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ziparumpazooTitle: Dance With the One Who Brung You
Rating/Warnings: Explicit
Characters/Pairings: Red!Olivia/Blue!Lincoln, Amberverse
Summary: It's hard not to make comparisons.
Notes: Written for the Fringe Kinkmeme prompt: Amberverse Red!Olivia/Blue!Lincoln, good boy bad girl (or vice versa?), pillow-biting
Lincoln's supposed to be driving her back to the Bridge, but they end up at his place instead because of Walter. (And doesn't everything come back to Walter, sooner or later?)
"What-"
"Don't even ask." He holds up a finger to interrupt her as he stabs the fob to unlock the car doors.
"I think I already did." Olivia climbs into the passenger side and tilts her head at him. "Unless this is one of those style things that never caught on back home?"
"The hair?" He glances at himself in the review mirror. "Um, no. Apparently we're saving ourselves from ozone poisoning."
"Ozone poisoning?” There hadn't been any mention in the briefs she'd seen. “Didn't realize it was a problem here."
"It's not." He brings a hand up to push his shiny-slick bangs away from his glasses, but thinks better of it at the last minute and raps his knuckles against the hard plastic of the center console instead. "Dr. Bishop..." he pauses as he pulls into traffic. "...Dr. Bishop theorizes that greasy hair traps more ozone molecules than, uh, dry hair, and thus prevents the subject from breathing in an excess of poisonous gasses." He winces at how ridiculous it sounds, and Olivia wonders how many times a day he still does the sanity-check routine.
"Oh-kaaaay," she offers in sympathy, because can. She'd spent enough time in that lab to know that Lincoln wasn't making things up. "And I guess Astrid wasn't around."
"Uh, no. Astrid got a call from Broyles just as Walter brought out the beakers. I'm pretty sure she faked it."
"Smart girl." Olivia watches him swipe at his forehead and then rub his fingers together then scrunch his nose at the oil slicking them. "Listen," she offers, "I don't technically have to be back for another couple hours. If you want to go take a shower or something."
There's a brief flush to his ears as he leans his head back on the head rest. "Hell yes." Then glances behind him at the grease stain on the fabric. "Shit."
Olivia pats him on the knee. "Relax. It's a fleet vehicle, right?" Her fingers trails longer than they maybe should.
So that's how she found herself wandering around Lincoln's attic loft, nosing through half-emptied boxes while she waited for the shower to stop running. It reminds her of a college date or two. Actually, the whole place reminded her of a dorm room. Same bachelor decor; microwave oven over on the counter. Takeout containers in the sink... the pile of socks and underwear hastily shoved under the bed when he thought she wasn’t looking. Except the rent was probably higher. And the furniture was a lot nicer.
Actually, it's not a bad place at all, Olivia thinks as she toys with the flap of one of the cardboard boxes. 'Bathroom' is printed across the top in neat black letters. So either he hired a company, or there are a few things this Lincoln doesn't share with hers, penmanship being one of them. (because really, who needs to learn how to print when pens are in short supply?)
"Uh, hey Olivia?" comes from the bathroom. She'd missed the water shutting off and jumps a little at almost getting caught snooping. "Do you see any towels out there? I wasn't expecting company, or I would've cleaned up a bit."
"Oh, you usually unpack before you bring a girl home?"
There's a pause, just for a second, in which her Lincoln would have snarked something right back. And then, "So I guess it would be asking too much if you could grab me a pair of pants too?" Like they're just slightly out of sync. She passes a pair of towels from the 'Bathroom' box through the crack in the door.
"You want me to help you dress too?" She forgets herself, just long enough for it to slip out.
"You'd do that for me?" But it's not the teasing she's expecting. He sounds almost surprised.
When Olivia turns around, Lincoln’s standing beside his bed, towel around his waist. His hair, clean now, sticks up in a dozen wild cow-licks. His glasses are sitting on a pile of books on the nightstand, and for a moment, (pile of books aside), she could be looking at the same guy she's been partnered with for the last three years.
She shrugs, attempting to save face. "If that's what you're into." It was one thing to be over here, under cover, and alone. It's something else entirely to be here with a Lincoln she doesn't know but can't help forgetting she shouldn't.
He’s reaching down for his glasses, but fumbles them as her answer fully registers, and they fall between the table and the bed. Olivia catches that flush again, spreading quick down his neck and then gone again. She's feeling kind of warm, herself, actually.
She reaches for his glasses and says, "We have this procedure, back home. Under an hour..." and holds the frames out to him. "Never have to worry about these again. I could talk to Colonel Broyles, get a waiver, if you want. Lincoln said he had it done when he was in college." She bites her tongue when she realizes that she's doing it again. Getting stuck on the familiar.
