Our share of night to bear

"So we must keep apart,
You there, I here,
With just the door ajar"

I cannot live with you (Emily Dickinson)

4422 words.

They are sitting in some bar he doesn't even know the name of.

It didn't matter at the time. Not when he had finally lost it in front of every one, unable to hold back the mix of fear and anger that brimmed under his skin. It had been building up inside of him for days, since he learned that his girlfriend's and Bell's minds were tangled up in some Gordian knot. Since he learned that to extricate their consciousnesses will definitely take more than 48 hours.

Of course there had been progress. Olivia was coming back to herself more often and for longer periods. But she still faded away after a few minutes, and every time she did there was a crippling terror setting heavily on his heart.

But overall it was better. He knew that. Better than the devastating hopelessness he had felt when they had failed to transfer Bell's soul to Gene. It had been a bad night.

But they had kept trying, hypothesis after hypothesis, experiment after experiment, and there had been results. Encouraging Bell had said one day, throwing him one of his half concerned, half smug smiles, and for a moment Peter had been blinded by rage. He didn't lost it there, but it had been a close call.

Because a whole week had passed since Bell took over Olivia's mind and body. Because it shouldn't have happened in the first place. Because they should have certitudes and not chances. Because every time she had come back, she had seemed more lost and afraid than he had ever seen her, more than he ever thought he'd see her.

He had tried to take a few deep breaths not to choke up on pent-up resentment. It didn't work and he had to remind himself that the old bastard was currently in his girlfriend's body to resist the urge to punch him. Hard.

Then there had been a feather like pressure on his elbow and when he had looked up he was met with Lincoln's concerned eyes and tentative smile. And just like that his anger had recoiled and "encouraging" almost sounded like good news. He had smiled back.

So he has anger issues. He thinks it is quite reasonable given the goddamn awful circumstances. And luckily for everyone, Lincoln has an incredibly, if odd, calming effect on him. He often feels like he is a time bomb that only the younger agent can defuse, and judging how everyone else, Broyles included (and that's saying something) , seems to walk on eggshells around him, he guesses he is not the only one to think that.

Never had he been so grateful to Broyles that when he had Lincoln transfer to Fringe division. He had sounded a little apologetic when delivering the news. Possibly because he knew they were more a family than a team, and Lincoln could be a potentially disturbing element in their already threatened unity.

But Peter had understood: Olivia was gone for an undetermined time and Astrid was now stuck with not one but two annoying and dependent geniuses. They needed a new agent for field missions, and he had felt almost impossibly glad that Lincoln had been the one chosen to fill this role.

He had transferred from Hartford only five days after their first meeting and first case together. He had looked grave and reserved, far from the eagerness he had showed at their goodbye. Peter had tried to swallow down his disappointment (he had been looking forward to work again with him) as he shook the man's hands for the third time.

He had smiled, and it was mostly genuine, and Lincoln had responded with a smile of his own. But for the briefest moment, as their eyes met, Peter had seen such a sadness in the blue orbs that he had felt like air had been punched out of him. It was at this moment he had realized Lincoln had been briefed about the whole Bell-Olivia situation. That he was feeling sad for him.

His voice had choked up a little around his welcome, but he had meant it wholeheartedly.

So with Lincoln here, and dozens of files to help him to go through, it had been mostly bearable, but when Bell hit one too manytimes on Astrid not an hour after they had last talked to Olivia, he finally lost it.

"Okay, that is enough. Stop it. Just... Don't."

"Why, Peter, I understand it is a difficult situation but I don't think..."

"You understand? Do you really? Because I think if you really did you'd realized how freaking wrong it is for you to continuously hit on Astrid, despite her obvious discomfort. All this while inhabiting the body of another person. Which also happens to be my girlfriend, to whom you didn't even bother to ask if she'd have.. I don't know... some issues with the whole thing." His voice raised as sarcasm quickly let place to rightful anger. "No, instead you basically roofied her and took over her like she didn't even matter, like she hadn't been through enough already. Like YOU and Walter had not put her through enough. And on top of that at this point you're not even sure you can bring her back so excuse me if I doubt that you even begin to understand how difficult a situation it is."

