Fic: Flickers in Time (Peter/Olivia) Chp. 4 - Washington
Title: Flickers in Time
Summary: "She is damaged and broken, as is he, but she remains. Brave, strong, beautiful. And they must fight for each other." A collection of oneshots, centered around Peter and Olivia.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Olivia
Spoilers: General
Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe or its characters, storylines, etc. But if I had a swimming pool filled with money, I would totally buy it, make my own tv network, and give Fringe all the seasons ever.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 4 - Washington (Season 2, Post 2x20)
Washington is cold.
And wet, she muses, as she stares out of the window of the diner and out at the light drizzle that has seemed to perpetually fall since she arrived. A car drives through a puddle, spraying the road with dirty water.
Cold, wet, and Peter. He told her that he hated the cold. She wonders idly, then, why it seemed to suit him so well.
She wonders if it's cold, wherever he is now.
The sound of Walter's straw sucking the final contents from his glass makes her turn her head to where the old man sits across from her, his hat still on, his old wool coat gray and thick around his shoulders. He's just finished his fourth root beer float. What other people would drown in alcohol, Dr. Bishop drowns in sugar. (And heinous blends of illegal narcotics, but she made it clear that she would be having none of that as long as he was primarily in her custody.)
God knows that she would be well on her way through a bottle of anything if she didn't have a sixty-odd year-old child to take care of.
Looking back on it, she doesn't know exactly what she expected, coming here.
She thought she would see him, at least. Speak with him. And maybe convince him to return.
Because she should be so lucky, to have him call Broyles and inform him of his location. To have him still be at that location by the time she arrived. To have him stay over here.
But then, she'd never believed in luck.
She's looking at Walter tentatively, waiting for him to burst. He hasn't cried yet. Or screamed, or had any sort of emotional outburst. Not that she's complaining, because she's never been comfortable with sorting out other people's eruptions of feelings. Especially not ones as drastic and sudden as Walter Bishop's.
She waits for one, on edge. Trying desperately to figure out what she'll do when it happens.
He looks up at her for the first time in thirty minutes, and his old eyes are so broken, the wrinkles in his skin deep and defined.
She's sure it's coming.
"Walter."
Instead, he surprises her.
"He's not coming back, is he?" The question is said quietly, evenly, devoid of any of the passion that usually infects the old man's speech.
She looks away, biting her bottom lip until the usually pink flesh turns white.
She'd always thought he would. Always. Even in those darkest moments, even on those days when the pain of his leaving hurt so bad that she didn't know if she could stand it, she'd always held a firm belief that Peter would come back.
She'd reminded Walter of this countless times. She'd always countered his words of doubt with a vehement "Yes, he will."
As she turns back to him now, blinking back tears because she will not let herself cry in front of Walter Bishop, a different answer comes to her mouth. It tastes terrible on her tongue, like dirt. Like vomit. And she wants to swallow it back down, but she can't. It chokes her, pushes on her lips until it's all she can do to let it out.
The truth of the word, dropped solemn and heavy into the tense air, startles her.
"No."
Summary: "She is damaged and broken, as is he, but she remains. Brave, strong, beautiful. And they must fight for each other." A collection of oneshots, centered around Peter and Olivia.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Olivia
Spoilers: General
Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe or its characters, storylines, etc. But if I had a swimming pool filled with money, I would totally buy it, make my own tv network, and give Fringe all the seasons ever.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 4 - Washington (Season 2, Post 2x20)
Washington is cold.
And wet, she muses, as she stares out of the window of the diner and out at the light drizzle that has seemed to perpetually fall since she arrived. A car drives through a puddle, spraying the road with dirty water.
Cold, wet, and Peter. He told her that he hated the cold. She wonders idly, then, why it seemed to suit him so well.
She wonders if it's cold, wherever he is now.
The sound of Walter's straw sucking the final contents from his glass makes her turn her head to where the old man sits across from her, his hat still on, his old wool coat gray and thick around his shoulders. He's just finished his fourth root beer float. What other people would drown in alcohol, Dr. Bishop drowns in sugar. (And heinous blends of illegal narcotics, but she made it clear that she would be having none of that as long as he was primarily in her custody.)
God knows that she would be well on her way through a bottle of anything if she didn't have a sixty-odd year-old child to take care of.
Looking back on it, she doesn't know exactly what she expected, coming here.
She thought she would see him, at least. Speak with him. And maybe convince him to return.
Because she should be so lucky, to have him call Broyles and inform him of his location. To have him still be at that location by the time she arrived. To have him stay over here.
But then, she'd never believed in luck.
She's looking at Walter tentatively, waiting for him to burst. He hasn't cried yet. Or screamed, or had any sort of emotional outburst. Not that she's complaining, because she's never been comfortable with sorting out other people's eruptions of feelings. Especially not ones as drastic and sudden as Walter Bishop's.
She waits for one, on edge. Trying desperately to figure out what she'll do when it happens.
He looks up at her for the first time in thirty minutes, and his old eyes are so broken, the wrinkles in his skin deep and defined.
She's sure it's coming.
"Walter."
Instead, he surprises her.
"He's not coming back, is he?" The question is said quietly, evenly, devoid of any of the passion that usually infects the old man's speech.
She looks away, biting her bottom lip until the usually pink flesh turns white.
She'd always thought he would. Always. Even in those darkest moments, even on those days when the pain of his leaving hurt so bad that she didn't know if she could stand it, she'd always held a firm belief that Peter would come back.
She'd reminded Walter of this countless times. She'd always countered his words of doubt with a vehement "Yes, he will."
As she turns back to him now, blinking back tears because she will not let herself cry in front of Walter Bishop, a different answer comes to her mouth. It tastes terrible on her tongue, like dirt. Like vomit. And she wants to swallow it back down, but she can't. It chokes her, pushes on her lips until it's all she can do to let it out.
The truth of the word, dropped solemn and heavy into the tense air, startles her.
"No."