"I don't know.” His fingers brush hers as he takes his glasses. “I kinda like having a secret identity." Olivia expects him to slip the frames back on and get dressed, so she turns, heads towards the kitchen area to give him some privacy. He catches her by the arm instead and she looks over her shoulder.
He's still not wearing the glasses.
"I'm not him."
She's about to protest that she knows that, knows better, but he cuts her off. "And you're not her." He squints and she imagines him mentally sizing her up with his Agent Dunham. "And I don't know her as well as you know your partner, but it's still hard not to make the comparisons."
Since all that uncomfortablness is all out in the open now, she asks, "So what are we going to do about it."
Deflect. It seems like the safest thing at the time.
Until Lincoln steps closer, right into her space, and they're inches apart. So close he doesn't have to squint. His glasses have been tossed back on the bed table, forgotten altogether.
It’s then that she notices that, when he's naked, Lincoln's eyes are the exact shame shade of blue.
He doesn't taste like she expects. Actually, she doesn't know exactly how he should taste; with her Lincoln (and she still can't stop thinking of them as hers and hers), it's always different: sweat and adrenaline one day, the mellow flavor of aged liquor the next. This time she expects to taste uncertainty, maybe a bit of nerves, but he's all minty toothpaste and coffee, just this side of exotic.
She must have hesitated because he looks at her like he thinks she might have second thoughts. But Olivia's never backed away from a challenge, not one she'd thrown down herself.
"Something wrong?" she asks, expecting this button-downed version to beg off, tell her this is all just a misunderstanding. A mistake.
He shakes his head no and steps behind her, presses closer yet until it feels like her skin is buzzing. At some point she'd lost her shirt and pants and Lincoln's chest is now warm and firm against her back. He skims his hand down her ribs, the crest of her hip, and under the waistband of her panties. "Just thought this might be easier," is all he says, husky-voiced. His hot breath tickles in her ear and makes her arch back against him. He holds her tight to his body, with the pressure of his thumb and soft fingers pinching at her nipples.
This is definitely not her Lincoln. When he enters her, it's almost with a reverence; his gentle hands on her cheeks, fingers threaded through her hair.
No, this, this is something altogether different. And yes, she thinks as they tumble to the bed, maybe a bit easier. She doesn't have to look in his eyes and see that terrible wonder there.
Then end up spooned together, one of his knees resting between hers. She can feel him hard against her bottom, his breath soft against her neck, his heartbeat steady against her back. They fit well together, even better than she expects. She shifts slightly, tries to angle her hips to give him better access. He grips her thigh, fingers curling into her flesh, and stops short, barely there, pressed against her, and then languorously, he's there inside.
He takes his time, deliciously slow, easing himself forward, deeper, holding her back when she tries to rush it. And then withdraws. She shivers, muscles clench in his absence, and he pushes again, slower still, and hovers, waiting. His mouth finds her shoulder. His lips and smooth chin trace patterns on her flushed skin. He doesn't ask if she likes this. He doesn't need to when all he has to do is shift and her body tightens in kind. She feels the bend and tense of his abs as he dips his mouth behind her ear, along the pearls of her spine. His movements telegraph and translate as fractions of inches below.
Finally... finally, he pulls back again, aching and gradual. She bites down on the pillow to keep from swearing as he teases her, sliding into her, slick and steady until she can feel every damn inch of him between her thighs and then inside her. And out. She pushes back, thrusts against the heat that's building and burning, but he grabs her wrist as she reaches between her thighs, traps her a finger's length away from release.
He rocks into her again, sets a pace not as fast as she'd like, but steady and deep. And still his hand is a vice around her wrist, holding her back, making her wait for him. With her other arm, she clenches the pillow, tucks away from him. His rhythm stutters just a bit. Quicker now, and he's breathing hard past lips pressed against her skin. His hand loosens and he lets her finally guide his fingers down until they're pressing just right and he's thrusting wonderful tight counter-pressure against his fingertips, and against her. And then, blissful overload.
Aftershocks ripple through her and he stirs inside her. But her pulse has finally slowed and she's got nothing left. He pulls her closer to him again, but this time it's gentle, almost tentative. She doesn't have to push thoughts of her Lincoln away, because they aren't there, not right now. This is definitely something different.
And easy.
Too soon and they have to leave. She's expected home, after all, and if she wants to be allowed another furlough, there'd better not be reason to doubt that she'll return. "Next time," she promises him while she shrugs her jacket on and his freshly button-downed self holds the door for her, "maybe I'll even help you unpack."
