A/N: I was bitten by the Fringe bug and before I knew it, I had watched the entire first season and had my mind completely blown away. While I can see myself as a potential Peter/Olivia fan, they don't currently have enough chemistry for me to really get on board. I reckon they should take their time to get to know each other a little before maybe having something in season 2 (or is this gonna be another Seeley/Temperance UST thingy? :P)... Regardless, there's a very tiny bit of Peter/Olivia in this, if you squint.

I'm a big John/Olivia fan, especially since their story was so bittersweet. The scene by the lake in The Transformation was just so beautiful. Anyway, this is my attempt at portraying some parts of their relationship and, hopefully, to include some insight into their feelings that couldn't be shown in the episodes. There is some sexuality but not too explicit. I've proof-read this but let me know if there are any errors.

When it started, it is like a friendly spar, or maybe even target practice with a colleague. "This is crazy," they even openly admit it. It's just a one-time thing. Yes. This won't happen again. Absolutely not. Giggles, laughter, belts unbuckling. The rustle of clothes, the spring of the bed. This is so crazy. But it doesn't matter what they keep telling each other—they always come back for more. Each tryst is accompanied by goofy grins and hungry kisses, playful chuckles and lustful sighs, familiar touches on foreign regions.

It is unexpectedly easy to keep work and their activities on the side separate. They still get coffee for one another, laugh at their jokes, discuss their cases and watch each other's backs on the field. The days are as normal as they can get. The nights become more exciting as they continue. It's stress relief. Uh-huh, yeah, take off your shirt.

"Why the hell do you look so chipper on a morning like this?" Charlie asks him once on a pouring Monday. Without batting an eyelash and with a wide smile, John bluntly answers, "I had sex last night."

His female partner can't resist a quiet laugh as Charlie raises an eyebrow. "I didn't care for that, Agent Scott," Olivia remarks in a dry tone. "The morning's horrible as it is and I don't need the image of you jumping in the sack with someone else to make it worse."

Charlie shakes his head and takes a drink of his cappuccino, heading back to his desk. Light-hearted banter between the two is not unusual, but the coy glances they shoot each other are. No one else is aware, of course. In everyone's eyes, they are just partners on the field. It's just a one-time thing! Yeah, the last twenty eight times were indeed a 'one-time thing'. I think it was twenty nine… Silly grins on both their faces, sloppy, clumsy kisses. Thirty now.

… This is so fucking crazy.


The first thing she sees when she opens her eyes are the glaring white lights on an equally white ceiling. She can hear a rhythmic beep, smell the antiseptic in the air. Her head hurts. Her limbs feel as if someone has twisted them off, then put them on again. What happened already?

"You're awake," a familiar raspy voice says from somewhere beside her. It is Charlie and he has on his face a thin smile when she turns to squint at him. She lets out a loud breath. "Water," she manages to croak. He pours her a glass and hands it over as she slowly sits up slightly. The sharp pain in her abdomen and shoulder clear the fog in her head a little. That's right—the warehouse they had busted into. She remembers.

"… How's the girl?" she whispers after a gulp of water. Charlie nods, tucking his hands into his pockets, and says, "She's doing well. Owes you her life, Liv." She merely shrugs in response. She was just doing her job, after all. "John?" she asks laconically.

"Questioning our guy. He said he'd drop by in a couple of hours to check on you."

She silently nods and lies back on her pillow, suddenly finding her eyelids very heavy. Her wounds burn like hell and it almost seems as if that wretched beeping is lulling her to sleep. "Just get some rest, Liv," she barely hears Charlie murmur. "We'll take care of things here." Thank you, she wants to say but the only sound from her throat come out as a tight grunt.

The next time she opens her eyes, it is dark and moonlight sifts through the blinds. There is someone on the chair next to her, arms crossed and brilliant blue eyes watching her intently. She sees his faint smile, the tenderness deep within him. He says nothing as she looks at him through her cloudy vision. She closes her eyes, an answering smile reaching her lips, and feels his light touch on her cheek, warm and comforting. That is enough for now.


