You don't know what you're doing as he's pushing you against the cold wall in an empty room. His hands fumble at the zipper on your jacket, and after he gets it open, he lays his hands around your abdomen. You can feel how warm he is through your tee shirt. You look around for cameras. They're everywhere in here.
"You know you're incredibly good looking," he says.
You turn your eyes to your counterpart, Agent Lincoln Lee, Fringe Division. Because here, Fringe is an operation, a real department, and not a dusty basement lab at Harvard, with files swept under the rug.
It's bizarre, really. This man has your face and your voice, but he has something you can't quite put your finger on. He has a swagger about him. That's it, swagger. If he didn't, you'd push him away, but you you don't. Instead, you reach up and touch his artfully messy hair. You did your hair like it so you could pass for him; it takes forever to look right.
"That's... it's funny," you reply finally. He stares at you and it's weird, like watching video of yourself, except you'd be hoping someone turns the camera away from you. His gaze his cool and confident. You wonder how he does it. You're the same person, with presumably similar lives, and yet he's everything you're not.
"I'm not gay," you tell him. "But it's cool if you are. I'm just... not."
"I'm not gay either," he replies. "But aren't you curious about what's different? Or the same?" His hands drop to your belt and this time you have to laugh.
"You want to get me naked so you can see your dick from an outside perspective?"
He raises his eyebrows. "Maybe yours is bigger."
"Maybe you're just suffering from a severe case of vanity."
He smiles, his lips curling up, the right side before the left. "It's possible," he says, and he carefully takes off your glasses. He drops them into your jacket pocket. "You're not curious about this at all?"
You lick your lower lip, a nervous habit, and shake your head. It's not because you aren't, but because it feels somehow wrong. Is it incest? Or is it masturbation? You laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.
"What?" he asks, and brings his hand to your neck, running his thumb lightly against your skin. You shudder, the vibration of his touch sparking throughout your entire body, and he smiles. "I like that spot, too," he says, his voice low and rough. You didn't know your voice could do that. His voice. Our voice.
You notice your breathing is heavy. How long has that been going on for? You lick your lip again and ask, "What do you want to do?"
He doesn't say anything. He moves in slowly, so slowly you barely even realize he's moving until his lips are pressing to yours. You open your mouth to him, his tongue hot against your own, and wrap your arms around his body. You wonder if you were both fudging the truth about your sexualities. Or maybe it is just vanity, wanting to see and feel everything we both actually are. Maybe you have everything he has. Swagger and confidence. Vanity.
He is, after all, you.