Deep Purple Cow [Fringe, Peter, Walter, Olivia, PG-13, 571 words. For
lady_match in the Fall Fandom Free-For-All.]
"I'm feeling incredibly horny today," Walter says. Loud and casual, as if he were discussing the weather.
Peter would cover his ears, but he's trying to resist the temptation to revert to childhood defenses. Plus he's wearing gloves coated in a blue substance which has the gritty consistency of bone marrow, and quite possibly is bone marrow.
"Walter, you desperately need to place a filter between your brain and your mouth." The words come out sharper than he intends. They always do. Except in the middle of the night when he means every ounce of irritation that he can hurl.
Walter doesn't seem to notice his tone. "But it's been such an incredibly long time since I had sex. Not since your mother. There's no privacy in an institution, you know, not even for wanking."
"I cannot listen to this." Peter can't walk away either, though, not in the middle of a crime scene, not when Walter is wandering around apparently aimlessly, picking things up and putting them back down again with scant regard for order or safety. He tries a distraction. "We could get an ice-cream on the way back to the lab," he offers. "I'll ask the driver to go by Emack and Bolio's. They make over a hundred flavors. Some of them probably even weird enough for you."
"I've always liked blondes, you know," Walter muses, as though he hasn't heard a word Peter's said. "Your mother was a blonde - one of the first things I noticed about her, that and her predilection for Beethoven. Olivia, my dear, I don't suppose-"
"Walter!" Peter shouts. He shakes his head in apology to Olivia. She's impassive. She's listening to Walter, but she doesn't react. She probably won't, not until he starts theorizing. He envies her ability to compartmentalize, though he imagines it's easier when you're not related.
"Dear boy, stop looking so horrified. I was merely going to ask Olivia if she thought the FBI might be willing to provide someone-"
"You think the FBI is going to hire a hooker for you?" Peter asks, incredulous.
"Well, they gave me a cow," Walter points out, as though the logic of the reasoning is irrefutable. It probably is in his head.
"How about you work on not saying what you're thinking, hey, Pop. You manage it when it's work related, so, crazy idea here, how about applying it to personal stuff instead."
"I embarrass you, don't I," Walter says, deflating visibly, and Peter feels lost all over again.
"No. Well, yes, but. Oh, what the hell. When this case is over, I'll take you to a club, okay?"
"Where there are ladies of ill repute?" Walter asks gleefully.
Peter closes his eyes a moment, then takes a deep breath, opens them and manages a smile. It's probably closer to a grimace, but it's the best he can do. "Yes. Blonde ones, even."
"Excellent. Though you know what I'd like right now?"
"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"A Deep Purple Cow."
"Come again?" Peter's gotten good at translating Walter's ramblings, but he can't make sense this time.
"A Deep Purple Cow. You said we could go to Emack and Bolio's, and I would like a double scoop of their Deep Purple Cow ice-cream. Raspberry ice-cream with chocolate and just a dash of blueberries - quite inspired."
Peter laughs. "A Deep Purple Cow it is, Walter."
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