A/N: Hey all, I was working on The Waiting Room last night and this just sort of came to me out of the blue. I'm pretty happy with it, but I'd love to know what you think! Thanks, as always, to piratesmiley for being my beta.
Fringe does not belong to me. No inFRINGEment intended.
This takes place several hours after the end of the Pilot episode.
Peter Bishop knew who he was, and he was not the kind of man who believed in love. Peter Bishop was the kind of man who believed in a well-oiled gun, a fat wallet, and a stiff drink, not necessarily in that order. Peter Bishop believed in traveling light and fast, and not looking back.
But.
The eternal coda, it was always there: but… Stupid, contrary: the three letters that embodied the Universe's approach to the human experience. On his good days, Peter Bishop did not believe in God. On his bad days, Peter Bishop did believe in God—and thought He was an asshole.
Today fell in with the latter.
Peter took a drink, and listened to his father reciting elements from the periodic table. He refused to look at the clock; it would only make him angry.
Angrier.
He took another drink.
He should have been on a plane hours ago. He knew it in the pit of his gut, the itch in his fingertips, the jitter in his feet. Run, they said. Screamed, more like. But—there it was—every time he tried to put on his coat he'd hear her voice, a thin veil of civility and Official Fed Authority disguising arrant desperation. Where's John? He'd asked, and she'd looked away, wouldn't meet his eyes. Your father needs to stay, which means that you need to, too, she'd said.
He took a drink, feeling it burn its way down. From the window, Peter could see lights winking in the Boston nightscape. He had his coat, black wool folds in his fist, and it was just a few short strides to the door. He could count the steps.
He reached for his glass and, with displeasure, realized that it was empty. He turned it in his hand, watching the way the light refracted in its angles, shattered. Somehow that made sense.
He pushed his chair back, poised as he glanced again at the door, his coat rough against his palm. He closed his eyes, and saw her face again, that fragile smile—the unspoken plea. In the other room, Walter had progressed to the transition metals.
He exhaled; he hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
Peter Bishop knew who he was. But—
Maybe it wasn't who he wanted to be.
He let go of the coat.