down low, wraps the scarf securely around his neck and throat then painfully unbuttons his coat. It leaves Peter in a long-sleeved Henley and a t-shirt underneath. “Can’t jog in the damn thing anyway,” he says dismissively, and tosses the garment to Olivia. He turns on his toes and is gone before Lincoln can argue.

Olivia shuts the door. She scoots into the front seat, the snick of a knife being flipped open silencing conversation. Lincoln watches her mutely as she cuts the air bags free, slicing them sideways to extend their length, and then rummages around in the glove department for duct tape. It’s haphazard at best, but she manages to seal the broken window against the worst of the wind before squeezing into the back seat again.

“Eight miles?”

“Might take him an hour, depending on the snow, less if there’s another car on the road. Lie back.”

Lincoln eases down, he tries not to close his legs when her knees lands dangerously close to important parts of his anatomy, and hisses when Olivia lies upon his chest. Face to face, awkwardly close. She’s careful of his shoulder, the rendered flesh, the bloody clothing. One hand presses against the open wound and its make-shift bandage, the other remains low on Lincoln’s abdomen, covering vital organs and forcing warmth into his skin, her thigh firm against his groin. Olivia places her head against the slope of his neck gingerly, breathes out hot and steady, the air a gush of warmth down his collarbone, chest. Peter’s coat is dragged around the two of them, cocooning them until Lincoln feels Olivia everywhere, smell’s Peter surrounding him, and tries not to choke against the stirring of sensation. He’s warm. It’s the closest Olivia’s been to him in weeks.

“You’re okay.” She whispers against his pulse, and Lincoln blinks up at the ceiling, blames the sting in his eyes on exposure, torn open and leaking raw, laid open like a festering wound.

It takes Peter forty-five minutes. He comes back in a snowplough, hot-wired expertly, the cabin blasting out heat like an African summer. “Phone lines are down with the storm,” he says shortly. “Still no reception with the cells either.”

“Any good news?” Olivia asks. Peter leans out and grabs Lincoln by the collar, hauling him into the cabin, she scrambles up beside him and slams the door shut, pressed together like the three wise monkeys.

“The building on the GPS was a camping supplies store. Must have just missed the owner when I arrived.” It’s pressing close to six now, the sky a violet bruise. The snowplough lurches forward, turning a one-eighty before grumbling down the road. “There should be medical supplies, and if we break in and the security alarm goes off, all the better.”

They do break in, without their usual finesse, but there’s no security alarm attached to the building, and the place remains dark, the power gone with the phone lines, both victims to the storm.

Peter ditches his wet jeans for flannel pyjamas, a fleecy top. He sits with his back against the wall, feet flat against the floor and his knees raised. He pulls Lincoln down until he’s cradled in front, held steady against the cage of Peter’s body. Chest to back, hand on top of Lincoln’s and their fingers interlaced together. Olivia expertly cleans out Lincoln’s shoulder and stitches it back together again, each flinch, half aborted move, any attempt to escape the needle only presses him into Peter, and Olivia - crouched between both of their legs, holding needle to thread - meets his eyes with an inquiry Lincoln can’t read. Her touch is familiar, surprisingly tender. Peter’s a furnace behind him, stealing the oxygen and throwing out heat. Lincoln lets his head loll against the other man’s shoulder, breathes out through the pain, and allows himself to turn boneless.

When he slits his eyes open, Olivia’s gaze has turned dark, cheeks flushed. The tip of her tongue is caught between her lips, and Lincoln can barely feel the tug and pinch of the needle. Charmed, he thinks, drunkenly. She hypnotised him from the moment they met, changed his perception, shifted his world axis. He’s been hopelessly smitten for months.

