One Look by nico78
I don't own them, they own me, ha! No money made from here on out...
Peter walked Olivia to her car after their 'non-date'. He said good-bye, and watched her drive off. But it was all a blur. She had offered to drive him home, but he opted to walk the mile or so back to he and Walter's house. He needed the time to think about the events of the last few days and especially the last few hours.
He also needed the time to clear his head of the double shot of whiskey he'd thrown back at the bar while Olivia was in the wash room. Knowing he was about to confront his father and needing all the liquid courage he could muster.
The streets were dark and quiet and a chill was in the air. Just what he needed to keep his mind on the events of tonight. If the last ten years of his life taught him anything it was that he thought of himself as very good at reading people. And he wasn't stupid, not by a long shot.
He had started out the night wanting to kiss Olivia, for once, for real, with no interruptions of life-altering proportions. He had thought about it all day before he had called her to see how she was doing. During the conversation, he nonchalantly asked her to go out with him that night and be 'normal people' for once without the threat of death and danger around every turn. And he was doing cartwheels in his mind when she accepted.
But when she arrived and he answered the door, he saw the look on her face and heard Walter's not-so-silent plea as he went for his coat. All night he tried to stay in the moment as he kept turning over the words his father said, wondering what they meant. And at the end of he night, he had barely went about kissing her, barely thought about it even, and that was not how he envisioned the night ending.
He just couldn't get that look Olivia gave him out of his mind as he answered the door. She had looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time, gazing into his eyes and his soul. For the briefest of moments, he truly thought it was because she was happy to be going out with him.
What a narcissist, he scolded himself now, strolling through the neighborhoods around the university, the chill fended off by 90 proof whiskey and forgotten amid tumultuous thoughts.
But when he'd gone for his coat, he heard the little exchange she had with Walter. And the wheels and gears started turning in his mind which had preoccupied him all night.
Well, no more, he was getting to the bottom of it tonight, right now.
He let himself into the old house he shared with Walter, the door creaking just slightly. Astrid had fallen asleep on the couch under an old quilt and Walter probably had wandered off to bed, after all it was after midnight. Peter sat on the coffee table and gently shook her shoulder.
"Astrid."
"Peter, are you home?"
"Yeah I'm home. Do you want to stay here tonight? It's late."
"If you don't mind." She said sitting up clutching the blanket. She hesitated and looked worriedly up at him. "Peter..."
"What is it?"
"Your father's been upset all night and he wouldn't tell me anything. We played monopoly but halfway through he just stood up and went to his room and wouldn't come out. Do you know what's wrong?"
Peter looked away from her and then back. "Probably nothing. I know we're out of ice cream and he's been bitching at me for days to buy some. Maybe that's it."
"Maybe." She didn't look convinced to Peter. After all, she probably knew Walter better than he did.
"Do you have enough blankets? Do you want a pillow?" He said, hoping to deflect her questioning.
"I'm okay. You should get to sleep, you look beat."
"I am," he agreed, although for reasons he couldn't even go into right now with her. He started down the hallway towards his room. "Night, Astrid."
"Good night, Peter."
He made his way to the bathroom, thankful the walls were sturdy enough to hold him up as he was still a little buzzed. He looked at himself in the mirror—a night's worth of stubble, bloodshot eyes, drunken gaze--he did look like hell, maybe it was a good thing he didn't get to kiss Olivia tonight.
He stood over the toilet and thought of all the times Walter said he had been sick as a child. Deathly sick. But he never remembered any of it. Maybe he had been so sick and so young that he did indeed forget about it. It wouldn't be that unprecedented.
But there had been the photo in the beach house. He'd looked at it and had absolutely no memory of having it taken or where it was taken. He remembered the photo from years of vacationing there, just not how it came into existence and he had simply assumed it was normal for kids not to remember stuff like that.
And his favorite coin, as Walter told him, which he had never seen before in his life. He'd never collected coins, never liked custard, and never played with those toys Walter carted out a few weeks before. He'd always had an excellent memory, he'd probably be dead by now without it, but it seemed like there were so many black holes from his childhood. And it wasn't like he didn't remember anything from when he was younger, it just seemed like two different worlds. And that was what was making him slightly sick--two different worlds...