He pushes his glasses up his nose. "God, I really hope not."
Rating/Warnings: Explicit
Characters/Pairings: Red!Olivia/Blue!Lincoln, Amberverse
Summary: It's hard not to make comparisons.
Notes: Written for the Fringe Kinkmeme prompt: Amberverse Red!Olivia/Blue!Lincoln, good boy bad girl (or vice versa?), pillow-biting
Lincoln's supposed to be driving her back to the Bridge, but they end up at his place instead because of Walter. (And doesn't everything come back to Walter, sooner or later?)
"What-"
"Don't even ask." He holds up a finger to interrupt her as he stabs the fob to unlock the car doors.
"I think I already did." Olivia climbs into the passenger side and tilts her head at him. "Unless this is one of those style things that never caught on back home?"
"The hair?" He glances at himself in the review mirror. "Um, no. Apparently we're saving ourselves from ozone poisoning."
"Ozone poisoning?” There hadn't been any mention in the briefs she'd seen. “Didn't realize it was a problem here."
"It's not." He brings a hand up to push his shiny-slick bangs away from his glasses, but thinks better of it at the last minute and raps his knuckles against the hard plastic of the center console instead. "Dr. Bishop..." he pauses as he pulls into traffic. "...Dr. Bishop theorizes that greasy hair traps more ozone molecules than, uh, dry hair, and thus prevents the subject from breathing in an excess of poisonous gasses." He winces at how ridiculous it sounds, and Olivia wonders how many times a day he still does the sanity-check routine.
"Oh-kaaaay," she offers in sympathy, because can. She'd spent enough time in that lab to know that Lincoln wasn't making things up. "And I guess Astrid wasn't around."
"Uh, no. Astrid got a call from Broyles just as Walter brought out the beakers. I'm pretty sure she faked it."
"Smart girl." Olivia watches him swipe at his forehead and then rub his fingers together then scrunch his nose at the oil slicking them. "Listen," she offers, "I don't technically have to be back for another couple hours. If you want to go take a shower or something."
There's a brief flush to his ears as he leans his head back on the head rest. "Hell yes." Then glances behind him at the grease stain on the fabric. "Shit."
Olivia pats him on the knee. "Relax. It's a fleet vehicle, right?" Her fingers trails longer than they maybe should.
So that's how she found herself wandering around Lincoln's attic loft, nosing through half-emptied boxes while she waited for the shower to stop running. It reminds her of a college date or two. Actually, the whole place reminded her of a dorm room. Same bachelor decor; microwave oven over on the counter. Takeout containers in the sink... the pile of socks and underwear hastily shoved under the bed when he thought she wasn’t looking. Except the rent was probably higher. And the furniture was a lot nicer.
Actually, it's not a bad place at all, Olivia thinks as she toys with the flap of one of the cardboard boxes. 'Bathroom' is printed across the top in neat black letters. So either he hired a company, or there are a few things this Lincoln doesn't share with hers, penmanship being one of them. (because really, who needs to learn how to print when pens are in short supply?)
"Uh, hey Olivia?" comes from the bathroom. She'd missed the water shutting off and jumps a little at almost getting caught snooping. "Do you see any towels out there? I wasn't expecting company, or I would've cleaned up a bit."
"Oh, you usually unpack before you bring a girl home?"
There's a pause, just for a second, in which her Lincoln would have snarked something right back. And then, "So I guess it would be asking too much if you could grab me a pair of pants too?" Like they're just slightly out of sync. She passes a pair of towels from the 'Bathroom' box through the crack in the door.
"You want me to help you dress too?" She forgets herself, just long enough for it to slip out.
"You'd do that for me?" But it's not the teasing she's expecting. He sounds almost surprised.
When Olivia turns around, Lincoln’s standing beside his bed, towel around his waist. His hair, clean now, sticks up in a dozen wild cow-licks. His glasses are sitting on a pile of books on the nightstand, and for a moment, (pile of books aside), she could be looking at the same guy she's been partnered with for the last three years.
She shrugs, attempting to save face. "If that's what you're into." It was one thing to be over here, under cover, and alone. It's something else entirely to be here with a Lincoln she doesn't know but can't help forgetting she shouldn't.
He’s reaching down for his glasses, but fumbles them as her answer fully registers, and they fall between the table and the bed. Olivia catches that flush again, spreading quick down his neck and then gone again. She's feeling kind of warm, herself, actually.
She reaches for his glasses and says, "We have this procedure, back home. Under an hour..." and holds the frames out to him. "Never have to worry about these again. I could talk to Colonel Broyles, get a waiver, if you want. Lincoln said he had it done when he was in college." She bites her tongue when she realizes that she's doing it again. Getting stuck on the familiar.
