Peter Bishop, a restless night and some absinth
Peter Bishop's eyes are firmly closed, and does not want to open them. Not right now. His left hand rests on his tigh, against the raw fabric of his jeans. His right hand holds the now almost warm and empty glass of whisky. It's cold outside, way too cold, and the snow won't stop falling in big puffy flakes that stuck between your ears, on the top of your nose, and then melt and roll just like tears once you're inside, in the comfort of your home. Peter doesn't like snow, and he doesn't have a real home anyway. When he sets into new place, he feels alive, as if the ghosts he's been running from all his life are finally gone. When he connects with a town, a house or...Someone, it's as if he had failed. The ghosts will be there soon, here in his kitchen, and they will pat his shoulder and say :
« It's over, Peter. It's all over now. »
Sundenly he almost wishes that the amber liquid he's drinking was something green foret, deep mint, absinth. He laughs, a short and dry laugh, thinking Walter surely has a bottle of the green fairy somewhere in this house. He lays his head on the kitchen's table and dream about this precise color a bit more. Walter's eyes are green. Agent Dunham's eyes are green, too. The plants that Astrid puts in the tea,and which floats akwardly in the mug, too. He accepts them just to be polite. Slowly, while listening to the wind howling outside and the wooden floor's cracks, Peter falls asleep. His body relaxing, his mind recalling the most beautiful shade of green ever : the one in Agent Dunham's eyes.