A/N: Welcome to our second chapter of the Greenverse. I hit some writers block about halfway through but managed to get through it well enough to finish the chapter. It's a bit longer than last weeks, and I daresay not as well written, and I may redo it later, but for now I'm satisfied. Did you know that in the original script, Massive Dynamic was actually called Prometheus? Should I keep it as Massive Dynamic or maybe go back to the roots? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

PS: Olivia should come in in either the next chapter or the one after that. Just a warning, I haven't really set how pairings and whatnot or going to go, though it'll probably end with Polivia (though it'll probably be gone about a different way) I've created some alternate histories to a few characters, so there will probably be some Olivia/Charlie moments in the future (the original Fringe pairing I was rooting for), though they can be taken as friendship as well. Anyway, Imma shut up now and let you get to the story.

"Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms"

~ Guy de Maupassant

Peter slowly faded back into consciousness, opening his eyes, though he immediately closed them again as he was blinded by the too bright lights. Once he adjusted to the fluorescent lighting, he opened them again, looking around the room. It was blatantly obvious that he was in the hospital, the IVs and monitors attached to his skin, as well as the hospital bracelet on his wrist, were evidence enough of that. For a moment, he was unsure of why - he felt fine enough - and then it all came rushing back.

He remembered the storage units, the phone call, chasing the suspect. He recalled calling out for Luke seconds before the explosion, the sickening crack of his head against pavement. The onslaught of sudden memories made him feel dizzy, though he hadn't moved. Apparently, it had raised his heart rate as well, because a moment later, a nurse walked into the room.

"Mr. Bishop, you're awake." She exclaimed with a gentle smile as she approached his bed and checked the monitor and one of the IV bags. "We weren't expecting you to regain consciousness for another few hours." Her voice was kind, and she laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder as she checked his blood pressure, but Peter didn't notice.

"Where's Agent Warren?" He asked suddenly, his head turning sharply to look at her. Her eyebrows raised as she surveyed him, bewildered. "My partner," he reiterated, "He was at the storage unit. In an explosion. Where is he?" The woman just looked at him with an expression he clearly recognized as a cross between pity and sympathy. His stomach twisted nervously- he didn't like that expression.

"Mr Bishop-" she started, speaking calmly as though to soothe him, though the look Peter gave her made her rethink whatever it was she was going to say. "I don't know, he was taken to a different ward." She admitted, her voice still soft. "I can call the doctor, he might know-"

"Then do it." His words were sharper than he intended them to be, and he realized that a second after he said them. The woman's smile faltered for a brief moment, and, though she recovered it a moment later, it didn't reappear fully. "Sorry.." The apology was barely audible, but it seemed be be acceptable, because the nurse patted his arm and paged the doctor.

"It might be awhile, he's in the middle of his rounds." She informed him as she scribbled something on the chart at the end of the bed. He nodded, and watched as the door closed behind her, leaving him alone with only his thoughts and concerns as company.

The doctor, Dr. Reyes, was a short man, early sixties, hispanic, and judging by the bags under his eyes, he'd been on a double shift. He grinned when he walked into the hospital room though, checking what the nurse had written down on the chart that hung on the end of the bed.

"You were very lucky." He commented as he replaced the clipboard. "Your wound's could've easily been-" but again, Peter wasn't the least bit interested in how lucky he was or how bad it could've been. He'd been awake for almost an hour now, and he'd still been given no news on the condition of his partner. Again, he interjected with his inquiry about Lucas. Dr. Reyes frowned, a long sigh pulling from him before he answered.

"In addition to the injuries sustained from the blast, Mr. Warren was exposed to synthetic chemical compounds - Work that was apparently being done in those labs you found." Peter tensed, images flashing through his mind of the disfigured and mangled creatures from the labs, and swallowed roughly to focus himself.

"What sort of compounds?" He asked, already dreading the answer, because now Reyes was giving him the same look of condolence that the nurse had.

