This is TwoGirlsOneSite speaking! This chapter, the prologue, was written by Lynn and edited by Lea. Please enjoy.
Also remember that this is rated M for violence and graphic details.
Disclaimer: We don't own Fringe, any of the characters, or even the idea. We're writing this sequel to a marvelous fanfiction called Peter's Pizzaphobia with permission from its creator, Fringe Fanatic.
Peter and Olivia sat side by side, eyes meeting in the dark closet. Due to a single light bulb, Peter could just make out Olivia's face. She had two minor cuts on her cheek and a small gash on her forehead, but there was nothing seriously wrong with her.
He, on the other hand, had not been so lucky.
His body was covered in bites, bruises, and his own blood. His breaths were short and shallow due to the four, maybe five, ribs that had been broken. His face was a mass of red. The agonizing pain that was shooting through his body intensified every time he spoke, moved, or thought too hard.
Truthfully, none of these things were really possible at the moment.
If he could talk, if a bandanna wasn't pressed painfully into his mouth, he be would be lecturing his wife on the disrespect that had gotten her a few punches in the first place.
If he could move, if his hands weren't shackled to the wall behind him, he would be holding Olivia, doing anything to make contact with the one woman that he loved.
If he could think properly, if he didn't have multiple head wounds caused by various objects, he would undoubtedly be hatching an escape plan, desperately trying to find a way out of this hell hole.
But Peter could not do any of these things. And so he just sat there. He gave up.
He should be enjoying his time here. When that door opened, he was going to be dragged away from a bawling, struggling Olivia, towards another traumatic punishment. The worst so far was being immersed in a tub of starving, angry fire ants.
To his left, he could see the shining tears on his wife's face, her dry sobs filling the room. Peter wanted so badly to move closer to her, entwine their fingers, and whisper words of comfort into her hair.
He couldn't. So he cried with her.
Impossibly, just last week, they had been in a happy place. With their first baby on the way and the trauma of the past months almost totally forgotten, the two Bishops had been happy. Blissfully, ignorantly happy.
So how could they be sitting in a closet, bound and gagged, with their tears flowing freely down their faces?
How could the salty liquid be tinging their wounds, mixing with blood and making the pain of the whole situation intensify?
How could this have happened?