You opened the door to step into the dark

by A Perfect Day Elise

Mmh. Post 3x17. Peter has been dreaming of the doomsday machine for days now. He feels like he could crumble under the weight on his shoulders, but Lincoln is here, and it makes pretty much everything better.

« You opened the door to step into the dark...and now I'm ready »

« Give me your troubles
I'll keep them with mine
Take at your leisure
Take whatever you can find but
Oh my sweet thing
Don't you know it's alright ? »

Oh My Lover (PJ Harvey, aka my goddess)

So this is probably the least descriptive title ever, and I apologize for that. I have been listening to Arcade Fire obsessively, and this line just... stuck with me.

I also realize the summary is quite vague, but the fic didn't go in the direction I intended for it, so I'm still not entirely sure what to think about it.

5368 words (lolwut? I don't know how this happened) of frienship/angst/romance.

He is staring at the plans of the Wave sink device, as if he could wish them to make sense already. He's been staring at them for the past twenty minutes, but so far, his attempt at suggestion over sheets of paper (how tired is he anyway?) had no other effects than to make his eyes swim.

He sighs for the umpteenth time, and lets his head fall on the table. Except he doesn't have any force left in his neck muscles (or any of his muscles really), so it doesn't as much lay down on the table as it crashes into it. Hard. Fortunately, being so tired that you begin to feel like some human jelly has at least one advantage: pain barely registers anymore.

He hears footsteps closing in and considers for a moment to try and push himself up and at least pretend he is not as pathetically exhausted as he feels (and must look since he slept a grand total of seven hours in the last three days). But it is probably Astrid with some hot beverage or food so he figures it isn't worth the energy because the last time she came in , he had clearly heard her mumble under her breath that he was slowly becoming worse than Walter.

Which he thought was completely uncalled for, even if he did answer her a little brusquely when she had told him he needed to rest. And the thing is, he knows she was right. There is not much they can do while Bell's decoding key is running the data from the shape-shifters' memory disks. But it's been days already, and the device holds too many secrets for him to just wait around.

Not sleeping is counter productive but he can't just go home and try to forget for a few hours how messed up his life is.

He can't bring himself to leave the plans, even if he isn't any closer to find some hidden meaning or instructions than he was days before. He knows there probably aren't any, but he has to continue searching.

He has to hope he'll find something, even if, with all the financial resources at their disposition, the Massive Dynamic scientists aren't closer to anything akin to a solution that they were the last time he visited the hangar, weeks ago.

With all their collective efforts, they barely made any progress at all about the machine and how it is supposed to work, other than he fuels it, and also possibly fills the role of the sacrificial lamb, which... nice.

There have been hypotheses, and theories, he heard all of them, and he conceived some himself, but he needs more than speculation. He needs an answer, and the sooner the better.

Because lately his dreams are filled with the smell of electricity, the sound of cogs, the cold touch of metal and the overwhelming taste of blood. It's all he's been dreaming of for days, just that, darkness, scattered sensations, and the feeling of being trapped. Beyond any possible rescue.

He sighs and it sounds too loud in the silence of the room. That's when he realizes that the patter of footsteps has stopped. He lifts its head a little, ready to offer his best grin to Astrid, even if faking good humor feels too much like an hassle right now.

Turns out is isn't her but Lincoln, one mug in each hand and files under his arm, and before Peter can wonder where he summoned the energy to do so, he is straightening up and welcoming him with a smile. It's effortless and also the first time this day he doesn't feel like he is stretched too thin. It is a good feeling.

"Hey",he says and winces a little when he hears how raucous his voice is.

"Hey. Mind if I join you?" He looks unsure and Peter knows that if his hands weren't otherwise occupied, he'd be straightening his glasses nervously. Instead he tenses a little and looks at him straight in the eyes, as if preparing himself for rejection. Which is insane because he's been the best thing in Peter's life since his transfer.

"Not at all. In fact, you are quite welcome. I need a distraction."

"Do you, now?" Lincoln answers with a smile as he puts down the mugs and the files, before sitting down in the chair opposite him. He frowns at the mess of papers. "I take it that you have not make much progress then."