"We haven't been able to identify the substance or substances that are affecting him. The CDC has sent in other specialists, but they've never seen anything like what's happening here." the doctor cleared his throat awkwardly, looking down at the chart, but Peter knew he wasn't really reading anything there. "Right now we're doing all we can for him. He's in a medically induced coma and his temperature's been significantly lowered, so as to slow the progress."

"The progress of what?"

"One way to describe it is that he's been infected. But it isn't a virus. It isn't a bacteria. And what it's doing…is most unusual…"

"What's it doing!?" Peter snapped, losing his patience. He wanted to know what was happening, manners be damned.

"His tissue is hardening. And somehow…it's clarifying. His skin's getting to be almost like glass. And it's spreading." The look on his face wasn't what Peter was expecting. He was anticipating the curious scientist, bubbling over a new subject, though Dr. Reyes looked quite the opposite - he looked sad.

"I want to see him."

A few moments and a brief argument with several doctors later, and Peter looked down at his partner, laying perfectly motionless and felt a surge of fury at the man who detonated the bomb. The man who'd caused this atrocity, who'd turned his friend into a quarantine patient.

The doctor was right, areas of Luke's skin - chest, face, neck, face - had become perfectly clear. He could easily see muscle and veins below what should've been skin, like some sort of weird anatomy model. Had it not been his comatose friend, Peter might've found it interesting, though now he could only think about putting the man who did this away. He also wouldn't be too terribly opposed to shooting him either.

Eleven thirty in the evening found an exhausted Agent Bishop in his office, eyes red, worn from several hours on the computer. He typed a query into the search bar of the inter-agency database before scrolling through and skimming the result, each time apparently deciding that they weren't what he was looking for. Then he sighed before searching another combination of words and repeating the cycle all over again.

'Medical' 'Infection' 'Tissue' 'Chemical' 'Hardening' 'Clarifying'

He scrolled through the results: hospital records, physician reports, international medical reports that were of no help to him whatsoever. He was about ready to scroll back up to the top and enter a new set of search terms, when he saw a painfully familiar name that made his breath catch in his throat. Dr. Walter Bishop. Jaw tightening upon seeing his father's name, he clicked the article, eyes flicking over the words both nervously and curiously. As he finished, he scrolled back up to the search bar.

'Dissolve' 'Flesh' 'Tissue'

Again, Dr. Walter Bishop. That time though, it was a much longer article, FBI, from 1982. He took a long breath after he finished reading, compartmentalizing the notion that, according to this, he knew practically nothing about the work his father was doing. Toothpaste company his ass. He entered a new group of terms, only to find another piece written by his father. This time, as he scanned through it, he stopped about midway through.

Damn.

He left his office, almost running to the elevator. As the metal doors closed around him, surrounding him with the sound of smooth jazz, he felt the beginnings of dread sewing itself in his stomach. He'd been avoiding this for seventeen years, and yet here he was, about to practically beg for the permission to do it.

He turned into an open office door, his gaze falling upon none other than Agent Broyles, haggard and clearly preparing himself for an all nighter if the coffee on his desk was any indication. Reminding himself to keep his sarcasm in check, he knocked on the door frame as he entered.

"Agent Broyles?" He approached the desk, file in hand, and waited for the response. He was expecting some sort of tired, half assed mocking remark. That's not what he got. At all.

"I seem to recall telling you to go home over an hour ago Bishop." Broyles' voice was heavy, tired, resigned, not at all like he'd had heard over the past three days. The senior agent rubbed a finger along his temple and staved off a yawn before actually looking up at Peter, who set the file down on the desk.

"Well, it's a good thing I didn't, because I've found a connection between the Hamburg flight and what's happened with Agent Warren. His name's Walter Bishop, a scientific researcher from Cambridge, born in 46, Harvard educated, post-grad at MIT and Oxford. Look at the experiments he was doing in the late 70's, early 80's." The ones that most definitely have nothing to do with toothpaste, he couldn't help but to add in his head. There was a touch of pride in his voice as Philip took the file and opened it, looking at the picture of Dr. Bishop with curiosity, obviously not having overlooked the last name similarities.

