Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe. We would have a season 6 if I did.
Author's Note: My little attempt to try and tease out what and why and how Peter might have felt the first time that he saw Walter after so many years, in the first episode. Rating is for the language. I hope you guys like it. Please do tell me if it seems in character and seems reasonable or not. Love it or hate it, I'd rather you let me know.
Home
He'd been through the whole range of emotions – anger, bitterness, resentment. He could even acknowledge that there was a tiny bit of guilt in there, even if he denied it out loud, buried deep underneath the rage that was more reminiscent of a child than the adult he now was. But what he couldn't accept, even to himself, was that this plethora of emotions actually came from just the one – love. And as Peter looked at his father for the first time in years, he twisted that love into the shape of every other emotion other than itself.
He went to drown his sorrows and guilt (love) with the help of alcohol in a dingy bar, the sight of his befuddled father enough to turn his stomach (for reasons he wouldn't admit to himself). And even if it was misguided, Peter was firmly counting on the fourth beer in his hand to calm his nerves down enough to put up a good facade. His fingers tapped an edgy beat and despite his best efforts, his back was tightly wound and his shoulders were tense, ready to battle against all of the counterattacks that he could imagine his father to throw at him. He may have never done so in the past, but there was always a first time for everything, right?
He hated his father for this very reason. It always felt like it was impossible to breathe around him, like there was a weight crushing down on his chest and squeezing his throat so very tight. He had worked so very hard on his poker face, spent time detailing each and every single line on a wooden countenance that he prided himself on, and it felt like that wooden countenance was turning into sawdust and dropping down his throat, suffocating him with one bemused glance from his father. It was his fault, damn it. His fault that he never was around home much. His fault that his mother ended up killing herself. His fault that because of his insanity, Peter had become essentially an orphan and homeless at the same time that he grieved for the one parent that had actually done any parenting. And for that, Peter could never forgive him.
Through the warm haze of alcohol, he eyed a gorgeous brunette with luscious lips and even more luscious curves, pondering if maybe carnal interests would turn his mind away from the black crevice that thoughts of his father always took him to. He never had a chance to find out. As her devil red lips ghosted a welcome and chit chat started, she mentioned her career as a freelance journalist and Peter's stomach lurched its way into his knees, as memories of a broken father and a burnt woman invaded his mind, thoughts of despair and guilt and desperation drove a parent from being absent to being mad and destroyed whatever little life Peter had managed to create. Everything smelt of smoke and his eyes burnt as much as his throat and even though he logically knew that he was breathing, it felt like the whole place was on fire, or maybe it was just him. Maybe it was his mind and soul on fire. He couldn't really be sure or think quite straight and wasn't that a sign of having drunk too much anyway?
He stumbled his way off the barstool, bumping into it hard enough for it to leave a bruise on the pecs he had worked so damn hard at (and weren't they just wasted today?). He managed to find the exit (after several wrong turns in a really rather small bar) but the burning didn't lessen. He wondered if this is what hell felt like? He wondered if his father had felt like this? If he always felt like this when he thought about his mum or the kind woman who used to play with him sometimes? At times like these, he wondered if he was destined to go mad as well? He was sometimes sure that he was already mad and his father was actually the sane one. What a fucked up reality that would be!
He blinked and found himself in the apartment he'd been given by the FBI. So fucking thoughtful of them, he himself thinking sardonically, even if he didn't mind the blonde too much in reality. Another blink and he was lying facedown on his bed. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened and he wondered, not for the first time, if teleportation was actually possible. His father always used to say that each beautiful and wonderful mind had infinite possibilities. His hands were rubbing his face down and he stared at his hands for a second, trying to work out where the moisture had come from.
It took him a lot longer than he'd care to admit for him to realise that they were tears – his tears. And wasn't that the biggest kick in the balls of all? To realise that underneath all the hate and indifference and fuck you's, his father was like a cornerstone of his existence, mapping it out in love before a fire had distorted his reality into insanity.
And the most devastating thing of all was that even if his father had looked vacant and senile, a far cry from the energetic genius he had once been, the half smile that had threatened to come into existence on his lips had sounded like wind chimes that told him he was home.
And wasn't that the biggest shocker of all? Peter never would have thought it, and he'd deny it through torture if needs be, but his father felt like home to him and he wondered why and how he could have strayed away from it for quite so long.