Nothing but lies, IV

Summary: Interlude. She cannot bear to think of herself as Olivia Dunham any more. Not in this world, not in this place where she is herself and yet not herself.

Warning: Altlivia.

Disclaimer: No copyright inFringement intended.


It's slowly coming to haunt her and she wonders why.

She's a professional.

She's a highly trained specialist, a brilliant spy, an experienced Fringe-agent. She has fought common and not-so-common criminals, has placed her life in danger to save people and she has killed others to save. Yes, she has killed people, without ever hesitating, without blinking, because it was what needed to be done. Because those people had endangered civilians, had committed great crimes or simply had threatened to kill her. She has never hesitated to fight for her own life, for her own and for the lives of the people she has pledged herself to save, and she never has found it hard to deal with the aftermath. In her world people who hesitate don't live long and people who drown in guilt live even shorter.

If the other Olivia is different, all the better.

She never could think of the woman she was impersonating as someone similar to her. They looked alike, like sisters, like twins. But they were different. She had kept her weapon in her bag. Olivia kept hers in her jacket. She preferred plain suits and a ponytail. Olivia liked her leather jacket and her boots and her hair was always left open. Olivia had a life, had friends, a good job and a relationship. Olivia had a mother and friends. She had, so it seemed, no life besides her job. She had no hobbies, as far as Olivia knew, she had had no relationship (although something had been between her and Peter, and Olivia had destroyed it or saved it, she didn't know what it was) and no family (hadn't she said she had a sister?) and, last but not least, she didn't have any friends. With other words: her life was plain, simple, almost boring, and Olivia resented it with the same passion she normally reserved for very ugly animals and certain food.

At the same time, she felt relieved. Her lack of social contacts made it easier to integrate, helped her to learn to impersonate her mirror image faster and better. Hadn't anyone noticed yet? Nina Sharpe had seemed to be suspicious, but she had managed to talk herself out of it. Peter didn't realize anything, she was sure. Neither did Walter, and if Astrid had her suspicions, she had never let anything slip.

It is strange, seeing the same people she knows from her side on this side.

Broyles. He is as calm and collected as the Broyles she knows, though he seems… Involved. She knows no better word for it. Her lieutenant has always been detached and professional and though this Broyles doesn't let anything slip past his mask, either, she thinks she was able to detect some odd sort of… protectiveness underneath his professional behavior. Maybe he compensates for the lack of a family in this world. Astrid is even more puzzling. She isn't the emotionless, rational computer Olivia knows her as. She is warm and kind-hearted and patient, and as brilliant as the Astrid on her side is. But here, she has a more personal note, seems more human. Olivia wonders whether everyone she gets to know on this side of the universe is like that: a sillier, warmer, kinder, more human image of the people she knows.

No.

No, that can't be right. Charlie and Lincoln are human, too, are kind and humorous. But the Secretary definitely isn't like the Walter on this side.

Is there a Charlie here, too? And a Lincoln?

What has happened to them?

Has she known them?

She.

Somehow, she can't bear to think of herself as Olivia Dunham, any more than she thinks about her as Olivia. It… It doesn't only feel wrong, it is wrong. This never should have happened. She never should have met her other self, they never should have swapped places. They have disrupted the flow of the universe, have destroyed something essential. Olivia never believed in fate, but it feels like it.

This isn't her place.

She isn't Olivia Dunham. At least, she isn't the Olivia Dunham that belongs here. Using the name, she feels like she is becoming her, a bit more, every day. She uses her name. She sleeps in her bed. She does her work. She… She is in her relationship. It is so odd she feels like laughing out loud sometimes. So strange she feels like throwing up. And... so comforting she feels like she can be entirely herself. It's the most dangerous thought.


Peter's arm slips away from underneath her head as he pushes away the blanket and scrambles to get up.

"What is it?" She asks sleepily.

"Walter," he says and sighs. "I'll just find out what he wants now before he comes to see us again."

"Will you be back?"

The words slip from her lips, leave her before her exhausted mind can register them.