And then the way Olivia looked at him tonight after all she had been through in Jacksonville and the building...
He flushed the toilet and started the shower, stripped and got under the hot water.
His thoughts were traveling down a dark road. Had been all night. Even Olivia mentioned at one point he didn't seem to be himself and she got such a strange look on her face that he almost thought she was telling a joke.
So why wouldn't any one tell him the big secret? He was a big boy. Thirty-fucking-two years old and they were all tiptoeing around him like he was a child.
But if what he suspected was true, how come he didn't remember going through a door to another world? Wouldn't that be something you'd never forget?
He stepped out of the shower and headed to his room to change into some sweats and a t-shirt. He'd definitely had a few too many and his mood probably was making it worse. He had never been a jovial drunk, more brooding and hellishly introspective. And this was the mother of all brooding and hellishly introspective nights. He steeled himself because he was going to get some answers and get them now. No turning back.
He opened the door to Walter's room, the bedside light was still on as usual and his father was lying there, asleep. Peter stood over him. This was it, no going back. The truth hurts, but it will set you free, or something like that. He leaned down and shook Walter's shoulder.
"Walter, wake up."
"Peter, you're home. Did you bring me some ice cream?" his father asked muzzily.
"No, Walter, there's still no ice cream."
"Oh, drat!"
There was no stopping now. "I have something to ask you that's much more important than ice cream and I need to know the truth. I need to know what Olivia saw tonight."
Walter looked up at him and looked away. Fright and confusion, then shock, passed over his face. He did not say anything.
"Walter..."
"Peter. There's nothing. I just need some ice cream."
"Walter, Astrid told me you were upset all night. You were only upset after Olivia came and you spoke to her in the hallway. She looked at me, stared at me. Like she was seeing something in me for the first time."
Walter smiled. "Maybe she did! You were going out together on a date. she was happy. And so am I, she's a lovely girl, very smart..."
Peter ignored the babbling, "Then why did Astrid say you were upset all night?"
"Peter. I can't tell you. I can't..." Walter whispered, his eyes glistening in the dim light as he tried to look at Peter but couldn't.
"What did Olivia see, Walter," Peter said, his voice rising, his anger was quick and almost to the boiling point already, but he held it in check.
The old man still lay there not looking at him, wringing the bedhseets. The tears finally fell, but he remained silent.
"What did she see!?"
He looked at the wrinkled, tired face of his father and had no sympathy for him at this moment. He wished him to speak, willed him to, but a little part of him still hoped that maybe it really was all about the ice cream. And magic gumdrops grew on candy trees and mad scientists didn't do experiments on blond haired little girls and didn't open doors to alternate universes to snatch little boys in the dead of night...
But that was not this universe.
Peter shook his head. Dark thoughts, indeed. And still Walter wrung the bedsheets silently.
But if Walter wouldn't tell him, it was as damning as if he had said the words. And the anger was burning inside Peter, the kind of anger he only seemed to have when his father was involved. Like finding out him and Bell experimented on innocent children, including Olivia, tested LSD on young college students, and did drug-fueled experiments on God-knows-what with William Bell.
And if he was a product of any of that...
The anger made his heart beat furiously as Walter continued to lay there, staring up at the ceiling, mute. Peter could not stand there a moment longer as he could see himself quite possibly doing something he would regret later. He turned to go, his hand on the knob.
And then Walter spoke. "I would do anything for you, Peter. Please understand, that is the truth."
And at that, Peter Bishop left the room.
He threw on some jeans, grabbed his jacket and keys and walked past a wide-eyed Astrid, for it was a small house and she had heard everything. And he slammed the door behind him.
Astrid sat up from the couch, she knew something was definitely wrong and it wasn't ice cream. From the bits and pieces she heard Walter say under his breath, she suspected Walter was involved in this more than maybe he knew. And that tonight she had never seen him this way before.
She went down the hallway to Walter's room and heard him crying through the half open door. She rapped lightly and opened it fully. "Walter, what's wrong?"
"Oh Astrid, I'm so glad you're here. Peter left. And it's all my fault."
Astrid didn't know what was going on, but she sat down on the bed and grabbed his hand trying to soothe him.