Disclaimer: Fringe owns my heart for the rest of my life, but I do not own Fringe.

Spoilers: This goes off canon during the episode 'Northwest Passage'

Rating: M

A/N: My school break is over in 3 days, and my goal is to publish all of it before going back to work. Before some of you start laughing at me, know that this is actually finished, only in need of some (more) editing. I started it...16 months ago. Yes, I do hate myself.

This is set in late season 2, because if you know me at all, you should know I love late season 2 angst, a lot. Last year I thought "Hey, what would a conversation between Peter and Olivia have looked like if they had actually talked before Newton/Walternate found him and their relationship got vagenda!cockblocked?" And because I'm me, it turned into a 30 pages long monster with smut.

Oh well. This is part 1 out of 4.

NORTHWEST PASSAGE

I. BROKEN LINE

Her fingertips are almost featherlike upon the palm of his hand.

Eyes closed, Peter follows their journey through sensation alone, as she traces what every book on palmistry would call his 'fate line'.

He may not be a believer in that sort of things – or any sort of pseudo-science, he still has a knack for reading whatever book crosses his path; he'd occupied a solid week of his life as a freshman in high school reading everything the local library had to offer on 'divination'. Not that he had any inclination toward the topic itself, but by the age of fourteen, he'd long been bored with lessons and his teachers' inability to challenge his mind.

While his classmates struggled with what he thought were utterly simplistic math concepts, Peter had read up on the art of storytelling. All of it sounded like bullshit to him, but he retained enough of it to know what the woman sharing his bed eight years later is doing to his hand.

She continues her examination in silence, eventually stopping by pressing her thumb onto a spot in the middle of his palm. She speaks, then, a phrase he doesn't understand at all. After spending the past few months moving through various parts of China, he's acquired a passable knowledge of both Mandarin and Cantonese, and can decipher basic sentences in a handful of other dialects. His recent arrival in Tibet has brought him back to the most rudimentary forms of communication, though.

This lack of proper conversation with most of the people he meets never bothered him; when it comes to lovers, he actually prefers it that way. The absence of discussion makes it harder for them to get attached to one another. He can spend several nights a week with the same girl, learning her body and all the right ways to make it quiver and fold, they will still part as strangers.

That's how things are with Lhamu. She speaks some Mandarin, as well as some English, but she prefers her natal Tibetan. She has eyes the color of ebony, and a skin so soft that touching it with his hands feels almost indecent, his own skin callused after weeks of labor work.

She doesn't seem to mind the roughness, as he tends to be quite tender when and where it matters, and the lack of dialogue never stops her from letting him know what she wants from him. In truth, she seems rather fond of his hands, which is undoubtedly what led her to explore them the way she is, now, following the creases that mark his skin.

She repeats her phrase again, pressing once more into his palm, and Peter opens his eyes, turning his head to meet her gaze. She brings their hands up, both of hers holding up his own, until they hover over their heads. She traces the lines on his palm again, slowly, before focusing on his life line. She presses on that same spot, speaking the same words.

"You have broken life," she eventually says in English. "Look," she insists, having switched to Mandarin.

Peter lowers his hand, bringing it closer to his face, squinting to see what she's trying to show him in the dim moonlight. At first, he can't see anything, but her soft fingertips follow the line again, until he finally sees it.

There, in the middle of his life line, is a small gap.

Frowning, he unwraps his other arm from around her, bringing his second hand up to compare it; he'd read enough on the subject to remember there is some sort of significance to unusual markings being present on both palms.

Sure enough, the gap is there, too.

"What does it mean?" he asks, first in English, then in Mandarin. He doesn't believe in these things, but this small yet very real gap on both his life lines makes him uneasy.

"Serious illness or accident sometimes. Early in life, here," Lhamu caresses the gap again. "Bad things, big changes when you were child. Yes?"

Peter looks at their hands, her softer yet darker skin contrasting upon his, before shaking his head. "To be honest with you, I don't remember enough of my childhood to confirm or deny it."

Unconsciously or not, he's used words he knew she couldn't understand, not bothering with a translation of any kind, as his muddled childhood is extremely high on the list of topics he avoids at all cost. When he turns his head and meets her eyes, she's raised both her eyebrows in question, maybe expecting him to try and say it in a way she'll understand.

He shakes his head instead, offering her his trademark smirk, dismissive. She lets go of his hand to cup his cheek, staring, not smiling back. She says something in Tibetan, then, quietly. He doesn't understand either, except for the soft roll of his name, and the underlying message.

'I know you're hiding, Peter, and I'm starting to see you,' is what he hears.

That's the trouble with lovers; even without proper communication, if he sticks around one night too many, there always comes a time when he's bared too much of his soul, and they begin to see through his many layers.

They never get more than a glimpse, though. He always makes sure of that.

This is his warning sign, his cue for him to leave.

He'll be gone before the sun rises.

...

"A penny for your thoughts?"

With a small start, Peter refocuses on his surroundings, his eyes shifting from the small gap on his palm he'd been scratching with a nail. Looking up, he meets another set of dark eyes, Lhamu's face already drifting back to whatever place distant memories always drift back to.

He hadn't realized his waitress had come back – Krista, she'd said her name was; she's already done refilling his mug. Like the two previous times she'd been at his table, her gaze is sharp and intense, and there's a twinkle in there some dormant part of him recognizes alright.

It's been a while since he really flirted with anyone, or has felt tempted to do so. He's not that interested tonight either, but he's lonely. He's spent the past couple of weeks on his own, his conversations limited to short exchanges with motel managers as he pays for his stays.

