TITLE:"Love, a Devastating Disease"

PAIRING: mention of 
Walter/Peter's Mother

CHARACTERS:Walter Bishop, Peter Bishop, Peter's Mother

GENRE:Angst

RATING:PG-13

SUMMARY:The few memories Peter has of childhood aren't pleasant.

CHALLENGE:None

WORD COUNT:806

WARNINGS:None

SPOILERS:reference to an event that Walter talked about in 1.10

DISCLAIMER: not mine


Walter wasn't the only of the Bishop duo to have used a closet as a safe place. Peter couldn't always remember portions of his childhood—in fact, he could hardly remember the majority of his life before the age of thirteen—but in the recent weeks since he had become Walter's guardian, little flickers of memories had began to surface. In the dark of night, he'd leave Walter sleeping in the bed and lock himself in the bathroom, huddled in the bathtub. He'd bring his knees up to his chest and rock back and forth, trying to push down the bile that burned the back of his throat. He wasn't recalling birthdays or new bikes or first days at school, but strange sinister feelings that he had no context to judge them on.

He was eight, crouched between pairs of tennis shoes and old toys in his bedroom's closet. He was in there because it was safe, and he was crying into his knees trying to be a quiet as he could manage because Mom had left the house for the morning and that meant he was home alone with Daddy. The closet was dark and he was afraid of the spiders that might come crawling across him, but those little fears didn't compare to the dread that had him in near hysterics.

Someone was in his bedroom!

He could hear the creak of the floor's doorway!

Peter stopped breathing, his eyes moving to the closed closet door. He knew who was in the bedroom and could almost picture the slow movements his father was making as he entered the very boy themed room. He could smell the chocolate chip cookies that he had brought with him, obviously trying to lure him out from where ever he was.

"Peter? Peter, are you here?"

Peter didn't dare shut his eyes, afraid that if he didn't keep constant watch of the door, his father would find him. He could hear the soft footsteps of his father moving over by the bed and the rustle of sheets, then creaking the boards by the window. Peter had always been baffled that a man with his IQ, someone who spent his life hiding things never considered checking the closet, never put two and two together.

"Son?" his father would offer one last time before the footsteps would leave the bedroom, off to investigate the rest of the house.

Peter would let out a shuddering breath. Hours would pass, but he'd still remain on constant guard because Walter could be back at any moment.

Peter still hated candy and sugar because it was what someone used to trick you. He didn't know what closet hiding had meant, but it was the only way to stay safe and it was the first place his mind went to when he was in trouble, even thought all his experience told him that that was the first place people looked. The bathtub was cold and he had drawn the shower curtain as an extra wall between him and Walter's snoring.

He was six and the teacher had everyone in his class write about the person they looked up to, who they wanted to grow up to be. Of course he had picked his father, the person he loved the most in this world. All of the children had read the one page papers at the front of the classroom on back to school night and he had been so proud with himself as his father stood there beaming, Mommy standing at his side. He didn't mention that sometimes Daddy played games that made him throw up for hours afterwards or made his eyes bleed, because Daddy loved him and always said that he hadn't meant for it to happen. And Mommy had taught him that you were supposed to forgive someone when they said they were sorry.

Peter was gasping for air, pulling the bath towel he had wrapped himself in tighter. Why was it so cold?

For some reason this afternoon he couldn't use the closet as the safe spot, so in his moment of panic he had chosen the space between his bed and his dresser. He was out in the open and completely vulnerable as he cried in fear. He could hear his father come into the room, calling out his name in that quiet, eerie way he did. Peter sniffled too loudly and the footsteps turned towards where he was. The ambrosiac smell of a root beer float lingered heavily in the air, suffocating. His father towered over him, a pleased smile on his face, seemingly oblivious to his tears.

"There you are, my son. Come, I have a game for us."

Peter thought that crying was a weakness, so he felt like a failure as he sobbed quietly into his knees, still huddled in the bathtub.


A/N: because we totally know that Peter suffered from that Battered Person Syndrome