"I don't know.” His fingers brush hers as he takes his glasses. “I kinda like having a secret identity." Olivia expects him to slip the frames back on and get dressed, so she turns, heads towards the kitchen area to give him some privacy. He catches her by the arm instead and she looks over her shoulder.
He's still not wearing the glasses.
"I'm not him."
She's about to protest that she knows that, knows better, but he cuts her off. "And you're not her." He squints and she imagines him mentally sizing her up with his Agent Dunham. "And I don't know her as well as you know your partner, but it's still hard not to make the comparisons."
Since all that uncomfortablness is all out in the open now, she asks, "So what are we going to do about it."
Deflect. It seems like the safest thing at the time.
Until Lincoln steps closer, right into her space, and they're inches apart. So close he doesn't have to squint. His glasses have been tossed back on the bed table, forgotten altogether.
It’s then that she notices that, when he's naked, Lincoln's eyes are the exact shame shade of blue.
He doesn't taste like she expects. Actually, she doesn't know exactly how he should taste; with her Lincoln (and she still can't stop thinking of them as hers and hers), it's always different: sweat and adrenaline one day, the mellow flavor of aged liquor the next. This time she expects to taste uncertainty, maybe a bit of nerves, but he's all minty toothpaste and coffee, just this side of exotic.
She must have hesitated because he looks at her like he thinks she might have second thoughts. But Olivia's never backed away from a challenge, not one she'd thrown down herself.
"Something wrong?" she asks, expecting this button-downed version to beg off, tell her this is all just a misunderstanding. A mistake.
He shakes his head no and steps behind her, presses closer yet until it feels like her skin is buzzing. At some point she'd lost her shirt and pants and Lincoln's chest is now warm and firm against her back. He skims his hand down her ribs, the crest of her hip, and under the waistband of her panties. "Just thought this might be easier," is all he says, husky-voiced. His hot breath tickles in her ear and makes her arch back against him. He holds her tight to his body, with the pressure of his thumb and soft fingers pinching at her nipples.
This is definitely not her Lincoln. When he enters her, it's almost with a reverence; his gentle hands on her cheeks, fingers threaded through her hair.
No, this, this is something altogether different. And yes, she thinks as they tumble to the bed, maybe a bit easier. She doesn't have to look in his eyes and see that terrible wonder there.
Then end up spooned together, one of his knees resting between hers. She can feel him hard against her bottom, his breath soft against her neck, his heartbeat steady against her back. They fit well together, even better than she expects. She shifts slightly, tries to angle her hips to give him better access. He grips her thigh, fingers curling into her flesh, and stops short, barely there, pressed against her, and then languorously, he's there inside.
He takes his time, deliciously slow, easing himself forward, deeper, holding her back when she tries to rush it. And then withdraws. She shivers, muscles clench in his absence, and he pushes again, slower still, and hovers, waiting. His mouth finds her shoulder. His lips and smooth chin trace patterns on her flushed skin. He doesn't ask if she likes this. He doesn't need to when all he has to do is shift and her body tightens in kind. She feels the bend and tense of his abs as he dips his mouth behind her ear, along the pearls of her spine. His movements telegraph and translate as fractions of inches below.
Finally... finally, he pulls back again, aching and gradual. She bites down on the pillow to keep from swearing as he teases her, sliding into her, slick and steady until she can feel every damn inch of him between her thighs and then inside her. And out. She pushes back, thrusts against the heat that's building and burning, but he grabs her wrist as she reaches between her thighs, traps her a finger's length away from release.
He rocks into her again, sets a pace not as fast as she'd like, but steady and deep. And still his hand is a vice around her wrist, holding her back, making her wait for him. With her other arm, she clenches the pillow, tucks away from him. His rhythm stutters just a bit. Quicker now, and he's breathing hard past lips pressed against her skin. His hand loosens and he lets her finally guide his fingers down until they're pressing just right and he's thrusting wonderful tight counter-pressure against his fingertips, and against her. And then, blissful overload.
Aftershocks ripple through her and he stirs inside her. But her pulse has finally slowed and she's got nothing left. He pulls her closer to him again, but this time it's gentle, almost tentative. She doesn't have to push thoughts of her Lincoln away, because they aren't there, not right now. This is definitely something different.
And easy.
Too soon and they have to leave. She's expected home, after all, and if she wants to be allowed another furlough, there'd better not be reason to doubt that she'll return. "Next time," she promises him while she shrugs her jacket on and his freshly button-downed self holds the door for her, "maybe I'll even help you unpack."
He pushes his glasses up his nose. "God, I really hope not."
