fringe_kinkmeme

This is a kinkmeme. You may just be familiar with the concept.

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

RULES

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

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

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

4. Anon is encouraged but up to you.

5. Mark all spoilers, mmkay?

6. Go for it!

REMINDERS

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

8. A kinkmeme's more than a promptmeme. Here's

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).

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

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.

tbc

From: (Anonymous)

Okay, this is nothing short of stunning: sharply characterized, perfectly filling the gaps. Very much looking forward to more!

From: (Anonymous)

I love this. Makes me kind of wish Peter had more time Over There.

From: (Anonymous)

this is so lovely, thank you

From: (Anonymous)

(Quick note to OP - the possessive, mine and fighting is coming)

“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 sub quota.”

Olivia meets Lincoln’s eyes, an entire conversation in the space of a second, and nods. Tersely, she changes the subject. “We had a phone-in this morning by a woman named Doris Marice, some old bitty who said something weird happened yesterday.”

“That’s detailed, did Doris add to the observation?”

“Only that she saw a window opening, a pathway to heaven, she thought the angels had come to take her away.”

Lincoln grimaces, mutters under his breath. “Another nut-case religious wacko.”

“Dime a dozen.”

“Any other news?”

“A body in an abandoned factory, teeth and nails missing, single gun-shot to the forehead.” Olivia notes Lincoln’s impatience, his hands rolling through the air in a ‘wrap it up’ gesture. “The victim’s name was Daniel Mewlinksi, a former employee of Bishop Dynamic, someone took their pound of flesh.” Olivia adds quietly. “He was fired over a decade ago. Secretary Bishop bumped the case over to us.”

Lincoln chews on his lip, head canted in the direction of Broyle’s office. “Take Charlie and head off the local LEOs, find out if Mewlinski had a gambling debt or an angry ex-wife, and if neither, find out who his associates were and what he’s been doing for the last ten years.” Olivia grabs her jacket and swings by the kitchen to grab Charlie, itching to move. “And Olivia,” Lincoln calls out. “This requires talking to people…not shooting them in the butt.”

Olivia crosses her eyes. “One minor incident.”

Lincoln snorts; watching the sway of her hips as she vanishes from view, when he turns Bishop has his chin propped against his palm, his expression inquisitive. Lincoln knows the look, he’s seen it reflected in the mirror often enough. “Broyles said you worked for a unit not dissimilar to ours.”

“A little more insane, a little less tech,” Peter rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “The old bitty who witnessed the doorway to heaven, where was that?”

And pretty good at deflection. Lee folds his arms; trying for arch and failing miserably, Bishop’s amused rather than chagrined. Lee explains evenly, “Those type of phone-calls are common, every time there’s an ‘event’ the religious nutters are off quicker than a bride’s pajamas - jamming our phone-lines, doom-saying this and doom-saying that.”

Impatient, Peter backtracks through the computer’s logbook until he finds the information for himself. Perplexed he stops and re-reads the address twice, Lee leans over his shoulder. “Is Boston General still on 55 Fruit St?”

Lee tilts his head and corrects him. “One block over, on this side of the universe fifty-five is residential.”

“You mind if I talk to her?”

“Yes,” Lincoln says flatly, “for one you don’t have authority and two, your father will kill me if anything happens.”

“Then come along and protect me from old bitty’s.” Peter says wryly, “You’ve got a gun.”

“How come everyone in my social network’s sarcastic?” Peter narrows his eyes, the smile on his face reluctant and half-hidden. Lincoln knows it’s more than idle curiosity, there’s something about the phone-call that piqued Bishop’s interest. Personally Lee hates being kept out of the loop, he hates secrets altogether, they have a tendency to bite people in unexpected places. “I’ll come along,” Lee allows. “But you do what I say when I say it. No questions asked.”

Peter smirks. “That’s not what Olivia said.”

“That’s why I’m in charge.”

***

Apartment 6A has the unique scent common to elderly people. Lee would bet his left nut widower Marice hasn’t cracked a window in the last decade; the heater’s on full blast, trying to reconstruct Miami summer in a New York winter, a vase with decaying flowers sits on the mantle piece, the petals spilled across the floor. There’s rosemary beads wrapped around Doris’ wrist, her hands shake with Parkinsons’. “I saw it right over there, beside the window.”

Lincoln schools his features into professionalism. “So you saw a window beside the, um, window?”

“Don’t act dubious around me, young man! It was bright as heavenly light! I saw the angels of our Savior beckon me from the other side.”

Another nut-case religious wacko; Olivia’s sister fell into a cult in the months prior to child-birth, none of Rachel’s praying helped her or the young one she was carrying. Lee tries to keep his face friendly, because the only ‘angels’ he knows heralded destruction. “What were the diameters?” Bishop has a spectrum analyzer in his hand, leaving the heavy talking to Lincoln as he ghosts the perimeter of the room.

“Three meters by three,” Doris trails off, uncertain. “He didn’t look well…the angel on the other side.” Peter goes preternaturally still. The spectrum analyzer flashes red in his hand.

Lincoln glances at him sharply. “How long did the window stay open for?”

