fringe fic: we know it both ways now (olivia/alternate!charlie)
we know it both ways now
olivia/alternate!charlie (background peter/olivia)
Once she knows, she wishes she didn't. But isn't that almost always the case?
1324 words. pg-13.
It's just another day in D.C.
Another dead body. Another quarantine. There are children there, scared and crying. Soon that anguish will be frozen in time. They are told there's nothing to fear.
"You all right, Livy?" Charlie asks, and his hand is too warm against the small of her back.
Olivia can't smile, but she tries her best because it's what's expected. "I'll be fine."
All eyes are on her now. She's expected to feel nothing as fifty lives get chained to this place.
Olivia used to have an amber necklace that she admired. If she ever gets home, she will break it into a million pieces.
Don't bet on it.
---
Once she knows, she wishes she didn't. But isn't that almost always the case?
Her mother - the real one - used to say that she was cursed with knowledge. She's a step ahead of everyone else.
This follows her wherever she goes.
---
When they get back, Broyles is watching. So is Walter Secretary Bishop. They bring her into unnecessary meetings. Ask her opinion on menial things. Wait for her to falter or stumble, but she doesn't.
Olivia keeps focus. Every old trick she loses as the false memories fade is one she picks up from studying her surroundings.
What they don't count on is - Olivia is a fast learner.
---
Charlie is faster.
He buys her a drink when Lincoln isn't around. His questions don't even pretend to be harmless. She knows a grilling when she sees one. She cannot blame him for being weary. Especially since he's right.
But she disarms him with a smile and for awhile he's sure she means no harm, but Olivia's not sure if it's enough. She knows him well enough.
Olivia still sees her Charlie when she looks at him. Still hears her Charlie. Still knows her Charlie was close enough to this Charlie. She still can't let go of her Charlie.
If it comes down to it, if he knows and it's turns out to be him versus her, she will not be able to pull that trigger again.
{once they used to finish each other's sentences, plan a mission with only eye contact - either universe, this is a truth}
Charlie Francis was always meant to blur lines.
---
The echo of Peter that follows her around like an unwelcome conscience tells her to forget Charlie.
His voice is smooth. Not calming but sly. Like a snake charmer. She's heard it a million times before coming from a million different faces. Peter's just one of them.
She realizes Peter's not just one of them, but as the days go, it's harder to hold onto that fact.
---
"Do you remember that mission in South Beach where you got your foot stuck in a collapsed volleyball net mid chase and it took me twenty minutes to free you?"
"No, Charlie, I don't." She looks at him with a devious smile that can pass as sarcastic or bitter. It's up to him to decide which he'd like to believe.
---
Walter Secretary Bishop slips the pamphlet on her desk in person. The last two times it appeared overnight and she accidentally threw it in the trash with her morning papers.
She skims it. Drug trials. She already has a vague idea of their purpose. Vague idea that this is her endgame.
"Why me?" Olivia asks innocently.
"Why not?" Secretary Bishop answers, and it sounds a lot like her Walter then. It's scary the way these worlds can overlap.
Olivia nods. "I'll think about it."
---
"Walter wants me to take drugs."
Peter's echo laughs. "That sounds like him." He shifts closer and she can feel him next to her. She feels every inch of him pressed against her side. "You will do it right? You know it's the only way back."
Olivia has nightmares of burning beds and toddlers' screams.
"Sure." She lies to herself.
---
Knowledge is only part of it. There are some things she can't possibly expect.
For instance, one night at her place, after dinner with the team, Lincoln leaves early but Charlie stays. They talk about things and mostly Charlie watches her and Olivia, based on her knowledge, assumes this conversation will end with Charlie accusing her of being the wrong Olivia.
What happens: She turns away to put something in the fridge and when she turns back, Charlie's there, lips swooping down and capturing her own. She stumbles back. Her hip catches the corner of the counter giving way to a dull ache. Her mind swims with shock.
She laughs it off. "What was that for?"
Charlie grins, wipes at the corner of his mouth, and she can't help how her eyes flicker to that spot, wonder how many times some version of her lips might have grazed it.
"Too soon, huh?" he says.
Olivia can't explain why her arms find their way around his neck. Just like she can't explain how she knows to tip her head back when he tries again.