Olivia slips him a glass of water and two panadol when she’s done. Lincoln tries not to feel bereft when Peter eases him forward, creating space enough to stand. The two of them walk away, perusing the aisles, taking sleeping bags, MRES and beef jerky, talking over the coat-hangars and breaking into the weapons cabinet to steal ammunition, to reload the guns, and bring everything back to Lincoln like a magpies stolen nest. He’s stripped of his remaining clothing, everything that’s wet, touched by snow or blood, peeled off him. He should feel bashful. Ideally, he’d blush, insist on doing it himself, but Peter’s hands are sure against his skin and it feels good to lean into it, to let the ache of his torn shoulder bleed into the sensation of fingers skating against his hip. The snap as the button on his slacks is loosened; the zipper pulled down in a tantalizingly slow tease. Olivia keeps her eyes averted but she’s close, too close for propriety. Lincoln reaches out with one hand, touches her wrist. Buried under sleeping bags, surrounded by sugar and electrolyte drinks, he considers his options.

Lincoln doesn’t watch them together normally, made it a point not to watch them, but he’s tired, cold, and there’s something glittering bright, mesmerizing about Peter. There’s something surreal and untouchable about Olivia. They’re beautiful, he decides without rancour; as if leaving the lab, the confines of his usual routine altered the way he observes them, too. Lincoln moved his desk to the opposite side of the room; let Walter become the embodiment of a great dividing range, to spare himself the detail of being within their proximity. For their part, Olivia and Peter were careful not to flaunt their relationship at work.

On his bad days, Lincoln fantasized about moving worlds, before the bridge was sealed forever and the option was taken from him. He dreamt about walking away from his newfound partnership with Olivia, his burgeoning friendship with Peter, except he made a promise to avenge Robert and Intel pointed at Jones’ being on *this* side of the bridge. On his bad days, he finds reasons to work by himself, to chase down leads, to keep distance, a growing chasm of yawning space between them, and it’s *exhausting*, wearing Lincoln down.

Slumped, so lonely his back teeth ache; Lincoln exposes her palm, sheds light on the calluses of her trigger finger. “I miss you.”

Just like That - 2/2 Lincoln/Olivia/Peter

[(Anonymous)]

The rasp isn’t his voice, as if Lincoln smokes ten packets a day. It sounds needy and he’d take it back except he’s exposed here, all of his scars on display, sick of feeling the chill. 'I’m right here' would be the trite answer, 'I never left' would be downright laughable. Olivia rocks forward on her knees, and Lincoln has memories she doesn’t.

“I want you.” Never featured in the previous encounters. It's said softly, with the undercurrent of belief.

He remembers how Peter found him in the snow, emptying his clip at the Sasquatch except for a single bullet, saving Lincoln’s life for the second time in so many weeks. He remembers Peter’s scent when he was buried under the man’s coat in the SUV, letting Olivia keep his body temperature warm, shoring off shock, and propositioning his girlfriend probably *isn’t* the way to say thank you for running eight miles, except those words encompass them both equally. Lincoln *wants*.

He hasn’t wanted anything for the longest time – selfishly and selflessly, the need of it leaves him breathless – Olivia's answer drumming through his veins like wildfire. He’s not sure if he can string any more words together, doesn’t know how to turn his confession into seduction, or if it’s possible. Caught between ice and fire, embarrassment and relief, Lincoln only knows for certain both extremes burn. Helplessly, he turns to look at Peter.

Olivia kisses him, open mouthed, teeth dragging against Lincoln's bottom lip, her fingers splayed against his jaw. He’s startled into immobility before Lincoln gets with the program. His tongue finds her lips, traces the contours of her mouth. He pushes in without hesitancy when she groans, tries to keep his upper body still, except he wants to twist, to wrap his hand in her hair, cant his hips, rock against the solidity of her person.

“I want to watch,” he gasps out when they break apart, because he’s lost blood, dehydrated, coming back from the brink of hyperthermia and there are some things the human body can’t manage all at once. “Please, I want to watch you together.”

He spent so much time trying to avoid them, and it's ridiculous when it's blatantly clear how beautiful they are.

