This is my first attempt at writing a fic from a character's POV. Re-telling the scenes from S2 seemed just too trite without a bit of extra introspection. A special thanks to my beta mvariorum for her guidance and encouragement in breaking new ground here. Reviews would be especially welcome this time to see how I did in your opinion.
The dialogue in the first three scenes is verbatim from the episodes, but I'm just borrowing it from the lucky and gifted people who own the creative rights to Fringe and all its characters. And I'm using the premise of their S3 finale for the purely selfish reason of satisfying my Peter whumping heart, not for any gain or profit.
Night of Desirable Objects
At first I thought the heavy, rasping breathing came from Andre Hughes as he was divesting himself of his jacket by the door of the house while Peter and I waited in the hallway. But then he started talking again about wells and the maintenance work on them, and I could still hear the breathing over his voice that now sounded as if it was coming through a thick fog. My head swiveled, trying to get a bearing on the sound, and my gaze finally settled on the ceiling. The sound was coming from up there, I was positive.
When Hughes excused himself to go clean up, I decided to call him on it.
"Excuse me," I said, "is there someone else in this house?"
There was a short pause. I could feel Peter's calculating gaze without looking at him.
"No," was all Hughes replied finally, before leaving us alone.
After he had disappeared in a room at the end of the hallway I heard the breathing even more clearly than before.
"There's someone else in this house," I told Peter with conviction. "Did you hear him?"
Peter's puzzled frown told me that he had no idea what I was talking about. But this wasn't the time to explain my new-found super hearing to him - not that I was planning to tell him about that anytime soon - so I gave him the simple order, "Keep him busy," before starting my ascent to the second floor. I was relieved to see that in spite of the narrow-eyed look Peter gave me he dutifully followed Hughes without asking any questions.
The wood creaked and groaned under my feet as I slowly climbed the stairs one step at a time. When I stopped at the second floor landing I heard the breathing again, closer this time, and the faint slam of a door.
Turning to my right, I pushed open the first door, gun drawn and at the ready. I cursed my injured hip that still forced me to use a cane and left me only one hand to handle the heavy weapon.
I hadn't expected to find a room filled with laboratory equipment, but with nobody in sight. Lowering the gun, I walked between the lab tables, looking for clues and signs of a person's recent presence. That's when I heard the breathing once more. It seemed to be coming from a closed door behind me. Raising my gun again, I cautiously approached it. Now that I had my target pinpointed, there was no way I was going to do this single-handedly, so I rested my cane against a table and took my gun in the familiar, more secure two-handed grip, although the lack of support made my steps slow and painful.
"Come out of there," I commanded.
A low growling was the only answer.
Hobbling the last few steps to the door, I put my hand on the handle and yanked it open, gun at the ready. I didn't expect to find a closet that contained nothing but a few shelves with lab supplies. My mind was whirling with the implication that I still hadn't pinpointed the whereabouts of the person I was tracking, so when I heard a creaking noise to my right I reflexively whipped my gun around and fired. By the time I realized that it was Peter who must have followed me after all, I had already pulled the trigger, and my heart stopped at the sight of him flinching and ducking as the bullet narrowly missed him. Never before had I been so glad to be only a mediocre shot.
"Oh! Peter! Oh, my god..." I stammered.
Peter straightened and turned around to stare at the hole in the wall the bullet had made right at his eye level. Then he turned back to look at me, and the expression on his face brought a sinking feeling to my stomach, keeping me babbling.
"Oh, Peter, oh, my god, I... I... I'm so sorry! I thought I heard something. I thought I… I thought I heard someone."
Peter just cast another look at the bullet hole before throwing me a look that was a mixture of anger, worry and disbelief. But he covered for me. The incident went into the report as a 'misfire', and we never mentioned it again.
August
The apartment was sparsely furnished and bare of any sort of ornament. A large bowl full of the infamous hot chili peppers sat in the kitchen, telling us that we had found the right place. Lowered blinds covered the windows. One wall was plastered with newspaper. Alerted by a yapping and clanging noise, I let my weapon lead the way into a small bathroom. The washbasin held a wind-up toy, a monkey in a red jacket and cap, playing the cymbals. It stopped as I got closer.
Peter had gone off to search the other rooms, so when I had made sure there was nothing else of interest in that tiny bathroom I turned my attention to a gallery of photos that were pinned to one wall. They all showed the abducted girl at varying stages of her life.