These are no body's memories, she thinks, but maybe they are someone's wishful thinking.
"Is this a test?" she whispers into the space between their lips.
His laugh is just as dark as she expects. She takes it for a no.
---
This is the turning point: It gets old - the stares. The waiting. The games.
She feels the entire process wearing at her true identity (though she's not entirely sure what that is). She is pretending to be someone that she's not. Someone who she could be with just enough elements changed. A cold blooded assassin who doesn't blink when whole cities needed to be vaporized. It's fascinating and scary all at once - a brilliant way to describe this whole world she's stuck in.
It's getting old and there is no end in sight.
---
Charlie finds her packing - lets himself into her apartment because that's just what he does. She should have expected it. Her hair is back to blonde and there's a half assed note to her mother - the fake one - on the kitchen table. He catches her red handed and she has the decency to look embarrassed.
She's spelling it out in big letters.
He stares at her a long time. Cataloguing differences, she guesses, but she can't be too sure. He's still too fast for her. Deciphering his whole thought process is a different type of challenge. It's the one game she'll never get tired of playing.
"There's just something about you," he sighs and shakes his head - hands her another piece of luggage.
It feels like an unfinished thought.
---
Peter's echo fades right around here.
It's a metaphor.
---
It's just another day in France. Street music and coldness. It's not as beautiful as her version, but it's close enough.
There are some facts that this world kept hidden from her, like how Paris hasn't spoken to D.C. in sixty years. These things were not hidden from Charlie who suggests they head there for awhile. A vacation - he told Broyles - harmless enough. No one suspected a thing and it was too late once they did.
Lincoln sends a postcard. Frank is too angry to write, but this was never about him.
Charlie's got his arm swung over the back of her chair and his feet propped up next to hers on the railing in front of them. Olivia hasn't sat on a balcony and watched the sunset since she was seven years old.
"Always wanted to do this," she whispers as she tips another beer back and watches the light disappear over the horizon.
His hand settles over the back of her neck. He knows everything now. He doesn't promise that they'll ever figure things out. They both know it would be empty.
As far as they're both concerned, tomorrow's just another day.
olivia/alternate!charlie (background peter/olivia)
Once she knows, she wishes she didn't. But isn't that almost always the case?
1324 words. pg-13.
It's just another day in D.C.
Another dead body. Another quarantine. There are children there, scared and crying. Soon that anguish will be frozen in time. They are told there's nothing to fear.
"You all right, Livy?" Charlie asks, and his hand is too warm against the small of her back.
Olivia can't smile, but she tries her best because it's what's expected. "I'll be fine."
All eyes are on her now. She's expected to feel nothing as fifty lives get chained to this place.
Olivia used to have an amber necklace that she admired. If she ever gets home, she will break it into a million pieces.
Don't bet on it.
---
Once she knows, she wishes she didn't. But isn't that almost always the case?
Her mother - the real one - used to say that she was cursed with knowledge. She's a step ahead of everyone else.
This follows her wherever she goes.
---
When they get back, Broyles is watching. So is Walter Secretary Bishop. They bring her into unnecessary meetings. Ask her opinion on menial things. Wait for her to falter or stumble, but she doesn't.
Olivia keeps focus. Every old trick she loses as the false memories fade is one she picks up from studying her surroundings.
What they don't count on is - Olivia is a fast learner.
---
Charlie is faster.
He buys her a drink when Lincoln isn't around. His questions don't even pretend to be harmless. She knows a grilling when she sees one. She cannot blame him for being weary. Especially since he's right.
But she disarms him with a smile and for awhile he's sure she means no harm, but Olivia's not sure if it's enough. She knows him well enough.
Olivia still sees her Charlie when she looks at him. Still hears her Charlie. Still knows her Charlie was close enough to this Charlie. She still can't let go of her Charlie.
If it comes down to it, if he knows and it's turns out to be him versus her, she will not be able to pull that trigger again.
{once they used to finish each other's sentences, plan a mission with only eye contact - either universe, this is a truth}
Charlie Francis was always meant to blur lines.
---
The echo of Peter that follows her around like an unwelcome conscience tells her to forget Charlie.