"Well, if by "not much" you mean "any" then yes, I haven't. Which is brilliant. I have spent hours examining them, and I'm still no closer to understand them."

He sounds bitter, and he really wish he didn't. He doesn't want to make Lincoln feel uncomfortable, because even if he can't seem to stop thinking about the damn blue prints for even a minute, he really is happy that he finally came back from his investigation at Massive Dynamic.

He knows that his concern is probably unfounded. After all, Lincoln has been integrated to the Fringe division for three days now, and he has taken everything in stride with a remarkable ease, so it stands to reason that a bad mood isn't going to scare him away. Still.

He feels frustrated and angry at himself, at his inability to make sense to something which is somehow part of him. His hands are stretching above the sheets of paper, and he can feel them almost shaking with the impulse to tear them apart. He picks up the sketch the Observer left to Olivia and stares at it as the words of Bell about fate and its inescapability ring in his ears.

"Peter." Lincoln says after a moment of silence, his voice a mix of concern and resolve.

He closes his eyes and tries to find again the happy place he was in when he saw Lincoln standing there. Except that every time he closes his eyes for longer than the time necessary to blink, images of his dreams come flooding his mind.

He snap his eyes open before they can overwhelm him but he still feels out of focus and his heart is drumming too loud (so loud). For a few seconds, it is all he can hear, all he can feel.

When he finally comes back to himself, the sound of his heartbeat receding at a normal level, one of Lincoln's hands is around his wrist, and the other is tugging, gently, the paper out of his own hands.

"Lincoln... " He begins, but the other man tuts and ignores him as he puts the sketch in one of his files. He only takes one look at it, but even if he's grown better at hiding them, Peter can still see the flicker of grief and horror. The same expressions he had when he first saw it.

Peter had informed Broyles about his recurrent dream four days after it first started. It was an entirely personal matter and he wouldn't have shared it in the first place, with anyone and let alone Broyles, except that there had been a suspicion of a breech at Massive Dynamic.

More exactly a malfunction in their private server, the same one where, amongst other top secret files, all the data concerning a certain machine and its location was stocked.

To their knowledge, no data had been downloaded, but it was Massive Dynamic, and glitches in the system had never happened before,.

By the time Broyles was informed, only hours after the incident, they had already moved the device to an even more secret and guarded location and upped their security system.

But Broyles clearly thought it wasn't enough, and the next day he had walked into the lab with Lincoln on his tail. He informed them that special agent Lee was until further notice part of the Fringe Division. They were to concentrate on their most urgent tasks, which he dubbed not quite originally the "Dunham" and "Device" situations, while Lincoln was here to help them to deal with their more mundane cases.

Then he left and they all stared silently at Lincoln who stood a little awkwardly, tense stance and wavering smile. Astrid was gone on a quest for whichever food Walter had a craving for, and even if Peter was beginning to feel the effects of his new-found insomnia, he knew it made him the one in charge of normal social interactions.

In four strides he was by Lincoln's side, welcoming with a smile and a handshake.

"So you decided to ignore my warning then?"

" It seems I have." Lincoln answered with a small grin. "Though I must say even if I hadn't enjoyed my first meeting with you guys, I would probably not have much say in the matter anyway. Agent Broyles can be quite... " He paused, tilting his head to the right, eyes widening as he took a small breath. "Convincing." He added with a smile. "But I am glad to be here."

" I'm glad of it too." And because Walter and Bell were still staring without saying anything he added. "We all are. Right?" He turned towards them, arms crossed and slightly raised eyebrows. The silence stretched on for a few seconds until finally:

"Oh... Yes, of course. It's really nice to see you again agent..."

"Lee." Bell supplied with his trademark self-satisfied smile. "Nice indeed. You are quite welcome here, my dear boy. I take from agent Broyles's speech that you have been informed about the... particular state me and agent Dunham are currently in. So I guess I should as well introduce myself again. William Bell, founder, and until recently, head of Massive Dynamic."

He extended a hand, his smile growing bigger when Lincoln stared at it cautiously before reaching out to shake it.

"Hmm. Nice to meet you."

He was smiling but he looked uncomfortable, and really, Peter didn't blame him. Even with the device occupying his almost every thoughts, awake or asleep, he still couldn't get over the fact that his girlfriend was possessed by some old geezer.

