Hello, Linvia fans. Here's a little something I was inspired to write while listening to music. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the creators, producers of Fringe or with Damien Rice.

It's not hard to fall,

and I don't want to scare her.

It's not hard to fall,

and I don't want to lose.

It's not hard to grow

when you know that you just…don't know.

"Cannonball" by Damien Rice

Lincoln was standing on the edge. The edge of an outdoor pool, that is. The light blue water rippled as a warm breeze skimmed across its surface. A few wayward strands of hair danced around his face. He had his arms crossed against his chest, feeling somehow at peace—more at peace than he had been in weeks. He thought that maybe he'd feel complete if he entered the water. But he was waiting for his partner-in-crime. For Olivia.

At last, he heard her walking up to him from behind. But he didn't turn around, not yet, knowing she probably wanted to surprise him with her typical greeting: by clamping two hands on his shoulders, yelling "boo!" and laughing when he jumped and cursed. Well, when he pretended to jump and curse. He faked it, because he was her commanding officer. To embrace her unprofessional behavior with a smile, a hug was against regulation. Of course, he secretly loved her sneak attacks. They hinted at something he couldn't quite name but longed for nonetheless.

And…here she was. On the count of three. One. Two. Three…

A pair of warm hands covered his eyes, veiling the world from his view. A warm breath tickled his neck, and Lincoln felt his lips pull upwards involuntarily into a smile he attempted vainly to suppress.

A voice whispered, "Guess who?"

He pretended to think about it.

"Hm…Soft hands, sultry voice….Samantha, is that you?"

She chuckled. "Nope. Guess again."

"Annie? Kim?"

"Nope. Again."

"…Ava?"

"Nah."

"Oh, I know. Charlie. I mean, he may be a man, but he's got the gentlest touch."

She laughed. He could tell she really wanted to swat him right about now but couldn't, since her hands were occupied with shielding his eyes.

"I've got all day, y'know."

Lincoln let a dramatic sigh of resignation fall from his lips.

"Fine, Olivia. You win."

She removed her hands, and color and light came flooding back in a disorienting rush.

"How'd you know?" she asked, stepping into his line of sight, the coyest of smiles on her face.

Lincoln shrugged. "Skills. Telepathy."

She grinned broadly. "Ah, yes. I always seem to forget that you can read minds."

"Not everyone's mind," he said, his blue eyes meeting her green ones. "Just yours."

"Ah, of course." She had her hands behind her back and was rocking back and forth on her feet, smirking and gazing steadily at his face.

Lincoln quirked an eyebrow. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

"No reason," she said, brushing away strands of red hair the breeze had blown across her lips. "Why are you just standing there?"

"I am mentally preparing myself to go swimming."

She cocked her head to the side. "How?"

"I envision what strokes I will use so that when I'm in the water I don't panic and drown."

She nodded her head, pretending to buy his bullshit. "Ah, I see. And how long does it usually take? I've been watching you from my window, and you've been staring at the water for quite some time now."

He looked down at his feet. "I was…" No point in lying. "Waiting. For someone."

"For whom? I know Ava's got a rocking body, but she can't swim."

Lincoln shook his head. "I wasn't waiting for Ava. I was waiting for you."

A brief silence, punctuated only by the sound of seagulls squawking overhead, followed. All the while, Lincoln felt heat creep into his cheeks and felt vaguely like he was being judged.

Finally, she spoke. "That's sweet of you. But…I didn't come down here with a swimsuit."

"Oh." Lincoln kept looking at his feet, swallowing tiny droplets of disappointment he knew he shouldn't have been feeling. Not for her, anyway.

"However…" Wanton hope reignited as he glanced up to look at her. She was unbuckling her belt. "Just because I don't have a swim suit doesn't mean I can't go swimming."

"Liv…" he began, hoping beyond hope that she'd stop, and that she'd keep going at the same time. He averted his eyes when she stepped out of her pants.

"What?" she asked, her eyes twinkling, teasing, messing with his head. "Never seen a girl in her underwear before?"

"Yeah, I have—"

"Then what's the problem? There are no kids around." In his periphery, he could see that her shirt had come off. Then he heard a splash, the sound of her jumping into the water.

He closed his eyes. "Liv…"

"Oh, man. It's nice! You should come in."

"That wouldn't be professional."

A pause. "We're off duty."

"You don't have clothes on."

A chuckle. "You don't have to be such a gentleman, Lincoln. You know me. You know I don't care."

He opened his eyes. Excuses were excuses. Desires…they were a different matter altogether. And so much more powerful.

"Fine," he said. He looked straight at her as he pulled his shirt over his head. She watched, unblinking. Challengingly. He had never felt so naked in his entire life.

Stripped down to his swimming trunks, he approached the edge of the pool, still looking at her. She was smirking, "I win" written all over her face. Of course she had won. She always won.

"Now," she began. "Jump."

He looked at the painted tile to his left. Thirteen and a half feet.

"Jump. Jump!" Victory would soon be hers, but he wondered anyway why it wasn't him telling her to jump.

"Lincoln…c'mon. On the count of three."

"Okay."

"One." She always won.

"Two." She knew it too.

"Three."

With a smile of his own, he took a few steps back before hurtling forward.

"Cannonball!" he yelled.