Fringe Ficlet: Rule Seventeen
Title: Rule Seventeen
Fandom: Fringe (I know... a non-PotC or RH fic? What happened? Fringe ate a bit of my brain, that's what.)
Characters: Walter and Peter
Rating: Um.... PG for mild discussion of ickiness?
Word Count: 442
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any profit.
Summary: Walter doesn't understand the rules.
Inside the house, Mrs. Dolores Kimball was still crying. Walter could hear her quite clearly, which was understandable considering the shoddy construction of the windows in the old frame house.
Perhaps, he mused, Mrs. Kimball might be able to invest in double-pane glass with the insurance payment she would surely receive due to her husband’s unfortunate demise. That is, if the insurance company covered deaths as unusual as Joseph Kimball’s. Walter had never seen anything like it before. The man’s bones had spontaneously and inexplicably been transformed into iron, and aside from what the transformation had done to iron levels in his blood, the extra weight of an entirely metallic skeletal structure had been too much for Joseph Kimball’s already overtaxed heart.
Peter was leaning against the car with one hand pressed against his eyes and forehead.
“I am frustrated as well,” Walter said, shaking his head. It was wonderful, being able to commiserate with his son. “I had hoped that the widow would be able to tell us more, but…” He gestured towards the crying woman, barely visible through a break in the curtains.
“Walter, let me ask you a question,” Peter said, removing his hand from his forehead. “Can you think of any of those rules Astrid and I helped you come up with that might have let us avoid this situation?”
“Ah! The rules… of course…”
Astrid and Peter had spent the better part of the previous Tuesday afternoon coming up with a list of what they called “rules for improved communication with law enforcement, witnesses, and families of the deceased.” Walter thought for a moment, trying to match one of the rules to the social interaction in which he had recently taken part.
“I have it,” he said, a note of delighted satisfaction creeping into his voice as he repeated the words he had committed to memory, “Rule Seventeen: It is generally not appropriate to express wonder or delight at the biological novelty or scientific progress indicated by a case under investigation, especially when said novelty or progress has recently resulted in one or more deaths.”
“That… must be one of Astrid’s,” Peter said. “Not the one I was going for, but definitely applicable here.”
“Which one did you have in mind?” Walter asked petulantly.
“Me? Rule Three: Family members don’t want to hear the gruesome details.”
“Ah. Of course,” Walter said, and he busied himself with the car’s loose passenger side door handle.
How was he to have known that Mrs. Kimball would have no interest in the fascinating particulars of how, while still encased in her husband’s body, his new iron bones had begun to rust?
Fandom: Fringe (I know... a non-PotC or RH fic? What happened? Fringe ate a bit of my brain, that's what.)
Characters: Walter and Peter
Rating: Um.... PG for mild discussion of ickiness?
Word Count: 442
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any profit.
Summary: Walter doesn't understand the rules.
Inside the house, Mrs. Dolores Kimball was still crying. Walter could hear her quite clearly, which was understandable considering the shoddy construction of the windows in the old frame house.
Perhaps, he mused, Mrs. Kimball might be able to invest in double-pane glass with the insurance payment she would surely receive due to her husband’s unfortunate demise. That is, if the insurance company covered deaths as unusual as Joseph Kimball’s. Walter had never seen anything like it before. The man’s bones had spontaneously and inexplicably been transformed into iron, and aside from what the transformation had done to iron levels in his blood, the extra weight of an entirely metallic skeletal structure had been too much for Joseph Kimball’s already overtaxed heart.
Peter was leaning against the car with one hand pressed against his eyes and forehead.
“I am frustrated as well,” Walter said, shaking his head. It was wonderful, being able to commiserate with his son. “I had hoped that the widow would be able to tell us more, but…” He gestured towards the crying woman, barely visible through a break in the curtains.
“Walter, let me ask you a question,” Peter said, removing his hand from his forehead. “Can you think of any of those rules Astrid and I helped you come up with that might have let us avoid this situation?”
“Ah! The rules… of course…”
Astrid and Peter had spent the better part of the previous Tuesday afternoon coming up with a list of what they called “rules for improved communication with law enforcement, witnesses, and families of the deceased.” Walter thought for a moment, trying to match one of the rules to the social interaction in which he had recently taken part.
“I have it,” he said, a note of delighted satisfaction creeping into his voice as he repeated the words he had committed to memory, “Rule Seventeen: It is generally not appropriate to express wonder or delight at the biological novelty or scientific progress indicated by a case under investigation, especially when said novelty or progress has recently resulted in one or more deaths.”
“That… must be one of Astrid’s,” Peter said. “Not the one I was going for, but definitely applicable here.”
“Which one did you have in mind?” Walter asked petulantly.
“Me? Rule Three: Family members don’t want to hear the gruesome details.”
“Ah. Of course,” Walter said, and he busied himself with the car’s loose passenger side door handle.
How was he to have known that Mrs. Kimball would have no interest in the fascinating particulars of how, while still encased in her husband’s body, his new iron bones had begun to rust?