"Bishop.." He mused, watching as the younger man braced himself for the question he had to have known was coming. "Relative of yours?"

"My father, actually." Peter replied, putting on a crooked smile and infusing his voice with a bravado that Broyles immediately recognized as false, though he let it be for the moment in favor of the consideration of a lead.

"Where did you get this information?"

"Our database – I believe he might have information that could save Agent Warren's life – and maybe shed some light on what happened aboard that plane. According to the articles in our system, he knows a lot things like this."

"Well, also according to these files, he's been institutionalized at St. Claire's for seventeen years now." Broyles pointed out, giving Peter a questioning look that he desperately tried to evade. This was clearly not something he wanted to discuss, though he didn't really have much choice in the matter and nodded.

"Yeah. An assistant of his was killed in his lab -– rumors about him using humans as guinea pigs started to spread. He was charged with voluntary manslaughter but was deemed mentally unfit to stand trial after a psych eval." While he remained calm and kept his expression in control, Peter was cringing on the inside. No way in hell was he ever getting any credibility with Broyles. Ever. Under any circumstances.

"So you're saying our prime suspect's a guy who's been institutionalized for almost two decades? Explain that." he challenged, curious and almost eager for the younger's response.

"We'd need to talk to him first. He might not be a suspect at all, maybe someone got hold of his work-" Before he could finish, he was cut off.

"Why are you so sure your father who, judging by the way you address him, you haven't spoken to since his incarceration, is worth our time?"

"What makes you so sure he's not?" Peter responded, sharper than he'd intended, but firm enough to keep from being interrupted. "Sir, with all due respect, I'm coming to you with a solid lead, and seeing how I'm the only person who can get in to see him without a Patriot Act, which is what you'd need to get access, I'm your best shot of getting any information he might just have that can save an agent and give us some answers as to what the hell happened on that plane."

"Uncover something substantial and I'll have your back-– until then, I'm not so convinced. Can you handle that Bishop?"

"Yes. Sir." Peter replied, voice in a cold staccato, though laced with a cocktail of victory, relief, and dread.

Never had Peter been more thankful for Charlie's presence than he had the following morning on the way to St. Claire's. It was only a forty-five minute drive, but due to the fact that Peter wasn't in the driver's seat, it was, for him, a forty five minute nap.

Though he'd had a few hours to rest the night before, seeing how St. Claire's wouldn't even have full staff until eight AM the next morning, he'd barely slept. He spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, dreading the moment he'd been avoiding for seventeen years. After his father's incarceration, he'd been content, happy even, for the first time that he could remember. Yet he was now preparing to walk right into the mental institution and face it all over again. He had no idea how he was going to do that, if he even could.

Too soon for Peter's liking, Charlie shook his shoulder to wake him as they arrived. He stretched as he got out of the car, yawning, and walked toward the main office, with Charlie right after him. Smiling at the receptionist as he entered the sterile-smelling lobby, he pulled his badge. He sensed rather than saw his colleague do the same beside him.

"Agent Peter Bishop and Charlie Francis." He introduced, replacing his identification. "We're here to see Walter Bishop." The woman blinked at him, staring for a moment before clacking away at her computer keyboard for a minute or two.

"Are either of you immediate family?" She asked in a croaking voice that insinuated a lifetime of smoking. She brushed a bottle red curl back behind her ear as she waited for an answer, looking for all the world like she'd much rather be anywhere else on the planet. Peter had to seriously fight the urge to make some sort of snide remark. Instead, he forced the best smile he could under the circumstances.

