FIC: The Note-Taker (Fringe, Lincoln-centric, Redverse)
Title: The Note-Taker
Author:
amalnahurriyeh/amalnahurriyeh
Fandom: Fringe
Pairing/characters: gen-ish, with implied amber!Lincoln/red!Olivia.
Rating: PG (adult themes)
Angst-Level: moderate (canon-level)
Warnings: None
Summary: He keeps track of things.
Author's Notes: written for
wikiaddicted723 in
fringe_exchange 2012. My first time writing unadulterated Fringe fix; I think it works. Thanks to
leigh_nahurriyeh for beta'ing (still so amused I can link to her name).
Lincoln's junior year of college, he did a semester in Amsterdam. Not, he always has to tell people, for the weed; he wasn't that kind of guy, even at twenty, even before he decided he was going to apply to the FBI. He did it because he didn't speak Dutch, and he didn't know anything about the Netherlands, and he wanted to see what it was like, to be somewhere where none of your instincts were right. Well, it turns out that Dutch is the closest major language to English, linguistically, and that every person he met spoke fluent English, so that was a wash. The more he thinks about it, the more parallels he finds with being Over There now: everything should be different, except it's mostly the same, except it's not, and the places where it's different are so jarring that he finds himself staring blankly, searching for something to say.
But the reason he's thinking of Amsterdam now isn't just that. It's that, when he was in Amsterdam, he kept a notebook in his pocket, and he wrote down notes, to himself, about things he'd want to make sure he could remember--where the cafe with the good oude kaas sandwich was, what the room numbers for his classes were, how to ask directions in Dutch, which of the appeltaarts he'd had were good and which were not, which of the four bars he and his friends rotated between had which beers, so he could remember what to order where. He kept it with him, so he'd be able to remember what he liked, those things he needed to be able to function in this new city.
So, when he woke up on his third night in Olivia's guest room from a dream about appeltaart, he knows what his subconscious is telling him. He goes out that afternoon, and uses some of his cash advance from his prospective job at Fringe Division to buy a notebook.
***
Bring these things with you when you leave the house:
The first page is a running list of things he cannot forget. Starting with the show-me, which has almost stopped bothering him, almost stopped making him think he's suddenly living in a police state every time he swipes it on a bus or in a cab. And then his ear cuff, which is so small he wants to sew an extra pocket into his suit to hold it. He isn't a technophobe, not in the least, but he still thinks that there is a size below which communications technology should not shrink. Then the device that was the size of his old phone which contained detailed street maps of Manhatan, whose name he cannot ever spell correctly on the first try, and the surrounding areas. Then his wallet, after he twice leaves it on Olivia's end table. Then, when it comes, his Fringe Division ID, which has a power to open doors for him that is frankly terrifying. He didn't even know any of this was here, Fringe Divisions or parallel universes or any of the stuff they're doing that looks freakishly like magic, but now he's a hero from the other side with a badge to prove it.
Gets him free drinks sometimes, too.
Airship only convenient for rides of > 30 mins. Helicopter fastest within city, unless going <20 blocks (cab) or can travel in department vehicles. Coney Island flight leaves from the Eighth Street Heliport every twenty minutes.
"This is terrifying," he said, strapping himself in next to Olivia. (Liv, they call her, and he wants to call her that, but he keeps seeing the other one in her face.)
"It's fine," she said, grinning at him. "Seriously. There are, like, almost no accidents."
"But there's no one flying," he said, gesturing at the computer console sitting at the front of the copter. "How is this possibly safe? What if something goes wrong?"
She was so close to laughing, he could tell, but was trying to take his anxiety seriously. "Look, the computer is better than a human pilot--they talk with the other computers and get directed where it's safe. And there's somebody at air traffic control watching out for errors. And we're only going like, twelve miles or something. So, therefore, sit down and shut up. We're going to the beach."
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss the D train," he said, gripping his armrests harder than he needed to as the helicopter shuddered off the ground. "Why don't you have subways again?"
"Earthquakes," she said. "You know, your Manhattan is built on a fault line too. That's all gonna go to hell someday."
"You are not a terribly reassuring person," he said, trying not to look out the window.
She reached out, pried his hand off the armrest, and laced her fingers through his. "Yeah, I am."
Yeah, she was.
Fringe Division is strictly hierarchical. Military titles come with higher rank, rather than distinct specializations.
"The results are not yet conclusive," Agent Farnsworth said. "However, there is only a twelve percent possibility that the suspect will be located in what is left of the data."
"I think twelve is high enough to keep going, though," Lincoln said. He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. "OK, I'm going to go get a cup of orzo from the cafe downstairs. Do you want one?"
Agent Farnsworth blinked at him, and did not say anything.
He didn't quite know how to interpret this. "Um, or a pastry, or something? I just need to step away from the screen for a minute."
She blinked again. "I am sorry. You startled me. Yes, I would like that. Thank you, Agent Lee."
"No worries." He stood and stretched. "Can I ask? Why did it startle you?"
