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)

(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.