halo (in reverse)
lincoln/altlivia. R.
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i guess this can be seen as a prequel of sorts to my previous fic Not To Pull Your Halo Down. i took some liberties with the canon discrepancies in how things changed from blueverse to amberverse. like how in this iteration, charlie isn't dead before the olivia switcheroo and walternate is still a bastard (i guess since the machine hasn't turned on to heal their world yet). i suppose this is a sort of wishful AU "what if?" technically set during season 3. hopefully it makes sense.
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and when our worlds they fall apart
when the walls come tumbling in
though we may deserve it,
it will be worth it-
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They give you a solo mission, and it sounds easy enough. Be a good little spy and infiltrate the other side as their Olivia Dunham, Secretary Bishop instructs you. They don't let you tell anyone goodbye, but the Secretary assures you that you won't be there for long, just some recon. And you're not on your own, no. Of course they have a quantum entangled typewriter at an address in the file that you will be able to use to communicate to them with.
So you go. This is war after all, and these people are the enemy.
(Except maybe they aren't.)
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But after a while you find yourself coming to like them. Their Charlie is so much like your Charlie that the two of you fit together perfectly as partners, even without Lincoln there beside you (something clenches in your chest all the same at his absence, however). Charlie doesn't have his spiders and doesn't call you kiddo, but the trust and smiles he bestows upon you are the same caliber you remember and you wonder why their Olivia isn't as close to him as you are already getting.
Their Walter is as opposite as opposites can be, except for astronomical amounts of intellect and a scientific mind. Half of the time you're trying to figure out what the food he's requesting is because it doesn't exist in your world anymore (or ever did) and the other half the time you need translations from Astrid about what the science-y jargon he's speaking is. But that must be par for the course with their own Olivia because explaining things in simpler terms to her very rarely causes him to slow down his nervous energy when he's made a breakthrough on a case.
(You realize you trust him the second time he doses you full of drugs and puts you in an isolation tank with disappointing results. He doesn't know you never took cortexiphan as a child, and you're not allowed to tell him. It's the first time you wonder why are these people the enemy.)
Their Astrid is sweet and generous, open and outgoing and as brilliant dealing with Walter as your Astrid is dealing with numbers. She's softer in this universe (possibly from constantly chaperoning Walter or from reasons you aren't privy to, you don't know much about your Astrid to be truthful. No one does.), fusses over Walter while making the cogs for your team run smoothly, the grease and the glue that holds their Fringe team together behind the scenes. It makes you realize how woefully under-appreciated your Astrid is as a person on your side, instead of just a vessel for statistical knowledge.
And your family. You're sad to hear your mother is long gone, but you spent half a lifetime with her in your world and will see her again soon. What's most surprising is finding out Nina Sharp had a maternal bone in her body, but then you realize this Nina is also softer than and not like the diamond-hard Nina of your world. (And you remember reading the file, but it doesn't sink in until your sister calls and yes, she is alive and has a baby (well, not-so-baby) girl and a boy. Your breath hitches so you don't let out an involuntary sob at the sound of her voice again.)
You pay attention, blend in and dutifully wait for instructions that come less and less, causing you to slip further and further into this Olivia's life. Weeks go by before you remember what a life was like without coffee, without amber, without your sister, without rainbows. You get comfortable in your role as their Olivia Dunham, begin to think that your natural blond isn't so bad, their Charlie is a better friend than you realized in your own universe, and their Walter is brilliant, goofy, and unabashedly apologetic for his past. None of them are the monsters you came to expect, especially Walter, who is in reality just a broken man who lost his son twice and is trying to rectify his mistakes little by little. You train yourself to become more patient with him, accept his apologies you don't deserve and let him call you Olive while you help Astrid nurture him, try time and again to get him to come out to one of your cases (it doesn't work, but you feel accomplished that he made it to the diner to collect his bribe of a peanut-butter and banana ice cream shake), learn to expect experimental pancake days and grazing day for Gene, and take in how marvelous this unmarred and un-ambered world of theirs is to just live in.