So he put his hand on Lincoln's shoulder as reassurance, and, deciding that the machine of doom could wait a little, proposed to introduce him to their crazy work. Lincoln's smile increased tenfold and he nodded eagerly before following him to the back room.

Time passed quickly as they went through the cases, but too soon Lincoln asked him about the machine. After hours spent falling back into the easy routine they had adopted instinctively when they had first worked together -and Peter could still not quite believe how easy it was, it felt, to be around Lincoln-, it was like a cold shower.

He tensed and Lincoln looked apologetic, but resolute. Peter sighed as he rummaged through the leaning pile of files. He didn't begrudge him.

Because as pleasant as it was to go through the cases with him (they were gruesome, but Lincoln often said the most unexpected things, with just a hint of a smile, and Peter found himself cracking up quite a few times), and as unpleasant it was for him to expose to yet another person how messed up his life was, Lincoln had a job to do.

So he gritted his teeth and handed him the file. It didn't contain every single data, but it was a good starting point.

They were both silent for the next ten minutes or so, as Lincoln skimmed it. He looked concentrated, brow furrowed and mouth pursed, and if he noticed that around the fifth minute, Peter stopped pretending to reorganize the files in favor of watching him read, it didn't show.

His eyes were trained on the open file, stance remarkably still. But then he tensed and his jaw clenched as his look of concentration was swept away by one of affliction and sheer horror.

At that moment, Peter was sure of two things. First, what Lincoln was looking was the sketch of him in the machine, eyes burning (he had organized the folder himself, so he knew exactly what was on page twelve).

Secondly, he was clearly forcing himself not to look up at Peter. The cords of his neck were strained and his eyes were moving way too fast: he was not reading the odd scriptures, but trying really hard to get his composure back.

It took a while, but his face finally became neutral again, and when he looked up, Peter almost missed the flicker of sorrow in his eyes.

"I see."

It is all he said, and Peter could not think of anything to answer. So he didn't. They spent the rest of the afternoon, side by side, buried in sheets and sheets of paper, not uttering a single word. It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't. Far from it, in fact: Peter found the sound of Lincoln's even breathing quite soothing as he perused his files about the other side.

The next day, Bell finally remembered where is decoding key were (it turned out that two consciousnesses sharing the same space could lead to some memory losses), and Lincoln helped Peter to transfer all his collected files about the Device to the lab. Secrecy was no longer necessary: he had told Olivia, full disclosure as promised, and now urgency prevailed.

"Peter? Earth to Peter, Hello." Lincoln is waving his hands in front of him, and not for the first time, he marvels at how delicate they look. He shakes his head and smiles apologetically

"Yes, sorry. I was just... remembering things."

Lincoln frowns and opens his mouth, but Peter is not ready to admit that he is so tired that he takes a constant effort not to let his mind wander and that he is failing more and more in that regard, so he continues quickly

" What about that breech then?".

Lincoln looks at him in a way that clearly says he is not fooled by his attempt at distraction, but answers anyway, shrugging a little:

" Well, as it turned out, nothing. No breech on the servers or intrusion on the premises. They have definitely chalked it up to a internal error and Nina Sharp gently but firmly asked me to let Broyles know that any exterior assistance was no longer required. Needless to say, he wasn't too happy about it."

"So a glitch in the system, huh?"

"Yes, just a false alarm." He sounds relieved, and Peter understands. An infiltration could have only mean incredibly bad news.

" Not so much more exciting than Hartford then?" He grins.

"Not really, but fortunately I still have many cases to go through, including, if I remember correctly one about some squid-like parasites growing inside people... And doesn't that sound delightful", he finishes as he pushes his glasses up, his eyes glinting a little.

Peter winces at the memory, and Lincoln chuckles, looking incredibly satisfied.

"And here I thought you'd be a good distraction."

"Sorry?" Lincoln says but his smile is mischievous so Peter highly doubts he is. "But, see, I brought you some hot tea."

He pushes the mug in Peter's hands, their fingers brushing briefly as he does. Peter shivers, and he can't tell whether it is from the sudden warmth in his hands, or from the contact.

