Disclaimer: Don't own Fringe, never will and never plan to – I think the writers do a pretty damn good job on their own. This fic is dedicated to the prospect of the continued use of Peter the Punching Bag in seasons yet to come.
Summary: 100% written for the purpose of some Peter hurt/comfort. Crack time.
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Workplace Hazards
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It was a quiet day in the laboratory of Walter Bishop.
Not quiet in the literal sense, obviously. Let's be honest, that would be a stretch. Astrid was busily tapping away at computer keys and emitting the occasional, aggravated huff. Tucked away in the side office, with the door slightly ajar, Peter and Olivia could be heard arguing fervently over the breakfast muffin that Peter had graciously forfeited in a charming bid to provide Olivia 'the sustenance she sorely needed to make it through the day'. Walter Bishop himself, never one to go unnoticed, was humming merrily as he carefully withdrew a long metal splinter from the spleen of their latest corpse, letting it drop into a waiting Petri dish with a light ping.
In fact, all together, the noise in the lab sounded fairly standard – not too loud, but definitely not quiet.
No, it was certainly not quiet in the laboratory of Walter Bishop.
However, it was a quiet day.
Sure, there was a corpse or two lying around and a bad guy on the loose whom Peter and Olivia were supposed to be locating, but that was the norm. Nothing much had happened – nothing exciting, nothing exhilarating, and nothing scary. It was a quiet day indeed.
Such a quiet day it was, actually, that any normal person may have been a little suspicious of it. Unfortunately for the Fringe team, however, Astrid had other things on her mind.
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If Broyles ever decided to study his agents time-management capabilities, he would discover that on average Agent Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop wasted twenty minutes a day arguing and flirting before any work actually begun on a case.
Today's session had run slightly overtime, leaving both Peter and Olivia in foul moods and ensuring that any further work being done was guaranteed to take one and a third times longer than usual – nasty remarks factored in.
"Right, okay, let's go Peter," Slamming her keys on the desk, Olivia struggled to get her coat over her work shirt without bunching up the sleeves. Peter could feel her annoyance at him, but he maintained a slight satisfaction over his earlier triumph that morning that saw her eating the breakfast that he had originally brought for himself. He'd fatten her up if it was the last thing he did on earth.
Peter blinked, snapping himself out of his trance, and raised his eyes that had somehow ended up on the floor to find Olivia already bustling over at the lab door. As he watched her reach for the handle she stopped, twirling back in his direction with a little frown.
"Peter, are you coming?" Good God, this woman was on a mission.
No, seriously, did Olivia have to do everything on fast forward? Peter hadn't even registered yet why he and Olivia were about to leave, nor where they were going. Had she even told him that? He couldn't quite recall. He was pretty certain she and Walter had just been discussing matters of Great Importance – yet again leaving him standing to the side like a useless prop – when Olivia had a Sudden Realisation and had decided she and Peter must immediately depart. Shit, he couldn't even remember what it was they had been talking about.
"Peter." Olivia's frown had deepened a bit, and while Peter usually found the expression – secretly – rather endearing, it just served as another irritation.
"You know what? Maybe you could slow it down a little, Dunham. It wouldn't kill you," he griped, preparing to advance towards her in an exaggeratedly slow manner just to prove his point.
At the same time as Olivia paused, asking him in honest confusion what he was talking about; Peter had a strange realisation. Well, maybe not as strange as some of the realisations he had come to in this very lab before – mind you, they were exceptionally strange – but the type of strange realisation that happens when something you are used to having is suddenly taken away from you ... such as the ability to walk. Peter Bishop could not move his legs.
Looking down cautiously at the offending limbs, Peter was a little confused. He was sure they had been walking this morning. Visually, there did not appear to be anything wrong. There was no strange substance under his shoes, potentially working as strange, yet powerful concrete-to-rubber adhesive. No, Peter's legs looked distinctly a-okay, standing there in their jean and boot-clad glory. However, on a second attempt to lift his left foot from the floor and propel it forward in a walking-like motion, he found the limb continued to refuse. It really was as though he had been glued to the floor.
"Peter?" No, not glued ... he didn't quite feel stuck. No, it was as though his calves and feet had suddenly gained a considerable amount of weight – say, a few tonnes – yet managed to retain their slim physique and vertical position.
" ... Peter?" Yeah, yeah, Olivia.
"Um," Well, that was a start. Peter trailed off rather unsurely. How on earth was he going to explain to Olivia that he may not be able to accompany her on her adventure due to the fact he had suddenly and inexplicably lost the use of his lovely, long legs? What if she thought he was lying to her? He usually tried not to!
"I ..."
Hmm, actually, now that he thought about it, he did actually feel a little bit strange. Peter couldn't seem to lift his head back up, and as time slid by he realised he couldn't actually move much of anything.
Unsure quite how long he had been standing there, next to the computer table with his head tilted to the floor and his body becoming steadily more difficult to keep upright, Peter became aware that other people around him were moving in ... or ... moving around. It was a little difficult to tell, he was still looking at the floor. He briefly entertained the idea of warning them about how heavy he had become. He didn't really want to be known as the cause of the first Fringe-division broken arm ... however, his final attempts at voicing this thought were either completely unsuccessful or drowned out by the sudden roaring in his ears.
Taking one magic stumble backwards, momentarily registering that maybe he wasn't that heavy after all, Peter's wonderful luck decided to take one last jab at him.
Instead of fainting like a normal person – his mind choosing to spare him the forthcoming trauma and switching off at the moment he begun to tilt back on his heels – Peter was acutely aware of his body finally giving out, his vision dimming, and falling both loudly and heavily into the row of glass beakers sitting atop the surprisingly strong – yet very angular – table he had once been standing a few feet away from. It was not until Peter felt the thirty-odd shards of glass puncture his t-shirt and embed themselves into his back, his tailbone slam against the edge of the table, and his head bang with a sickening thud on the concrete floor below, that he was finally aware of nothing at all.
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Second half coming soon. I hope. :3