I can't stop this feeling I've got
I know who I am and I know what I'm not
I know where I've been and I know what I've lost
But I can't stop this feeling I've got
- Razorlight
Dunham startles awake with a jerk. Her heart racing, a sensation she can hear as much as she can feel, with a fluid pulse thunderous and furiously squelching in her ears, serving to all but drown out the voice that was responsible for her waking.
The adrenalin surge flushing her system has triggered fight or flight response and her eyes search wildly for a threat, even though the logical part of her waking brain is already assuring her that there isn't one, not here, that this hormonal response has been caused by the dream and nothing more. But knowing that cannot change the effect the sudden epinephrine release has caused to her system; her respiration has increased and her blood pressure has rocketed, which go to ensure that her muscles are saturated with oxygen rich blood, she feels the tension within them as they twitch in time with her still pounding heart.
This despite the fact that she had been quite gently roused by the assistant charged with escorting her to Nina Sharp's office. Although she believes the dream alone would surely have woken her soon after had she not been disturbed and for that matter, she is relieved that it had been that particular moment that she'd been roused, before that thing inside her had a chance to grow more. As it was it had already been thrashing and stretching within her. Mercifully she had been shaken from the dream before it became inevitable that it would rip its way out. Just as had happened to that poor girl.
Everything about her dream is still so fresh, so shockingly vivid and real that it is not receding. She still feels the ghost of pain infecting her thoughts. The sickening stretch caused by crazy movement and impossible expansion, violently undulating beneath her abdominal muscles and straining against her tortured flesh. She felt the horror at her realization that there was very little time remaining before it would come, tearing and clawing its way out. Where its screeching would eclipse and then replace her screams of horror and pain, coming at a cost to her life as it begins its own horrifically condensed existence, futilely fighting its own biology for survival.
The lasting specter of that physical horror, as powerful as it had been, was not the only disturbing manifestation that lingered however. Even more tormenting than that phantom pain, were the words which preceded it; a harbinger carrying with them a premonitory warning.
"Agent Dunham, do you mind if I ask you a personal question; about you and Agent Scott?" he'd asked. There was absolutely no way that such a question should be asked, never mind the question that this first would inevitably lead to. But the fact that he had even begun left little doubt that the continuation would be denied. The next question was going to follow no matter how, or even if, she replied. The unwavering stare of Broyles dark fathomless eyes pierced into her very soul. He waited for no response. "The very last time you were… intimate – were you safe?"
He continued to regard her unblinkingly, but then his eyes narrowed minutely and no less accusingly, following her stunned lack of a response. "You weren't were you?" the tone matched the condemnation of his look.
In her astonishment, she had been unable to answer and even if she could have, she would only have confirmed his indictment.
Although really it was onlyher indictment of herself, as in her dream state, the only place from which that accusation had originated was her mind and her own suppressed worry finding an outlet. Asking questions her waking mind refused to confront.
About herself and John.
Scott had been in the department before she had landed her position at the FBI and they had worked on several investigations together before their partnership became official. From the start she'd thought they were solid as they forged a strong working relationship which, she had thought, had been built on mutual trust.
Their physical relationship had been a relatively recent development. She and John had thrown caution to the wind and poured scorn in the face of all the reasons that they should not have become involved. In the heat of passion and defiance, they had become reckless.
Neither of them had been as careful as they should have been and as the risk was hers to bear, she had been uncharacteristically foolish in her haste and lust for carnal satisfaction. Again she hears the phantom accusation in her mind which again causes her to cringe.
Had she ensured that they were safe?
The answer to that was simply - no.
The idea sours in her mind and curdles in her stomach, as she accepts that pregnancy is not an impossibility.
She thinks back through previous weeks, and realizes that, yes, she is late. Although that may not be a great indicator on its own. She's been under mounting stress - which doesn't feel like it will let up any time soon - and her body has taken a beating. Firstly she'd been knocked out by the blast; she vaguely remembers the sensation of being lifted from her feet and thrown by a wash of heat and incredible pressure as the storage unit blew, but that is all. The next thing she remembers are bitty and surreal moments that may be from her arrival at the hospital, or perhaps just the imaginings of her concussed mind. She still caries yellowing bruises from that blast impact, and from the events that followed, not least of all her desperate pursuit of Steig once they locked onto him as their suspect. Dunham is unconcerned by physical pain, it's just a mechanism, one which she learned how to control and even use, during childhood. It's the mental battle which takes more of an effort to harness and use productively, it is also that what drives her.