Lincoln’s naked under the sleeping bag, half-hard, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself still, and coming, he knows, would hurt like a son of a bitch. Watching, wouldn't be so bad.

Peter considers him, bright and interested, he rubs his thumb against his bottom lip once, eyes dilated glossy black, a thin rim of blue as he looks between Olivia and Lincoln. “What if I guaranteed you wouldn’t move?”

Lincoln blinks. Olivia passes a sport’s drink over, he takes it with his left hand, gulps half of it down, the slow curl of want in his belly fanning into flames. Neither of them presses Lincoln any further, and he realises ultimately it’s his choice. “Are there cameras in this place?” He asks uncertainly.

Peter grins. “I’ll be sure to check when we’re finished.”

“You’re not keeping them for prosperity.” Olivia says, exasperated, but her eyes are bright, her mouth soft as he urges Lincoln to finish the rest of the bottle.

His choice to watch them, turned on, hard, and left out - or not be left out at all. To trust Peter to keep him motionless. “What did you have in mind?”

“We’re going to need to buy some of this equipment tomorrow,” Peter says cryptically, and starts hunting through the travelling racks.

They move to the centre of the store where a wooden beam, wide, round as a small tree, supports the ceiling. Peter drops two sleeping bags, unzipped, on the floorboards and urges Lincoln to sit. Lincoln still has his own sleeping bag draped over his shoulders, ass naked and distracted by Olivia, who kisses the side of his ear, runs her fingers down his quivering flank. Peter vanishes and comes back with a collection of Korjo travelling straps, wide-framed, and tent cord, placing them carefully on the ground. “Get comfortable,” he encourages softly.

Lincoln hesitates, shifting on the sleeping bag until he finds a portion of beam suitably flat, moulding to his spine. He eases down, splaying his legs out until they're long on the ground, and leans against the beam. His wounded shoulder, upper torso, pulses once. Peter takes the sleeping bag from his shoulders, folds it, folds it again, and then once more, until it’s puffy and three layers thick, padded and thick as gauze. He wraps it around the beam and Lincoln’s torso, circling it around them both a number of times until he runs out of length, then uses the Korjo straps to hold it in place - three of them, below Lincoln’s collarbone, mid-chest, and low waist, cinching it tight around the sleeping bag and beam, holding Lincoln immobile against the wood. The sensation of the straps – the only thing that could cause Lincoln discomfit - is smothered by the layered sleeping bag, and his upper torso turns warm, toasty in its confines, within seconds. Lincoln takes a breath, stares down at his toes, pale legs stretched out in the open, his cock and balls on full display, none of it covered by the folded sleeping bag.

“Okay?” Peter asks.

He can’t thrash, turn, strain, or reopen his injury. He can’t find his nonchalance either, heart pounding. There’s a stain on his cheekbones.

Peter runs a hand down his cock, gentle, pulling the hood back with his index finger, getting his hand wet. “I can tie this off too, if you want?” His hand lingers at the base of Lincoln’s dick, presses against the vein teasingly before slipping further back, cradling his scrotum protectively. “Maybe later,” he adds thoughtfully, “A ball separator or a sling, tie you up from scrotum to crown?” When Lincoln twitches frantically, growing long, impossibly hard, Peter arches an eyebrow at Olivia musingly, before stepping back.

He feels ridiculous, but secure. He’s blinking too rapidly, because he wants all of what Peter said and more besides. He’s thinking about fingers buried deep in his body, sounds pushed into his cock, grotesque, penetration so deep it's all he can feel; his thinking about Olivia’s warmth, Peter’s lazy regard, of being split upon and claimed.

“I want you,” she whispers against his jaw, hands buried in his groin, pressure inescapable, tugging him into the here and now, where Lincoln’s certain Peter’s ropes won’t let him go, where he has Olivia's full attention,and there are no secrets between them. “I want you. Just like this.”