"I'm his son." The words seemed to have an impact, because the woman looked dumbfounded for a long moment, like it hadn't even occurred to her that him sharing a last name with the patient he was looking for might be a clue of relation. Then she gave him a yellow toothed smile.

"Well then, I'll need to see your identification again, you'll have to sign in, and if you want your friend to be allowed in, you and him both will have to sign this release."

It took almost fifteen minutes, but finally they were permitted in, one of the orderlies guiding them through the hallways. It wasn't long before they were brought into a big, shiny, sterile cafeteria.

"Hey, you okay?" Charlie asked, seeing how pale Peter had become since they'd entered the building. Now that they'd were actually waiting for Dr. Bishop to be brought into the room, he looked like he was about to fall over. This was new. The younger agent had always been confident around him, calm, like he always knew how to control a situation just the right way. It was what had initially earned him respect from other agents. Now, he looked like a frightened kid.

"Yeah, I'm fine." he muttered, barely audible, as the door swung open and he got the first glance at his father in seventeen years. The doors banged open, and two orderlies escorted the patient in, each with a hand on his shoulder.

He looked unbalanced, wide eyes flicking everywhere and a straw grey beard that screamed a cross between homeless and serial killer. He was dressed in a charcoal grey jumpsuit and, though there were none, he moved his legs and held his arms as one would if they were in chains. The orderlies guided him to one of the seats, before retreating back into the hallways, leaving them alone with the exception of a security guard who stood in the corner, just in case.

Charlie watched Peter carefully. His friend was clearly trying to look impassive, but as he took in the crazy-bearded old man before him, there was a deep seeded vulnerability written all over his face.

The elder Bishop flashed a smile as he looked at them that was some horrible mix between warm and insanely creepy as he spoke.

"I knew somebody would come eventually. I'm just surprised it's taken this long Peter." He tilted his head drastically to the left. "I thought you'd be fatter." Peter loosed a bark-laugh that didn't sound quite human. It was full of disbelief and a weird sort of resentment.

"You thought I'd be fatter. Excellent. First words, perfect." He muttered, sarcastically.

"No, no, as a boy, you were rounder." He tried to explain, like he was defending a perfectly rational statement, not like the first thing he'd said to his son in almost twenty years had been 'I thought you'd be fatter.'

"Yeah, until the summer of my senior year in high school - Not that I'm surprised you don't remem- Hey! What are you doing?" He cried out as Walter moved in close to him, pushing his eyelids up to examine his pupils. "What the hell!?" He yelped, pulling away as Charlie looked to the security guard, who had stepped forward and reached for his taser. Walter however, seemed soothed by whatever it was he saw.

"Your pupils are good- they're good- thank goodness." he declared, like it had been a big worry point for him. He promptly returned to the chair and sat down. "But there must be a reason you're finally here after all these years, so let's get on with it."

"I'm FBI now Walter. I'm just here on business." Peter informed him, sharing a glance with Charlie before they approached the table, each pulling out a seat. By some unspoken decision, Charlie began to recount the case.

"Dr. Bishop," He began, placing the file from the Hamburg flight on the table, "A flight landed at Logan International Airport almost four days ago. Everybody inside the plane was dead."

The minutes ticked by slowly as Charlie and Peter explained what they found within the plane, what Peter had seen within the storage containers. It was a frustrating task, seeing how every few seconds Walter would get distracted by something and it would take a few minutes to get him back on the proper train of thought.

"A-and the dermis, is it already indurated? Translucent? Muscle tissue visible?"

"Yes, Walter, you can see through his skin." Peter replied tersely, clearly losing his patience quickly. "What's happening to him? Can it be reversed?"

Walter looked off in the distance suddenly, a horrified look on his face, like something terrible had just occurred to him.

"What is it?"

"They have this…horrible pudding here. This…butterscotch pudding on Mondays. It's dreadful. Just occurred to me." He replied sadly, shaking his head slightly. Charlie and Peter caught each other's mutual expression of disappointment. This looked like it was going to be a bust. The guy was crazy, he probably wouldn't be able to help. Finally, Charlie sighed.

