Disclaimer: Fringe is not mine in any way, shape or form.
Summary: A missing scene between Peter and Lincoln at the crime scene in "Stowaway".
A/N: I can't help it, I LOVE THEM. Lincoln clearly has the biggest crush ever. And his red satin lined coat? All the evidence one needs!
Menswear
"Woah, woah. Hold up." An exclamation.
Lincoln turns his head, frowning lightly. "What's wrong?" he asks, rather bewildered.
"–Stop moving?"
"What is it? Is there something on me?"
A laugh punctures the air. Bishop's. It is light and carefree. There's a pause, in which Peter and Lincoln stand there and face one another on top of a field of trodden, singed blades of grass, illuminated only by the flickering lights of torches. And then, an amazed inquiry:
"... Is your coat lined?" Peter exclaims, his words loud over the background commotion, and a puff of mist floats out between them and hangs in the air.
Peter reaches forward, and with a thick, gloved hand he pulls Lincoln's black coat open wider, angling the inner material into a patch of white light. His eyebrows scrunch down his face as he moves, and they pay an odd compliment to the face-splitting grin that still adorns him.
Lincoln feels a rush of excitement.
"Do you like it?" he bursts out, breaking into a beam. He tilts his head downwards to get a better look at Peter through his thick-rimmed glasses, and he thinks he might detect a faint whiff of soap, floating somewhere in amongst the pungent smells of smoke and burnt grass that have permeated the crime scene.
Peter pulls back, his eye flicking from the coat's shining red satin interior back up to Lincoln's face, and he lets out an earnest, long chuckle.
"It's Dior," Lincoln prattles, feeling encouraged by the response. "You're actually the first person to comment on it. I was beginning to worry that no one liked it–"
"No, no! It's very nice." Peter breaks in, with sharp breaths. He blinks for a moment, and pauses, mouth hanging open, as an odd look of surprise and scepticism washes over his face. "Wait. Did– did you say Dior?"
Lincoln hesitates. Isn't it obvious?
"Yes." He confirms with a nod, and he raises an eyebrow. Clearly, he wants to add.
Peter's eyebrows shoot high up his forehead and the corner of his eyes crinkle with growing amusement. "... Are you being serious?" he asks. His eyes dart back down to the coat, and in the space of a second Lincoln has pushed it closed in front of him, blocking the satin from view.
"Yes, what's wrong with that?" Lincoln asks lightly, straightening up to stare Peter directly in the eyes.
Peter seems to sense his sudden discomfort, and he laughs yet again.
"No, no, it's nice," he confirms, his hands moving back to the front of the coat, grasping at the folds, "It suits you. ... I just thought, well, with the job" he gestures around them at the bomb fragments and the FBI agents scowering through the wreckage, "it's a bit of a risk, isn't it?"
Lincoln pauses for a moment, with a smile.
Peter probably didn't need to know that this was, in fact, his evening coat. Nor that it was the nicest item of clothing he'd brought along with him from Hartford, on the trip.
Lincoln waves his hand in feigned dismissal and deepens his grin. "Well then," he says. "I suppose I'm a bit of a risk taker."
Peter responds, this time, with laughter that borders on something of a giggle – and for a second the crime scene around them seems to vanish. Lincoln doesn't think he's ever, ever heard such a wonderful sound before.
Letting go of the coat, Peter pats Lincoln twice at his collar and shakes his head. His eyes sparkle.
"I suppose you are."