It had the merit to shut Bell up and to relieve himself a little, but when he saw his father's crestfallen expression, he just wanted to swallow back his words, even if he felt there were too many he could choke on already He couldn't apologize to Bell, didn't want to, but couldn't stay here either, couldn't stand to look at them, to see their concern.

He knew that if he looked up at Lincoln right now, he'd see sadness written on every inch of his face, in his eyes, his frown and the corners of his lips. The same heartbreaking sadness he saw at their second meeting. The same one he caught a glimpse of every time he turned his head to see the other man watching him. The one he wished he could be angry, spiteful about, but never was.

So as he stormed off he kept his eyes on the floor, stubborn and defeated.

When the cold air hit his face, he stopped, wondering what he should do next. He felt antsy but also wanted nothing more than to sit down and wind off. So he decided that 6 pm was definitely a reasonable time to start to hit the bars.

After all, he felt he was definitely entitled to drown his sorrows in copious amounts of alcohol, what with the doomsday machine and the fact that his girlfriend was currently possessed by some lecherous old evil scientist. Seriously, what was his life?

Plus he had been in such a hurry to leave the lab that he had forgotten his car keys. So even if he wanted to go home (which he didn't) he couldn't because even if he did have his wallet on him, he couldn't trust himself to take a taxi. He'd probably be unable to resist the impulse to smash his head against the windows.

So he had walked around for about twenty minutes, to let his anger subside enough to trust himself to be able to be in a closed place with other people without the overwhelming need to crash something.

He entered the first bar that seemed welcoming enough and ordered a double whiskey. Which he then proceeded to down in one go. Warmth slowly infused his chest. He found himself relax and took a few deep breaths, trying to smooth the knots out of his every muscles.

So when he felt a hand alight carefully on his shoulder a minute or two later, he managed -for the most part anyway- not to jump out of his skin. He turned his head and saw Lincoln standing there, smiling hesitantly at him. He was a little flushed and his hair was a disheveled mess.

Peter realized then he had probably ran after him, and at this thought his anger disappeared for good and his chest did this strange thing when it seemed to relax and contract at the same time.

He gave him his best imitation of a smile and asked as nonchalantly as he could muster:

"Beer?"

It sounded raw and a little broken, and the ex-conman part of him wanted to cringe at his complete lack of smoothness, but Lincoln' s smile grew bigger and more assured so he figured it didn't really matter anyway.

They chose a spot at a corner of the bar, and stayed there until the night fell and the bar slowly filled in.

They didn't talk much for the first hour or so. Peter first tried to do some small talk but his heart wasn't in it, so when Lincoln told him they didn't have to talk, that he was quite happy to just stay here and share his silence, he let out a breath of relief and smiled as he clinked their pints together.

He took a few sips, relishing in the bitter taste and struggled to control the mess of raw and contradictory emotions coursing through him. They hit him wave after wave, anger and resentment, guilt and shame, fear and defiance.

Sadness too, but it was expected. It was the undercurrent that was always there, that froze him to the bones and dragged him down till he felt he would drown in it.

He thought of losing Olivia. He felt his eyes prickle and his breathing quicken. He kept his eyes down and hoped the light noises of conversations would be enough to cover his ragged breaths.

But the agent seemed to have a better hearing that he gave him credit for, or his face wasn't as blank and neutral as he'd wished it to be, because he could see in the corners of his eyes Lincoln open his mouth and looking as if he was desperately trying to find what to say.

The words apparently eluded him, and after a few seconds he snapped his mouth closed. But he had a resolute expression and his hands were twitching around his pint, as if he wanted to reach out. Peter didn't think he would, but before he could register the movement, there were two fingers resting lightly on the back of his right hand, tapping a syncopated but strangely soothing rhythm.

It didn't last long, less than a minute, but when the fingers left his hand to wrap themselves around the pint once more, the knot in his stomach had unwind, and the grip around his heart lessened.

