Chapter Title: Chapter 01

Chapter Genre: Friendship/Family, Humour, Mystery

Chapter Rating: PG-13

Chapter Notes: A wonderful new chapter to get us into the flow of things. And keep your eyes open, because you never know whom you might see!

Story Description: "Tioga Sunrise—The only Pattern here is on Walter's paisley shirt."

Disclaimer: This shit is pretty AU, so take it in stride.

Daybreak arrived at Sunrise Cabins in the typical beautiful, quiet way it did every morning. Cabin 14, the cabin second furthest away from the dirt road leading up to the settlement, had four occupants whom were stirring as sunlight began pour into the rustic building. It was the largest cabin out of the fifteen with two bedrooms and an open loft above the kitchen/dining room, a magnificent high ceiling and large windows on the back, facing out west to the forest. It was definitely built for the snooty flatlanders that came to vacation, but that was perfect for the four city folk that now resided in it.

Located fifteen miles away from the little village of Wawona, Sunrise Cabins was inside Yosemite National Park itself, beautiful and isolated. The front door of the cabin opened and in the chilly early-October, out stepped former Lieutenant Peter Bishop, donned in a heavy pink chenille bathrobe. In one hand he held a coffee mug with hot, black coffee and with his feet bare, he hurried out to the letterbox in front of the cabin, where a local boy had just delivered the day's LA Times. The chenille bathrobe was simply the first thing he had grabbed—Peter wasn't much of a pink person.

A flyer for the last days of the Mariposa Farmer's Market, the local newspaper, the Times, another flyer from the Park Service warning about fee increases at the Tioga Pass toll booth. Nothing of real interest, though he was secretly excited to get a new crossword puzzle to work on. He sipped on his mug of coffee as he faced eastwards and looked at the fading pink glow coming up over the tops of the mountains. Sunrise in both Massachusetts and Iraq couldn't compare to what he was seeing now and even though he was on the run, he could honestly say that he couldn't have picked a better place.

The sound of a screen door to his right broke him from his thoughts. He looked over and there Mr. September, the owner of Sunrise Cabins, walking out to his own letterbox. Now, Mr. September was definitely unusual both in appearance and in character. He looked eerie with his unblinking stares and expressionless face, which was only accentuated with his bald head, and lack of eyebrows and eyelashes. Peter had never seen him show emotion, which was very unsettling for him, given how hothead he himself was and how animated his three housemates were.

"Morning, Mr. September," Peter greeted.

Mr. September paused in the handling of his own post and didn't answer, just gave him that empty stare.

"Nice weather we're having," Peter added nervously.

Mr. September nodded slowly.

"Warm for this time of year," the man offered and Peter took it as his turn to nod.

Peter watched as September walked back into the cabin, wondering what the story was behind the strange man and jumped as he felt something nudge his back.

"Hey," Olivia Dunham greeted, her arms crossed and hands tucked into her armpits.

She was wearing her running clothes, black running leggings and a vibrant orange fleece jacket.

"Is that saran wrap on your head?" he asked, noticing a hint of clear material peaking out from under her tuque.

She grinned at him. "It helps the dye set in."

"What dye? Are you colouring your hair?" he asked quickly, offering her a sip from the coffee mug.

She drank as he held the cup to her lips and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm dying it back to its natural colour."

"Which is…?"

"Blonde."

"You're a blonde?"

"Yeah. I dyed my hair brown because perps weren't taking me seriously."

He let that settle for a moment then nodded. "You'll look good."

"Thanks," she said softly, still smiling.

Peter wanted to say more, but Astrid Farnsworth had appeared from the cabin, in her running clothes as well. Olivia's attention shifted from him to the other woman and she asked, "Ready?"

"Let's go! See you in half an hour, Peter!" Astrid called back over her shoulder as they took off jogging down the dirt road.

He waved then realised how cold his toes were, so he hurried back to the cabin. Cabin 14, haven for the four of them, was thankfully very warm from the fire place and the efficient solar panels Mr. September had installed to power the heaters. He wiped his feet off on the rug just inside the doorway and decided if he didn't have to worry about the girls laughing, he'd wear the bathrobe a little longer. It was warm, after all.

His father, Dr. Walter Bishop, sat at the kitchen's island counter. He looked rather bored, his head leaning on his propped hand while he toyed with a pen laying on the Formica surface.

"Walter, what are you doing?" Peter asked as he pulled the sports section of the Times out and handed it to him.

His eyes shifted over to him. "Waiting. Ostrich was supposed to make pancakes."

Peter sat down at the island as well, glancing at the cover page of the newspaper. "Astrid always makes them when she returns from her run. You know that,"

This information seemed to do nothing for the older man, who let out a sigh and knocked the pen to the wood floor, ignoring it. Peter rolled his eyes and looked at picture of Barack Obama—the political campaign was really picking up and while he read the headline article, he toyed with the dog tags he still wore. Walter let out another sigh, this time a little louder and dramatic, obviously trying to get his attention; even though Walter was big on theatric ways to get a person's interest, he was very respectful to someone who was reading.

