A/N: I have little working knowledge of chemistry, so apologies for any faux-pas beforehand. ;)


XxXxXxXxXxX


Chapter 4

Peter Bishop had seen many weird things in his one and a half years of working for Fringe Division. Genetically engineered parasites, mutated super-viruses, psionic abilities; heck, he's even had a glimpse of a parallel reality. He had seen more than the vast majority will see in the entirety of their lifetimes, and perhaps even more.

But nothing could have possibly prepared him for the sight of the Observer strolling into the kitchen wearing his father's pair of blue Flintstones pajamas.

Good Lord, he thought to himself. It's like he's an overgrown baby.

Indeed, the bald head, smooth skin, and generally oblivious demeanor made Peter wonder if a pacifier wouldn't be too out of place (any more out of place than things already were, that is). The fact that the ensemble was a bit too small for him only seemed to further emphasize the absurdity of the image, and Peter could scarcely stop himself from staring.

"Are you certain that this is necessary?" asked September, examining the strange attire. "I would much prefer to wear my suit."

"Nonsense," assured Walter, close behind. He squeezed passed him and waltzed into the kitchen, himself wearing more modest, plaid-patterned nightwear. "What good is a slumber party if you aren't even properly dressed for the occasion? Besides, you look fine. Doesn't he, Peter?"

"Oh, sure," said Peter. "He brings all the girls to the yard."

At that, September tilted his head, then proceeded to peek out the back window. Peter was going to inform him that there weren't actually any beautiful women waiting for him in their backyard (though by that point, he wouldn't have been at all surprised if there were), but Walter accosted him, diverting his attention elsewhere.

"Have you finished preparing the popcorn?" he asked.

"Almost," replied Peter. "I'll come bring it to you in the living room when it's done."

"And the strawberry milkshakes?"

"They'll be done soon, Walter."

"What about the peanut butter and jam sandwiches?"

"I haven't forgotten about them, Walter," said Peter, exasperation growing.

"Well, what abou–"

"–Two bowls of popcorn, two strawberry milkshakes, some PB&J sandwiches, meat pies, some cookie dough ice cream, a platter of cheese and crackers, pizza pockets, and some jumbo dill pickles with whipped cream for Boy Wonder over there; I've got it handled. You'll get them when they're ready, okay?"

"Yes, of course," conceded Walter. "Still, there's no need to be so rude. I was simply asking."

Walter vacated the kitchen as Peter removed the meat pies from the oven. Having failed to spot any human females in the backyard, September approached the counter, observing Peter as he scurried about to try and meet Walter's taxing gustatory demands.

"Peter?" asked September at length.

The Boy paused in his steps, pressing both hands on the table and looking up with irritated eyes.

"What?"

"...Are the sandwiches ready yet?"

Peter stared at him, dumbfounded; he would have pulled out his hair if the phone had not started to ring.

"Just...go bring these to Walter, will you?" he asked, dismissing the Observer as he passed on two bowls of fresh popcorn.

September obeyed almost instantly, allowing Peter to answer the phone.

"Bishop Residence."

"Peter? It's Dunham."

"Oh, hey, Livia."

He exhaled in relief, having craved contact with someone at least somewhat normal all day.

"What's going on over there?" asked Olivia, curious. "You sound kind of busy."

"Don't even get me started. Walter's forcing me to participate in a slumber party with him and S–"

He left the word hanging, cringing; he had almost betrayed the Observer's presence in their house, and while she didn't know the name, he didn't want her asking any questions, and was now scrambling to find a replacement for the word he had already begun.

...ohshitohshitohshitohshitohsh it...

"–Ssscrabble," he finished at last with awkward diction.

"Scrabble?" she said, surprised.

"Yup," affirmed Peter. "Food, drinks... and Scrabble."

"Sounds like fun."

"Sure is," he said, trying to strike a compromise between excitement and apathy. "We've been at it for awhile, now; Walter's just scored big with titillating. But enough about us. What's going on?"

"Right, uh, they've found two new bodies in the Jon Osterman case down in Newark," she announced. "They're going to be shipped to the lab overnight, so we'll need you and Walter at the lab first thing in the morning."