He was a bit embarrassed by his lack of control over himself, but when he lifted his head, Lincoln just smiled and shrugged a little, as if to say he was allowed to. He felt a surge of gratitude and the urge to know more about him.

But it's only two pints and an hour of alternating silence with small talk later that he can bring himself to move the conversation on a more personal level.

"Hey, I never asked you before: what made you want to become a G-man?" He asks suddenly.

If Lincoln is surprised by it, he doesn't show it and answers after a little moment of reflexion.

"Well, I can't really say, to be honest. It was quite sudden. I mean, for as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a lawyer. Probably because of my father. He is a jurist and absolutely passionate about his work, so growing up, I just wanted to be like him." He pauses a few seconds. "I studied law, got my degree, but while preparing for my bar examination, I realized I didn't want to be a lawyer anymore. I wanted to be a FBI agent. It was just another way of enforcing the law really, and I thought I could more effectively help people that way. So I applied to the Bureau and I got in."

He looks thoughtful for a moment.

- "What is it? You regret your decision? "

Peter really hopes he doesn't, because he doesn't know how he would have make it these past few days if Lincoln hadn't been here.

He hopes he's here to stay. Even if he knows this is a temporary arrangement and that as soon as Olivia is back, he'll probably be sent back to Hartford.

He tries not to think too hard about it, because as much as he wants, needs Olivia back, he really wants Lincoln to stay too. They struck an easy friendship, and that is something he never really had.

He had never felt himself so immediately and completely drawn to someone before. Or, more exactly, Olivia had been the first one to have this effect on him, no matter how antagonistic their first meeting had been.

"No." He answers, shaking his head. "I never did, and I definitely do not now. I've just remembered that I was pretty into X-files in that time. I wonder if it had influenced my decision somehow."

And he is doing this thing where Peter can't quite tell if he's being serious or not. There is a small, almost unnoticeable (but Peter always notices) smile playing on the right corner of his lips, but his eyes are as serious as ever. He looks considering and Peter can't help to laugh a little.

"So what? You are telling me that Mulder is your role model and that behind this serious, composed facade of your, you're actually a slightly unhinged, if adorable, nerd who collects ufology books and "I want to believe" posters?"

At that, Lincoln lets out this laugh that Peter has grown to know quite well over the last few days.

It's his surprised laugh. Peter likes it. A lot. He likes how Lincoln's eyes go wide with bewilderment and joy. How he doesn't laugh right away, but takes a small, shocked breath first.

He likes that for Lincoln laughing is like being tickled, like he doesn't want to but can't help it.

He imagines about tickling Lincoln, of soft skin and goosebumps and for a moment his ribcage feels too small, his throat too tight and he has trouble breathing.

He'd normally wonder about it, but these last few days had been a roller coaster of emotions, and he had to learn not to examine them too closely. There was too much anger, sometimes bordering on hatred, and too much fear, resentment and hurt. It felt so wrong, so ugly , and he was powerless against it. All he could to was try to maintain the lid on them.

So he waves his concern off, even though there is a prickling at the back of his mind that tells him he is missing something, and chuckles alongside him.

Lincoln lets out a final giggle, and shakes his head as he answers:

"No, and actually, if you'd have really thought it through, you'd have realized that you guys are the Mulders to my Scully..." He stops, frowning a little. "That sounded weird, didn't it?"

Peter snorts

"Yeah, a little...But that's okay. And you're right, you're totally the pretty red-head in this scenario." He smirks.

"Why, thank you Mulder 3. You're not too bad yourself. Of course, not quite as good-looking as your TV counterpart...But that's okay."

They manage to look at each other in complete seriousness for a few seconds before erupting into laughter. It is the first time that Peter sees Lincoln laugh like that. No self-consciousness, just complete joy and abandonment, head thrown back, body shaking and teeth sunk into his bottom lip in a vain attempt to stifle his laughter.

