Distance - Fringe Fic!
I think this is my first ever fringe fic. It's also comes as a complete surprise. I've been struggling with a massive case of writer's block, so the fact that this just burst into my head and out onto the page kind of shocked me.
Then there's the fact that it's definitely not what I would have guessed I'd be writing for Fringe- it's an introspective piece from Elizabeth's point of view, meant as a companion to the scene in 4x09 (Enemy of my Enemy, in case I've got the episode number wrong) where she goes to speak with Walter (Crazy!Amber!Walter, anyway.) It was just a lovely scene, but what struck me was that as much as it was about Walter, it hinted at such a journey for her. And I couldn't really picture the original alternate Elizabeth having a different point of view, so I started to wonder what set her so apart from the reactions of her husband (and everyone else when confronted with their doubles). And this was it. So here it goes:
Distance
All the worlds and all their differences: she accepted all that a long time ago. The universe had opened like a flower, and all the petals once so closely nestled became fragile and distinct. "That man," he husband said, his voice like thunder and his face implacable as any storm, "that man came and stole our son and destroyed our world."
He was right. Of course he was right. Her son was gone and her grief was tattooed in amber ink across the body of the world. She's not the first mother to wish to see the world to burn at the loss of a child. It's simple bitter irony that she's the first to see it fulfilled. And so she embraced the notion of difference, of distance, of everything that was hers and everything that was theirs and it allowed her to forget awhile that the man who did not save her son wore the same face in both universes. But in her heart, she'd known the truth: there was a kindness in having someone else to blame. At least for her husband, who'd just needed more time, before all the time was stolen- that's what he told himself, what he told her, but what a beautiful lie.
It saved him. There were few such comforts for her. Walter hadn't been there, watching their son die. He hadn't faced the desperate man coming in from the snow. That man had worn a different coat, but he'd loved their son just the same. There'd never been a choice for her. There was nowhere she could lay blame.
There were no beautiful lies for her. She accepted difference but she knew that distance was a lie. Each petal is born of a flower, the same flower, and in that way, this broken man before her is her husband just as much as the man she left behind. And the boy, the wonderful boy, is her son. Born to another Elizabeth, perhaps, but it doesn't matter now. She sees the truth. In all universes, she is his mother. In all universes, he is her son. This will never not be true.
So how can she blame this man for the loss of her son, how can she blame this man who tried so hard to succeed where his other self had failed? The is no meaningful difference between them, no meaningful distance. That was enough to forgive him.
But then he returned Peter, her Peter (for there was never one that wasn't hers) and she got to see him strong, so strong, handsome and brave and grown-
That could only be redemption.
Then there's the fact that it's definitely not what I would have guessed I'd be writing for Fringe- it's an introspective piece from Elizabeth's point of view, meant as a companion to the scene in 4x09 (Enemy of my Enemy, in case I've got the episode number wrong) where she goes to speak with Walter (Crazy!Amber!Walter, anyway.) It was just a lovely scene, but what struck me was that as much as it was about Walter, it hinted at such a journey for her. And I couldn't really picture the original alternate Elizabeth having a different point of view, so I started to wonder what set her so apart from the reactions of her husband (and everyone else when confronted with their doubles). And this was it. So here it goes:
Distance
All the worlds and all their differences: she accepted all that a long time ago. The universe had opened like a flower, and all the petals once so closely nestled became fragile and distinct. "That man," he husband said, his voice like thunder and his face implacable as any storm, "that man came and stole our son and destroyed our world."
He was right. Of course he was right. Her son was gone and her grief was tattooed in amber ink across the body of the world. She's not the first mother to wish to see the world to burn at the loss of a child. It's simple bitter irony that she's the first to see it fulfilled. And so she embraced the notion of difference, of distance, of everything that was hers and everything that was theirs and it allowed her to forget awhile that the man who did not save her son wore the same face in both universes. But in her heart, she'd known the truth: there was a kindness in having someone else to blame. At least for her husband, who'd just needed more time, before all the time was stolen- that's what he told himself, what he told her, but what a beautiful lie.
It saved him. There were few such comforts for her. Walter hadn't been there, watching their son die. He hadn't faced the desperate man coming in from the snow. That man had worn a different coat, but he'd loved their son just the same. There'd never been a choice for her. There was nowhere she could lay blame.
There were no beautiful lies for her. She accepted difference but she knew that distance was a lie. Each petal is born of a flower, the same flower, and in that way, this broken man before her is her husband just as much as the man she left behind. And the boy, the wonderful boy, is her son. Born to another Elizabeth, perhaps, but it doesn't matter now. She sees the truth. In all universes, she is his mother. In all universes, he is her son. This will never not be true.
So how can she blame this man for the loss of her son, how can she blame this man who tried so hard to succeed where his other self had failed? The is no meaningful difference between them, no meaningful distance. That was enough to forgive him.
But then he returned Peter, her Peter (for there was never one that wasn't hers) and she got to see him strong, so strong, handsome and brave and grown-
That could only be redemption.