Tonight is different from before. Their kisses are far less violent—gentle yet more passionate. They do not simply tear each other's clothes off and jump into bed. He carefully tugs her jacket off, mouth moving down her neck as she unbuttons his shirt, breathing into his chest. Their movements are slow and precise, like a well-choreographed waltz, and he kisses the scarred bullet wound on her shoulder, hands reaching up to fondle her breasts. She is out of breath, panting hard when she touches the metal buckle of his leather belt. He grabs his holster and gun and tosses them onto the floor. She is already unzipping his pants.

There are no smiles, no tickled laughter as they undress each other—touching, exploring, evoking quiet sighs and moans. They somehow make their way to the bed and lock gazes as he hovers over her, staring into her green eyes. There is something new here and both are well aware of it. She pulls him down for a kiss, then gasps into his mouth when he moves into her, a sweaty hand running up her thigh to hold onto her hips. He draws out and enters again, hearing her heavy breaths, addicted to her heat. Their rhythm is not frantic, nor is this mindless bonking with no strings attached. It is not just sex—they are making love, and the fact that she seems so fragile yet receptive of him fills him with indescribable emotions. Her fingers are running through his hair, down his back, clinging to him desperately. He hears nothing but her muffled moans, feels nothing but her inviting depths and the electricity when their pelvises touch. She is close, so very close, and he can tell from the sounds she is making as he kisses her hard and ardently.

Her hips meet his one final time and she breathes his name, triggering an explosion of suffocating warmth within him. This has never happened before—they have always been sexually driven during their illicit meetings but never emotionally involved, never called out for each other at climax. The very thought of her saying the word—crying out his name at her peak—sends him careening off the edge into an abyss of pure, utter bliss and he responds with a yearning sigh, "Liv…"

Later, they lie quietly between the sheets, facing one another but not saying anything. They both know something has changed in this thing they thought was a harmless game and it scares them a little. Had it been brought about by that shoot-out in the warehouse? He knows it was the first time the reality that she might actually die had suddenly come crashing down onto him. He had been terribly worried, but does she feel the same way he thinks he feels about her now?

"Stay," he whispers to her, breaking the pregnant silence. Usually, she is already fully clothed and heading back to her place by that time, but in a wordless response to his request, she inches closer to him and he wraps his arm around her, inhaling the scent of her blonde hair. She snuggles into his chest, feeling his heartbeat pulse through her being, and wants to just lie there with him forever.

What have they gotten themselves into now?


"I think we have to stop," she says to him quietly one night, gazing deep into his blue orbs. His fingers linger on her bare skin, leaving invisible prints on her soul. He studies her silently for a moment and then questions, "Why?" He knows it is not because of the rules or what their colleagues might think of them. Those reasons they had thrown out the window, without a care, when everything began.

"… Sometimes," she starts hesitantly, lightly pinching her bottom lip. He recognises it as a gesture of uncertainty. "I think about losing you, and… I don't think I can go through that, John."

He understands—break everything off before things get more serious, harder. He doesn't know if their relationship has a future. In his line of work—his two lines of work—nothing is predictable, but right now, he doesn't care. He doesn't want to let her go. Even if they are doomed never to have anything more—get married, start a family, grow old together—he doesn't want to let her go. He needs her and regardless of what she is saying, he knows she needs him too.

"Livvy, you're one of the strongest people I know," he murmurs, reaching up to brush back her hair and she closes her eyes, leaning into his touch. "If something were to happen to me, you'll move on. I know you can."

She looks at him without a word, pondering over what he had said, and he moves in to kiss her. She responds just as passionately and all of a sudden, he wants to open up his heart and tell her everything—his true role in what they call their jobs, all those clandestine rendezvous, all the secret phone calls, the assignments he has been working on other than standard FBI cases. He yearns to show her the real him, but no… now is not the time. It is too risky. The last thing he wants is to drag her into this mess.


She cries in her bed that night, feeling as if something within her is eating away, rotting her from the inside out, even through the strong façade she puts on. She feels like dying and wants nothing more than to close her eyes and not see his face. What does this all mean? The visions, his words, that engagement ring. Who was he working for? Why is he helping her now? How is he helping her when he's lying in a coffin four feet under dirt and soil? Had he actually loved her? Had he been planning to propose? Is it (was it…?) all just a meticulously orchestrated act?