Suddenly I heard a gunshot, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. Raising the weapon I had not let out of my grasp since Peter had kicked down the door to the apartment, I quickly followed the sounds to an adjacent room. When I rounded the doorjamb to enter, however, I only found Peter. He quickly raised his hands in a defensive gesture when he saw himself confronted with the business end of my gun, and I couldn't grudge him, thinking back to the time I had almost shot him a couple of months ago. Giving him a quick once-over I was relieved to see that apart from a smudge of blood at his hairline he appeared unharmed, so I left him to his own devices and ran after the intruder. But by the time I reached the street, he was nowhere in sight.
Johari Window
"Are you saying that everyone in Edina is one of them?" I asked Peter after bringing the car to a stop.
Peter's answer was interrupted by the glare of headlights. A patrol car was slowly cruising towards us through the darkness, its lights reflected in the wet, muddy track we were parked on. When it stopped we saw movement inside, and a moment later Peter shouted, "GET DOWN!" We ducked under the dash just in time before bullets shattered the windscreen of our rental.
Leaving the car we both dodged bullets while I tried to lay some sort of cover fire by shooting over my shoulder. Lucky for us the sheriff was firing from the moving police cruiser, so his aim was erratic.
"We'll take cover in the barn," I heard Peter shout.
"Go! Go!" I screamed back as I turned and fired two more shots at the approaching vehicle. It veered to the side, which gave us the time we needed to make it to the barn where I took cover behind one of the supporting pillars. I couldn't see Peter, so I guessed he had found his own hiding place, and for a moment I cursed the FBI regulations that didn't permit civilian consultants to carry a weapon. I had seen Peter with a gun, and I knew he would have been a valuable asset in the inevitable firefight that would follow.
The slamming of two car doors alerted me to the fact that both officers had left their vehicle, its headlights pointed at the barn to illuminate their way. There were several open doorways, so it was hard to tell which one they would come through.
Hearing steps to my left, I rounded the post I was hiding behind, leading with my drawn weapon, and saw the deputy clearly outlined against the glare of the headlights. I dropped him with three shots before he was even able to get off one of his own. But the next second I saw movement from the corner of my eye, and I just managed to duck back behind my post before slugs from the sheriff's weapon sent splinters from it flying in all directions. The shots from his pump gun followed me as I tried to get to safety, punching fist sized holes into the boards of the barn wall above my bent back.
I found temporary shelter behind another post, drawing a deep breath when a rustling noise to my right caused me to propel myself from my hiding place, weapon drawn. My finger was teasing the pressure point of the trigger when I realized I was looking at Peter.
"Easy! Easy!" he said hurriedly, holding up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender, "It's just me."
I huffed out a breath in relief. How many more times would I come this close to shooting him?
At that moment the sound of a pump gun being cocked caused Peter to turn around, and we both saw the sheriff approaching, gun leveled in our direction. I kept my own weapon trained on him, glad that my hands didn't shake.
"Drop the gun," the sheriff ordered. I silently shook my head. Peter just kept glaring at our adversary.
"I said, DROP THE GUN!" the sheriff repeated, more forcefully this time. The muzzle of his gun shifted slightly so it was now aiming straight at Peter's chest, and I knew he would consider pulling the trigger a small price to pay in order to protect his town's secret. Slowly I started to lower my own weapon, when a slight figure appeared behind the sheriff's back. It was Rose, although I could only guess this by her hair - her face was now a horrific mask of twisted flesh. But the gun she held didn't waver. "Paul!" she called out.
"Go home, Rose," he replied without taking his eyes off Peter and I. The next moment a shot rang out, and the sheriff fell to the ground.
The Day We Died (alternate scene)
A low groaning noise came from the machine, and Peter began to tremble more violently. Tearing my eyes away from his crucified form, I turned around to face Walter and Broyles.
"Walter? What's happening to him?" I called out nervously.
"His heart rate is going up," Walter replied, bending over a monitor. "156 and climbing!" he added, before he started running towards me, Broyles right behind him. By the time they reached my position at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the machine, Peter's whole body was jerking like a puppet on a string. My heart clenched at the sight of him, and hoping for reassurance I asked Walter, "What's it doing to him?"
