A/N - Hey! So I'm hoping this will end up being a weekly updated chapter fic. I haven't written any fanfic in years though, and this is my first Fringe fic, so be gentle with me. I hope you enjoy it!

I don't own Fringe. Obviously. : )

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Chapter 1

Walter Bishop's raspberry yogurt landed with a sickening splat on the concrete floor of the Fringe Division's basement lab. Blinking down at the mess in surprise, the scientist chuckled and grinned as his son, Peter, leerily looked up from his book to see what on Earth had happened this time.

"I've dropped my snack," the older man stated, eyes twinkling in amusement. He lightly hoisted the tiny dish that remained safely in his other hand. "It's a good thing I didn't drop this, however!"

Peter regarded his father cautiously, not sure whether he really wanted to know the answer to his own question. "Walter, what do you have in there exactly?"

"Brains," the elder Bishop replied in enthusiasm, grinning down at the goop.

"Right…" Peter started to nod, but then shook his head. No, in retrospect, he definitely hadn't wanted to know. But it was his responsibility to know – as bizarre and backwards as that was – and curiosity was battling with common sense as he fiddled with the edges of his book's pages. He soldiered on, brow furrowed. "So… why do you have a bowl-o-brains again?"

"I believe this mouse may have died of an enzymatic abnormality arising from an unknown compound I discovered in its food yesterday. I'm testing its brain for the chemical markers that would indicate my hypothesis is correct."

"Of course." His brow furrowed further. "Question though: How did the compound get in its food? And what makes you so sure it didn't belong there in the first place?"

Walter beamed in what Peter could only assume was delight at the prospect of discovery. Or insanity. It was usually a combination of the two. "I have no idea! Thrilling, isn't it?"

I'm sure the mouse wouldn't think so, he thought before another part of him stepped in to check his unexpectedly gloomy response. What was wrong with him? He cleared his throat, but could think of no reply to offer up… and that's when he knew something was wrong. Sarcastic witticisms were his well-honed defense mechanism of choice. He always had a retort ready.

His father seemed to agree, and he frowned in concern when he noticed the lack of response. "Are you all right, son?"

"Fine," he said quickly, this reply, at least, very ready. A worried Walter was a fussing, upset Walter, the kind that woke him for no apparent reason in the middle of the night to check to see if he was still breathing, and no one wanted that – especially Peter and his dying hopes for a normal sleep cycle. It was best to defuse that worry before it was even fully formed. He threw in a half-grin for good measure, and he was relieved to see his father's shoulders relax as he returned the smile.

"I know what you need," the other man began in a sympathetic tone, and Peter tensed, suddenly not wanting to hear what he'd say. Blonde hair and green eyes flashed in his mind's eye and he shoved the image away.

Ever since the night he and Olivia gone out for drinks, his father had been hinting more and more about her, and it was almost more than he could take. Before their date he had just been trying to convince himself he was content with the relationship he and Olivia had, despite what he'd wished they could have, and his father… Well, Walter's hints back then hadn't been helping, to say the least. Now he was battling with doubts about whether she felt the same way he did about her – and at the moment he was trying resolutely not to think about it. He didn't need Walter bringing it to the forefront of his mind again. Please don't say Olivia. Please don't say Olivia….

"You need a case!" Walter finished with a grin.

"A case?" He had to laugh in surprise as the tension leeched from his frame, and he scratched his fingers through the short hair at the top of his head in relief. "Maybe you're right," he conceded with a small smile.

"I know I am." Walter looked momentarily plaintive as he dropped his gaze back down to his small bowl of mouse brains. "It's been three days since our last case. I hate to admit it, but I…Well, I barely know what to do with myself these days…"

He looked so small and childish that Peter shut his book and turned his full attention to him with a twinge of sympathy. "Aww, Walter…"

The older man looked up at him and smiled sadly. "Besides, I like seeing you and Agent Dunham together."

"Aww, Walter," he moaned. "Not again. Please. Not today. Don't you have brains to examine?"

The sad smile on his suddenly old face grew slightly more melancholy, but he nodded. "Quite right, son." Rallying himself, he nodded once more forcefully and his smile became more sincere. "Yes. Quite right. There are brains to examine! I think this calls for the Beatles!"

"Well, nothing says mouse brains like 'Yellow Submarine.'"

He watched the older man totter into a back room to put the music on, brains still in hand, and shook his head as "All You Need is Love" suddenly resounded through the lab. Walter. Rolling his eyes toward the dingy ceiling of the basement, he flipped open his book and tried futilely to return to reading.