Surely these people can't be the enemy, you rationalize. They're people just like the people in your universe. They may have different societal burdens, but they are still fundamentally people that probably deserve to live just as much as anybody on your side does.
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Things are going so swimmingly that in the lull between cases your curiosity gets the best of you and you try to find their Lincoln Lee, wondering why he of all people isn't here as well, because as charming as Olivia's life is, you still aren't particularly close to Astrid or Charlie, even though you all trust each other with your lives. There's still a hole where your friendship with Lincoln was- is, and you miss your best friend something fierce.
Your search pulls up that he was born in Teaneck, New Jersey just like you remember your Lincoln saying, and much to your delight is also in the FBI. Scrolling down you see he's working out in Hartford, Connecticut currently and his partner's name is Robert Danzig. Curiously, they both have the same Hartford address listed you quickly jot down. Looking at the picture of him on the screen, even with different hair and glasses, you can easily recognize your best friend and something white hot pangs in your chest you have to tamp down as you close the browser window and replace the image in your mind with the Lincoln you remember, have known for over five years now.
You swallow down your sadness and steel yourself. That Lincoln Lee in the picture is not your best friend and these people are the enemy. You will go home to your team a hero for the cause soon enough.
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The typewriter has no instructions for you.
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It really hits you how homesick you are when you find out Charlie was replaced by a shapeshifter right under all your fucking noses and you all had no idea. You fight back the salty tears and the taste of bile in your mouth, but cry and retch behind closed doors anyway. Fuck this war, you snarl at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, he didn't deserve this. His death is obviously part of the plan and, therefore, squarely your fault. If he hadn't been your partner, if you had turned him away, he'd be alive still.
You use every curse you know (and then you make up some) and hope with all of your righteous fury blazing that Secretary Bishop is going to hell.
Except if he is, coming over here bought you your ticket to join him.
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The typewriter still has no instructions for you.
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Without Charlie as a touchstone in this world you begin to unravel to the point you get sloppy, but no one picks up on it, attributing it to grief. The typewriter stays maddeningly silent, and only then does the grim realization dawn on you that maybe there was no plan for you to come back all along, why you couldn't tell anyone goodbye. Maybe their Olivia was good enough, better than you, decided to cooperate, is going to save your world. You think of scenarios, each one more outrageous than the last and all of them end with you being stranded here forever in a life not yours, worse than dead.
You don't want to be here anymore. You want to go home to where Charlie's safe (well, still has the spiders but at least he's alive) and Lincoln is there, where both your partners would be there in a blink of an eye to wrap their arms around you and help you stay strong.
You grab the slip of paper with the address in Hartford and leave without telling anyone goodbye.
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It takes you until well late at night to find your way, the interstates vastly different in this universe and you're far too stubborn to just look up the correct route, choosing instead to meander and listen to classic rock as loud as the stereo can handle while you watch the rain pitter-patter on your windshield to Pink Floyd and think about the rainbow there will be tomorrow morning. As you turn off into a suburb you notice that the Danzig house is in a residential area that looks like something out of the 40's in your world, cookie cutter houses all lined up in perfect rows with manicured lawns and white picket fences. They probably all have 2.5 kids with perfect 5.0 GPAs to go with it.
You stop at the house in question, happy to see that the lights are still on, and you think you can make out people laughing at a table from the gap in the curtains. You hope he's here, only the doubt of him possibly not makes you suddenly hesitate. You've gone about this half-cocked, you don't even have a valid reason to be there. The likelihood of their Lincoln Lee living in Hartford and knowing their Olivia Dunham is so improbably slim only Astrid would be able to calculate it.
Goddammit.
You clench your fists and bang on the steering wheel in frustration until the horn shocks you out of your silent rage. You're tired of this stupid mission for the stupid Secretary and stupid Fringe Division and you just want to go home where everything makes sense and the strange is your normal and crawl into bed with Frank—
And it hits you like a freight train. You're in Hartford spying on a Lincoln that might not even be like yours and you didn't even think once about checking to see where a Frank that might be like your Frank is. In the midst of all the chaos you forgot about your own boyfriend, how fucked up is that?
