Fringe fic: Plus ça change (gen PG)
Jan. 30th, 2009 11:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zinnithTitle: Plus ça change
Author: Zinnith
Fandom: Fringe
Characters: Walter & Peter Bishop
Rating/Category: PG/gen
Prompt: Role reversal
Spoilers: None
Notes/warnings: unbeta'd, first try at Fringe fic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
smallfandomfest
Word count: 1060
Summary: Pattern - a series of steps, repeated
Plus ça change
”Are you sure you don't want me to stay?” Olivia asks through the rolled down car window. Peter shakes his aching head. Olivia works so hard, puts so much of herself into what she does, that she deserves her time off more than anyone.
”We'll be fine,” he assures her. ”I'll distract Walter with something shiny and sleep this off. Don't worry about us.”
She still does, it's plain in her eyes. But she rolls up the window again and drives off, leaving them on the curb. Walter is muttering to himself about popcorn and quantum physics and Peter sighs. ”Come on, Walter,” he says. Every word sends hot spikes of pain through his temples. ”Time to go home.”
* * *
The bike was red, that much Peter remembers. It was a sunny day, and he'd taken it out for a spin, his brand new birthday bike.
When he came home later with scornful words ringing in his ears, the bike was a twisted wreck and he had blood running down his leg. Mom was out and the door to Dad's office was closed. Peter stood outside for a long moment, debating whether or not to knock.
Then he went out into the kitchen, opened the drawer where Mom kept the band aids and the hydrogen peroxide. He sat down and cleaned away the blood, concentrated on the stinging of his knee so he could maybe forget the stinging behind his eyes.
* * *
Peter is nine years old and he wants his father to put a band aid on his knee, ruffle his hair and tell him everything will be all right.
Peter is thirty six and he wants his father to be able to carry out a coherent conversation that's not about freak science.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
* * *
The car was red, that much Peter remembers. He saw it exit the parking garage at a slow pace, and all he could think was 'That's our suspect and he's getting away'. The rest was a blur of screeching tires, of bent metal and tiny little rocks digging into his skin.
He remembers the hospital, remembers loose snatches of conversation. ”...very lucky, Mr Bishop...” ”...bruises and a mild concussion...” ”...go home and rest...”
He remembers Olivia and Broyles. ”...were you thinking...” ”...consultant, not a field agent...” ”...be okay?”
Walter was present somewhere through all this, pestering a nurse about caramel corn. Peter just tuned him out, like he's used to. The constant nagging worry is something he's also getting used to. Looking after Walter, keeping him out of trouble, when it ought to be the other way around.
This is not where he expected to be at this point of his life.
* * *
The hotel suite is not home but close enough. Peter locks the door behind them and heads for the bathroom where he swallows the painkillers the doctors gave him. It doesn't do much for the throbbing in his head.
A rogue scientist is sitting in an interrogation room somewhere. Somewhere else, forensics are going over a gleaming red BMW with a human-sized dent on the hood. Many years earlier, a red bike lies left on the sidewalk, one bent wheel spinning sadly. An office door remains locked. Unshed tears tastes like salt and bitterness.
Peter rubs the bridge of his nose and studies his bruised face in the mirror, half expecting to see a nine-year-old boy. A thirty-six-year old man looks back. Where the years came from, he doesn't know. He pulls off the blood spattered shirt, winces as the movement pulls at his bruised back. Brushes his teeth to get rid of the taste of vomit. Keeps the bathroom door open so he can keep track of Walter.
* * *
All the hours spent in the gym, getting rid of tubby Peter Bishop. All the years spent pretending to be someone else. Walter in the closet, reciting theorems to lull himself to sleep. Closed doors and open doors. Red bikes, red cars, bloody knees, bloody shirts.
Unshed tears still have the same taste.
* * *
Walter still won't shut up about the caramel corn. He hasn't had any for seventeen years. Peter hasn't had candy for almost as long. He doesn't like sweets. The taste lies, makes the world pretend to be something it's not. Irony.
Peter lies down on the bed, hoping the cool pillows will soothe away the persistent headache. They don't. He'd like to curl up and whimper himself to sleep. Walter takes his turn in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, washing his face, putting on (thank god,) his pyjamas.
* * *
Pattern – arrangement of objects, facts, etc. which has a mathematical, geometric, statistical, etc. relationship.
Pattern – a series of steps, repeated.
* * *
”You always got hurt,” Walter says. Peter doesn't open his eyes. He just wants to sleep, tune out everything for a while. He doesn't answer. It's not worth it.
The matress dips under Walter's weight as he sits down on the bedside. ”You always came home with scrapes and cuts. Got your clothes torn up. But you never asked for help. You always took care of it yourself.”
Because you were never there to help, Peter wants to say. Part of him is surprised Walter even remembers. That he noticed.
The silence is tangible when Walter stops talking. Peter turns on his side, turns his back on Walter, like Walter turned his back on him.
”You never asked for help,” Walter repeats, sounding sad and almost lucid. Then he stands up and disappears.
Nine-year-old Peter stands in front of a closed office door. His bike is broken and his knee hurts and he ruined another pair of jeans.
Thirty six-year-old Peter aches for touch, for care, for the presence of a father absent in more ways than one. His eyes are stinging again. His head hurts.
There's the sound of water running in the bathroom. Then soft footsteps approaches. Peter turns his head. ”Dad?” he mumbles, voice hoarse.
”Hush,” Walter says and sits down on the bedside again. A damp cool cloth is pressed against Peter's forehead. ”Sleep, son.”
So Peter sighs and closes his eyes and lets himself sink, while Walter begins to sing softly beside him while hesitant fingers comb through his hair.
”Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...”