The second factor is so much worse, that when she hits upon the realization of what she allowed herself to be exposed to and its possible implications, her sense of nausea intensifies exponentially. She had been dosed with a cocktail of drugs, at least one of them illicit, all of them hastily concocted by a man who less than twenty four hours prior had been in literally in the loony bin. She had absolutely no guarantees as to their safety and no idea of what the possible long term effects might be on herself never mind for a… she has to fight the strong urge to gag and stops herself from finishing the thought.
( - 'Were you safe?' - ) But with this newly realized possibility ( - 'You weren't were you?' - ), those contorted emotions and thought processes regarding John and herself, which she has battled to gain some measure of control over during the last few weeks, twist to a new degree and threaten to paralyze her. Once again she finds herself wondering if entering into a relationship with her hadn't been a calculated act of deception on John's part; if it had been just another way to subdue a potentially difficult partner, to prevent her from becoming suspicious of his treachery. Even if that meant going as far as saying he loved her.
At the time, his declaration had thrown her. Before that their relationship had burned hot and fast in its intensity, existing for the most part in the purely physical realm, with stolen hours in remote and seedy motels, thrown together with the odd secretive date in an anonymous out of town bar. She'd treated them casually, not really giving much thought about which direction they might be headed, never mind their ultimate destination. Therefore she hadn't felt comfortable to return, or even comment upon John's proclamation of love once it arrived unexpectedly. She had not found the courage to address it until later and by which point, time had very nearly run out.
She hadn't thought about long term. They were fun and despite the professional risk, they were largely carefree. Undeniably, the sex was spectacular but she'd not, until that point, contemplated a future with him.
Her social life had always been lacking. She'd struggled to find common ground with her peers even as a child. It had been a mind-set which had been with her throughout her education, even into college when most of her classmates had been eager cut loose and experiment wildly. Again she found herself at odds, as that was a desire she simply had not shared. Perhaps it was because even at eighteen years of age, she had already been saddled with a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility, gained throughout the course of a life that had already been turbulently wild and against which she had struggled to maintain stability for both herself and her sister. As a result she carried with her the encumbrance of excessive responsibility and all the emotional baggage that came along with it. She disguised it well, but it weighed heavily upon her.
Although she was by no means a prude, Olivia found sustaining relationships draining, so all her hook ups had followed a similar pattern of triviality and brevity.
She felt similarly about friendships.
She believed that the other students – and probably faculty – had thought her to be a cold fish, unfeeling and distant.
Perhaps the distant part was correct, but the rest was wholly untrue. If anything she felt too much and empathy with the dial turned up to eleven was a bitch. Inherently she sensed the pain of others, even – and especially - that which they tried to hide from themselves.
It left her exhausted, frequently hurt and somehow diminished, therefore she consciously had to learn to construct a shield to protect herself. To screen the torment of others off from herself.
That's what they'd felt from her; 'Han', not the fact that she sensed their pain more acutely than they sometimes did themselves.
On occasion she would quietly act upon her instincts. Say or do something small, but which she knew would have meaning to the other party and which she was certain would offer a measure of comfort. Each and every time it had been met with total shock, confusion and much later appreciation. Afterwards, those people looked at her a little differently, though still as if she were an enigma, maybe even more so than the others.
She didn't mind.
Instead of fully mixing within Northwestern's social cauldron, Olivia had thrown herself into her studies and had come out with a GPA reflecting her dedication and which, in turn, had opened a new set of doors.
She'd fit much more naturally into the military, but even there she didn't really have friends to speak of. It was similar once she'd joined CID and later the FBI, where her sense of duty had been satisfied and the work superseded essentially all forms of social interaction. The idea of having a relationship outside of work was laughable and therefore John had slotted into that void in her life easily and with a minimum of fuss. But she hadn't known if she was ready to make a commitment, nor did she know if he was what she'd wanted.
As it turned out, her point of view - whichever direction her decision might have taken - would have had absolutely no bearing on the outcome. Ultimately, that had been in his hands, not her own and it had led them to a crushing end.
Before John, the closest to love she had ever come had been Lucas, but duty had separated them before she could fall too deeply. Her relationship with John had gone further, even if she hadn't defined it. Beyond the physical, she'd liked and respected him a great deal. If she had been asked before their investigation into the events transpiring after flight 627 landed, she would have said that she thought that same respect had been reciprocated. However since that rollercoaster ride began, everything had been brought into question, leaving Olivia feeling conflicted, angry and exhausted.
