One of the good things about this village was admittedly the weather. It got warmer here than it did in Boston where Peter currently found himself resident. So he was out enjoying the weather, going for a walk away from the gaggle of children at the museum who wanted to be taught about dinosaurs. He'd let someone else do that tour. While he could do it, he thought it was best the kids actually got some form of education at some point instead of him just making half of it up. His half was pretty entertaining though.
He was rounding the outer edge of the village, coming toward the pond, when he spotted someone who looked very familiar. Peter's brow furrowed. "No, couldn't be." Oh course, he should know better than to put anything passed his father. Peter picked up his face to an almost jog until he was sure it was his father. "Walter!" He called out as he continued to make his way to the bench and the ducks and the aging man.
"Son," he warned in a hoarse whisper, acting as if he'd never left the village. "Voice down to a reasonable level. The aural acuity of common waterfowl exceeds the normal human range by a number of decibels. We don't want them to scatter!"
And with that last harsh word, a number of the birds fluttered away.
Peter arrived a moment after the birds fluttered away and he watched them for a second before turning to his father. "I'm sorry. I'll be sure to keep my volume down the next time I find myself in an alternate reality where my father suddenly disappeared for three weeks and came back."
"Three weeks?" he barked, staring at Peter as if the younger Bishop had just suggested painting the buildings polka-dotted pink to ward off against possible rain. "Twenty-one days. Longer than the entire life cycle of the common housefly." It had been longer for him. So much longer. Perhaps lifetimes...
"It's...good to see you, Peter," he said finally, offering him the rest of the bag of popcorn. Whether to eat himself or to feed to the ducks, he left for his son (truly his son) to choose.
Peter took a seat next to his father as he took the offered bag of popcorn. He sat and looked out at the pond for a moment, and then dug into the bag to feed what few ducks remained from their initial greeting. "How long were you back home? Do you remember?" He turned his head to look at Walter and paused. "You look good." Though, sad. But they were never good at talking about feelings, were they.
He blinked and went silent, no doubt adding up the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months which passed by between leaving the village and his return.
"Fairly long," he said, finally deciding that an accurate count didn't much matter. "Though I seem to recall, not recalling anything about being here. Until now, with the ducks." He gestured to the remaining brood awaiting more popcorn. "And with you of course, son," he added, completely as an afterthought. "I..."
He glanced over at Peter, scrutinizing him, again attempting to convince himself that this man truly was his son. Or was he simply the son that his other self missed?
'Fairly long' wasn't as nearly satisfying as he wanted, but something in his father's demeanor made Peter not feel the need to push. What was it? Peter couldn't tell. He just regarded his father for a long time quietly as Walter looked back at him. Finally Peter rolled to his feet. "Waffles it is then. Come on. My treat." He sent his father a small smile.
The invitation coaxed a quirk of a grin from Walter. "Banana walnut waffles," he intoned. "Ah...ah..." He pointed at Peter eagerly. "With...ah...strawberry syrup and whipped cream!" As with anything food-related, he spoke in crisp, clear tones, as if the words themselves had the power to give nourishment and he was savoring them.
He stood abruptly, startling more of the ducks. "Do you remember, Peter, the one Mother's Day when we'd attempted to make waffles and the waffle iron shorted out?" No, Walter. That happened to the other Peter. But those scattered memories, where it seemed like he was losing his mind, those were the moments he treasured most.
There always seemed to be a topic that people responded well to. Sometimes it was animals, others it was money. Walter, it was food. Not that Peter would blame his father. Food was pretty awesome. Though he wondered why he had such a fascination. Probably from being stuck in that 'institution' for so long. Maybe.
At the Mother's Day comment though, Peter sent his father a slightly confused look. "I think you're thinking of the time I tried to make French Toast in the toaster for Mother's Day and I blew out the entire kitchen fuse." And boy had they been angry.
"French Toast," he repeated, again with the same tone of near-reverence for the words of the breakfast treat. "Of course, son. How silly of me to think of waffles. A mind becomes old, inflexible and cracked like aged rubber. How fortunate I am to have you around to set me on the right path."
He clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder. "I take it the waffle place is as wonderful as it was when I left?"
Something was seriously wrong with his father. He hardly ever agreed with him so readily. Not to mention he father was being, well, really nice. But Peter pushed the thoughts aside and decided he would file them under symptoms of coming back to Haurvatat until it was proven otherwise.
"Maybe even better." Peter smiled and sort of teased. "They have a new syrup. Some sort of chocolate and hazelnut mixture."
Blame Walter's discussion with the Observer, blame the coins, blame the grave Walter had visited mere moments before re-arrival. Peter Bishop was undeniably special in more ways than one.