- fin -
Author: Zinnith
Fandom: Fringe
Characters: Walter & Peter Bishop
Rating/Category: PG/gen
Prompt: Role reversal
Spoilers: None
Notes/warnings: unbeta'd, first try at Fringe fic for
smallfandomfestWord count: 1060
Summary: Pattern - a series of steps, repeated
Plus ça change
”Are you sure you don't want me to stay?” Olivia asks through the rolled down car window. Peter shakes his aching head. Olivia works so hard, puts so much of herself into what she does, that she deserves her time off more than anyone.
”We'll be fine,” he assures her. ”I'll distract Walter with something shiny and sleep this off. Don't worry about us.”
She still does, it's plain in her eyes. But she rolls up the window again and drives off, leaving them on the curb. Walter is muttering to himself about popcorn and quantum physics and Peter sighs. ”Come on, Walter,” he says. Every word sends hot spikes of pain through his temples. ”Time to go home.”
* * *
The bike was red, that much Peter remembers. It was a sunny day, and he'd taken it out for a spin, his brand new birthday bike.
When he came home later with scornful words ringing in his ears, the bike was a twisted wreck and he had blood running down his leg. Mom was out and the door to Dad's office was closed. Peter stood outside for a long moment, debating whether or not to knock.
Then he went out into the kitchen, opened the drawer where Mom kept the band aids and the hydrogen peroxide. He sat down and cleaned away the blood, concentrated on the stinging of his knee so he could maybe forget the stinging behind his eyes.
* * *
Peter is nine years old and he wants his father to put a band aid on his knee, ruffle his hair and tell him everything will be all right.
Peter is thirty six and he wants his father to be able to carry out a coherent conversation that's not about freak science.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
* * *
The car was red, that much Peter remembers. He saw it exit the parking garage at a slow pace, and all he could think was 'That's our suspect and he's getting away'. The rest was a blur of screeching tires, of bent metal and tiny little rocks digging into his skin.
He remembers the hospital, remembers loose snatches of conversation. ”...very lucky, Mr Bishop...” ”...bruises and a mild concussion...” ”...go home and rest...”
He remembers Olivia and Broyles. ”...were you thinking...” ”...consultant, not a field agent...” ”...be okay?”
Walter was present somewhere through all this, pestering a nurse about caramel corn. Peter just tuned him out, like he's used to. The constant nagging worry is something he's also getting used to. Looking after Walter, keeping him out of trouble, when it ought to be the other way around.
This is not where he expected to be at this point of his life.
* * *
The hotel suite is not home but close enough. Peter locks the door behind them and heads for the bathroom where he swallows the painkillers the doctors gave him. It doesn't do much for the throbbing in his head.
A rogue scientist is sitting in an interrogation room somewhere. Somewhere else, forensics are going over a gleaming red BMW with a human-sized dent on the hood. Many years earlier, a red bike lies left on the sidewalk, one bent wheel spinning sadly. An office door remains locked. Unshed tears tastes like salt and bitterness.
Peter rubs the bridge of his nose and studies his bruised face in the mirror, half expecting to see a nine-year-old boy. A thirty-six-year old man looks back. Where the years came from, he doesn't know. He pulls off the blood spattered shirt, winces as the movement pulls at his bruised back. Brushes his teeth to get rid of the taste of vomit. Keeps the bathroom door open so he can keep track of Walter.
* * *
All the hours spent in the gym, getting rid of tubby Peter Bishop. All the years spent pretending to be someone else. Walter in the closet, reciting theorems to lull himself to sleep. Closed doors and open doors. Red bikes, red cars, bloody knees, bloody shirts.
Unshed tears still have the same taste.
* * *
Walter still won't shut up about the caramel corn. He hasn't had any for seventeen years. Peter hasn't had candy for almost as long. He doesn't like sweets. The taste lies, makes the world pretend to be something it's not. Irony.
Peter lies down on the bed, hoping the cool pillows will soothe away the persistent headache. They don't. He'd like to curl up and whimper himself to sleep. Walter takes his turn in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, washing his face, putting on (thank god,) his pyjamas.
* * *
Pattern – arrangement of objects, facts, etc. which has a mathematical, geometric, statistical, etc. relationship.
Pattern – a series of steps, repeated.
* * *
”You always got hurt,” Walter says. Peter doesn't open his eyes. He just wants to sleep, tune out everything for a while. He doesn't answer. It's not worth it.
The matress dips under Walter's weight as he sits down on the bedside. ”You always came home with scrapes and cuts. Got your clothes torn up. But you never asked for help. You always took care of it yourself.”
Because you were never there to help, Peter wants to say. Part of him is surprised Walter even remembers. That he noticed.
The silence is tangible when Walter stops talking. Peter turns on his side, turns his back on Walter, like Walter turned his back on him.
”You never asked for help,” Walter repeats, sounding sad and almost lucid. Then he stands up and disappears.
Nine-year-old Peter stands in front of a closed office door. His bike is broken and his knee hurts and he ruined another pair of jeans.
Thirty six-year-old Peter aches for touch, for care, for the presence of a father absent in more ways than one. His eyes are stinging again. His head hurts.
There's the sound of water running in the bathroom. Then soft footsteps approaches. Peter turns his head. ”Dad?” he mumbles, voice hoarse.
”Hush,” Walter says and sits down on the bedside again. A damp cool cloth is pressed against Peter's forehead. ”Sleep, son.”
So Peter sighs and closes his eyes and lets himself sink, while Walter begins to sing softly beside him while hesitant fingers comb through his hair.
”Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...”
- fin -
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-31 12:11 am (UTC)(And I thought you captured the tone of the characters and their relationships very well.)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-01 01:07 pm (UTC)