"Will do. Give me a call as soon as they arrive."

With that, he hung up the phone. In the chaos that had been his afternoon, any notions of their current Fringe case have been chucked onto the backburner. As far as they could tell, someone who had the ability to teleport – whom Peter gave the fitting placeholder name of Jon Osterman – had been taking out his issues on the people involved in the experiments that bestowed him with it, and the bodies have been piling up quickly. Cue crime scene visits, autopsies at the lab, menial scouring of documents; the usual.

Yet dealing with September had somehow trumped all of that in his priority list. He peeked into the living room, watching the Observer assist Walter in setting up the sleeping bags. How long would he be staying here? A day? A week? A month?

And what of the others?

This was the most worrisome of his thoughts. If he informed the FBI that an Observer was currently residing in their house, Broyles would crack down with all the might he possessed as the director of Fringe Division. He could picture Broyles now, staring at him with those intimidating eyes that flare open whenever he is angry.

"Aw, hell naw! Observers be chillin' all up in this damn house and no one comes to tell me 'bout it? You must be out of your damn mind, cracka! Now y'all better let this foo' come with us before I open a can of whoop on yo' white ass!"

...He knew Broyles would never really talk that way, hilarious as Peter thought it would be; yet even so, he imagined that Broyles would be equally as pissed.

Olivia probably wouldn't be happy-go-lucky either. And as for Astrid, she might sympathize with the motives of their actions, though there was still no way of knowing how she would take it.

But could he simply give September up after learning what this individual was now going through? Peter was no stranger to having no place or purpose in the world – such a state of being has characterized a good portion of his life, and even now its shadow would creep into his thoughts once in awhile. And so he sympathized with the poor guy, even though the Observer probably didn't process the situation in the emotional way a human would. To send him free into the harsh wilderness of human society without the proper tools seemed a counter-intuitive course of action; he may end up thrust into a perpetual nomadic existence, and while it was impossible to know how September's mind actually worked, Peter, having lived such a life, definitely preferred his current lifestyle.

Soon, however, a wave of the utilitarian rationality he had cultivated over many years washed away any notion of sentimentality. By allowing him to stay, Peter was enabling a situation that was perhaps more risk-ridden than any sane person would dare allow themselves to humor. He knew Walter would defend his new friend to the end, but he wondered whether maintaining the subterfuge necessary for the Observer to remain their midst would be worth the trouble, especially if the length of his stay was yet to be determined.

To do this, he would have to not only have to keep September under control, but keep Walter in check as well, not to mention ensuring his own secrecy. He would have to lie to the others. He has already done so once tonight; how long could the facade be maintained before it would be cracked by the strain of exhaustion and paranoia? And the longer the game was played, the worse it would become for everyone when it all falls to pieces.

In his experience, no secret ever stayed secret for long.

Perhaps it would be better to simply stop the madness before it even started, to spare everyone the potential drama; but if the FBI had their way, September would be detained, interrogated until they got everything they need out of him, then placed in a secure cell under heavy surveillance. He might be able to convince them to change their minds, but protocol was protocol, and with such a valuable target as an Observer, this protocol would probably be followed to the letter, so perhaps his word as a mere Civilian Consultant wouldn't have much sway. Yet other than an interrogation room, where else could the Observer go?

He clenched his jaw, trying to make sense of this paradox of a dilemma. Yet as much as the apparent impossibility of a reasonable solution aggravated him, he wasn't surprised to find himself in such a situation.

After all, what was the life of Peter Bishop if not an unbroken chain of dilemmas?

"Peter!" hollered Walter from the living room.

"Coming!"

Peter took the meat pies to the coffee table they have drawn up to the couch, then went back to retrieve the pizza pockets. Thoughts on how to deal with this situation would have to be set aside for the moment; all his efforts were now focused on making sure Walter and September were all set up for the night.

A task so strenuous that he began to wonder whether Broyles delivering a can of whoop ass would be preferable.


XxXxXxXxXxX


How curious were these things.

What did Walter call them?

Pajamas?