"Wait, Mulder 3? " Peter asks when they finally calm down. "How come I'm not number one. I mean, age and look- wise I'm the closest, even if I'm not quite as dashing. An affirmation that I resent by the way." He says, while trying to keep a straight face.

Lincoln ducks his head a little, probably to hide the grin that breaks on his face. Peter can feel himself grinning in response, despite his best efforts not to, and soon they're looking at each other with mirroring smiles.

Lincoln hair is still a disarray, his face is slightly flushed from the laughing, his eyes brighter than Peter's ever seen them, and the contrast between the white of his teeth and the red of the bottom lip they're sunk into is... distracting.

Peter thinks in this moment that he is one of the most beautiful person he's ever met, and decides to blame this thought entirely on the alcohol they've been ingesting for hours. Never mind that it had been mostly beers and that his brain is only beginning to feel fuzzy around the edges.

"Well, you're only number 3 because of your father and his... colleague. "

He looks a little uncomfortable for a moment. Peter doesn't blame him. He has more and more trouble to find a way to call them, so mostly he avoids doing so. On the sixth day Walter had come up with yet another of his beloved puns. Bellivia he had saidand something had twisted in Peter's stomach at the fusion of the names. It must have shown on his face, because Walter had dropped it immediately, looking terribly guilty and apologized profusely to Peter.

Lincoln throws a little apologetic smile and goes on, spluttering a little.

"I mean they easily beat you when it comes to crazy theories. But I guess they could also fit the roles of the lone gunmen. Which would make you Mulder. Number one. Happy now? "

"Quite. Though I'm quite hurt that you would question my lunacy in the first place. I mean, at this point, I could as well have ufology books, because the only things I draw the line at anymore are mythological creatures. "

"Like unicorns and fairies. " Lincoln says in complete seriousness.

"Like unicorns and fairies." He repeats with an equal seriousness.

"Dragons, griffons, sphinges and hippogriffs too I presume."

"Rightly so." He says, nodding gravely as if they are discussing serious matters indeed. "Giants, ogres, trolls, dwarfs, gnomes, orcs and all the various Elven species too. Also,why do I have the feeling that you draw knowledge of mythological creatures from Harry Potter?"

"Because you obviously are not the only one who read the books. Still, not true. I'll have you know I was a mythology buff pretty much all my life. And why do I have the feeling your own knowledge comes mostly from Lord of the rings and rpgs?"

"Because you obviously think you're the only one who is a mythology buff. But true, in a way. I prefer science-fiction to fantasy but I did read pretty much every book Tolkien has ever written. And I did officiate a few times as a game master in middle school and high school." He pauses for a few seconds and continues in a mock-threatening voice. "So don't you try to out nerd me, agent Lee. "

"Is it a dare, civil consultant Peter Bishop?" Lincoln replies straight off, managing to sound equally serious and amused. His left eyebrow is raised, there is a playful glint in his eyes and a smirk tugging at his lips.

Peter's stomach does some complicated flip and his mouth suddenly feels dry and he just wants to lean and... Oh.

In a blinding moment, he realizes what it all means, all these instincts, urges and emotions. And just like that, something he considered to be one of the easiest things in his life, becomes overwhelmingly complicated.

And the thing is, he can't deal with this... Can't deal with the guilt rising quickly, making him sick, as he thinks of Olivia. He curses his heart or whatever treacherous part of him is responsible for his foolish, inconsiderate, goddamned crush, and just to think the word, he feels the need to punch something. Or someone. Preferably himself.

He can't deal with this, so instead he smiles, and hisses "yes", savoring Lincoln's slightly shocked expression, and goes to the counter to order vodka shots. Because he's not nearly as drunk as required to deal, or more exactly to not deal, with the situation.

So when they exit the bar around midnight, arguing about which is the best sci-fi movie (his vote goes to "Blade Runner", and Lincoln is adamant that he is wrong, and that"2001: a space odyssey" is just better) he feels pleasantly smashed.