The all too familiar burn of betrayal mingles with acidic nausea and she is unbearably close to giving in to it, right there in the artificial tranquility of Massive Dynamic's upper echelon reception area. If she ceased to fight it, she could so easily slide forward on the immaculate white leather of the couch, bury her head between her knees and allow her body to reject the meager amount of food churning in her stomach to mar the purity of the soft sheen marble-tiled floor. It would actually be a relief.
With difficulty, she swallows, trying to quell the sensation of bile rising in her throat. She wills herself to stand. The muscles in her legs feeling tired and weak and there is an uncharacteristic tremble, which she despises even as she realizes that it is there and that it has been caused by tension born of fear, as is the light sheen of sweat chilling her face as the air conditioning wicks it, too quickly, from her skin.
She endures the meeting with Sharp. As the woman talks and she is required to answer, Olivia suddenly becomes aware of how dry her mouth has become. No drink was offered while she waited, nor is one forthcoming now, not that she would have accepted even if it were. She wants nothing to interfere with her mission or slow proceedings down and prevent her from exiting this cold, minimalist and jarringly angular conference room. The space has the effect of accentuating her mood and she is aware that she feels even more on edge than she did when she entered.
Where usually time after waking wipes away the anxiety of a dream, she now feels more apprehensive and tense than she did when she first woke.
Further aggravation comes in the form of Sharp's unsubtle prying into the nature of her relationship with Scott, thinly disguised with a lame attempt to generate a sense of camaraderie, a reminder that she too is a woman operating in a field dominated by men. The offhanded joke about her male colleagues assuming that they had been intimate leaves her cold and again those words come to her, ( - 'Were you safe? You weren't were you?' - ) causing her to shiver minutely. She wonders if the acting head of Massive Dynamic intends that as a dig, a way of letting her know that she herself has been investigated, that no one is immune to the power and reach of this corporate conglomerate. Olivia's face falls and she has to bite back the urge to comment that it's none of her business. But doing so would only confirm that the assumption of others, was indeed the truth. Also, she desperately needs the resources at Massive Dynamic's disposal and which Sharp has the power to grant or deny access to. Therefore Olivia forces the comment and her anger down, replacing it with a bitten tongue and an artificially tight smile and, at last, her reward comes with the presentation of the Electronic Pulse Camera along with wishes of a safe flight back to Boston.
Olivia can't get out of there fast enough. Tersely thanking sharp with a handshake and a nod of her head, then she hefts the case and flees.
Out once again on the street, Olivia feels a sense of immediate relief now that she's away from the oppressive hush that exists within that entire building, from lobby all the way to the upper levels. Despite the enormity of its open spaces and ambient images projected onto screens, she finds Massive Dynamic's environment unbearably harsh, where her thoughts become too loud, especially today. Out here the city soundscape provides welcome white noise and she feels instantly depressurised. Like she's swum up from a dive into deep water and has suddenly broken the surface. Here she can breathe again.
The warmth of the sun washed street also helps the cold claws of that somehow claustrophobic sensation, which had sunk into her flesh during the past twenty minutes since waking, to finally relinquish their grip.
However the cold worm of worry still squirms unrelentingly in her gut, like a rivulet of ever shifting ice slurry.
The lasting chill has her craving a tall, hot cup of coffee. She sets off towards the nearest coffee shop, but as she walks, she finds herself thinking of her sister.
When Rachel had had discovered she was carrying Ella, she'd been such a mess. Her relationship with Greg, while always rocky, was beginning to exhibit signs of serious fracture. Rach had always come to Olivia for emotional support and relationship advice, although the latter was a role which Olivia believed herself deeply unqualified to fulfil. Some of the details her sister had divulged – tales of unexplained absences after work, often coupled with drunken tirades upon his return home – had Olivia shaking with anger. She'd always found Greg hard to take, but this was another matter entirely, after all, Rachel had suffered through extended periods of alcohol fuelled torment at the hands of a drunken man once before. She'd felt the compulsion protect her sister when she was a child, and she felt it again, just as, if not more, strongly after hearing of his degenerating behaviour. Olivia found it increasingly difficult to not overstep and confront him directly, despite Rachel pleading with her not to get involved. If she'd actually come face to face with him at that time however, she simply wouldn't have been able to stop herself.
In spite of her personal circumstances, Rachel had instantly altered her habits to accommodate her unborn child. Cutting out alcohol and caffeine and making an effort to improve her diet, even though she had never been a great cook, in fact she had pretty shocking instincts when it came to anything culinary. But she made the effort to eat properly for her child.
Olivia on the other hand, has always been far more instinctive when it comes to food.