"Tea?" He complains, and he sounds more petulant than he would like, but he does need his dose of caffeine. He sips it anyway, relishing the warmth.

"Yes. Astrid texted me to let me know that you had had eleven cups of coffee today and I refuse to enable your addiction. Also, I hope you are not thinking of spending another night here, because I'm driving you home."

Peter groans, and answers with more heat than he intends:

" Lincoln. While I appreciate your concern, I am a grown man, and if I want to pull an all-nighter, then, quite frankly, it is not of your business."

Lincoln frowns and purses his lips and Peter feels guilty for snapping at him. It isn't Lincoln's fault if he feels like time is running out on him. If he is powerless against it.

He sighs and brings the eels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing them in small circles.

As the silence stretches on, he tries to think of something to say, to make him understand that while he is glad of his presence, of his sympathy, this is something he needs to do.

There is a small pressure at the back of his left hand, one that Peter knows is a request for attention. He sighs and considers ignoring it, but then there are fingers encircling both his wrists, pulling them away. He is too surprised to think of resisting and soon enough his palms are resting on the table. His eyes snap open.

Lincoln's eyes are cast down, but Peter can tell he isn't looking at the table or the files. He has this far away look he gets sometimes when he thinks people - and by people, Peter means himself, because as far as he can tell, it only happens when they spend time together- are not watching.

There is a frown somewhere. It is barely there - no furrowed brow or creased eyebrows- but Peter can see it, hidden in plain sight, on the smooth glabella. There is also the ghost of a smile, but his mouth is indecisive, its corners twitching up and down.

Peter can't tell what it means, and whether these faint clues point towards sadness or contentment. The more he thinks about it, the more he is convinced that the answer is in the middle.

"Your hands are cold." Lincoln observes, frown deepening.

It is quiet, almost a murmur, but it's enough to draw Peter's attention to the fact that Lincoln's hands are still on his. They are barely touching and yet for some reason, Peter feels each press of fingers - three on his knuckles, thumbs on his wrists – acutely. It is an odd sensation, both comfortable and unsettling.

He doesn't know how long he stares at their joined hands, but suddenly Lincoln is mumbling an apology and his hands are leaving Peter's. As they do, his fingers trail a little on the back of Peter's hands, and it is enough to cause a full body shiver.

Peter put it in the corner of his mind dedicated to Lincoln Lee, and more specifically, all these little incidents and reactions. He has no frame of reference for the easy companionship he formed with Lincoln, but he is still pretty sure that he is not supposed to be so affected by him.

There is probably a line somewhere, a line he thinks he has crossed, though he is still not entirely sure what that line defines in the first place.

He only knows that there is this constant, relentless pull between them. It's been here since they first met, and it is pretty much irresistible. Not that he would want to resist it. He has no reason to: it is comfortable and effortless, yet thrilling, and he never had anything like this before.

A loud sighs breaks the silence. He looks up, and Lincoln is looking right back at him, a determined expression on his face.

"Look, Peter. The last thing I would want is to be yet another problem to you but..."

Peter shakes his head and raises one hand to silence him.

"Lincoln, you're not. I'm sorry I snapped at you. But you've got to understand: this thing, I'm the only one who can operate it. So I have to find out, for sure, if it really is the doomsday machine that everyone believes it to be. And if it is, then I have to find another solution.I have to believe there is one, because there is no way that I'm entering it with that knowledge. I won't kill billions of people. I won't. "

He sighs and runs his hand on his face, and shakes lightly his head as he continues, voice barely a whisper

"I can't just sit around and pretend that I haven't been dealt with one hell of a bad hand. That everything is going to be okay. Because, chances are, it really isn't." He chuckles bitterly "I mean, we basically are talking about end of the world here."

Lincoln looks thoughtful and doesn't utter a single word for the next few minutes. His jaw is twitching, his eyes cast down and darting in every direction. He looks almost exactly as he did three days ago, except for the set of his shoulders: they were tense then, but now they are slumped, as if the weight has proven itself to be too heavy to carry anymore.

Finally he looks up and stares at him for a few seconds before speaking.

"And do you..." His voice wavers and he clears his throat before going on " Do you feel like you're stuck here too?"