Drunk enough to numb his guilt every time he catches himself looking at Lincoln longer than necessary, every time he thinks of leaning in and tasting vodka on his lips, but not drunk enough to actually yield in the many temptations that assault him.

He is glad he has a much better self-control over his actions than he does over his emotions. Because if the situation is complicated now, it would quickly get out of control if he acted upon all these wants and needs that his realization unleashed.

And the thing is, as he spent the rest of the night watching himself, he couldn't help but notice things.

Things that makes him pretty sure that whatever the feelings (and for the umpteenth time this evening, he curses his wayward heart ) he has for Lincoln, they are reciprocated. That if he were to lean in and capture the other man's lips with his own, he would meet no resistance, but an eagerness to match his own.

And he can't allow himself to think of that, because the mere suggestion that he could makes his heart race in a way it has no business to if Olivia or mortal danger aren't involved.

So he waves a taxi, silencing effectively Lincoln's protestations by putting his hand on his mouth. They are both in no condition to drive, he explains in his reasonable-drunk voice, which Lincoln finds hilarious, if his snort is anything to go by. His severe expression is apparently no better, and he has to remove his hand as the snort quickly develops into a fit of laughter.

And the thing is, as bad as his life is right now, he is drunk and he had a spectacularly good night, so he joins in. He laughs until he can't breath, until his face hurts, and he can't honestly remember the last time he did in such a ridiculous and complete way.

When the taxi finally stops besides them, they are both breathless and, as they had leaned on each other for support, much closer than Peter feels comfortable with now that he has sobered up a little.

They are both way into each other personal spaces, faces only inches apart and Peter feels himself shiver as he feels the small hot puffs of breath on his neck.

His eyes close on their own accord. He tenses and clenches his jaw as he tries to stop himself from imagining seizing Lincoln from the lapels of his ridiculous coat and ravishing him against the taxi. But he can't and the images that flood his brain are so vivid, less like fantasies than memories, and he's hit by a strange sense of déjà-vu.

His fingers are on Lincoln's cheek. He lets them linger a little before caressing his way down, slowly, following the delicately drawn cheekbone. Before long his thumb rests upon the bite-swollen bottom lip and he caresses the evidence of the abuse, eyes trained on the slightly parted mouth. When he looks up into Lincoln's eyes, he sees desire, and there is a question in the blown-wide pupils.

He doesn't want to answer it right away, so he brings his other hand up, resting it on the pulse point, right under the stiff collar. He eyes it cautiously and considers for a moment biting it, hard. It is tempting but he decides to follow the cords of the pale neck instead, stopping from time to time, pressing all the points he'd like to bite.

When he reaches the jaw, he looks into Lincoln's eyes again. The question is still there, and now there is a dare too. He feels his heart race and he licks his lips, nervously. Lincoln follows the movement of his tongue and Peter can't help to smirk a little to himself before he leans in and gives his answer.

The vision fades as suddenly as it had flooded his mind. He lets out a trembling breath and shakes his head to chase the remaining images away.

When he opens his eyes again, Lincoln is looking at him. He looks grave and expectant, as if he knows exactly what Peter has been thinking of. As if he is thinking of the exact same thing.

Peter gulps as he feels the weight of possibilities crushing him. He knows Lincoln will never make the first move, because of Olivia and what she means to Peter. Because neither of them is careless and because they both know, intuitively, what they could be. That it could be beautiful.

He hears himself saying those words to Olivia, out loud, and knows at this precise moment he can't offer them to anyone else.

He leans in and presses his lips to Lincoln's. It is chaste, and quick, but it still feels like too much, and his voice breaks as he says good night. They both understand this is a goodbye, because even if they will see each other in the morning, they just waved a whole world of eventualities farewell.

Yearning and loss constrain his heart as he watches the taxi disappear into the traffic but he knows he couldn't make another choice, couldn't break a prior promise when there was still hope for the future he dreamed for him and Olivia .

As he slowly makes his way to the lab, Peter thinks that there is an alternate version of him, somewhere, who went down the road he didn't take.

It shouldn't make him feel better, but it does.