In better days, she'd learned to cook with her mother and those memories, readily invoked by smells and tastes, are some of her fondest. Thereafter, during darker times when her step father's disruptive influence on their household hit its tyrannical peak, she'd assumed responsibility for the majority of meal preparation before she hit double digits. Primarily she cooked for Rachel and herself but also for her mother and even him, when she'd realised that if she didn't make dinner, then there simply wouldn't be a hot meal available. Also it became apparent that a hungry drunk was far more dangerous than one who had a full stomach.
Although she still has those skills and instincts in the kitchen, her work ethic meant that she seldom has time, energy or the inclination to cook once she gets home. Most of the time she eats only out of necessity, and even then she rarely to never manages regular meals. She makes do with eating whatever she has available. The unpredictability of her work has taught her to buy groceries with a long shelf life and which require little to no preparation. It is no mistake that her cupboards are primarily stocked with boxes of breakfast cereal. However, it is for these same reasons that having fresh milk in her fridge to accompany it is incredibly rare. It is also how she developed a taste for black coffee.
Apart from the water in the tap, often the only liquids she has available in her kitchen are coffee and a bottle of whisky. And while those three items often comprise her dinner, nothing about that combination makes a fit meal for a prospective mother.
( - 'The very last time you were… intimate' - )
If that's what she is.
( - 'Were you safe?' - )
She can't do this.
( - 'You weren't were you?' - )
She stops just before she climbs the steps leading to the coffee shop's door. Her hesitation does not go down well with the woman following on her heels, whom huffs out her annoyance at Olivia's sudden dithering. Dunham backs off with a whispered apology, then turns to scan the street before turning east, instinctively walking further away from Massive Dynamic until a couple of blocks later, she comes across a Duane Reade pharmacy.
Olivia pushes her way through the door before she loses her nerve. She strides inside, projecting a confidence that she does not feel. She scans the signs hanging overhead and while there is not a specific heading pointing directly to what she's come for, she chooses the most likely candidate and sets off towards that isle, trusting her pace to deflect the unwanted attention of any 'helpful' shop assistants lurking nearby.
A sea of ugly neon pink packaging signals that she has reached the correct destination, where she selects the least garishly branded box. She scan reads the information about the contents and once it confirms that this product is suitable, she heads for the cash register where she is relieved of fifteen dollars and forty-nine cents and receives her dual pack of home pregnancy tests in a discreet paper bag. She is relieved that no comments, advice or well wishes were passed during the transaction; perhaps the staff have been instructed to remain strictly professional at all times, especially when potentially sensitive items are passed across the counter. If so, she owes a debt of thanks to the management of this particular chain of drugstores, as she feels like she's escaped relatively unscathed, or at least, is no worse off than when she entered.
That is until she considers the time constraints she has working against her. Shuttle flights between New York and Boston are plentiful and frequent so there is no problem with getting back, but cases always gnaw at her and will not let her rest until they catch the suspect and she is satisfied that they do indeed have their perpetrator. But this one has taken on a far more personal connotation. She has a history with this guy, already failing to catch him once. She would always have wanted him badly, but this case in particular has been worsened by the fact that she knows that further lives are at risk; he will complete his cycle unless she stops him. The weight of her past failure is massive. Already it has cost the lives of two young women and she is tormented by the knowledge that the killer intends for there to be four more within the next few days. Olivia desperately needs Walter to find her a lead and as far fetched as his idea sounds, she is putting all her hopes of success on the equipment she now carries in the bulky yet surprisingly lightweight case and the crazy old man's 'way outside the box' thinking.
Compounding her guilt ridden sense of desperation is the uncertainty surrounding John's integrity. Before she'd thought him the consulate agent, she'd looked up to him as her colleague. But now she knows of his betrayal, and the lengths he was prepared to go to. This duality shocks her still, striking her directly in the sternum; she feels winded, like she can't draw in an adequate breath and has done since the moment she watched his eyes lose focus as she cradled him in her arms.
Sadness and anger combine, much as a shaken jar part filled with oil and water, the two emotions separate and immiscible. Even as they have been violently mixed, the incompatibility of the two elements remains and the uneasy solution they form is repellent and turbulent, and between them, the two continue to create their own unbearable tension.
She feels compelled to go back. To review every single case they'd worked together, looking for any suggestion of subversion or deliberate misinvestigation on John's part. Nagging doubts eat at her along with anger at the idea that her own integrity has been dented because of her involvement with him. That she has perhaps allowed herself to be blinded to the truth, because of him, is what burns her most. She's already drawn some of their files and spends hours - when sleep simply will not come - combing through each and every detail, checking and rechecking, calling contacts and witnesses where necessary to ensure that their investigation had not been harangued in some way.