Suddenly, he heard the front door open and he looked up to see Astrid walk in. "Hey," she greeted with a cheerful bounce in her step, casting an easy and seasoned eye around the oddity that was Fringe Division. Gene mooed in the corner and she smiled.

"Hey," he replied, curious what she was doing here. Without any ongoing investigations to look into, they all had today off. He was only here because Walter had begged him. He thought back to this morning when his father had begged him to go – while he'd begged his father to close his bathrobe – and shook his head with a suppressed shudder. Life with Walter was certainly never boring. "What's up?"

She shrugged. "Not much. I was just in the neighborhood and figured I'd drop by and see if you needed a break from watching Walter."

"Yes." Standing quickly, book abandoned, he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Astrid, you're the best. He's driving me insane. I won't be gone more than 15 minutes – I hate to inconvenience you, and I know you must have someplace better to be, no matter what you say – but a break would be great."

The junior agent giggled at his earnestness and grinned. "It's not a problem. Take as long as you need. Besides, Walter and I have a game of monopoly to finish."

He didn't need telling twice. Grabbing his coat and pausing only briefly to glance over his shoulder toward the room into which his father had disappeared, he headed quickly toward the exit. "In that case, maybe I'll get lunch. Thank you." He tossed a smile at her before closing the door firmly behind him.

Freedom. He took a deep breath to enjoy it as he jogged down the Harvard building's outdoor stairs and eagerly inhaled the chill air. Glancing at his watch, he considered his options. He could call Olivia, ask if she wanted to get some lunch maybe. It had only been a day since he'd last seen her, but he couldn't believe how much he wanted to see her again.

Still, as much as the thought of seeing her again sent a thrill through him, it also set off a small wave of anxiety. After the events with the buildings in New York, they'd gone out for drinks. To his surprise, it had actually been her idea ("You know, like normal people do. We can pretend, right?") and especially after their almost-kiss it had given him hope that maybe she returned the feelings he'd been trying to ignore for so long after all. He had firmly told himself and Walter that it wasn't a date, but he'd been unable to prevent himself from dressing up a bit and grinning foolishly as he'd prepared. She'd looked so beautiful and happy to see him when he'd first opened the door to let her into their apartment that something in his gut had fluttered in a way that made him feel decidedly adolescent, but that he was willing to put up with if it meant spending time with her.

He thought the evening had gone fairly well – for the most part. They'd smiled and laughed and generally had a great time, but she'd seemed… distracted. It almost seemed like she had been avoiding looking at him, and when she did look at him there had been something in her eyes…

But despite that, somehow, at the end of the evening, they'd kissed. Nothing too showy, just a gentle, slow good night kiss that was everything he'd hoped it would be. She'd smiled at him when they'd parted, the smile lighting up her eyes in a way he hadn't seen in a long time, and he'd been so happy, but even in that moment there was something distant about her eyes, something she wasn't telling him, and her smile had slowly faded to a forced one. He thought he'd seen tears well up in her eyes, but he couldn't be sure. Nevertheless, he knew she'd been sad. Troubled. Something. And it had nearly broken him. What had he done wrong?

He'd tried to ignore the feeling, but her distance had lingered and it left him feeling defensive and hurt despite himself, and helplessly wishing he could help or at least know what was going on. She would barely look at him. He'd tried to ask her what was wrong, but she'd denied that anything was wrong at all, even as her face fell slightly and she'd looked away from him again, apparently unable to hold his gaze.

No, something definitely wasn't right, and he was terribly worried it was something to do with him. Maybe he should back off. Maybe she wasn't as over that whole business with John Scott as they'd thought. Or maybe she just didn't like him like he did her. She was scared – he got that. So was he, if he were to be honest with himself. But he'd seen the way she smiled at him… Peter sat down on a bench and watched students walk by as he scowled in confusion. Maybe it was like she said. Maybe it was nothing. But he still felt paranoid and over-analytical and helpless and self-doubting, and he hated it. He finally had a chance to be happy for once and he was going to ruin it by being paranoid.

He frowned. More than anything, he just didn't want to mess this up. In his whole life, he'd never felt this way before, never met anyone like her before. Hell, he'd stayed in one place for her, and he hadn't done that in over 15 years. She'd made him care again. It was why he hadn't made a move before now, no matter how much or how often or how long he'd wanted to: He was scared of losing her in whatever capacity he did have her.

Sighing, he took his phone out of his pocket and let it dial the familiar number. It rang twice before she picked up. "Dunham."

"Hey, 'Livia."

"Peter! I was just thinking about you."

He could hear the smile in her voice, and he relaxed slightly with a tender smile of his own. This would be all right. He just needed to keep his head.