Disclaimer: Yeah, I wish. Sadly I do not own Fringe. If I ever meet the person who cancelled Fringe this is probably what would happen to them.
A/N: This is set sometime before Peter goes into the machine. This is very different from what I usually write so any feedback is greatly appreciated.
The Space Between
Everything was white, white and empty. The white swirled around him, consuming him, taking him in and claiming him, committing him to its abyss. And suddenly he was falling, falling so very far and fast into the white. It swirled faster and faster until it was all a blur but he didn't land, just kept falling into the white nothingness.
Then he was back to standing in the white, no longer falling. The white continued to swirl around him, but slower this time. It was almost rhythmic, kind of like a twisted lullaby, daring him to accept it, to join it, become it. But he refused to accept this as reality, it wasn't right. There had to be a way out of this horrible place. Peter cautiously took a step forward only to find himself falling again, back into the nothing, the white moving faster than it had the last time. He was still moving faster and this time he didn't appear to be stopping. He just kept falling faster and faster, the white getting more and more blurred until it became nothing. His rational brain told him that it wasn't possible to fall this fast but he kept speeding up and falling into the white nothing.
Peter woke up with a start, the dream still fresh in his mind. This was the second time that he has had that nightmare. It started when they found the drawing of him in the machine. The drawing scared him, it was a reminder of what he had to face. He swung his legs over the side of the narrow bed and sighed, knowing that sleep, like the dream, was a distant memory. Peter wondered what it would be like to go into the machine; would it be painfully empty? Hurt or just be slow and soothing, like falling asleep? He held onto the hope that there might be another way, that he might not have to do it but deep down he knew. The drawing would happen, one way or another. It was just a question of when. They couldn't delay it forever. This was his destiny, the space between fiction and reality.