"What do you mean?"

He is surprised at the apparent non-sequitur, but he has a vague suspicion as of to where this is going. He feels his heartbeat begin to race as he waits for Lincoln to answer.

"Dana Gray. When you told her you knew exactly what she was going through. It was about this. Not just about impossible choices..." His voice breaks a little " You are from over there, aren't you".

Even if he had an obscure feeling about it -maybe because Lincoln never said "your father" when talking about Walter- Peter is dumbstruck.

He didn't think he knew. He shouldn't know. Broyles had told them he hadn't thought it necessary to inform him about the circumstances in which the device had been discovered, or Peter's connections to the other side. They had all agreed it was for the best.

"How... Did Walter..."

He hates to be like this, at a loss for words, but this is too much, too soon. He would have told Lincoln, eventually, but in the meanwhile he relished having someone near him who didn't know exactly how precarious a choice it was.

"No. He didn't. No one did" He must look disbelieving, because Lincoln adds quickly, tripping a little over his words. "It's..." He sighs " It's just a few things, really. Like how vague everyone's responses get when I try to know more about the origins of the device. Or how whenever the subject of the other side comes up, there is always someone to look at you just a beat too long. I also mulled quite a bit over your phone conversation with Dana Gray» He sighs again. « I suspected, but I didn't know for sure. » He pauses, looking a bit guilty. "Not until now."

Peter can't think of anything to say, of any answer to give him. He feels exhausted, and angry, and sad, and disappointed, and betrayed.

None of those emotions have not much to do with Lincoln. They have been here, jumbled up and lurking under the surface. For a little more than a year, when he found out his life had been a lie. That the persons he loved and trusted the most had deceived him.

He gulps as he tries to repel the onslaught. Because it was then, and since he had understood, forgiven even. He can't let himself go back to when he felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest.

He closes his eyes, fighting the taste of metal and the swelling rage. It isn't easy, but after a few deep breaths, he is calm again.

When he opens his eyes, Lincoln is staring at him, eyes wide and parted lips, looking utterly crushed.

«I'm so sorry, Peter. I shouldn't have brought it up. It is none of my business, and now you're upset and... oh, god... »

He is mumbling and suddenly his hands are everywhere, his face, his collar, his tie, his glasses, the table.

Peter can't help but stare. He never thought they could be like that, wild, jittery things, animated with a life of their own: Lincoln always talks with his hands, but whether it is to point, mime, or simply stress his words, he always does it with poise and composure. And he is even more delicate when it comes to touching something or someone: Peter remembers the care with which he closed Dana Gray's eyelids.

So when Lincoln takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, and drops them carelessly on the table, Peter is taken aback. He is upset, but to see him so flustered is much more unnerving. So he does the only thing he can think of: he reaches out and captures the other man's hands with his own. He feels a jolt at the contact, and he can't tell whether the sharp intake of breath that breaks the silence is his or Lincoln's.

He is tired and he didn't want it to happen that way, but it doesn't matter anymore. Lincoln has calmed down: his movements once more delicate and composed as he picked up his glasses and put them back on. His hands are now completely still under Peter's and he looks expectant, like he is waiting for him to say something.

So he does.

He tells him everything, from the beginning, when the love of a father for his son threw out of balance two universes, to the latest developments, his crossing over, Walternate and Fauxlivia.

He talks and talks, and it feels like a dam has broken somewhere. Everything floods out of him, and it feels good,so damn good, because he's been withholding so many things for so long, and it is pretty much the first time he has the chance to be really heard, to have someone's unwavering attention.

He doesn't know how long it takes, but Lincoln doesn't interrupts once, and when he stops, his breathing is easier, and the weight sitting on his heart at every moment doesn't feel quite as heavy anymore.

He also notices that somewhere along the way his fingers have entwined with Lincoln's.

He doesn't know when or how it happened and it should freak him out a little, but all he can feel is relief. The relief that comes with the resolution of a particularly arduous problem.

He now knows exactly what line he crossed, except he is not sure anymore that there is a line from what they have. That there ever was one to begin with.

He remembers all these reactions he couldn't make sense of at the time, and it feels like everything falls into place.

