Summary: Set season 2 before Jacksonville. A homicide leads Peter and Olivia to a dark club and soon turns into a quite painful and life-threatening experience for the both of them. Hurt!Peter and Hurt!Olivia after some initial chapters and rated M just for safety for violence and language.
And a warning: Olivia's chapters are a little bit... well, weird... in the beginning, both in style and in content. There is a deeper meaning with the madness, but it will take a while to emerge as it is an important part of the story, so please bear with the weirdness :p
Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or any of its fantastic, loveable and handsome characters *sigh*.
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The sting of the Leiurus quinquestriatus scorpion is deadly. A sharp pain in the palm, a feeling of shock, panic, then the terrible heat that spreads through the veins, followed by numbness. Trouble moving. Trouble breathing. Heartbeat stops. The sting of a scorpion kills. The scorpion...
… The scorpion is irrelevant. The scorpion doesn't count. The only thing that does count is the beat of the music. Oomph. Oomph. Oomph. Moving through every inch of her body. Oomph. Oomph. Oomph. She sways to the rhythm of the music, one feet to the left, then to the right, head to the left, head to the right. Oomph. Oomph. Oomph. Her black hair – black, it isn't black! Shouldn't be black! – falls in front of her vision, blocks her vision. Oomph. Oomph. Oomph. She shakes her hips, left, left, right, right, left, left, right, right, the rhythm is faster now. Flows through her. Is one with her. Oomph-oomph. Oomph-oomph. Oomph-oomph. She feels a drop of sweat forming on her forehead, feels it run slowly down her cheek before it drips down on the floor. The stroboscopic light makes her feel dizzy, but she dances, dances, dances like there's no tomorrow. Maybe there isn't. She doesn't care. She should care. This is important. Something is important. But what? She only cares about the music, the beat that gives her the power to live. Oomph-oomph. Oomph-oomph. Oomph-oomph. Right feet left, left feet right, turn around, sway the hips, move the head, feel the hair. Her arms move on their own, as do her feet, as does her body. Remember. Important. The blue light reflects on her pale skin – shouldn't be pale – and she shakes her body faster or her body shakes her, she doesn't know. She doesn't care. Oomph-oomph. Oomph-oomph. Oomph-oomph. What are you doing, Olivia? A weird voice. Not hers. Not that she remembers what her voice sounds like. It is not important. Only the music is. The sting. Remember, the sting of the scorpion is deadly. How would she know? She is not a biologist. Is she? She doesn't remember, and it's not important. But it is, Olivia! Olivia – is that her? Is that her name? It sounds unfamiliar, and the voice that calls her by that name sounds unfamiliar. Male. Deep. Concerned. Unfamiliar. Unimportant. Lost in the rhythm. OlivOomph-oomph. OlivOomph-oomph. OlivOomph-oomph. Her body takes her to the right, takes her to the left, turns her around, her hair in front of her eyes. More sweat on her skin, cold against the heat of the dancefloor. White smoke blurs her vision, smells funny, not bad, just funny. Ghosts in front of her. Maybe she is a ghost. Lost to the music. Maybe they all are dead. Like Emily. Like who? She doesn't know an Emily. She doesn't know an Olivia. She doesn't know any Peter. Peter. Important. She doesn't know and she doesn't care about anything. Music fills her every cell, fills her with life, fills her with happiness. Oooomph. Oooomph. Oooomph. Something important. A mission. Emily. Dead like Emily. Who is Emily? She knows she should remember, but it is so hard, so impossible. Like every thought has to fight its way through a thick layer of syrup. Impossible. Not worth it. Nothing is. And so she dances.