She looked down at her hands. He actually found that she was the easiest person to ask about norms on this side; she always had fully formed explanations when he asked, and he heard echoes of the speeches he'd heard his aunt give to his cousin with Asperger's about what wasn't appropriate behavior every time. "It is not usual," she said quietly, "for people of higher rank to perform services for those of lower rank."
"Are we of different ranks? We're both agents," he said, leaning on the back of his chair. She still wasn't looking at the screen behind her, which meant she was uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he said. "I apologize if I've offended you."
"I understand. You are new here. Our side is very different from yours. While we are both agents, your involvement in field investigation suggests that you are likely to eventually earn a promotion to a higher grade. I am unsuited for that kind of investigation, and therefore I am not considered likely to advance in rank. And--" She cleared her throat. "And I sometimes forget that you are not Captain Lee."
He was the one who looked down at his hands now. "Yeah," he said. "I can understand that."
He forgot how she took her orzo, so he brought back creamer and sugar packets, just in case, and a bear claw, because he could.
Do not assume any necessary congruence between a person and their doppelganger. However, over time, similarities can always be observed.
"I'm not her," Liv said one night, when they were sitting on her couch. Even after he'd found an apartment he liked, he still found himself over there three nights a week, at least, and that wasn't counting the ones they both spent hunched over their desks or packing heat in dark alleyways.
"I know that," he said, quietly. Because she was, and she wasn't; this one surrounded herself in humor and the flash of an easy smile, and the other wrapped herself in reserve and restraint, but both of them are covering the same iron at the core. He appeared, invariably, to be magnetized.
She was watching him, studying the lines of his face. "And you--you're not him."
"No," he said. He understood the power of what she felt for the other Lincoln, even if we wasn't entirely sure how she herself would categorize it. But he also understood that she kept letting him sleep on her couch for much longer than he needed to; he understood that it had been ten months since the bridge had closed and they still spent most nights together; he understood that grief and loss could only power a friendship so far, without something else growing in its place. "Is that OK?"
He could tell she wanted to respond immediately, to say something reassuring, but then she stopped and reconsidered. He didn't know what to say, so he let her think, reconsider, decide. "I think it is," she said. She turned towards him, and reached out to touch his cheek. "If this is what you want."
Somewhere along the way, he had made a decision. "It is, Liv," he said, and smiled.
She kissed him gently, and put her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her back, and knew he was who he wanted to be.
This entry was originally posted at http://amalnahurriyeh.dreamwidth.org/78007.html. You can comment in either location. There are currently
comments at Dreamwidth.
Author:
amalnahurriyeh/amalnahurriyeh
Fandom: Fringe
Pairing/characters: gen-ish, with implied amber!Lincoln/red!Olivia.
Rating: PG (adult themes)
Angst-Level: moderate (canon-level)
Warnings: None
Summary: He keeps track of things.
Author's Notes: written for
wikiaddicted723 in
fringe_exchange 2012. My first time writing unadulterated Fringe fix; I think it works. Thanks to
leigh_nahurriyeh for beta'ing (still so amused I can link to her name).
Lincoln's junior year of college, he did a semester in Amsterdam. Not, he always has to tell people, for the weed; he wasn't that kind of guy, even at twenty, even before he decided he was going to apply to the FBI. He did it because he didn't speak Dutch, and he didn't know anything about the Netherlands, and he wanted to see what it was like, to be somewhere where none of your instincts were right. Well, it turns out that Dutch is the closest major language to English, linguistically, and that every person he met spoke fluent English, so that was a wash. The more he thinks about it, the more parallels he finds with being Over There now: everything should be different, except it's mostly the same, except it's not, and the places where it's different are so jarring that he finds himself staring blankly, searching for something to say.
But the reason he's thinking of Amsterdam now isn't just that. It's that, when he was in Amsterdam, he kept a notebook in his pocket, and he wrote down notes, to himself, about things he'd want to make sure he could remember--where the cafe with the good oude kaas sandwich was, what the room numbers for his classes were, how to ask directions in Dutch, which of the appeltaarts he'd had were good and which were not, which of the four bars he and his friends rotated between had which beers, so he could remember what to order where. He kept it with him, so he'd be able to remember what he liked, those things he needed to be able to function in this new city.
So, when he woke up on his third night in Olivia's guest room from a dream about appeltaart, he knows what his subconscious is telling him. He goes out that afternoon, and uses some of his cash advance from his prospective job at Fringe Division to buy a notebook.
***
Bring these things with you when you leave the house:
The first page is a running list of things he cannot forget. Starting with the show-me, which has almost stopped bothering him, almost stopped making him think he's suddenly living in a police state every time he swipes it on a bus or in a cab. And then his ear cuff, which is so small he wants to sew an extra pocket into his suit to hold it. He isn't a technophobe, not in the least, but he still thinks that there is a size below which communications technology should not shrink. Then the device that was the size of his old phone which contained detailed street maps of Manhatan, whose name he cannot ever spell correctly on the first try, and the surrounding areas. Then his wallet, after he twice leaves it on Olivia's end table. Then, when it comes, his Fringe Division ID, which has a power to open doors for him that is frankly terrifying. He didn't even know any of this was here, Fringe Divisions or parallel universes or any of the stuff they're doing that looks freakishly like magic, but now he's a hero from the other side with a badge to prove it.