Lincoln is still silent and when Peter looks up from their knitted hands, he takes a few seconds to commit him to memory (his bite-swollen parted lips, slight flush, wide eyes and blown pupils) before leaning in and kissing him.

And first it is just a small press of lips against lips, soft and cautious as they breathe each other in. But it is heady and blood-thrumming, pulse-quickening good, so the rhythm soon speeds up as mouths collide, teeth clash and tongues interlace.

There is a table between them, so it is a little uncomfortable, the wood digging into flesh as they try to get closer still.

But they can't, so Peter breaks the kiss and gets around it before pulling Lincoln up to kiss him again. It is so much better now, because he can card his fingers through his hair, and it is as soft as he imagined it to be.

But as powerful as he feels whenever he makes Lincoln moan with just a bite or a flick of his tongue, he is still more exhausted than ever. So when Lincoln presses back into the kiss, hands gripping his shirt - Peter didn't know they could clench and claw and his heart races even more when he feels how forceful they can be -, he feels his legs buckle.

For a moment he thinks he is going to crash onto the table, or worse still fall on the floor, but Lincoln must have felt his loss of balance, because his hands are suddenly on his waist, steadying him as he pulls back.

His hair is a mess, his lips kiss-swollen, and he is so beautiful that Peter feels like all the air has been punched out of his lungs. He is dazed. Breathless.

There is a tug on his wrist.

"You're beyond exhausted. Come on. Time to go home" It is soft, and halfway between a request and a demand, so he just nods and follow Lincoln out of the lab.

When the cold air hits him, he feels like he's been awaken. It's brutal and his eyes widen as he fully realizes what he's just done, as he remembers he has a girlfriend (albeit a currently possessed one), and also that before a ridiculously attractive and irresistible agent waltzed in, he's been pretty sure he was straight (now he is just confused).

He doesn't say a word during the ride. Lincoln was the one to drive Walter and Bell the day before, when he decided he'd stay at the lab, and he is thankful he doesn't have to give him directions, because he doesn't trust his voice right now. So he has plenty of time to mull over the kiss (or technically, kiss-es), his potential consequences, but when Lincoln pulls over, he can't say he has made much progress. He loves Olivia, he truly does, but there is also this pull he can't ignore.

" Peter..." it is almost a whisper, but he startles nonetheless, before turning towards Lincoln "I meant it. When I told you I didn't want to be another problem for you." He pauses, frowning a little as he continues. "And, the thing is... This, what happened, and whatever there is between us... It doesn't have to be a problem."

"But it is though" he says, sounding almost as broken as he feels at the thought of putting it behind him.

"No, it isn't." He sighs and looks at him straight in the eyes, voice brimming with conviction. "It is complicated, I'm not denying that. But it it is not something you have to cope with. There is already too much weight on your shoulders as it is, and I wouldn't want you to burden yourself any more. So if it makes your charge heavier to carry, then just drop it and forget about it."

"It doesn't" Peter admits quietly Because it is true: it is confusing, but he also feels lighter and better than he had in ages.

" Then... Look, I know how important Olivia is to you, and how you miss her. And I wouldn't want to change that, to take it away from you. In fact, I don't want or expect anything. There is already too much that was taken away from you, or asked of you." He gulps slightly and finishes, clearly straining not to avert his eyes. " I guess what I'm trying to say is that this is something you can have... if you want to..."

and Peter can say anything because this is too much, because he feels he shouldn't be given something so freely, because he shouldn't want to take is so much. So he nods, and tells Lincoln he will think about it. And because he can, he leans in and kisses him again before walking out of the car.

He sleeps a dreamless sleep and when he wakes up, twelve hours later, there is a fluttering feeling in his chest: it's hope.

"Oh my lover
Don't you know it's alright ?
You can love her
You can love me at the same time
Much to discover
I know you don't have the time but
Oh my lover
Don't you know it's alright ?"

Hmm. I do hope it was alright. I know, it is a little long-winded at times, and I'll be lying if I said I didn't thougth at times I was writing a romance novel.

I blame my writing skills, but also Peter and our Lincoln for how ridiculously giggly and flirty and overall perfect for each other they were.