"I don't know," Walter replied, his eyes glued to his son. I knew then it must be bad if even Walter was at his wits' end.
Broyles cast a glance at a digital clock on the wall. "It's been sixty seconds now," he said. "How much longer are we gonna let him stay inside that thing?"
Almost tripping over his words, Walter explained: "Peter has interfaced with the machine at a biological level. If we take him out prematurely, I'm afraid we'll harm him."
At that moment a clanging noise came from the machine, and Peter bucked as if in the throes of a strong electrical current.
"Oh my god, something's wrong!" Walter called out.
The panic in his voice ratcheted my own worry impossibly higher. I pulled his sleeve to get his attention.
"We have to find a way to disconnect him from the machine. Think, Walter, what can we do?"
"I… I don't know." Walter ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. "The machine appears to be in control of his metabolism, as well as his neural pathways. We would have to basically reset his body so the connection is broken. But I don't know how. Unless…" His voice petered off.
"Unless? Walter, talk to me, can you think of a way?"
"Physical trauma," Walter muttered, still lost in thought.
"Physical trauma?" Broyles asked in a disbelieving tone. "What, you want to send somebody up there to hit him over the head?"
Walter shook his head. "I doubt the machine would let anybody, not even Olivia, close enough to do that," he said. "No, I think, Agent Dunham, that we are going to need your gun. Again."
To say I was stunned would be an understatement. I took a step back, unconsciously distancing myself from Walter and his crazy scheme. "Are you suggesting I shoot him? You can't be serious."
"Trust me, Agent Dunham, I fervently wish there was another way. But I believe it is the only option we have. The resulting surge in adrenaline and boost to the immune system will significantly alter his metabolism, and his neural pathways will be dealing with the transfer of pain. It should cause enough of a shift that the machine loses its hold on Peter." Seeing the horror that must have been etched into my face, Walter continued quickly, "It won't require much. Just a flesh wound."
I shook my head and held up my hands as if warding off evil. "No way. I can't. What if I miss, what if I kill him? I'm the last person you should ask to do this."
An alarm started to sound from the banks of monitors. Walter grabbed my hand. "My dear, you must. There isn't much time, or the machine will kill him."
"I would be willing to do it," Broyles said, but Walter shook his head. "You won't be able to get close enough. The machine protects itself, only Peter and Olivia have the necessary affinity to it so they can approach once it's activated."
From where he stood, Broyles watched as another surge from the machine made Peter buck in his restraints. Then he nodded. "You're right. A shot from this distance at a moving target would be too risky."
By now the alarm from the monitors was a constant nerve-wrecking blare in the background. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too constricted to let anything pass. It was an impossible choice. I never would have thought it possible, but at that moment I wished my alternate were here - a gold-medal marksman would find this task a piece of cake. But that was not an option.
Taking a deep breath, I drew my gun. My hand was shaking so badly I had to hold it in a two-handed grip. Clenching my teeth I nodded at Walter and Broyles before I started to ascend the gangway that had been pushed up to the machine.
When I reached the top I was close enough to Peter to see that his eyes had rolled back in his head, and that every fiber of his body was as taught as a bow string. Heat was coming off him in waves, and it was clear to me that no human body was able to take this kind of punishment for long. Slowly I raised my gun, angry at myself that I hadn't asked Walter where to aim in order to inflict the least damage. The shoulder? If I hit the joint I could cripple him for life. The thigh? Too many arteries. Finally I settled for the fleshy part of his waist, about three inches above his right hip so as to stay clear of his pelvic bone. Muttering, "I'm sorry, Peter," under my breath, and sending a brief prayer to whatever deity was listening that I wouldn't do much more than nick his side, I flipped off the safety, aimed and fired.
A small cloud of bloody spray erupted behind Peter as the bullet went straight through the muscle. A noise that almost sounded like a scream came from the machine, followed by a whining sound as the device powered down. Peter's head fell forward, and his eyes opened.
"Olivia," he said, a smile starting to spread over his face as he saw me standing in front of him, "you're alive!" But then the pain hit him, and the color left his face as the machine's restraints opened. I was just in time to wrap my arms around his middle before he collapsed in a dead faint.
"Help!" I shouted, and the next moment Broyles was by my side, taking Peter's weight off me and lifting him in his arms. I had never realized how strong Broyles was, but he carried Peter down the staircase without a single falter in his step.