(Except in this world he clearly is not. You know Lincoln like you know yourself and opted for a more sure thing.)
Your realization steels you as you square your jaw and flip open your pocket knife, open your driver side door and bend down to viciously stab it into your front tire, working it down to the hilt and until you are sure its unusable. By the time you have the guts to knock on the door, your clothes are soaking wet and your hair is plastered to the sides of your face. You ring the doorbell twice and you have to school your face into a look of something other than shock or recognition when he answers the door, seeing his face in person feeling like coming home to the thaw after a long winter. He stands there, squints at you without his glasses on and tilts his head to the side to take in your sorry state, a question obviously on the tip of his tongue.
"Hi, can I use your phone? I got a flat and my phone's dead," you lie effortlessly while shrugging, and he opens the door wider to let you in out of the rain. You hear a voice in the background (Robert), asking about the visitor.
"I've got it," he calls back, and gives you a warm smile. "Of course. Um, one second-"
He fishes in his pocket before producing a cellphone and handing it to you. And then your plan takes a turn for the worse because you have no idea what to do, the only time you ever drive is at work and you can just call HQ to pick you up if a vehicle breaks down. You settle for calling Astrid as this version of Lincoln tries not to look at you or seem like he's eavesdropping, hoping maybe she won't ask too many questions and can take care of the logistics.
Astrid is worried, clearly concerned why you took off for Hartford of all places on a workday, but you shrug it off, deflect her questions until she answers your own. As it stands, you'll have to find a place for the night because of your recklessness (which is fine, you've slept in worse than the back of an SUV), but other than that things will be right as rain tomorrow.
"Do you want to come inside?" Lincoln asks, as you hand back his phone and you nod your head gratefully, following him into the living room while trying not look crestfallen that the man who looks just like your best friend has no idea who you are.
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Their Lincoln is unsurprisingly very little like yours in way of demeanor you come to find out as the night progresses. You are sitting comfortably on the couch in one of his shirts and sweatpants, your clothes tumbling around in their dryer, listening to him bicker with his partner over a case as if you ceased to momentarily exist. He takes a break to pour you both a cup of coffee and introduces you to Robert, his wife Julie and their kids Amy and Jonathan already fast asleep, and then himself. You have to hold back every urge to hug him, cling to him and settle instead for focusing on how your fingers briefly touched when he handed you the coffee mug, his expression momentarily shuttered and unreadable.
You tell them your thanks and that you're from out of town, passing through here because of work, and then become more evasive from there to the point they go back to their case. After a while you ask where the nearest motel is but it's well past midnight. Robert laughs as Lincoln insists you can have his room and he'll sleep on the couch. He's every bit as polite as your Lincoln but quieter, more contemplative, and once Robert leaves you two to go to bed you become suddenly nervous as he watches you carefully in between sips of coffee and jotting down notes.
It leaves you tossing and turning in his bed later that night thinking about his disconcerting stare, and you lie awake comparing their differences instead of getting any sleep. You imagine his long lashes smudges against his cheeks as his eyelids flutter closed when you kiss him, hands trailing up and down your body and if he'd touch you like you imagined your Lincoln would, if they taste the same when you kiss them, if they like the same thing when you suck them off. In the midst of all of your fantasies your fingers creep down into the waistband of his sweatpants you are wearing, into your still damp panties and find their way to your clit. You're already wet and you stifle a low moan as you begin to frantically touch yourself, adding a finger and then two, getting yourself off thinking of the both of them bringing you to climax with their hands, tongues, cocks. They are your lifelines, a lifeboat to rescue you from the choppy waters of this universe before you completely drown.
