A/N: Just a quick little oneshot that I couldn't get out of my mind, so I wrote it up during history class. It didn't exactly please my teacher, but it isn't as if history is more important then Fringe. Or at least in my mind, it isn't. Contains spoilers if you haven't seen the newest episodes already.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
The first time you notice, you are in your apartment, a drink clasped between your hands. Frank is sound asleep and you is feeling just the slightest bit forlorn. You have no idea, no clue why, but something feels wrong. Your heart aches for reasons unexplained, your head fills with ghosts. A sense of loss reverberates through your body, making you long for something you can't quite identify. It's a subtle feeling, a slight change in the way you see the world. Suddenly, everything you do and all you say is laced with pain, every smile you smile weighs heavier than before.
Then, the doorbell rings. You open the door, cautious as to the reason why there would be someone there in the middle of the night.
"Hey 'Liv." Charlie's deep voice sounds, and somehow you feels confusion grip you. Charlie? But how can Charlie be here? Is it not he you've been longing for, he you feel so lost without? Isn't it ever faithful Charlie whom you've lost?
But that's wrong. Charlie isn't gone, you saw him just yesterday, worked with him. Had pizza with him, joked with him.
Then why did you, just for a second, think he was dead?
As you sit down together, the uneasy feeling in the pit of you stomach not quite subdued, he says something that makes your head spin even further.
"Hey 'Livia, since when do you drink?" And points to the glass you're still holding, the amber liquid it'd once contained almost gone.
The second time you notice, you accidentally calls mr. secretary 'Walter'. You have no idea how it even entered your mind to call him that, and suddenly you are very grateful he is so deeply engrossed in his conversation with Broyles; he doesn't seem to have heard. Lincoln, however, looks at you pointedly, and later asks what in your right mind had posessed you to say such a thing.
You have no idea.
The third time you notice, it has quite a bit more concequences. You are lying on your bed, Frank's hands absentmindedly tracing patterns on you bare back, and pressing kisses in your hair, on your cheeks, your lips.
"Peter." You say, and know it's a mistake the moment the words leave your lips. Somehow, though, it feels very right.
The final time you notice, it's not the words on your lips or the feeling of loss that tell you all is wrong and bad and horribly twisterd.
It's a look that haunts you, baby blue eyes that tell of sorrow and pain, of lies and deceit and ultimately of love.
And finally, as your last breath leaves your battered and broken body, you rember it all.
"You belong with me."
A/N: If you hate me, I completely understand it. I don't know why, but a lot of my fics tend to end in death. Maybe I'm just morbid. That'll probably be it. Review?