Walter had cleared some space by shoving everything on the closest surface to the floor, and he now instructed Broyles to lay Peter on top of this makeshift examination table. I was still crouched at the top of the gangway, numbed by what I just had to do to the man I loved. His blood stained the front of my shirt where the wound had pressed against me as I held him up. All I could do at that moment was watch Walter as he pulled up Peter's shirt to inspect the wound in his side. I covered my mouth with the back of my hand to stifle the sobs that wanted to break from me, fearful of the result of this examination. Finally Walter looked up at me, a wide smile on his face.
"You did well, my dear," he called out to me. "The bullet went clean through. A flesh wound, just as I said. It will heal in no time."
The relief that swept through me was indescribable and it gave me the strength to leave my perch and join Walter and Broyles by Peter's side. "Then why did he faint?" I asked, taking one of Peter's hands in mine, drawing strength from his touch as I so often had before. His powers to soothe me seemed to be working even when he was out cold, because I felt my still-accelerated heartbeat slow down to almost normal speed.
"Probably the result of being disconnected from the machine in a rather abrupt manner," Walter suggested. "Which is why we should probably…"
"I'll call for medical assistance," Broyles offered, his phone already by his ear. But then his brow knitted in confusion. "I can't seem to get a reception."
Still unwilling to let go of Peter's hand, I used my left to pull my own phone from my pocket and flip it open. "I don't have a signal either."
"Maybe the electromagnetic field of the machine is interfering with the transmission," Walter mused.
Broyles nodded. "I'll try from outside," he said and turned towards the exit. But he had only taken two steps when he stopped. "What the… Where'd the door go?"
"Why, it's right…" Walter began, but stopped in mid-sentence when he saw the smooth expanse of wall that now covered the place where we all had entered not long ago. "I… I don't understand," he finally finished.
A low moan from Peter and the hint of a squeeze from his hand alerted us to the fact that he was coming round. As usual Walter was ready with his trusted pen light, raising Peter's eyelid and shining the narrow beam into his pupil.
Startled, Peter swatted at Walter's hands and tried to roll away from the annoying light. But he stopped with a pained gasp when his injury protested the movement. Throwing an accusing glare at Walter I quickly leaned over Peter, resting my hands on his shoulders to still him.
"Don't try to move, Peter, it's alright. You're safe."
"Olivia…" he muttered, blinking a few times to get his eyes to focus on my face. And then he repeated his earlier words. "You're alive."
Trying my best to give him a reassuring smile, I said, "Shouldn't that be my line after we just got you out of that doomsday machine?"
Peter's gaze wandered to where the device was now standing, perfectly still and silent, like an overgrown paperweight. "How long was I in there?" Peter asked.
"About two minutes," Broyles replied.
"Two minutes?" Peter shook his head. "Seemed a lot longer to me…"
He tried to sit up, but I held him down. "Don't move. You've been injured."
"Injured?" Peter looked down his own body, and his eyes widened when he saw the bleeding wound in his abdomen. "The shrapnel - but that's impossible," he muttered.
"Shrapnel?" Walter asked. "No son, this was made by a bullet. It was the only way to disconnect you from the machine before it did irreparable damage to you."
"Wait a minute - you disconnected me from the machine?" This time my efforts to restrain him were in vain, Peter pushed himself up on his elbows, grinding his teeth against the pain. "Walter - what have you done? I need to get back inside…"
"Impossible," Walter declared, his tone so forceful it reminded me of the Secretary. "You are exhausted and bleeding, you are in no condition to get into that device."
"Just a minute, Dr. Bishop." Broyles had obviously shifted into investigative mode. "Peter, what happened while you were inside the machine? And does it have anything to do with the fact that the door to this room has disappeared?"
Peter nodded. "When I got into the machine," he began, "I found myself…" He broke off and his face lost all color. Elbowing my boss out of the way, I supported Peter's head as I gently lowered him back onto the table. "Excuse me, Sir," I said, "but I think the interrogation can wait until we've patched him up and got some fluids into him."
"Very true, dear," Walter agreed, "I will get the first aid kit."