Always. The word thunders repeatedly in her head and she curls into her comforter, burying her face into her pillow. Why can't he just die and leave her the fucking hell alone? He had betrayed and hurt her more than anything or anyone can and she hates, hates, hates him for everything he had done, everything he had said (lies lies lies lies lies…), all the times he had held her in his arms, made love to her and kissed her like there was no tomorrow. Now there are simply more questions than answers. She feels stupid, dirty and hollow—used by him for pleasure and nothing more, played around just so she was completely unaware of his true intentions.

She hates John Scott, but hates herself even more for not seeing him for who he really was—for clinging onto memories of him even after everything that has happened. How can she get over this? How can she move on? Why did he…? She can't stop the tears, can't help the pain. It hurts.



"You okay?" Peter asks cordially as he takes a sip of his scotch. They are at a bar, one of the rare occasions where she actually takes some time off after a case. She just gives him a wan smile and says nothing. He sighs. He hasn't been around her for long but knows her well enough to understand that that expression on her face means she is still thinking about what she had seen a few days ago, in the tank. John's memories.

"Tell me somethin' stupid about him," he says, popping a peanut into his mouth. She raises her eyebrows in surprise. "John Scott," he adds. "I know it sounds insensitive, but sometimes it helps, talking about something that someone did… something that drove you crazy."

"… Does that work for you and Walter?" Her tone is light-hearted and amused. He chuckles, shaking his head, and says, "Now he's a whole different ball game. I can start on him but chances are, we'll probably be here 'til morning."

She smiles again and averts her eyes and he can tell she is hesitant, unsure on how to go about on this. "Come on," he prompts with a boyish grin. "Anything you can think of that was kinda silly. Weird phobias? A tic?"

She keeps her gaze on the polished counter, a slender finger running lightly over the rim of the glass, and then says, with a quiet laugh, "He'd arrange the mugs in the kitchenette at the office whenever he got coffee."

This time, it is Peter's turn to raise his eyebrows. "OCD?" he inquires and she shrugs. "Don't know," she answers. "Said his mother kept them that way all the time. The handles had to be at a forty-five-degree angle and facing the sink. Used to drive me insane when we first started out as partners. Rearranging cups instead of helping out in an investigation? Definitely not a very good first impression. "

Peter laughs and is inwardly pleased to see the brightness in her eyes when he looks at her. Olivia Dunham is very much still a mystery to him, though one that he will undoubtedly enjoy deciphering. "Well, I once went out with a girl who refused to eat at restaurants that didn't have scented toilet paper," he points out, delicately scratching his chin. The giggle from her is unexpected and she stares at him, her forehead furrowed. "Seriously?" she asks, disbelieving but interested, and he nods, diving into another humorous story about a date gone wrong.

An hour and a half later, she is relaxed, her shoulders less tense, almost in a good mood. He is strangely satisfied—glad and happy, somehow, that he is able to make her feel better and hopefully forget about the bastard who broke her heart, even if it's just for the night.


I'm so sorry. I love you. I thought everything was a lie. I want to go back to before... I want you, John. I need you. Don't leave me. I'm sorry. She wants to tell him so much but finds her throat dry as they stand there on the pier, looking at each other by the tranquil lake before them. She knows none of this is real but John… he feels so warm, so alive, even though they are inches apart. All this time she had thought him a traitor when in reality, he was a patriot, loyally serving his country. I'm sorry. He takes a deep breath, then pulls out the ring. She cannot breathe and her heart is filled with an aching sort of happiness. If this is the only thing they can do for now, then so be it. She smiles thinly, holds out her hand, and he slips the band around her finger. He is so warm. Don't go. Please.

"I know we can't ever be together… not really…" he whispers, bright blue eyes burning into her, staring at the gleaming diamond on her hand. A very quiet chuckle. "Maybe I won't know the difference." He looks at her and smiles.

She wants say a lot of things, but time is running out, and so she closes her eyes and just leans into him, reaching out to caress his face. Their kiss is soft and gentle, embodying all the emotions they couldn't express, a binding seal between two people fated never to be together, yet intertwining their souls forever. An unspoken promise. "I love you, Liv," she hears him murmur. He is so warm. I love you. He feels so real. I love you, John.

When she opens her eyes, he is gone.

A/N: Feedback is much appreciated. :)