Fic tease: Fringe
Lincoln spends the first hour testing the mettle of his cuffs, twisting his wrists aimlessly inside the restraints, not in hope of release but to kill the boredom. Storage closets, it would appear, are the same in any reality. There’s a broom stacked in one corner, cleaning products, a mop and a bucket. He has lifetimes worth of toilet paper - so small comfort there - and the air has the stale taste of ammonia and bleach. By the second hour, he has counted exactly two pairs of feet who have paraded past his doorway. The corridor is used, if not frequently. He has the option of calling out if Big-Shot Detective doesn’t return in a timely fashion. Peter --
In truth, Lincoln has no idea what happened to the man. He feels no remorse for the conspiracy; Olivia was right; it was their best chance to uncover the Secretary’s secrets; one man’s desire to go home didn’t outweigh their needs. When Peter’s a blip on the radar screen and gone they’re still going to live in this world. It might be easier though, if he knew for certain what had transpired.
Idle thoughts keep him occupied. Images of rotting in a maintenance closet for all eternity are swapped out for thoughts of Peter being hunted down and shot, which give way to the trepidation of Olivia confronting Broyles alone, informing him of their attempt at espionage and the possible repercussions for the peace accord, the disappointment Broyles would voice makes Lincoln visibly ill, until the images swap out again, and he’s back to rotting in a maintenance closet for all eternity.
By the third hour Lincoln’s given up on standing and dropped to his buttocks on the floor. He sits Indian style with his ankles criss-crossed around the pole, his upper body propped against the line of cold steel. His stomach rumbles as he flexes his wrists, the wait is worse than the interrogation he imagined. By the fourth hour, unlikely as it is, the chaos of his thoughts slow, righteous anger that’s sustained him for weeks guttering under exhaustion, the discomfit of his limbs. He counts the cracks in the plaster wall until he begins to drift off.
His visions are a mishmash: Olivia’s lips, of sweet breath in his ear, the unspoken encouragement as she watched him step through the portal - (you know what to do. Fingers carding through his hair).
Robert standing in the doorway, socks pulled up his hairy calves and shirttails covering his boxers.
He dreams of a secret room with a thousand inlaid plans, gilded in blood and gold and phasing out of existence, of old fashioned clocks with the inner workings laid bare - (you look good. The intonation honest, the look appreciative). The strange flutter in his stomach as he stood quiet for both their scrutiny, high awareness that Lincoln attributed to nerves.
He dreams of the scratchy glide of material against his palm.
Of his own knuckles brushing blood-warm skin.
Of fisting a hand in Peter’s collar to keep him close, to jerk him forward.
He dreams of the moment Bishop turned his back and sprinted, scaling the brick wall and vanishing, leaving Lincoln behind, to act as decoy and Peter’s so-called ‘way’ is to drop the excess baggage. He dreams of a gunshot…
The door to the maintenance room crashes open.
Lincoln, half asleep, almost brains himself against the metal pipe in surprise. The sudden light is harsh against the memory of darkness. He squints, eyes tearing up involuntarily, a sour taste in his mouth. It’s not his double and it’s not Olivia’s double either. He feels his muscles coil. Tension rocks Lincoln forward until he gathers his legs beneath him. “What’s going on?”
“Taking you topside.” The agent is nondescript, face round, his eyes a muddy brown. “Secretary’s orders.”
Lincoln goes cold. He eyes the broom in the corner, measures the distance, the likelihood of success. He’s not up for a repeat performance of the last time he was taken into custody by a complete stranger. Lincoln never thought he’d be so desperate to see his own face.
“Quote end quote: Peter said to relax.” The agent says shrewdly.
He’s hanging back, the key to the cuffs in plain sight, and Lincoln’s not sure if the wariness is reserved for him, or what the agent imagines Captain Lee would do in similar circumstances. “Peter?” Lincoln says, grasping onto the name. “Peter’s here?”
“The tall guy shadowing the Secretary? Yeah. He’s here,” the agent confirms, he shifts impatiently. “You’re not going to go six rounds with me in a broom closet, are you?”
“No,” Lincoln breathes and holds out his wrists steadily. “Where’s Captain Lee and Agent Dunham?”
“En route with the suspect.” The agent is lax with his information, talking cheerfully as he unlocks the cuffs. He stands back, eyes raking down Lincoln’s body from tip to toe in a move that’s becoming increasingly common. “Weird,” he says blandly, then escorts Lincoln from the closet.
Engaging with Peter Bishop over the nature of loss, Lincoln realises, is a pissing contest he has no hope of winning. Lincoln’s good with people, his demeanour unassuming, non-threatening. He’s talented at seeing the inner mechanics, recognising the cogs and spindles, the clockwork of human emotion - anger, love, greed - each distinct emotion passing by like the second-hand past the hour.
Peter’s anger, flaring up sudden, squaring off against Lincoln, is almost a relief. The man has been freakishly in control since he arrived, and as far as Lincoln can tell, he hasn’t let his emotions slip once with anyone. You’re scared, Lincoln says, aiming to shame, thinking the charge of cowardice might get Peter to do what he wants, just to prove Lincoln otherwise. He's utterly stumped when Peter says yes I am scared, and then basically, fuck you too.
Small acts of betrayal on both sides, the air crisp with a tension Lincoln can’t begin to resolve.
Peter’s not, in fact, a coward. Lincoln knows it for certain. He knows Peter stepped into a machine under the expectation he wouldn’t step out again. He’s seen Peter walk into a time anomaly after watching a fellow agent disintegrated, face interrogation, suspicion, guns, step across universes, leave Lincoln behind...and he keeps coming back to that, probing at it like a sore tooth, surprised at the fresh hurt, how easily Peter sacrificed him, handing him over to a unit they already knew was compromised.
Lincoln never apologised for having his own agenda. He supposes it’s too much to ask Peter to apologise for his own.
But it’s sobering, in its own way, Lincoln doesn’t have a clue how to manipulate him, and it’s sobering, because the second he used Peter for his own devises, Peter used him right back. He thinks about the glasses Peter brought, left behind in another reality, folded up neatly and boxed away. Three inches of space between them, standing toe to toe, and Lincoln’s floundering for a way to convince the other man they need to stay. As it turns out, Lincoln doesn’t need to: a man named David Robert Jones does it for him.
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