"Dr. Bishop.. It's Thursday."

"Oh," Suddenly, Walter seemed brighter, like all his problems were suddenly solved. "That's wonderful news!" He looked at the two agents in front of him, seeing the judgement in their eyes. He lowered his head, rocking a little, back and forth, the results of more than fifteen years of shock, drug, and psychotherapy.

"I'm sorry.." He said quietly, fingers fidgeting a little, "That - that I'm like this now. I—-I'm thinking things. Some things don't even make it to my mouth. Some do, though." He paused, still barely looking at either Charlie or his son. "This place… their… choice of therapies.." He looked like he was about ready to cry. "…have consequ — cons — con — consequences."

The guilt was rolling off of Peter in waves. He looked like he wanted to get up and run, get as far away from this place as he possibly could and forget he ever came. Suddenly though, Walter seemed to be back on track, another moment of lucidity.

"It can be reversed. What's happened to your colleague. Years ago I used lab animals. I recall that some became afflicted - but were still saved." He declared, looking almost excited that he could remember such a thing.

"So do you remember what to do?" Peter asked, leaning forward across the table, though trying not to get his hopes up too much.

"If your colleague has been exposed to a compound based on my work, two obvious questions arise." There was a long pause as Walter seemed to consider the two arisen questions, before he deadpanned: "Neither of which I remember."

"Just great." Peter muttered, leaning back in his chair and sighing.

"Doctor Bishop, we need you to try to remember. Someone's life is on the line."

"Access." he declared suddenly, loudly. "How did this individual, who must have significant scientific apprehension, access and then duplicate my work? And why? That's two questions- one and a sub-query. But I do have a third."

"Well what is it?" the younger Bishop snapped, getting ever more frustrated.

"W-w-well..I need to know how advanced your colleague's condition is. I'm n-n-not able to deduce in the absence of first-hand examination — which is to say I must tergiversate."

"You.. what?" Charlie asked, eyebrows raising.

"Leave." Peter muttered. "It's a fancy word for leave."

"I-I must see Mr. Warren myself – which I am unable to do under present law unless signed out by a legal guardian, which can only be a relative."

Peter groaned, looking to Charlie with a torn expression. "Of course." He muttered.

Another forty minutes later, and a clean shaven Walter, dressed in normal clothing, emerged from the hallway. Paperwork done, Peter guided him to the parking lot. The old man looked exhilarated as he left the building, taking several deep breaths in, relishing the fresh air.

"This car is fantastic!" he exclaimed, circling Charlie's car and looking at it from all angles. Charlie's eyes widened as he ducked into the driver's seat. Peter climbed into the passenger seat, while Walter slid into the back seat, grinning like a kid on a field trip.

"Dr. Bishop, I was curious…if anyone else ever had access to your work?" Charlie asked as they exited on to the highway.

"Well…the assistants, they had bits and pieces." Walter replied, tilting his head to the side. "God, I suppose. If you go for that." He paused for a moment, before continuing. "I suppose the only one who really knew what I was doing was Belly."

"Who?" Peter asked, glancing at his father in the rear view mirror.

"Belly. William Bell. He and I shared a lab." He explained. Charlie hit Peter with a 'how the holy hell did you not know this' look, that Peter responded with a 'how the holy hell did I not know that' look.

"William Bell?" Charlie reiterated. "You shared a lab with the founder of Massive Dynamic?"

"Uh.. I don't know what that is." Walter confessed, looking embarrassed.

"Oh nothing, just a little tiny company." Peter muttered sarcastically as Walter began humming 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' in the backseat. It was going to be a long ride.

What did you think? Leave it in a review, 'cuz those things are always appreciated. Check out the opening I edited for Greenverse at /watch?v=gqFHJBHTkTw

Until next chapter lovelies,

~TheFallenArchangel