September found himself intrigued by the properties of his current attire. He had never had the chance (or the reason) to wear anything other than his standard suit, the one he came into being with. Inodorous, indestructible, incapable of decay, it has served him well in uncounted aeons of service.

To wear something that was made of physical, finite material, then, was quite the new experience for him. It was soft and comfortable in ways his standard vestment could not equal; he began to consider wearing pajamas much more often.

Peter came into the room, delivering the strawberry milkshakes, which Walter gladly accepted. At his urging, September took a sip of the beverage; it tasted like cool, thick water more than anything, though the foamy texture stimulated his insensitive tongue, and he downed half the glass in one shot.

"It is good," he announced at length, without expression.

"Excellent!" Walter replied. When Peter entered with a bowl of large dill pickles and a bottle of whipped cream, Walter turned to him. "It would seem that our guest approves of your milkshake-making skills."

"Is that right?" said Peter. "Well, gee, I'm flattered." He placed the pickle bowl on the cluttered coffee table and handed the canister to their guest. "Since I don't know how you like usually take your whipped cream, I've decided to just give you the bottle. Don't make a mess, though, alright?"

"Understood," replied the bald man, rotating the canister in his hand.

Peter took in the sight before him. The coffee table, which had been pulled closer to the couch, was absolutely packed, and sleeping bags were laid out before the television.

"That's pretty much everything," inquired Peter. "Are you sure you need anything else?"

"I don't think so," said Walter. "Are you sure you don't want to join us, son? I'm sure we can squeeze you in here somewhere..."

The elder Bishop gathered the plates filling the space between himself and the Observer on the couch and pivoted in his seat, trying to find somewhere to place them in his crowded environs.

"No thanks, Walter," replied Peter. "As much as I'd love to partake in your sci-fi movie marathon, I'd rather go relax and read for awhile. I'll come down and check on you guys once in awhile, though. Call for me if you need anything, okay?"

With that, Peter retreated to the second floor, leaving Walter and September to their own devices.


XxXxXxXxXxX


"Peter!"

He had only managed to invest thirty minutes into some Crichton before Walter hollered him. With a sigh, Peter placed the book aside to tend to Walter's whims. However, he entered the living room to find it empty of occupants.

"Walter?"

"Over here!"

Peter poked his head into the kitchen to see Walter and September tending to a variety of cups and bowls filled with substances dubious in appearance and aroma; something was simmering in a kettle as well. The two impromptu chemists wore aprons and latex gloves, though having not found safety glasses, they resorted to reading glasses, which looked particularly out of place on the balder of the two.

"The acidic compound, please," asked Walter. September complied, slowly transporting an empty tub of margarine that has been repurposed as a makeshift beaker.

"Walter, what the hell are you doing?" inquired Peter, approaching the central island.

"Ah, Peter!" said Walter. "I need you to go to out and buy some iodine, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and – and some lubricant, preferably the paraffinic kind. Oh, and some antifreeze."

"What? What do you need those for?"

"We are attempting to form complex chemical structures," explained September. "It is science."

Peter wasn't sure what to think of this. Chemistry wasn't his forte, so what complex chemical structures would entail was hard to determine. But then again, Walter had a history in biochemistry, so he imagined that his father had to know what he was doing.

...Right?

"...Are you sure this is safe, Walter?" asked Peter, a bit concerned.

"Oh, of course!" said Walter, pouring the acidic solution into a bowl housing green material. "It's perfectly safe, I assure you."

Walter picked up the bowl, intending to show it to Peter; but as he did, the contents began to foam, sizzling audibly, expanding in volume. It began to pour over the edge of the bowl, and while Walter attempted to head to the sink, the sides of the bowl became too slick, and his grip failed. The bowl fell to the floor, a large area of which was promptly coated in the stuff.

What really instilled panic was when the sizzling continued, thin wisps of smoke emanating from the spillage.

"Walter! It's eating through the goddamn floor!" exclaimed Peter. "Do something!"

"I – I... oh, this is terrible!" lamented Walter. He turned to September, who stared at the corrosive substance as it worked its way through the linoleum. "We must have miscalculated the necessary amount of battery acid, and now the acidic potency has skyrocketed!"