Gets him free drinks sometimes, too.
Airship only convenient for rides of > 30 mins. Helicopter fastest within city, unless going <20 blocks (cab) or can travel in department vehicles. Coney Island flight leaves from the Eighth Street Heliport every twenty minutes.
"This is terrifying," he said, strapping himself in next to Olivia. (Liv, they call her, and he wants to call her that, but he keeps seeing the other one in her face.)
"It's fine," she said, grinning at him. "Seriously. There are, like, almost no accidents."
"But there's no one flying," he said, gesturing at the computer console sitting at the front of the copter. "How is this possibly safe? What if something goes wrong?"
She was so close to laughing, he could tell, but was trying to take his anxiety seriously. "Look, the computer is better than a human pilot--they talk with the other computers and get directed where it's safe. And there's somebody at air traffic control watching out for errors. And we're only going like, twelve miles or something. So, therefore, sit down and shut up. We're going to the beach."
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss the D train," he said, gripping his armrests harder than he needed to as the helicopter shuddered off the ground. "Why don't you have subways again?"
"Earthquakes," she said. "You know, your Manhattan is built on a fault line too. That's all gonna go to hell someday."
"You are not a terribly reassuring person," he said, trying not to look out the window.
She reached out, pried his hand off the armrest, and laced her fingers through his. "Yeah, I am."
Yeah, she was.
Fringe Division is strictly hierarchical. Military titles come with higher rank, rather than distinct specializations.
"The results are not yet conclusive," Agent Farnsworth said. "However, there is only a twelve percent possibility that the suspect will be located in what is left of the data."
"I think twelve is high enough to keep going, though," Lincoln said. He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. "OK, I'm going to go get a cup of orzo from the cafe downstairs. Do you want one?"
Agent Farnsworth blinked at him, and did not say anything.
He didn't quite know how to interpret this. "Um, or a pastry, or something? I just need to step away from the screen for a minute."
She blinked again. "I am sorry. You startled me. Yes, I would like that. Thank you, Agent Lee."
"No worries." He stood and stretched. "Can I ask? Why did it startle you?"
She looked down at her hands. He actually found that she was the easiest person to ask about norms on this side; she always had fully formed explanations when he asked, and he heard echoes of the speeches he'd heard his aunt give to his cousin with Asperger's about what wasn't appropriate behavior every time. "It is not usual," she said quietly, "for people of higher rank to perform services for those of lower rank."
"Are we of different ranks? We're both agents," he said, leaning on the back of his chair. She still wasn't looking at the screen behind her, which meant she was uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he said. "I apologize if I've offended you."
"I understand. You are new here. Our side is very different from yours. While we are both agents, your involvement in field investigation suggests that you are likely to eventually earn a promotion to a higher grade. I am unsuited for that kind of investigation, and therefore I am not considered likely to advance in rank. And--" She cleared her throat. "And I sometimes forget that you are not Captain Lee."
He was the one who looked down at his hands now. "Yeah," he said. "I can understand that."
He forgot how she took her orzo, so he brought back creamer and sugar packets, just in case, and a bear claw, because he could.
Do not assume any necessary congruence between a person and their doppelganger. However, over time, similarities can always be observed.
"I'm not her," Liv said one night, when they were sitting on her couch. Even after he'd found an apartment he liked, he still found himself over there three nights a week, at least, and that wasn't counting the ones they both spent hunched over their desks or packing heat in dark alleyways.
"I know that," he said, quietly. Because she was, and she wasn't; this one surrounded herself in humor and the flash of an easy smile, and the other wrapped herself in reserve and restraint, but both of them are covering the same iron at the core. He appeared, invariably, to be magnetized.
She was watching him, studying the lines of his face. "And you--you're not him."
"No," he said. He understood the power of what she felt for the other Lincoln, even if we wasn't entirely sure how she herself would categorize it. But he also understood that she kept letting him sleep on her couch for much longer than he needed to; he understood that it had been ten months since the bridge had closed and they still spent most nights together; he understood that grief and loss could only power a friendship so far, without something else growing in its place. "Is that OK?"
He could tell she wanted to respond immediately, to say something reassuring, but then she stopped and reconsidered. He didn't know what to say, so he let her think, reconsider, decide. "I think it is," she said. She turned towards him, and reached out to touch his cheek. "If this is what you want."
Somewhere along the way, he had made a decision. "It is, Liv," he said, and smiled.
She kissed him gently, and put her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her back, and knew he was who he wanted to be.
This entry was originally posted at http://amalnahurriyeh.dreamwidth.org/78007.html. You can comment in either location. There are currently
comments at Dreamwidth.