The bottle of whiskey is coated in a fine layer of dust, marred only with clear smudges where she or Frank must have brushed their fingers against the glass at some point or another. There is no telling how long the whiskey has been there, waiting in solace for this terrible moment, but there is no doubt in Olivia Dunham's mind that this is, if nothing else, providence.

She doesn't drink; hates it, in fact. She loathes the burn in her throat and mouth, and the warmth that the alcohol ignites in her belly; it's strange and uncomfortable. More than that, there is something so innately horrifying about the idea of her judgment being impaired by something as simple as a little shot of clear amber liquid; Olivia likes to be in control, and she is so wary of that control being taken away that she's appalled at the thought of giving it up voluntarily.

But this—this bottle of whiskey lurking in the back of her cabinet, the only evidence that a drinker previously resided here—is an invitation. So she takes it off the shelf, sets it down on the counter next to the sink, and stares at it hard for a few minutes before taking down a glass tumbler and splashing a good inch in the bottom of it. There had been shot glasses, but they were Frank's, and long gone now.

The glass is halfway to her lips when someone knocks on her front door; she freezes, stricken with the sudden irrational fear that the Secretary knows that she is about to threaten the welfare of his grandchild with her glass of whiskey. She forces herself to take a deep breath before creeping over to the door, leaving the whiskey—both bottle and the glass—in bold, open view on the counter.

It's Lincoln at the door, bearing familiar white cartons that smell temptingly of sweet and sour chicken, as well as an easy smile that melts some of the hard little ball of hate that has been collecting in Olivia's heart. Of course, that really could just be the chicken. She lets him in and he scatters the cartons across her makeshift coffee table, opening them one by one and instructing her to get out silverware; it has been a long day and bothering with plates and bowls would only be meddling with a middleman.

It takes him a moment to notice the whiskey, and when he does, he doesn't say anything. They just look at each other in silence for a moment or two before he looks down in defeat; he seems to sense that this is a battle he cannot possibly win. He sinks into the couch, a tattered affair that Olivia had her mother pull out of storage; Olivia had not realized just how much in the apartment belonged to Frank until it was gone.

She crosses to the kitchen and brings back the bottle of whiskey, her tumbler, and a coffee mug that she offers to Lincoln; he takes the whiskey from her and gives himself a generous helping, knocking it back in as smooth a motion as possible when one is using a coffee mug with a rude drawing of a dog on it. She drops down onto the couch next to him, and they eat in silence for a few minutes; she tries to gulp down her drink and winds up spluttering and choking. It's like liquid fire down her throat, and she hates hates hates it.

Lincoln is being moody, of course; the baby is not his, but it's hers, and that's enough for him to love it. She's touched, really, mostly because all she can do at the moment is resent this little parasite, this symbol of everything she feels for a man who is entirely in love with someone who is not her, but is at the same time; this symbol of everything that has fallen apart, or could.

Which is why she's so thankful for Lincoln, really; who else is there to love this child for a simple, unselfish reason? She can't; not quite yet. As far as she can tell, the Secretary only sees it as a tool. And who knows how Peter will react when he finds out?

She manages to choke down another shot of whiskey, and she can feel Lincoln shifting uncomfortably beside her; he wants to take it away from her, to make her stop, but he knows that he'll be met with the kind of resistance that has conquered lesser men.

The burn is not as unpleasant the second time around; the fire is familiar, at least.

Lincoln has not ever, if her memory serves her, been actually angry with her. Not even when she let him kiss her for a few minutes before admitting that she had a boyfriend; he has always managed to just shake it off. But she knows him well enough to know what he's like when he's angry, and she can feel a slow-building rage from him.

After all, when Lincoln loves, he loves fiercely.

So she takes another drink of whiskey—this time straight from the bottle—and then screws the cap on and hands it to him without a word. "Take it."

"Liv, you don't even like to drink," he points out, yanking the bottle from her as he's afraid she'll change her mind and ask for it back.

"I hate it," she tells him, dully, knowing that he knows that she's speaking of the baby.

His jaw tightens. "I don't. And I'm one of the people who should."

"Just like how you should have hated Frank," she states, shooting him a sideways glance, and now every muscle in his body pulls tight.

He doesn't reply, though, and after a moment she lets her head drop onto his shoulder; she can feel him relax slightly and then tense again under her cheek, his skin almost feverishly hot against hers through the thin material of his t-shirt.

It reminds her of the first time they met; the few charged days where she conveniently forgot to mention her boyfriend, simply because she didn't want to give up the feeling she got whenever she was near him. Fire, like the burn in her throat when she drinks whiskey, only all over; pressing against the inside of her skin like some invisible flush, urging her to touch him, touch him. And then they kissed, of course, and she was forced to admit that she had a boyfriend; and after that the fire had faded, sort of, and Lincoln had become her best friend.

"I hate whiskey," she whispers, lips moving against the soft cotton of his shirt.

"I did hate Frank," he whispers back, and she laughs bitterly.

She wants for a moment to kiss him again—it had been such a good kiss the first time around, and she wouldn't mind a repeat—but she doesn't. She would, impulsive thing that she is, but while she knows that Lincoln wants her, he doesn't want her like this: bitter and angry, over Frank and the baby and everything, only kissing him in an effort to feel something.

But she's quite sure that the old fire—that fever, that flush—is still burning somewhere deep inside her, and she's willing to wait for it. Because it will; after she's over Frank and over Peter and everything has worked itself out. Not all, she supposes, uncontrollable fires are bad. Some are almost kind of nice.

When he finally goes—at three in the morning, yawning widely like some sleepy cat—he takes the bottle of whiskey with him and leaves her the leftover food. She follows him to the door, giving him a sad, lazy smile, and grasping the doorframe with her hands, swaying back and forth slightly.

He informs her, half-jokingly, "I'm gonna take care of you, Liv. Mostly because it's not like you can take care of yourself."

"Oh, haha." She swings herself forward, presses a chaste kiss against his cheek; his skin is still unusually hot, because it is always unusually hot. Either he just runs hot or he burns with the same internal fever as her and just has a little more self-control. "See you in the morning."

"No doubt that there'll be more horrific crimes to solve."

In that moment, she burns, burns, burns to kiss him; but she doesn't. It's such a lovely way to burn, and she wants to make it last forever. So she lets him go, and closes the door after him.

A/N: Okay, so maybe a little out of character(?), but I've been listening to Peggy Lee's version of Fever, and it ~inspired~ me. So yeah.