"Battery acid?" exclaimed Peter, disbelieving.

"Don't worry, son; the batteries were properly disposed of," explained Walter.

"Never mind that! How in the hell are we going to fix this?"

It was then that September sprung into action.

With great speed, he took a bowl from the counter and chucked its contents into the sink from where he stood; his aim left something to be desired, however, as most of the concoction failed to reach its destination, spilling onto the counter and splashing onto the wall and windows. Yet he paid no mind to his appalling accuracy, focusing instead on the meticulous combination of various elements. He poured one substance after the other into the emptied bowl with a precision that implied a working knowledge of chemistry. And after whisking the completed product with an egg beater, he proceeded to dump it onto the acidic splotch.

"Stand back," he said.

The Bishops stepped aside and watched as the Observer bent over and rocked the bowl back and forth with the rigidity of an automaton, the ejected solution splattering as it crashed onto the floor in a succession of sloppy heaves. Six heaves later, the improvised alkaline solution neutralized the acidic one on the floor, and the corrosive reaction came to a standstill; however, September's disregard for collateral damage had caused a mess larger than the original acidic spill (not to mention that it was dissolving the caked mud of September's footprints that Peter had yet to finish cleaning, adding to the disorder).

"It is done," announced September.

A sizable puddle of brownish sludge now claimed sovereignty over part of the kitchen floor. Not a word was exchanged for several moments, the trio staring at the mess.

It was only when something in the microwave exploded and splattered onto the door pane – followed shortly by a series of chimes signalling the cooking was done – that Peter looked to Walter, who bowed down his head.

"...No more chemistry in the house," said Peter, passing his hand down his face. "Alright?"

"Yes," replied Walter in a meek tone. "I think it would be best."

"Now, I want you guys to go do something else while I...clean this up," ordered Peter.

But as Peter poised himself to begin the operation, he was stopped by the Observer.

"You must not disturb the solution," warned September. "The reaction has yet to complete."

"Well in that case, September and I will clean it later," said Walter.

"You don't have to do that, Walter," countered Peter. "I don't mind cleaning up."

"No, no!" replied Walter, not wanting to hear anything of it. "You don't need to worry about a thing. This is my mistake, so it is my responsibility to fix it!"

Walter seemed suddenly troubled and morose at the pronouncement of the sentence, though Peter didn't question it.

At Peter's behest, they took off their aprons, gloves, and glasses before departing the wasteland their kitchen had become.

"Whatever happened to your movie marathon?" asked Peter as his father passed by.

"Oh, yes, the movie!" burst Walter quite suddenly. "I had completely forgotten! I went to the kitchen to get myself something to drink, and I suppose one thing led to another; the next thing I knew, September was assisting me in chemical experimentation! Funny how these things happen, wouldn't you say?"

Walter chuckled to himself, but Peter saw no humor in the situation; the elder Bishop's nostalgia died at his son's stern glare, and he dutifully shuffled to the living room.


XxXxXxXxXxX


He had only been called down a few more times since what he was tempted to call the Boston Chemical Meltdown of 2009. To his great relief, it was only for relatively minor things, such as helping them fix the remote (which was curiously missing its batteries), or to fetch Walter's robe. So for the most part, Peter was able to find the rest and relaxation he had been seeking (and by that point, deserved).

Yet as the night progressed, he had become so accustomed to being called down that he felt something was amiss when Walter's voice had not resounded for a significant period of time. Peter began to wonder what they could have been up to; the fingers of curiosity beckoned him at the door frame, and Peter was powerless to heed them.

He began to think that something really was amiss when he heard no sign of activity from the first floor. The television appeared to have been turned off. More disconcerting were the periodic shuffling sounds, subtle, but distinct enough to reveal themselves as light footfalls. While he was sure it was merely one of the two sleepover enthusiasts, his mind projected thoughts of a grimmer nature onto the situation. What if something had happened to them? What if someone had broken into his house? What if another Observer had broken into his house?

Oh, God. What if all of the Observers had broken into his house?

He shook his head, cursing his propensity for paranoia as he descended the stairs.

The first thing he did upon arrival to the ground floor was check the living room. As he had suspected, there was no one there. Tentatively, he called out.