A sudden rumbling that made the whole room quake stopped him short. "What was that?" Broyles asked. I could see Peter's lips moving, but he was too weak to speak up, so I leaned over him until I was close enough to catch his whispered words. "Tell Walter to hurry. There isn't much time…"
Working as the team we had become, Walter, Broyles and I quickly cleaned and bandaged Peter's wound, and the effects of a combined saline/glucose drip helped to revive him enough so he could tell us about his experience. It was almost beyond belief to hear about the apocalyptic future Peter had seen, and what he and Walter had done to prevent the scenario from playing out again.
"I understand now," Peter said when he had finished his story. "I understand what the machine does. I know what it's capable of, and I know where it came from."
Walter shook his head incredulously. "So the First People were...?"
"Us," Peter confirmed. "The First People are us - you, most specifically and maybe Ella and Astrid, I don't know. I don't know who it was that took the machine back through time. But I know something else. I've seen Doomsday, and it is worse than anything you could possibly imagine. This isn't a war that can be won. The two worlds are inextricably linked. If one side dies, we all die. So I decided to tear holes in both the universes that would lead here, to this room. A bridge so that we can begin to work together, to fix…"
"Isn't that rather risky?" Broyles interrupted him. "Nina Sharp assures me that if an opening was created between the two universes, only one would survive. Which, if I understand you correctly, would mean the end for all of us."
"Not in this case," Walter explained. "The Bridge room would act like a sort of airlock, so no direct exchange would actually happen between Over Here and Over There."
Peter nodded. He was looking much better already, and I could tell that we would not be able to keep him still much longer. "I was half way done with creating the Bridge when you pulled me from the machine. That's why this room is now a mixture of ours and theirs. Obviously there's no door in that wall on the Other Side." Another quake shook the room, and the machine began to sway dangerously until the floor righted itself. With a suppressed groan Peter sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table. "This situation isn't stable. I must get back into the machine and finish what I started, or this space will collapse and what Nina Sharp has predicted will come true."
"But son, you're injured. Are you sure you'll have the strength necessary for such an endeavor?" As usual, Walter's concern for Peter overrode any consideration of his own safety.
"I don't really have a choice, do I?" Peter replied, pressing a hand to the bandage on his side and trying to breathe through the pain as he got to his feet. I saw the determination in his eyes, and moved closer to him, offering him my shoulder as support. When our gazes met, Peter's expression softened, and he cupped my cheek with his hand. "I swore myself I would not let you die again," he said, "so don't worry, I won't fail."
"In that case, you better promise yourself that you'll come out of this alive," I said, trying my best to give him an encouraging smile. "Because I damned well want those years together that you've already lived and I haven't."
He nodded, and our lips met in a short, sweet kiss. And I could have sworn I heard Walter's happy sigh at our PDA.
"Don't you want some painkillers?" I asked Peter, seeing the way he bit his lip as I helped him up the stairs to the machine. He shook his head. "I can't risk clouding my mind. Bending the machine to my will is going to take every bit of concentration I have."
The machine had started to hum the moment Peter set foot on the bottom step of the gangway, and by the time we reached the top it was pulsing with energy.
Peter gave a final squeeze to my shoulder before he pulled away from me and stepped into the footholds. But when he reached up for the handle with his right hand he stopped with a muffled cry and doubled over, the strain on the wound in his side too much for him to take.
"Peter!" I stepped off the gangway, but that's as far as I got. A kind of invisible forcefield held me back. Peter looked up at me and shook his head. "Don't try to come closer, Livia, it won't let you," he gasped. When he straightened I was shocked to see that blood was staining the bandage on his side.
"Peter," I pleaded, "get out of there. There must be another way, Walter will figure something out." As if to prove me wrong, another even stronger tremor tore through the room, causing the machine to creak and groan as it teetered on the bucking floor.
Peter shook his head. "We're out of time," he said. "See you on the other side."
Taking a deep breath, he reached up for the handle again and this time he managed to grab a hold, although he was grunting with pain as he wrapped his hand around it.
When the four metal sleeves closed around Peter's arms and legs and the machine kicked into high gear I climbed back down to Walter and Broyles. It was up to Peter now, and much as it pained me there was nothing I could do to help him. I could only hope that his plan would work, and that he would indeed be waiting for me on the other side as promised.
After all, I still needed to confess that it was me who had shot him. But who knows, maybe putting a bullet into Peter was what it took to put an end to our history of near misses.