His voice is smooth. Not calming but sly. Like a snake charmer. She's heard it a million times before coming from a million different faces. Peter's just one of them.
She realizes Peter's not just one of them, but as the days go, it's harder to hold onto that fact.
---
"Do you remember that mission in South Beach where you got your foot stuck in a collapsed volleyball net mid chase and it took me twenty minutes to free you?"
"No, Charlie, I don't." She looks at him with a devious smile that can pass as sarcastic or bitter. It's up to him to decide which he'd like to believe.
---
Walter Secretary Bishop slips the pamphlet on her desk in person. The last two times it appeared overnight and she accidentally threw it in the trash with her morning papers.
She skims it. Drug trials. She already has a vague idea of their purpose. Vague idea that this is her endgame.
"Why me?" Olivia asks innocently.
"Why not?" Secretary Bishop answers, and it sounds a lot like her Walter then. It's scary the way these worlds can overlap.
Olivia nods. "I'll think about it."
---
"Walter wants me to take drugs."
Peter's echo laughs. "That sounds like him." He shifts closer and she can feel him next to her. She feels every inch of him pressed against her side. "You will do it right? You know it's the only way back."
Olivia has nightmares of burning beds and toddlers' screams.
"Sure." She lies to herself.
---
Knowledge is only part of it. There are some things she can't possibly expect.
For instance, one night at her place, after dinner with the team, Lincoln leaves early but Charlie stays. They talk about things and mostly Charlie watches her and Olivia, based on her knowledge, assumes this conversation will end with Charlie accusing her of being the wrong Olivia.
What happens: She turns away to put something in the fridge and when she turns back, Charlie's there, lips swooping down and capturing her own. She stumbles back. Her hip catches the corner of the counter giving way to a dull ache. Her mind swims with shock.
She laughs it off. "What was that for?"
Charlie grins, wipes at the corner of his mouth, and she can't help how her eyes flicker to that spot, wonder how many times some version of her lips might have grazed it.
"Too soon, huh?" he says.
Olivia can't explain why her arms find their way around his neck. Just like she can't explain how she knows to tip her head back when he tries again.
These are no body's memories, she thinks, but maybe they are someone's wishful thinking.
"Is this a test?" she whispers into the space between their lips.
His laugh is just as dark as she expects. She takes it for a no.
---
This is the turning point: It gets old - the stares. The waiting. The games.
She feels the entire process wearing at her true identity (though she's not entirely sure what that is). She is pretending to be someone that she's not. Someone who she could be with just enough elements changed. A cold blooded assassin who doesn't blink when whole cities needed to be vaporized. It's fascinating and scary all at once - a brilliant way to describe this whole world she's stuck in.
It's getting old and there is no end in sight.
---
Charlie finds her packing - lets himself into her apartment because that's just what he does. She should have expected it. Her hair is back to blonde and there's a half assed note to her mother - the fake one - on the kitchen table. He catches her red handed and she has the decency to look embarrassed.
She's spelling it out in big letters.
He stares at her a long time. Cataloguing differences, she guesses, but she can't be too sure. He's still too fast for her. Deciphering his whole thought process is a different type of challenge. It's the one game she'll never get tired of playing.
"There's just something about you," he sighs and shakes his head - hands her another piece of luggage.
It feels like an unfinished thought.
---
Peter's echo fades right around here.
It's a metaphor.
---
It's just another day in France. Street music and coldness. It's not as beautiful as her version, but it's close enough.
There are some facts that this world kept hidden from her, like how Paris hasn't spoken to D.C. in sixty years. These things were not hidden from Charlie who suggests they head there for awhile. A vacation - he told Broyles - harmless enough. No one suspected a thing and it was too late once they did.
Lincoln sends a postcard. Frank is too angry to write, but this was never about him.
Charlie's got his arm swung over the back of her chair and his feet propped up next to hers on the railing in front of them. Olivia hasn't sat on a balcony and watched the sunset since she was seven years old.
"Always wanted to do this," she whispers as she tips another beer back and watches the light disappear over the horizon.
His hand settles over the back of her neck. He knows everything now. He doesn't promise that they'll ever figure things out. They both know it would be empty.
As far as they're both concerned, tomorrow's just another day.