Afterwards, you lie awake still sticky and shaken, your hand coated with your own arousal and you realize in embarrassment that you probably shouldn't just wipe it on the sheets. You get up and tiptoe silently to the open bathroom door, clean up and wash your hands. Staring in the mirror you look at your reflection, pupils dilated and your blond hair limp and absolutely wrecked. You barely recognize the person in the mirror staring back at you. You miss your red hair, you miss your life. You miss a good nights sleep to combat the dark smudges you've had under your eyes you've had since the day you realized Charlie was dead.
You make it halfway down the hall to Lincoln's room before you hear a whisper quiet Olivia? and turn to see him at the end of the hall, bleary-eyed. You nod your head and feel yourself shuffle towards him instead of away, magnets coming together. You stop yourself within a few feet of him but he's close enough to touch if you put your hand out. You don't. You won't.
"Can't sleep?"
"Yeah. You either?"
"Well, somebody has to make sure you aren't making off with the heirloom silverware. Robert sleeps like the dead," he deadpans and you can see his charming smile in wan moonlight filtering in through the curtains, painting him in chiaroscuro. If he was your Lincoln you would reply with a sassy retort, but he's not.
So you don't. Instead you just laugh and he lets out a low chuckle as well.
"Hey, thanks again," you tell him softly as you break your own self-imposed boundaries to rest a hand on his forearm. His eyes momentarily dart down and then back up at you wetting your lips and then your eyes, and you know that he somehow knows, but before he can step closer to close the gap you step back a step. It takes all your will to force your hand trailing down his arm to drop to your side.
He politely clears his throat, but he's bold enough that his eyes don't leave yours and you somehow feel hunted, haunted, and wanted all at the same time.
"This is probably going to sound really weird, but I feel like I know you from somewhere," he says skeptically, as if even he doesn't believe it. But a hallelujah chorus plays in your head as your mind chants yes, yes, yes. Come here Linc', your heart can be my home while I am here with you.
But he's not your Lincoln, you remind yourself for the thousandth time, even though more parts of you don't even care than you'd like to admit.
"Yeah," you reply, and it's more of an affirmation than a question.
"Yeah."
You both stand there awkwardly in the hallway, before he steps back into the living room, still keeping his eyes trained on you in that disconcerting way that is uniquely his. Lincoln doesn't look at you like that, like you're a puzzle he's leisurely trying to figure out for the reward upon completion. Your feet move independently from you brain shouting how bad of an idea following him is, like a wolf to its lair, a spider to its web, but you've long since been snared.
"Where did you say you worked again?" He asks and you almost catch yourself telling the truth for the infinitesimal chance you might see him again.
"I didn't. I work in, uh… security."
Not entirely a lie, Fringe Division isn't exactly FBI Over There and they do handle matters of national security.
"Ah. FBI," he replies and the awkwardness is broken as you both settle into chairs in the living room and talk about nothing in particular until sunlight begins to filter through the curtains in that way unique to this universe you'll never get tired of, and you both are finally exhausted and drift to sleep.
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You wake up in a recliner to the smell of coffee and the warmth of a blanket over you that you know wasn't there when you fell asleep. There's a kink in your neck you're trying to work out when you see Lincoln in the dining room, halfway dressed and his hair messy familiar in a way that tugs at your heart. He's got his glasses on, tying his tie and staring at you as you stretch before he apologizes profusely for the fact that he can't stay and help make sure you get everything taken care of, but if you need anything you can ask Julie, who is just barely beginning to shuffle into view. Your lips curl into a little smile as he stops in front of you, unsure what exactly to do, a handshake too formal and a hug too familiar.
"We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend," he quotes with a small smile, trailing fingers along your forearm in a gesture mirroring yours last night. "It was nice to meet you, Olivia."
"Wilde?"
"Stevenson."
Your heart flutters just for a moment because you banked on a sure thing and it turned out to be true, but then the feeling is gone as swiftly as the door closing after him.
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You don't know it now but this is not the last time you will meet this Lincoln Lee. What you do know is that the Secretary is wrong, these people are not the enemy and if he's going to make your side fight against them you'll make sure they, the ones oblivious and unaware on this side, are prepared for the upcoming war.