Peter decided he was going to ignore him for the moment and when he was sure that his father's attention had returned to the pen on the floor (which he was now kicking around with his wool-socked toes), he glanced up. There was a single candle in the fireplace that Walter kept lit and while he had never directly said what it was for, Peter knew that is was a memento mori for the young lab assistant's death that had had him locked up in the first place.

"The candle's low," Peter said quietly, returning his eyes to the paper so as to give his father privacy.

"Oh!"

His father jumped up from his seat, letting the sport's section fall to the floor as he moved to the fireplace. He muttered softly and Peter watched him from over the top of his newspaper, curious and also a bit sad. Olivia and Astrid had no idea about the lab assistant's death and his father's subsequent imprisonment in St. Claire's.

Peter shuddered. The thought alone of St. Claire's made the hair on the back of his neck stand up—the damn place had actually given him nightmares and he hadn't even been locked up in there.

In had been over a month since Peter had managed to sneak his father out, using his survival skills as both a soldier and as someone who had to run from people in the "wrong crowd". It had been complicated, dangerous, and incredibly stressful, but he'd be damned if he let his father remain another moment in that nightmare. They had raided the pharmacy, filling almost three duffle bags with hundreds of medicines and prescriptions—Walter because he had always had kleptomaniac tendencies and Peter because he figured the drugs could be used to fund their new life on the run. They had recovered the old family car from a storage unit on the edge of town and had headed west, where three days later they had met Olivia and Astrid, two other newly fugitived people.

Something soft and warm rubbed against his ankles and he looked down, smiling.

"Good morning, Whitman. How are you this morning?" he asked as he set the paper down and picked the feline up.

Walt Whitman was the fifth member of their group, and undoubtedly the most laid back. While Olivia and Astrid shared the loft that was directly above the kitchen, Peter had decided that he would NOT be sharing one of the already cramped bedrooms with his father, which led to daily arguments and Walter sneaking in to try and share the twin-sized mattress with him. The problem was finally resolved a week into their stay when they adopted Walt Whitman, a grey tabby they had found wandering around the cabins; after two flea baths (and one for Walter), Whitman began sharing a room with Walter, sleeping on the pillow next to his head.

Whitman headbutt Peter's stomach all the while purring and kneading his paws into his lap. Peter had only had one pet as a child, Rufus, and even though he had never thought of himself as an animal person, he secretly adored the cat as much as everyone here did. He smiled and scratched the furry head.

A new day had indeed arrived at Cabin 14.

Astrid had to admit, having a welcoming committee waiting for her every morning was both flattering and something she looked forward to; she had never had someone so excited to see her, even if it was only Peter's father and the groups' cat.

"You're back!" Dr. Bishop shouted cheerfully as she walked back into the cabin.

She was sweaty and out of breath, so she held her hand up to stop him from pestering her. "I'm going to shower, so you need to wait a few more minutes."

"I've been waiting," he said, sounding irritated as he crossed his arms across his chest.

"Walter," Peter warned.

"I'll be seven minutes. Ten minutes tops, I promise. I'm just as hungry as you," she promised.

"Fine," he agreed, but she could see he was happy to know when to expect his sugary breakfast.

True to her word, she managed her shower in eight and half minutes. Her wet curls wrapped up in a towel and now wearing a pair of Wranglers and a warm sweater, she returned to kitchen as Astrid: Designated Chef. It wasn't a role she had originally intended to have, but Olivia could barely manage boiling water while Peter would have them eat grilled cheese sandwiches for all three meals. And Dr. Bishop would probably feed them ice cream and cookies for breakfast or berries and grubs he had found outside, so she put her Home EC classes to good use and acted as the group's cook.

On the Formica island counter, Dr. Bishop had already set out all the supplies necessary for the pancakes, including a new ingredient.

"You want chocolate chips, Dr. B?" she asked as she began to measure out of the flour into a glass mixing bowl

"Yes! In a smile!" he instructed. "And don't make any eyebrows!"

"So what's the plan for the Fringe today?" Olivia asked as she sat down at the island.

"Can we stop calling ourselves the Fringe?" Peter begged. "It makes me feel like we should be in a tree house with decoder rings."

"Don't forget to drink your Oveltine," Dr. Bishop said as he picked out a chocolate chip from the bag.

"Decoder rings would be really fun," Astrid admitted with a bit of humour.

Dr. Bishop was busy melting the chocolate between his fingers. "I'll make you one, if you'd like."

"Stop gawking at her, Walter," Peter ordered, sounding irritated.

"Let's make a run to the market in Mariposa. I want to make sure we have enough pancake mix for the winter," his father said as he handed her the milk. "And cat food." And then with some afterthought, "And supplies for decoder rings."

"I always wanted a decoder ring," Olivia said thoughtfully. "Astrid, if you keep cooking, I'm gonna get fat."

"I would happily get fat on these pancakes," Peter said as Astrid began to mix up the batter.

"Thank you."

Olivia jumped up from her seat. "Oh! It's time for me to wash this out!"

