EXT Night – Hotel Midtown Boston
No copyright inFRINGEment intended.
Note: filler. This takes place after the season finale.
It was only 3:16 and it took her 28 minutes to get over here, between the moment Broyles had called her and the minute she will kill the ignition. Not bad, she thought.
She parked her car right across the hotel and checked her face in the vanity mirror. She wiped some running mascara and applied a pale lipstick with extra care. Satisfied with her image, she combed her long hair with her hand and grabbed her bag and cell phone.
She slammed the car door behind her, beeped it locked, and walked briskly to the hotel entrance, both hands clasped on her coat lapel to prevent the icy wind from freezing her on the spot. She had to resist the temptation to run nonetheless. She pushed a bit too hard on the glass door and it opened with a resounding clash in the empty lobby. The night watchman looked up from his TV. She didn't slow down and quickly waved her badge in his direction. Without further concern, he went back to his program.
She pressed the call button and waited for the elevator to stop at her level, mentally reviewing her notes. The car finally reached the lobby and she glided inside, pressing the fifth floor button repeatedly.
It was a bad idea to wake up the Bishops. She knew there's was not much they could do but she could not help but think that the Bureau owed them that much. She caught a glimpse of her reflexion in the metal panel and flinched. She looked unsecure, weary and unprepared for the confrontation.
For crying out loud, she was a skilled and experienced FBI agent, there was nothing to be distressed about. It was just a routine night call. Well, not so much. She was never comfortable with mingling with consultants, and her reluctance combined with the late hour and the present situation was clouding her judgment. She straightened, raised her chin up and waited patiently for the elevator to reach their floor.
The hallway was dark and desert at that time of night and she found her way to their door without bothering to turn the lights on. Only when she reached the door, she switched it on to check the number on their door and to review her notes of her small black book for one final time. She put the shoulder strap of her bag back in place, tucked on her belt and rapped on the door. It echoed in the hallway and she mulled over disappearing and waiting until morning to bear the bad news –should her banging on the door fail to wake them up.
But soon enough, she heard some kind of a commotion on the other side of the door and two male voices arguing in the room. She resisted the urge to draw her gun and took a deep breath, --old habits die hard. Something was shifted on the floor, producing a screeching sound. Someone was pushed aside. The voices came nearer to the door and she recoiled involuntarily, and plastered a fake smile on her face. Showtime.
The door was pulled open with vigour and a man in his early thirties and in his boxer shorts welcomed her with a yawn. He did not even bother to give her a look and rubbing his face with both hands, turned his back to her and went back into the suite.
"You got to be kidding me," he said. His voice was muffled behind his hands. He slouched down on a couch, "it's been a while since you manage to barge in, in the middle of the night. Thanks to you, Walter is now fully alert and already begging for his next meal. You would probably be interested in sharing an early breakfast of smoked haddock and hash browns with him, because honestly I can't."
She stood awkwardly before the couch, glancing to the empty king size bed in the next room. The toilet was flushed and a cheerful half naked Walter emerged from the bathroom and stopped in his tracks.
"Peter, were we supposed to entertain tonight?" he asked in a dull monotone.
Peter noticed an unusual high pitch in his voice. Despite his idiosyncrasies, Walter was very fond of Olivia and this, this was not very nice. He braced himself in the anticipation of the impending crisis.
"Walter, could you please cover yourself and attempt not to throw a fit for once?" he smiled. "You will have to excuse him, --well to excuse both of us actually for it might be the first time in months that we were sleeping like babies."
"No need to apologize, Mr Bishop," she said.
Peter jumped and eventually looked at her. A lean woman in her mid twenties, the living embodiment of Queen Scheherazade, dark curly locks of hair cascading down her back, large doe eyes and a perfect mouth, smiled back.
"Nasreen Fazhi," she held out her hand, "I am a special agent with the FBI, Mr Broyles sends me."
"Where is agent Dunham?" Walter whined. He grabbed his robe on the bed and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "What did you do to her?"
Peter got dressed quickly and reappeared from the bathroom fully clothed and smelling of toothpaste. "Peter Bishop, I think we haven't been properly introduced."
She nodded in appreciation. "Do you mind coming with me to the Fringe Division, Charlie Francis seems to think that you could be of assistance."
"Peter, ask her please, I think she cannot see or hear me," said Walter.
Special agent Fazhi had the decency to blush, "I'm so sorry to intrude professor Bishop, but we need your help, agent Dunham is missing."
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