He squinted in confusion. "Strawberry syrup or maple, Peter. Waffles will never be a conveyance for chocolate." Chocolate chip waffles? Blasphemy. "You may get away with such nonsense in those toaster pastries, but not waffles. Oh, that cloud looks like a witch's cauldron," he added, distracted as he stared up at the sky. "'When shall we meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won.'"
He chuckled in amusement. Shakespeare always did that to him.
"I disagree. I think there's a valid argument for chocolate and waffles, even without using egos as an example. What about bananas, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce?" He glanced over to his father before looking up at the cloud. He thought the cloud looked more like a camber pot, but he wasn't going to go there.
He conceded with a self-deprecating smile, which quickly vanished as other, more pressing thoughts pushed to the forefront. It had only been a scant few hours for Walter since he'd last set eyes on Peter, but for Peter, it had been weeks. A facet of multi-dimensional travel with Walter inevitably found fascinating. Einstein's theories, often crudely hacked apart and simplified into 'Time is relative', inspired generations of quantum theorists, Walter included.
How much to reveal about the future to a man who is destined to eventually experience it?
"Peter, while I was...away...there were certain details uncovered about Agent Dunham which you might find significant. She has expressed concerns in the past about, ah, the residual effects of Agent Scott's intrusion into her consciousness. We ought to ferret those out once and for all."
Peter turned and looked at his father, face full of concern. He thought of Olivia and her troubles and there was nothing more he wanted than to help her get rid of them. "Does that mean you have some answers, Walter? A way to get them out of her?"
"Not with a hundred percent certainty." His hand started to twinge, as if anxious to curl itself around something, a pencil or a piece of chalk. He held it out towards Peter, palm up, beckoning for something to write with. It didn't matter if Peter had no writing implements. Blood was a perfectly good medium as well, as Walter found out at St. Claire's. Though the problem with using one's own blood was that sometimes he couldn't eke out enough of it to keep up with the formulas rushing out his head.
So he preferred a pen.
[ooc: ack, sorry for the late tag. notif got buried.]
He was rounding the outer edge of the village, coming toward the pond, when he spotted someone who looked very familiar. Peter's brow furrowed. "No, couldn't be." Oh course, he should know better than to put anything passed his father. Peter picked up his face to an almost jog until he was sure it was his father. "Walter!" He called out as he continued to make his way to the bench and the ducks and the aging man.
(ooc: I lied, have a Peter >.> lol sorry XD)
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And with that last harsh word, a number of the birds fluttered away.
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"It's...good to see you, Peter," he said finally, offering him the rest of the bag of popcorn. Whether to eat himself or to feed to the ducks, he left for his son (truly his son) to choose.
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"Fairly long," he said, finally deciding that an accurate count didn't much matter. "Though I seem to recall, not recalling anything about being here. Until now, with the ducks." He gestured to the remaining brood awaiting more popcorn. "And with you of course, son," he added, completely as an afterthought. "I..."
He glanced over at Peter, scrutinizing him, again attempting to convince himself that this man truly was his son. Or was he simply the son that his other self missed?
"...I haven't eaten a thing all day."
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He stood abruptly, startling more of the ducks. "Do you remember, Peter, the one Mother's Day when we'd attempted to make waffles and the waffle iron shorted out?" No, Walter. That happened to the other Peter. But those scattered memories, where it seemed like he was losing his mind, those were the moments he treasured most.
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At the Mother's Day comment though, Peter sent his father a slightly confused look. "I think you're thinking of the time I tried to make French Toast in the toaster for Mother's Day and I blew out the entire kitchen fuse." And boy had they been angry.
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He clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder. "I take it the waffle place is as wonderful as it was when I left?"
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"Maybe even better." Peter smiled and sort of teased. "They have a new syrup. Some sort of chocolate and hazelnut mixture."
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He squinted in confusion. "Strawberry syrup or maple, Peter. Waffles will never be a conveyance for chocolate." Chocolate chip waffles? Blasphemy. "You may get away with such nonsense in those toaster pastries, but not waffles. Oh, that cloud looks like a witch's cauldron," he added, distracted as he stared up at the sky. "'When shall we meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won.'"
He chuckled in amusement. Shakespeare always did that to him.
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How much to reveal about the future to a man who is destined to eventually experience it?
"Peter, while I was...away...there were certain details uncovered about Agent Dunham which you might find significant. She has expressed concerns in the past about, ah, the residual effects of Agent Scott's intrusion into her consciousness. We ought to ferret those out once and for all."
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So he preferred a pen.
[ooc: ack, sorry for the late tag. notif got buried.]
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