At least, if she does get benched and saddled with desk duty, she'll have time to trawl back through all the cases she and John worked together. She's prepared to delve deeper into John's dealings, far beyond the time frame of their partnership, if that is where the facts lead her.
She needs to know. And beyond that she feels the need to atone for any of his wrongdoings, especially any through which she had become unwittingly complicit. It's like fire in her soul, lapping outwards, scorching her nerves. She feels frazzled by it, but she would be lying if she said she didn't, in a twisted, guilt ridden way, also find that sensation and the demand of duty, intensely invigorating.
But it is that dedication which means that her time is at a premium, and she's unlikely to get any to herself for the foreseeable future. She already feels time slipping away, and knows she needs to be making a move towards the airport to catch the next shuttle back to Boston.
She absolutely hates the idea of taking these tests in the impersonal environment of one of the terminal's bathroom stalls, or worse still the cramped quarters of the plane's W.C. The Bureau's communal toilets are not much more of an appealing prospect, which leaves the lab, where even a moment of privacy would pretty much be an impossibility. She cannot find out like that, but god knows when she'll make it home. The way this case is going, it could be days.
Coffeeless, carrying an added burden, plus a test she is unable and-or unwilling to take, Olivia flags a cab. One pulls up almost immediately and she folds herself inside, instructing the driver to take her to LaGuardia.
She arrives a merciful thirty five minutes later, checks in, then buys a bottle of water and finds a quiet spot to sit and wait for her flight to begin boarding. But during the cab ride and the down time now, her mind never quietens, it spins like a nightmare carousel, sifting back through moments, events and details connected to John. Thanks to her eidetic memory, she is able, or perhaps forced, to trawl through every moment in excruciating detail. But still finds she is short of clues about his duality and apart from that final moment of revelation ('Well, let me assure you, we'd be happy to treat you as family too.'), she can find no other suggestion of wrongdoing, at least not through the actions he'd allowed her to see.
She'd even shared that impossible time in a dream state, while she was in the tank and he was teetering on the brink of life and death, during which she'd not sensed even the slightest hint of his betrayal. How could she not have, when she was in his head, or had he been in hers? It's eating away at her, this fallibility, this ignorance to his lies. The guilt shames her. What felt then like a precious gift, her chance to save him, to connect, now on reflection feels like a sickening violation. She imagines that she can still feel a phantom of his presence there in her conscience, something cold, malicious and completely unwelcome. She shakes her head again, hoping to dislodge the sensation, but maybe it's not just in her head, maybe it's a physical manifestation, a symptom of carrying within her something that is composed of half his DNA.
The thought leaves her chilled and rekindles her nausea. Then it sparks another; caked on dried blood, a length of withered, trailing umbilical cord, attached to a curled and lifeless body, that should ordinarily have not have been connected to such tissue for seven decades or more.
She feels her queasiness intensify, but rather than shoving that image away, she grasps onto it and uses it steady herself, to refocus. For now her priority must be the case.
However, she is beyond tired. Olivia is no stranger to insomnia, she's used to functioning on too little sleep, but since Fringe and John, she has suffered more than usual. When was it that she last have something approximating an adequate night's sleep? More than likely it was the day before flight 627 landed, the night before her final intimate encounter with John. ( - 'Were you safe?' - )
This time to think, when she can do nothing productive, is damning and her brain is stuck in a loop, which continually brings her back to that single possibility. Even though she'd like to scrub it from her mind entirely. The means to salvation, or perhaps damnation, is nestled uncomfortably in her jacket pocket, the paper bag crackling its unremitting reminder with every minor shift of her body.
Despite her earlier reluctance, she suddenly comes to the conclusion that she simply cannot wait any longer. She abruptly stands, feeling the stiffness of her limbs, which all feel too heavy. She is just about to set off for the nearest bathroom, when an announcement comes over the PA, her flight is ready for boarding. While there's probably still time to take it, she reminds herself that the test needs to develop. And then she's back to finding out, either in a cramped airplane toilet cubicle once they're in the air, or in her seat whilst being overlooked by whomever sits beside her.
She turns away from the facilities, and takes her place at the front of the line.
A/N
This came about because I was reading Elialys' Homecoming which prompted a Fringe re-watch from the start. However I stalled because I got hooked up on that dream scene and what it might have been saying about Olivia's psychological state. I attempted to open myself to Dunham and put myself in her shoes.
It's not done, but I hope by putting this part up it will inspire me to get there. One more chapter I think...