Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe, any characters, or pretty much anything you recognize here including the basis of the science used…
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The rest of the day was spent managing the increasingly volatile crowd of witnesses and gleaning through the interviews in search of leads. Analysis of the video feed revealed that the suspect was approximately 5' 11" and male but his face was never clearly visible. Full interviews of 14 individuals were scheduled for the next day and things were being wrapped up at the site. Forensics was looking into bomb components, analysts were reviewing background data on all witnesses, and medical reports were just starting to come back. Olivia noticed Peter standing at a window and staring at the flashing runway lights.
"You look tired," she said, drawing him out of his reverie.
"Yeah, well, it's been a long day," he sighed, "with not one but two meals at the airport." He smiled to assure her he was joking, but then he turned to the window again. "Sometimes I just want to go," he said softly, half to himself.
"I know," she murmured. "I wish things were different too." The past weighed heavily on them both for a moment, then she shook it off. "So what do you want to do now?"
"Why don't you just drop me off at the lab? I bet the medical reports will be coming in all night. I can organize that before you come back tomorrow."
She nodded, respecting his desire for space, understanding the need to focus on something else for a while.
**********
Back at the lab, Peter flicked on a few lights and apologized to Gene for the disturbance. He laughed at the relative absurdity of talking to a cow before the intensity of the last two days settled back on his shoulders. Two days ago, his knew his life. Two days ago, he knew where he stood in the grand scheme of things. He had grown up the child of a loving mother and a disturbed scientist. He had spent most of his adult life wandering, committing to little but always keeping the stakes high enough to be interesting. He had returned to Boston because of a sharp-edged blonde who first earned his admiration for out-manipulating him, earning it several times since for other reasons. He managed to reconnect with his father and build something of a relationship with him. Between the girl, the man, and the cases, the stakes grew high enough to keep his interest. He thought that's why he stayed.
Now he felt like he was on the precipice of losing everything, the life he created, the roots he put down without realizing he'd done so. Everything was different but everything was the same, except that he knew where he was from, knew how he'd gotten pulled into this life. The only thing different was his ability to choose to continue it, change it or leave it behind. It was unsettling.
He sighed. He almost wished he had gone back to Olivia's. He knew she would have allowed it, maybe even encouraged it. He smiled at the thought, but knew he needed to be clearheaded for that. And clear he wasn't. He shook off the thoughts and sat down at the computer to sort through the medical records. One thing he learned from Olivia was how to focus in the face of stress.
**********
She found him the next morning asleep in the lab on the couch, a thin blanket his only cover. She spoke his name softly but received no response. She knelt before him, allowing her gaze to linger on his face, so peaceful in sleep. More peaceful than she had seen him before, so she hated to disrupt it. There had been enough disruption lately. Instead, she sat in a nearby chair and enjoyed some coffee in silence. She watched him sleep a little longer, then busied herself with looking over his notes on the data sent from Mass General.
"Good morning," she said, as she heard him shifting on the couch. "I brought you coffee, but I'm pretty sure it's cold now…"
"How long have you been here?" His voice was gruff as he rubbed his eyes and stretched.
"Long enough. I started looking over the reports but can't make much of the medical stuff."
"Give me a minute and I'll catch you up," he said, getting up and moving to grab his duffel bag. Ten minutes later, he was dressed in fresh clothes with a reheated cup of coffee in hand.
"Ok," he said, flipping through various papers spread out on the table. "Here's what we've got. Tox screens mostly came back negative. We have a few people on prescription opiates for pain; about twenty on benzos, some legitimately prescribed, some not; a good lot of people tested positive for marijuana, but there was nothing in common for everyone. No drugs, no toxins, nothing that easy. Interestingly, everyone tested had abnormally low levels of cortisol, though people tested later showed slightly higher levels than those first tested."
"What's cortisol? What does it do?"
"Cortisol is a stress hormone. It is released as part of the fight or flight response and has several functions, including helping to create intense memories for disturbing events so people will remember to stay away from that threat in the future. It is normally present in high levels after a traumatic event."
"So what Broyles said was true at a biological level. These people were not aware they were experiencing something stressful." She drew her brow together, considering this information. "And if it is involved in memory formation, very low levels might explain why no one could describe what exactly happened."
"It explains that part of it. The question is what this guy did to create the low cortisol levels, with no drugs or toxins to interfere with cortisol in the first place."
"Some kind of mind control," she suggested, voice raising slightly in question.
"From the outside, it looks like it. Brains scans don't show any lesions or damage though, and every other case of mind control has produced some kind of injury. The mind struggles fiercely against being controlled."
"Yeah, it does," she said thoughtfully, her expression softening. "People don't like being controlled." She caught his eye and held his gaze for a moment. He turned away first, reaching for the coffee she brought him.
"No, they don't," he replied quietly, his thoughts drifting toward the past for a moment. Her hand, laid gently on his arm, brought him back to the present.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
His hand covered hers, accepting her touch even as he dismissed her words. "You didn't do anything to apologize for, 'Livia" he said, his voice low.
The rattle of the lab door drew their attention and the moment slipped away, replaced by a professional focus on the case. Astrid had arrived with Walter.