It didn't matter then, back when they had a job to do, so much else to finish and start, so much that it didn't matter that Walter Bishop had turned into a cowboy the second he was given a gun (I knew I should have protested more, but Olivia and Agent Francis were… dammit, I wasn't thinking…) and dumped in a sewer with a monster. It hadn't mattered when it should have that his father suddenly sprouted delusions of grandeur until the danger had passed, until they were in the too nice hallway and Walter fumbled with the too nice keys because "he liked the responsibility" whatever the hell that meant. It hadn't mattered until he was standing behind the insane man, noting calmly that his thought pattern was beginning to resemble dear old Dr. Bishop's.
Peter held his cool until the large door swung shut with a thud.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?" He demanded, unsure of where the sudden influx of rage had come from. Peter wasn't sure of much these days (In a world where you could be happy as a clam one minute and then turn into and actual clam at the whim of some mad scientist somewhere, who could afford to be sure of anything?) but he was pretty sure that he was content a moment ago, and Peter was almost positive that the only thoughts swirling in his head were ones concerned with sleep and not his father's most recent proof that his lunacy was alive and kicking.
"Oh," Was all his father said at first, setting his bag down on the too lumpy couch that also served as Peter's bed, treating the contents as precious cargo. That his father thought crumpled up bits of paper, a random smorgasbord of lab equipment and old candy bar wrappers was precious cargo should have been an metaphor for how much Walter thought of Peter in the grand scheme of things, but right now it only served to piss him off. "I was wondering which emotion would win out, you see," Walter said, finally looking up at his son (Ugh, if I could shed that title, I would.) with a slight frown on his face, as if Peter were a mildly interesting puzzle. "There were a few vying for command on your face back in the car," Walter's eyebrows narrowed ever so slightly, as if the puzzle had gotten slightly harder to decipher. "Are you upset?"
"Yes!" Peter snapped, with more venom than he'd originally planned. Walter looked down at the ground with a wince, ashamed with himself (Though, with Walter, the man could have just found a mildly interesting pattern in the carpet) but mercifully said nothing. For dramatics sake, Peter threw a hand up in the air, putting thick sarcasm in his voice, "I mean, no, of course not, I don't mind that my father swallowed poison then tried to fight a giant hybrid monster in the sewers!"
Walter looked up at this, only slightly distressed, "Well, technically, its—" The man started, no doubt about to give Peter the actual scientific name of the monstrosity.
"Walter!" Peter snapped harshly, and the man flinched again, looking back down at the carpet. Peter's sudden rage hit a speed bump at the sight of him, a man at least twenty years his elder standing there just so, head bowed, ready to withstand punishment for committing some horrible act he was unaware of. He was… Walter was a child. His father was a child, nothing more nor less. The simple way in which the grown man stood was enough to make Peter forget just what he was about to say next, long enough of a pause for the man to slip in a simple sentence.
"You said I was brave today."
Peter's anger all but evaporated. He ran a hand over his face rather than admit to himself the many ways in which that was pitiful. He scratched the back of his head instead of dwelling on why he'd started yelling at Walter. "Yes, Walter. You were. You saved Agent Francis." He said, instead of apologizing. For all he knew, the man wouldn't remember this little explosion in the morning, if he was lucky. "Good job." Peter added, just in case he wasn't lucky, (Which, given my track record, if a fair assumption…) searching Walter's face for any sign of comprehension.
Unfortunately, he found it. "I scared you." His father said, blinking slowly, making Peter feel like a lab rat (and I'm not going to dissect that particular thought).
"Yes, Walter." Peter admitted without giving his mouth permission to do so. Only partially angry at himself for the slip, Peter allowed himself to add, "You scared the living shit out of me."
They stared at each other in silence for a good long while, and while God only knows went through Walter's mind, Peter was careful to keep his mind blank. Somewhere between the silence getting awkward and Peter tiring of staring at his father's wrinkles, Peter turned away, heading for the solitude of the bathroom.
"Thank you." A soft voice called, stopping him in his tracks.
"For what?" Peter asked as he turned, narrowing his eyes at the unsure Walter Bishop, standing stock-still in the same place he'd been since Peter started yelling.
"For being scared. It… It means more than you know." The crazy man accompanied this sentiment with a tiny, unsure smile, managing to look even more like a child than previous and somehow making Peter feel worse for snapping.
"Well, you're welcome." Peter said, running a hand through his hair again. There was probably some bored little agent somewhere, fresh from the academy of 'Humorless Federal Agent School' whose only job was to watch a television screen that showed the Bishop hotel rooms. That poor little federal agent must hate his job, because it was fast becoming clear to Peter that insanity must be either contagious or simply run in the genes. "Let's try not to repeat the experience, or, if we must, try to give me a little heads up next time."
Walter seemed to digest this for a moment, then gave a slight nod and a small smile, "Okay. Good night, son."
"Good night… Walter."
They never let us have razors at St. Claire's, afraid we'd kill ourselves or each other. They used to have a man come in once every month or so to trim the beads, shave us if we so chose, since they didn't want our hair long enough to form weapons with. The whole idea was preposterous since inmates found ways to turn ordinary items into weapons (I remember this girl, delightful thing with delusions of the end of the world, stabbed a good doctor in the kneecap with a pen… Delightful girl, wish I could remember her name… Sarah, or perhaps Linda… Maybe Cameron…) but still it gets to me that I can look on my very own sink (well, not mine, technically, but who wants to get into technicalities?) and find a razor there is astounding!
The plastic crinkles and protests under my fingertips as I poke it, the razor still wrapped in it's protective plastic, fresh bought from the store. Peter must have bought it. Peter was in the bathroom, hiding from me. Perhaps I should bring it to him...? In the end, I let it lie, because my presence would only bring Peter to yell again and if he needed it he would simply come back out of the bathroom and get it (such freedom, out here, to come and go as you please... I don't know if I'll ever get used to it... though, of course, I am not allowed to come and go as I please as others such as Asterisk or Agent Dunham might...)
Peter yelled at me again tonight, though I suspect for different reasons than he usually yells at me. I could hear him yelling at me when I walked down the tunnel today (sonofabitch... Walter, I don't want you to do this... stupid gate... I'm going to kill him myself...) but he seemed to realize that it needed to be done, to save good Agent Francis's life. Peter had been saying that I don't take any responsibility for my actions, but when I try to he tells me not to (so confusing, that boy!) and tries to stop me. Peter takes after his mother too much for his own good, too much... I don't understand him half the time, which does nothing in scoring points in my favor in his eyes... I'm not even sure which game I am playing half the time, but no matter.
Peter had to understand that what had to be done had to be done, and it was either going to be me in danger or him.
A slight smile tugs at my lips, and I risk a tender glance at the bathroom door (any longer and Peter might poke his head out and demand to know why I'm staring fondly at a door...) behind which my son resides (without a razor... perhaps I should...?). I like to think my son is a smart boy, for all his mistakes and misplaced ambition, and now, I would like to think that he does understand that what had to be done was done and was done by me, not only for Agent Francis but for others as well. Others like Asterism and Agent Dunham and Agent Francis and...
A large smile tugs at my lips and I risk another glance at the door (I can always tell him I was running the proper calculations for how long it would take such an object to erode naturally...) and an unfamiliar sensation I am told is called pride wells in my chest. I would like to think now that my son cares, in some manner or another, that I risked my life today and would notice if I were no more, even if there is no structural difference between a living and dead human being (apart from some cognitive faculties, naturally).
Yes, this is what I'd like to think now.
A/N:
Written because I love these two, and I secretly wanted Peter to call out "Dad" when Walter walked away into the sewers.