I allowed my first Fringe attempt to remain somewhat detached and professional. But those familiar with my writing know what an incurable shipper-maniac I am. Therefore I present a little nugget of fluff for your kind consideration.

Mad Dash

It's his morning voice that does her in; the sleepy rasp that vibrates through her nerve endings, a soothing voltage when she's less than grounded. Every time she stands at his door, knocking at a godforsaken hour to rouse him, she must prepare for that audible aphrodisiac as one would a dangerous raid. Otherwise, her mission-focused mind loses ground to thoughts she ought not entertain about this man.

He is a runner, that much he admitted on their first meeting. And true enough, there are days that she waits for him to bolt, every muscle poised for a mad dash far from melting bodies and rapid-growth infants. He never wanted to be here, signing his life away to a government he distrusts for a job he never sought. Case work comes with long lab hours that feature only brief moments of adrenalin-inducing action. The man who lives light and dubiously in the harshest places on earth is being forced to play babysitter to a man he grew up despising. And the fact that he never did sign that standard-issue waiver offers no comfort of contractual commitment.

And wake up calls before dawn bring the best out of no one. Readying herself for the substantial three a.m. eyeroll that her interruption will guarantee, Olivia Dunham places knuckles to wood and waits. It never takes long because he knows she'll only knock harder if he dawdles. The hotel door swings back to reveal Peter Bishop, disheveled, shirtless and slightly amused. He used to be frustrated by her nocturnal arrivals and she can't pin down when that changed. But she can clearly recall the first time he called her:

"Livy?" He draws out the nickname in that damned voice, a wrecking ball to her composure. And she wonders how her name must sound on his tongue should they ever…

"We have to," she trails because there are so many ways to conclude that sentence. And the mole on his right collarbone distracts her. She shouldn't know it's there. "Um, we should…"

"Are you sure?" The tone sinks deeper still, teasing her childishness. And then she knows he knows. Damn. The last thing a good agent should do is load the enemy's arsenal for them. And the notion of being played snaps her spine back into alignment.

"We have to go. Get your father." The order was borrowed steel, the lift in her chin final.

"If only you knew what that entailed." He sighs and the game is over.

All too recognizable irritation seeps into his posture and the door is closed before her. From the outer hall, she can hear him call Walter's name, equal parts summons and bark. Peter once told her that his father prefers to chase sleep in the closet, the nearest equivalent to a cell the old man could find. And she can easily picture Walter curled up in matching pajamas under empty hangers. There is rustling, a hurried dressing with which she knows Peter is not participating. He will lean toward leisurely just to inconvenience her. The time spent in confined spaces and mortal peril has brought a gradual understanding of each other, which does little to ensure his cooperation on any given day. Sometimes, though, she's sure his rebellious streak is just his way of keeping up the perception of freedom.

When Walter exits the room, he walks past Olivia in the opposite direction of the elevator. His is a state of obliviousness frequented less often lately and so it surprises her when he reverts this way. When he absently mentions that Peter is in the shower, it evokes a vision she can't afford to dwell on now, blushes being entirely unprofessional. Five minutes are spent tamping down the urge to barge in under the pretense of rushing him. But he saves them both from disaster, emerging with a perpetually unshaven but grinning face.

"Why can't we ever have an afternoon playdate with villains?" He gripes in response to a check of his watch and a rub of his eyes.

"Evil breeds in the Petri dish of darkness," Walter supplies as he adjusts his roaming course to head for the elevator. "Night is their mother's milk, you might say. Of course, the natural state of that nutritious substance can be converted to…"

"It's too early for scientific fiction, isn't it?" Peter looks at her for agreement as the doors close on the tiny box. But she's too busy trying not to follow the impromptu discourse on the wonders of altered breast milk and the flushing of her skin where Peter's gaze has unabashedly wandered. If Walter uses the word 'breast' one more time…

It takes minor effort to get the senior Bishop into the car. The seat warmer infatuation has long since worn off and the desire to drive again has surfaced. His license, 18 years expired, still sits in his wallet as a laminated reminder of a time when he was self-sufficient and not an attention-diverted road hazard.

This situation is not uncommon; the child steering the parent, ensuring wellbeing where the elder cannot. It's a position with which Peter is uncomfortable in principle. Yet she watched him reluctantly adapt to the role of caregiver. Still, the temptation to run is like a drug craving, alternately wavering in his mind and consuming it. His intention to stay until the answers have been unearthed is little consolation when he appears to literally itch from the proximity to obligation. Fortunately, their work today lies in the field, scene investigation temporarily quelling Peter's flight impulses. It's only at the end of each case that her eyes veer to dark corners in search of packed bags.

Astrid likes to give her a nudge when Peter is caught eying her and while Olivia reprimands the young woman for memorizing the ideals of 'Sleepless in Seattle.' Life is not a chick flick. Life, indeed, is a bad Lifetime movie. Her proof is John's betrayal. Therefore, she refuses to sleep with another partner. She refuses to think on green eyes and thick hair. She refuses.

But when he opens that door and uses that voice to call her that name, every vow makes a mad dash toward theoretical.