Ten years ago, he'd thrived on that kind of lifestyle, content to be a lone-wolf making his way from town to town, interacting with people only when he had to or felt like it. After spending over eighteen months in constant company, however, his brutal return to solitude is turning out to be harder than expected.

That, and everything else.

There's something about that girl, too. She oozes confidence, and genuinely seems to enjoy chatting up whoever enters the diner –him in particular. She barely blinks when she looks at him, and maybe that dormant part of him isn't so dormant after all.

Dark hair and brown eyes, she also happens to be exactly his type.

Peter lets his lips stretch in a small, cocky smile he's used many times before, and decides to give it a go. "I was thinking about the importance of particle colliders in the matter of time displacement."

Choosing to go with the genius – slash – smartass line has turned a few ladies away in the past, but on the whole, experience has taught him that being bold is rewarding.

Krista raises an eyebrow with a smirk of her own. "Is that so? Are you really that smart, or are you just showing off by quoting something from Doctor Who? Because I gotta tell you, I've seen every episode, you won't fool me for long."

Peter's smile broadens, his own interest piqued. "You've got good taste," he concedes. "But yeah, I'm afraid I'm that smart. Although it can be argued that being brain smart doesn't keep someone from being an idiot."

"I'll be the judge of that," she says, not losing a beat. "You seem alright to me so far, and like you said, I've got good taste."

Apparently, he does remember how to flirt.

Peter loses the cocky grin, his smile softening. "To be honest with you, I'm more than a little surprised. Nicely surprised. I didn't expect anyone from this part of the States to be familiar with Doctor Who."

Krista leans a bit closer, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone. "Don't tell any of my regulars, but I'm not really from Noyo County."

Well, if they start discussing their origins, Peter is fairly certain he'll trump anything she's got. "Yeah? Where are you from?"

"Here and there. You could say I moved around a lot when I was a kid, my dad was–"

"Krista, table 3's order's up."

Although she stopped mid-sentence, she doesn't even turn to acknowledge her boss, merely waving a hand over her shoulder, her eyes still on Peter's. Unblinking. "So, have you decided on what you'd like to eat?"

His smile turns a bit sly again, eager to push away any thought of her moving around a lot as a kid, as it reminded him a bit too much of someone else he will not think about. "Bring me a slice of your favorite pie."

Eight minutes later, she comes back with a slice of pecan pie. By the time she leaves his table again, he's got his first date in over a year.

That one failed attempt in Boston a few weeks back really doesn't count.

...

Ever since he left Boston, two weeks ago, Peter has given himself plenty of reasons to explain why he's still in the country, when two years ago, he would have been long gone within days.

He doesn't have the money; he needs to update his fake passport; his back still bothers him. All reasonable lies.

The money and the passport, he could have resolved within a week if he made the right calls. As far as his physical pain goes, well, it wouldn't be the first time he traveled while a bit banged up. The truth is, even if he's moved as far away from Boston as he physically can without taking a plane and leaving the country, having officially entered Washington State the previous night, he still cannot bring himself to leave.

He's done enough soul searching during his long drives this past fortnight to understand what motivates his decision to stick around. A lot of it has to do with the fact that, no matter where he runs to, no matter the miles he puts between himself and his former life, it won't make the slightest bit of difference.

No matter where he goes, he is and always will be off, quite literally out of sync with this universe.

But not tonight. Tonight, he's pretending to be a normal thirty-two-year-old man, as he drowses off in his motel's lobby, slumped on the couch.

He's waiting for Krista here, since he didn't give her his full (pretend) name. Meeting in the lobby instead of in his room is also less...complicated. It certainly lowers expectations on both sides.

A past version of him would have gone back to his room after leaving the diner, to shower and attempt to create some 'ambiance', making sure it was favorable to romance – as much as this could be romantic. That version of Peter did not exactly make real connections, but he was charming enough to know how to make the connections he needed.

That, and his mother had raised him not to be an asshole. Well, she'd tried.

But that version of him is long gone. Dead, actually, just like the Peter from this world, or his mother from this universe. Both of them are rotting in the ground, while he got to prance around for an extra two decades.

So no, Peter doesn't go back to his room, doesn't shower, doesn't even check to make sure the couple of condoms he's got in his wallet haven't gone past their expiration date. It's been a while.

When his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket, the way he knew it would, he doesn't move, doesn't even open his eyes. It rings once, twice, three times, four times. Then silence. No message.

She never leaves any.

He forces himself to keep thinking about Krista, because she'd liked his eyes.

He thinks of Krista, brown eyes, brown hair, and a sweet smile, wishing that the prospect of what could still turn into a one night stand was as appealing as it would have been eighteen months ago. God knows he could use it. It's been a long while; months, actually (almost years, plural), a fact that doesn't make him nervous at all, obviously.

Truth is, he feels like crap.

The caffeine he drank back at the diner has already left his system, and his chronic sleep deprivation causes him to feel slightly delirious as he drowses, filling his head with images that are oddly vivid. At first, he tries controlling what he sees, tries to imagine what it would feel like, to seek some comfort in this stranger's arms, something he used to be very good at.

But after his phone vibrates, his mind turns on him, the way it always does.

Before long, it's changing brown hair into blond, chocolate irises into golden green, and what was supposed to be a warm fantasy becomes an aching need that is as familiar as it is inherent.

When Peter falls asleep, he only dreams of her.

TBC...