Title: Flickers in Time
Spoilers: If you're not caught up and don't want to know, don't read.
Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe or its characters, storylines, etc. But if I had a swimming pool filled with money, I would totally buy it, make my own tv network, and give Fringe all the seasons ever.
Author's Note: GOOD NEWS NO MORE WRITERS BLOCK :DDD So, this summer I started writing oneshots. A bunch of these really random oneshots. Spanning all of the seasons and all of the timelines. And posting them all individually seemed silly. Hence, this story was born. And I'll probably be posting them pretty slowly because summer ended and who knows when I'll have time and there's this other story that's consuming most of my creativity...you know.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
proposal – season 3, "the day we died" future
He buys her a ring the morning after she leaves him cold and alone in Barrett's backyard. He drowns in his guilt and self-loathing, chokes on it, as he slips the black box into his coat pocket. He keeps it there, and its slight weight serves as a reminder that he must fix this, no matter how bumpy the road, how painstaking the journey back to the way they were. Every time she flinches from his touch, whenever her eyes abruptly dart towards anything but him, anytime he thinks that it might be easier to simply give up, he runs his fingers over the dark velvet of the ring case and swears that one day she will wear the jewelry inside.
He only removes it when she kisses him and he tastes forgiveness. He tucks the box away in the top drawer of his dresser, somewhere between his socks and his boxers, confident with the knowledge that one day, he would offer the ring to her and one day, she would accept. Perhaps he would make her dinner, take her for a walk through Harvard Yard on a warm summer evening. Drop down on one knee, ask her gently. Slip the ring onto her finger. Make her his forever.
It doesn't happen that way.
They lose half of Chicago to a vortex in a single day, must quarantine even more than that. He stands there and watches white gas swirl up over the city, turning to hard amber. She walks away, fiddling with her phone. An hour later, after the scene is more or less cleaned up, he finds her sitting in the passenger seat of their SUV, windows down, the hot breeze ruffling wisps of her hair. Her head rests in her hands.
"Olivia. I saw you leave. I thought you just got a call or something, but then I couldn't find – "
He stops. She's looked up. Her eyes are wet and red-rimmed, cheeks damp as strands of hair blow and stick to the trails left on her skin by tears. His insides twist with concern.
"What is it?"
"Ella is fine. I called her, and she's at a friend's house ten miles from here. But Rachel…"
His stomach drops.
"Rachel won't pick up," she finishes. "She won't answer my calls." Her words are flat, but he can sense the hidden emotion, the grief lurking just beneath the surface of her even voice.
"Olivia…"
"I want to go home, Peter."
So he drives her home, zooming past other cars on the highway late at night, her staring silently out the window as reports are submitted to them. They learn the extent of the damage – almost an entire city lost. Hundreds of thousands of casualties, ranging from bureau agents to government officials to innocent bystanders to Rachel Dunham.
When they arrive home in the early morning, she moves from the car without a word. He only can follow her as she unlocks the door, stands in the front room like it's foreign to her, like she doesn't know what to do with herself. She moves suddenly, erratically, going to each window in the house and opening it wide. He cannot speak, only stands in the doorway, his eyes following her every movement.
She feels his gaze, and whips her head up to look at him. Her eyes are hard, pupils dilated to the point that all he sees is black.
"It's too damn hot in here," she mumbles at him, as if she owes him an explanation. Then she carries on with her task.
Still, no words leave his lips. He knows that there is nothing he could say to make this better for her.
She starts upstairs, and once again he follows her with a heavy sigh, closing the front door and making his way to the second floor with slow, tired steps.
He turns into their bedroom. She's opened all the windows here as well, stripping to her underwear and throwing on a white t-shirt before plopping down on the bed and curling up on her side, knees pulled to her chest. He walks over to her, lets his fingertips gently graze the bare skin of her leg.
"Olivia," he whispers.
"Don't," she tells him, retreating more into herself, away from him. "Just don't."
He closes his eyes, rubs his temples slowly as he concedes for the moment, walking over to the dresser and setting his hands flat on top. He knows that she's not mad at him, only at the situation. At the injustice dealt her. At loss of life. At the world, crumbling in her hands as she tries desperately to hold it together, the people she loves slipping through her fingers.
He opens the top drawer.
After all, if you don't have your family, who do you fight for?
He looks down, and as if God himself placed it there in front of his eyes, he sees the black ring box. Different house, different dresser, but still hidden among his undergarments. It serves as a reminder of all the things he still has. Everything he could still lose.
All he must still protect.
Because somehow, through everything, they continue to stand, together and united.
They must fight for each other.
He picks up the box, turning it over in his fingers.
He has no words for her. But maybe he can give her hope.
He walks over to her, and crouches down. She does not look at him at first, stares past him toward the open window as tears silently fall down her face. Her skin is covered with a light layer of sweat and dust, her hair tangled. She is damaged and broken, as is he, but she remains. Brave, strong, beautiful. And they must fight for each other.
He slowly reaches out his hand and places it on her face, softly rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on her cheek until she closes her eyes and brings both her hands up to hold his firmly in place where it rests. Finally, she looks at him. Her pupils have shrunk, revealing her lovely green irises once again. She stares at him, her gaze so vulnerable and defeated. The question is nearly a whisper, yet it seems to echo in the quiet room.
"Will you marry me?"
She doesn't answer, has no perceptible reaction to his proposal except for the slight widening of her eyes and the almost undetectable increase of pressure on his hand. He fidgets nervously, placing the black box on the bed and opening it. Her eyes move from his face to the ring. Now, he can only play a waiting game. Maybe it is silly for him to fear her answer. It won't change much. Either way, he'll still be here, fighting for her.
Even so, he begins to count.
He reaches ninety-three Mississippis before he sees what he was longing for. The ghost of a smile plays on her lips. Her eyes fill with tears again, but this time they shine as water falls and his heart swells.
"Yes."
A/N: I never knew how much I loved the future shown in TDWD until I started writing about it. You, know, except for the whole Olivia dying and Walter in jail and universe falling to pieces stuff.