"Can't wait to see the results!" Astrid called after the former police officer as she turned on the stovetop to preheat the griddle.

Peter chuckled, then stood up as well. "Hey, I'm going to go get out of this and get dressed."

"No problem," she said and watched the retreating form of the soldier-clad-in-pink-chenille-robe.

Now it was just she and the doctor, who was allowing the cat to wander across the counter. "Behave, Whitman," he scolded. "You know she doesn't like it when you walk on the counter."

"I had a cat back in Boston," she admitted softly, pausing in the mixing to watch the feline.

"What was his name?" Dr. Bishop asked in a childlike manner.

Astrid watched the tabby rubbing happily against the man's hands. "Mittens. And Mittens was a she."

He looked up at her. "Where is your cat, Aspirin?"

"Dead." Her eyes watered slightly and she turned her focus back to making pancakes. "Dead."

"Was Mittens a good cat?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah," she said with a sigh.

"Walt is a good cat, too," he said finally picking the cat up and placing it on the floor.

"Yeah," she agreed with a laugh, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Please tell me you're ready to start frying those pancakes up," Peter asked as he returned to the kitchen wearing work clothes.

"Just about—was that your stomach?" she asked with a laugh, her thoughts of Boston once again pushed into the back of her mind.

"Walter's not the only one starving," Peter said defensively.

"Smiley faces, please," Dr. Bishop requested again.

"Okay, okay," she said rolling her eyes and turned to the griddle.

The first stack of pancakes were decorated with friendly looking chocolate chip faces, which both men wolfed down as though they hadn't eaten in a long time. As Astrid started to cook the next batch, there was a knock on the back kitchen door and she leaned back to see whom it was. Mr. September stood there, donned in a warm fleece coat and scarf, holding up a bag of dried figs.

"C'mon in, Mr. September!" she called out happily, quickly pulling off the towel wrapped around her hair and set it on her seat.

Their strange landlord never smiled, at least not to her knowledge, but she was sure that he was happy when he was around their assorted conglomerate of strange fellows. He set the gift of preserved fruit on the counter and gave her a quick peck on the cheek; Astrid could say with confidence that he liked her because they both shared a very valuable secret about Walter Bishop. But that was another story for another time.

"Boker tov, Astrid. Mah shlomech?(Good morning Astrid. How are you?)" he asked her Hebrew in the mostly emotionless way he managed.

She nodded. "Tov todah. Umah shlomecha?(Good, thanks. And how are you?)"

"Tov me'od todah.(Very well, thanks.)" He turned to the two other men in the room. "Good morning, Walter and Peter. How are you?"

"Good," Peter said casually as he scraped his plate clean with his fork.

Dr. Bishop pulled out one of the stools for Mr. September to join him at the island. "Asphodel is making pancakes!"

"Shall I fix you a plate?" Astrid asked, flipping over the pancakes currently cooking.

"With curry and pepper in it, please."

"Sure." She looked over her shoulder. "Dr. Bishop, would you mind—"

"Already doing it!" he sang, pouring more pancake mix into a measuring cup.

"Peter, Walter, today I am expecting a delivery of wood. I thought we could spend the day chopping it while Olivia and Astrid finished working in Cabin 7," Mr. September instructed.

"Sounds go. We don't know how many more days of this weather we're going to get," Peter agreed.

"If Olivia and I finish early, we'll come over and help you stack the cords," Astrid offered as she put the fresh pancakes on a serving plate.

"That would do," Mr. September accepted.

Another batch of pancakes was quickly made and Astrid mixed up a new batter that contained a few tablespoons of curry powder and an incredible amount of freshly ground pepper. She poured a bit of the brilliant yellow mixture onto the griddle and the spicy scent wafted through the kitchen; she had a sudden craving for chicken tandoori from the Indian food place a block away from her Boston apartment and Mr. September breathed in deeply as well.

"Thank you for breakfast," he said politely, laying a napkin in his lap.

"Of course," she said, wondering when she'd finally get a bite to eat.

At least she didn't have to do the dishes—that was Dr. Bishop's job.

Approaching footsteps announced Olivia's arrival and Astrid did a double take at the sight of her new look.

"Your hair has changed," Mr. September said, his eyebrows raising.

Indeed Olivia's still wet hair had become a honey colour, much different than the deep brunette she had been sporting for sometime now. The former police officer blushed slightly, holding one the damp locks in front of her to inspect. "I dyed it back to its natural colour."

"I learned some very funny "blond jokes" back at St. Claire's," Dr. Bishop warned, looking quite delighted.

"Don't tease her because of her hair," Peter sighed, taking his plate over to the sink.

"I think you hair looks very nice, Liv," Astrid offered.

"Thank you, Astrid," she said, sitting down in the seat that Peter had just vacated. "Another day of hard work."

"The Fringe can handle it," Walter said, dropping a small bit of pancake on the floor for Whitman.

"PLEASE stop calling us that!" Peter snapped.

Walter scowled at his son, then turned to Olivia, looking quite mischievous.

"How many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb?"