Glimmering
Like everything else about Fringe Division, the revelation made absolutely no sense to me. Peter was doing the shimmery light thing that the building had. It couldn't be real; I was just tired, and relieved that no one in this universe had died in the hotel, and in need of a night out with a good friend.
A good friend who had almost kissed me a few hours ago.
A good friend who was climbing the stairs to get his jacket, shimmering yellow and white and gold light as he went.
Oh god.
Walter begged me not to tell him. Which meant that Walter knew. For however long, Walter knew that Peter wasn't from this universe.
Was it one of Walter's experiments gone wrong? The man is the definition of a mad scientist, and even his more normal experiments have tendencies to go sideways. And most of his experiments are so far from normal they're not in the same zip code. Hell, most of the time 'normal' and 'Walter' don't even use the same country-code. But would he have experimented on his own son? Was there really no line Walter and Bell wouldn't cross?
No, wait. What's it that Walter's always talking about? How Peter got really sick when he was little. That he'd worked and worked until he finally found a cure. And when we first started working together, Walter wanted to talk about something in Peter's medical records, but clammed up when I said I hadn't read them.
Oh god.
Walter didn't find a cure.
He found a replacement.
Peter's coming back down the stairs, shrugging on his favourite black leather jacket. The shimmering has toned down slightly. Maybe this freaky ability of mine is just a limited-time warning system. Alert me to the thing that doesn't belong and then move on with life.
Oh god. The thing that doesn't belong. The person who doesn't belong. Peter.
Sweet Peter, who takes care of Walter night and day, despite how hard Walter makes it. Peter, who deals with Walter's food obsessions and random declarations of independence followed by fits of the Howard Hughes recluse mentality. Peter, who is an amazing classical pianist, but who played my all-time favourite song for me without knowing it was my favourite. Peter, who has been everywhere, done everything, and seems to have found a home in Boston with his crazy father and my crazy cases and this whole crazy Pattern thing. Peter, who has become every bit as invested in my cases as I do.
I try to rationalize the situation as Peter leads me outside and down toward the street. If my theory is correct, if Walter swapped his sick Peter for the other universe's healthy Peter, then I never knew this universe's Peter. The Peter walking beside me, half a step closer than usual, talking about how Walter is going through a Monopoly phase and he feels sorry for Astrid who is supposed to be coming over to stay with Walter so he doesn't get into any trouble—this is the only Peter I've ever known. This is the Peter I lied to in the lobby of a hotel in the Middle East. This is the Peter who was less shocked than he probably should have been to find out his father was, in his words, Doctor Frankenstein. This is the Peter who made Ella fall in love with him playing pony games after she was almost killed by the program that invaded my laptop. This is the Peter who befriended Rachel, who looked up the name of the Pina Colada song when neither of them could remember that it was called 'Escape'. This is the Peter that has been a pillar of strength for me since we met.
This is the Peter who almost kissed me only a few hours ago.
The more I think about it, the less Peter shimmers. It's no longer disorienting, which is good because I have a feeling we're both going to wind up incredibly drunk by the end of the night and I wouldn't want to have a head start because my brain was mixed up by the swirly light surrounding my—date? Dinking partner?
When did I become the girl who needs to define things like that, anyway? We're both unattached adults, and we saved hundreds of lives today—we deserve to have a drink or ten without having to attach a definition to it, shouldn't we?
Peter points to a little bar across the street. He says something about it being far enough away from the campus that we won't have to battle it out with co-eds to get a seat. I smile at him, and my smile widens when Peter puts his hand to the small of my back to lead me across the street and into the bar. Which is actually more of a pub. Very much like an Irish pub, I can't help but notice. A wave of grease-laden food smells hit me and my stomach grumbles, which Peter teases me about. When would I have had time to eat today, I want to ask him, between flying to Florida and being pumped full of drugs that make me see shimmering buildings and men from other universes, then flying back and finding said buildings and men. But I don't.
Because he's stopped shimmering.
Finally.
Tomorrow, I'll talk to Walter about this whole thing. And he'd damn well better give me a straight answer.
Tonight, though, I'm on a—date?—with a no-longer-shimmering cute guy and the pub has fish and chips, which I haven't had ages, and onion blossoms, which are a guilty pleasure of mine I don't get to indulge in enough, and, for the moment, at least, the universe isn't about to collide with another one bringing death and chaos and god knows what else in its wake.
Tonight, for the first time in a long time, I'm going to have fun. I'm going to just be Olivia.
I'm going to forget about everything but the man sitting across the table from me. Because he's talking again and I do like him and last I checked dates, or even outings with coworkers, worked a hell of a lot better if more than one person does the talking.
Tomorrow the problems of this universe and the next will be back on my shoulders. Tonight I can sit tall, because I've left that weight behind for the first time in far too long.
This is the first my readers have heard of me in quite a while, and I'd like to apologize for that. The depression I've been dealing with off and on for several years now came back and has left me tired and uninspired, among many other things. Still, I was watching Jacksonville tonight and my muse, who I was worried had taken an extended vacation and forgotten to invite me, started picking at me to open up a new document file and start typing something that isn't school-related.
Please let me know what you thought of my first (published) forray into Fringe fanfiction.
Manic Penguin