He seems to hesitate, then bends down and brushes his lips over her hair.

"Yes."

"Okay."

Relieved, she listens to his steps leaving the room quickly, pausing to grab something – probably his jacket – and to slip into his shoes. Then the door shuts with a soft bang. Tired, she closes her eyes. What was that? Ah, yes. She is playing a role. Somehow, she has slipped into it unconsciously. Even when half-asleep, her mind remembers. She is playing the role of Olivia Dunham, FBI-agent, currently in love with Peter Bishop.


The carpet is stained red.

She scrubs and scrubs but it remains. The stain is almost as big as her hand and as she watches, it starts growing, and the glistening red becomes wet and warm again. She watches horrified as her entire apartment is covered in blood.

Newton comes after her.

You won't find any help here. You already lost the little control you had when you came here. How long will you be able to go unnoticed? One day, he'll notice, he'll realize who you are, and then it will be too late.

She draws her gun.

"Shut up!"

He starts laughing and his features melt into a mask of quicksilver that flows towards her and starts climbing up her legs. Hastily, she steps back, but it's too late. It slowly covers her entirely, creeping up her legs and arms. The liquid burns. It burns into her flesh, into her bones, and with a jolt of horror she realizes she is becoming a shape-shifter, too. The pain of changing is unbearable. Different faces parade in front of her eyes, staring at her mercilessly, and she begs them to help her. Not one person reacts. She calls their names – Peter! – but they merely stare at her, and the features she has gotten to know so well are distorted in disdain and hate. They melt away only to change into other faces she knows.

They open their toothless mouths and stretch out fleshless hands and their voices are a hollow whisper in a pitch-black night –

You have killed us!

And she wakes up shaking and sweating.


She never had problems with killing people.

Why, suddenly, has it become such a horrifying thought? Moreover, she hasn't killed them purposelessly. They had needed to be eliminated, had endangered her identity. One, two, three… She hasn't lost the count. The blind man. The loving husband. The father. The criminal. The informant. They had to be eliminated and she had done so, as her job had commanded her to do, as her mission required.

Now, suddenly, the guilt comes.

And not only guilt. Fear, too, and insecurity and desperation. And, worst of all: Doubt.

What is she doing here?

Why has this to be done?

For the first time in her life the war she is fighting doesn't feel personal. She never was involved more deeply than this and she has never felt more detached than she does now. It is a dangerous thought. If she is honest with herself, she doesn't want to continue lying. She doesn't want to continue fighting, she doesn't want to continue killing. She isn't sure if she wants to go back. Of course you want to! A part of her screams. Frank is there, and Lincoln, and Charlie, and there is where you belong! Another part of her, tiny and barely audible, contradicts. I want to stay here. I want to stay…

She doesn't end the sentence because if she does, a world will collapse and a bond will break and her existence will be entirely useless. She doesn't even admit to herself that she is scared.

But the thought repeats itself in her mind like a broken record.

The price is too high.


She never wanted to be here.

She never wanted to live another one's life.

She never wanted to start a relationship with Peter, she never wanted to betray Frank. (The betrayal feels even worse because she doesn't even think of him any more when she is with Peter.) She never wanted to be anyone else besides herself and she certainly never wanted to be herself but not herself any more. She feels lost, like she doesn't know who she is and what she does and what she is supposed to do.

It's too high.

All this, it's too much for her. She desperately struggles to remain the rational, mission-oriented person she had been before this had started. But she fails. It's too late – it was too late when she decided to cover up Peter's and her own doubts by starting their relationship. He has changed her, but she knows she still has to finish what she has come here to do.

Her path never was clearer and yet she is unable to see anything.

And Peter doesn't come back.

When she gets up in the morning, having slept far too little and thought far too much, she knows something has gone wrong. He must have found out. She doesn't know where the certainty comes from but she knows: Time for thinking is over. She forces back all the doubts and fears she has accumulated the past weeks she has spent in his arms. She takes a deep breath.

When she opens her eyes, she is a soldier again.

But the price is too high.