“Two minutes if that. It flared brightly then vanished,” Doris runs the beads through her hands, the sound clickety-clacking in the oppressive heat.

“No one stepped through?”

“No angels, sir. I imagine it wasn’t my time yet.”

“I imagine so.” Lee smiles at the woman then swings in front of Peter, chest to chest, close enough he can feel the other man’s warmth. Peter startles and hops back. “Was is it?” Lee asks casually.

“Kappa radiation.” Peter taps his finger against the windowpane. “I’ve been in this room before, except on the other side it’s the prison ward at Boston General. There was a gaping hole where the window used to be, a message scrawled on the wall.” He sounds distant to Lincoln’s ears, as if he’s fading away.

“And for those of us with IQs less than 190, what’s the significance of Kappa radiation?”

“A theorized connection with bending time.”

“Time travel?”

Bishop squints at him. “Just what I said.”

“Doris, what time did you see the window open?”

“2:45 pm, on the dot.”

Anger claws down Lincoln’s spine, meeting Peter’s eyes because sixty-eight civilians lost their lives yesterday. “That was fifteen minutes before a new wormhole formed… Is it them?” Peter’s face flattens, inscrutable as a sphinx, Lee knots one hand in his collar and jerks him forward. “Is it them?”

It’s the wrong move. Bishop shoves him, violently quick.

Lincoln stumbles three steps and sees Peter shift his weight, moving to the balls of his feet. “I don’t know yet,” Peter spits. “Walter created a device to step through worlds, but originally he meant to travel through time. It just…didn’t work the way he thought it would.”

“And they still have it?”

“David Robert Jones stole it. One year ago.”

“If you boys are going to fight then I’ll ask you to take it outside, otherwise I’ll cane the both of you with my walking stick.” She’s already out of her seat; Lee doesn’t like the gleam in her eye.

The tension between them remains thick. Peter stops Lee halfway down the hallway with a hand to his elbow. “Can you give me a day? I want to check the carbon readings, see if I can pin-point the ‘when’ on the other side, it might not be what you think it is.”

“Sure,” Lee says easily. “I didn’t get this position by not being thorough with my information. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

***

“So,” Lee says as he steps into Broyle’s office. “I think someone’s trying to break into our universe.”

***

Daniel Mewlinski was strapped to a table-bench; three of his fingernails are missing, the molars torn from his gums. The third eye is a neat bullet wound directly above his forehead. Olivia circles him, her feet treading lightly. He bled from both nostrils at some stage, broken capillaries around cheekbones and eyes, bruises across his extremities. Olivia’s not trained in forensics but she takes one look at the ad-hoc generator, the copper wires discarded on the floor, and knows Mewlinksi was interrogated, mind probed with the combination of electric shock to the forebrain and neuron translator.

“They wanted information.”

“Yeah,” Charlie rasps. He indicates the bullet wound, his face tight with frustration. “And Mewlinski gave it.” The interrogators wiped the evidence of Daniel’s last thought with a hole to the forehead. “He was sixty-four, wife died two years ago, no children. Financials are clean. His severance pay from Bishop Dynamic set him up for life.”

“Why was Mewlinski fired?”

“Do you want to ask Secretary Bishop or should I?”

They stare at one another. “You know, technically, I think Lincoln’s in charge.”

Charlie laughs, feet scuffing against the floor. “I don’t mind telling you, Liv, this case doesn’t sit right.”

“You say that about every case,” Olivia teases. “The worms make you squirm.”

“Cute, you should take the comedy act on the road.” Charlie consults his hand-held, his voice turning gruff. “Daniel worked with two other scientists, they’re credited with the initial design of the shape-shifters that Walter Bishop later enhanced.”

“Who were they?”

“Harris Pike and George Bell.”

Olivia squats down, perfectly balanced on her heels, examining the floor for casings. “Either of them still employed by Bishop?”

“Pike was given the same severance package as Mewlinski… Bell, I don’t know yet.” She can feel Charlie’s stare on the back of her head, pregnant with speculation. “I had a coffee with the Secretary’s son this morning, he came in pretty early. He’s good with Astrid, and I saw him talking to Lincoln before we left.”

Irritated, Olivia ignores him.

“Which makes you the ugliest girl at the prom. I’d say he was avoiding you, if I wasn’t so certain you were avoiding him too.”

“How’s this relevant, Charlie?” Olivia never asked Peter if he loved the girl from the other side – she’s known the truth of it since she stood at parade rest and heard him describe her double in fits and starts.

From: (Anonymous)

I just want to say you have done me proud with this fic thank you

From: (Anonymous)

This is just impossibly fantastic : a character exploration wrapped into a casefile of sorts, tense and compelling, all slotting into canon so perfectly. <3

From: (Anonymous)

wow, this is great!!

From: (Anonymous)

This is a great story. I hope you get back to it at some point.

From: (Anonymous)

Still hoping for a continuation of this--Peter on the Other Side is a missing story we sorely need to see more of, and this is fantastic so far.

From: (Anonymous)

Whoever was working on this, please come back and finish it! It's gen, it's a casefile, it's Redverse Olivia and Lincoln and Charlie. And Peter! The characterizations are terrific, too. This is the kind of story I've been longing to read in this fandom.