"Walter?"

A noise from the kitchen came as a reply. Yet he found that the kitchen was just as devoid of life, although Peter was nonetheless glad to see that Walter had kept his end of the bargain and cleaned up the mess. As he assessed the curious lack of house guests, movement from the corner of his eye alerted him to a presence down the hall, which quickly entered the living room. Peter sprung the other way, intending to intercept whatever it was.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was just September, who was gripping a pillow in his hands.

"Oh, it's just you! Where's Walter?"

"Silence," bid September.

"Excuse me?"

"You will alert Walter to my presence," explained September. "I must find him. He is my opponent."

"Opponent for what?"

"We are enacting a possible outcome where we are adversaries who use pillows as weapons."

Peter looked at the pillow, feeling dumb for not having caught on sooner.

"Oh, a pillow fight," clarified Peter. "How's that working for you so far?"

The Observer seemed unsure how to approach the question.

"It is interesting," he replied after a moment's consideration. "It is curious that we should duel with pillows, however. It will take quite some time before a victor emerges. By my calculations, we could only continue for approximately thirty years, after which I would inevitably win by default."

Before Peter could question September on the finer points of Observer logic, Walter emerged from the hallway and ambushed September with a flurry of swings from his pillow.

"Ha, ha! Take this!"

September assumed a defensive position after the first few hits of the barrage before proceeding to strike back, seeking Walter's unprotected flanks. At this, Walter retreated into the hallway, howling with maniacal laughter as September gave chase. Peter followed them from afar, looking into the kitchen, where they were playing a cat and mouse game around the central isle; their pillowed feints threatened to topple counter-top objects.

"Guys?" said Peter. "Um, guys...?"

But they were too absorbed in their battle to take notice of Peter's interpellation. Walter suddenly managed to outwit September and break away from the kitchen, passing through the dining room as he fended off the Observer at his heels with blind swings (and toppling a chair in the process). He passed by his son, who placed himself between the two.

"Hold on for a second!" said Peter. "Look, I don't mind you if guys smack each other with those things, but you can at least be a bit more careful."

Walter nodded in relent, appearing somewhat embarrassed. However, September was unmoved by Peter's warning.

"Peter, you must not interfere," he said. "I must defeat Walter."

September charged for Walter, but Peter stopped him.

"Yeah, I understand that," assured the Boy. "I just don't want you to break things in the process."

"Why are you hindering me?" asked September, unable to get past the obstruction that was the Boy. Apparently realizing something, he backed away a little. "If you choose to stand in my way, then I must consider you my adversary also."

He then bitch-slapped Peter across the face with his pillow.

Not only was Peter unprepared, the awkward posturing of the Observer making it hard to anticipate his movements, but the precision and strength of his blow sent Peter stumbling. September did not stop to respond to Peter's annoyed pleas, continuing his assault.

"Ow! Ah! What the hell – Gah! Stop that!"

Walter, seeing his unarmed son being brutalized, came to the rescue.

"I'll save you, Peter!"

The man's wild, undisciplined swings, while not as calculated and thought out as September's, were nonetheless effective due to their unpredictability, exploiting the Observer's lack of familiarity with not being able to perceive things before they happened, and he was thus driven back.

"Peter, take this!"

Walter took a pillow near the sleeping bags and handed it to Peter. And none too soon; September returned in full force, attacking them both. The Bishops answered with a joint offensive, trying to counter the Observer's superior technique.

"Is that how you want to play?" taunted Peter, unwittingly getting sucked into the game. "Walter, go flank him!"

His father ran for the hall as Peter covered for him, fencing with September solo. It was a decidedly challenging affair; it was hard to tell how seriously the Observer was taking this, but the meticulous delivery of his strikes implied he perceived it as a contest of will, so Peter stepped up his game to match.

Suddenly, Walter appeared from behind September with a sort of laughing war cry, having contoured the first floor in ambush. The Observer was caught off guard, and was now stuck defending two fronts at once. Apparently realizing it to be futile, he stopped altogether, causing the Bishops to tone down their attacks, before at last stopping. The three stood still, only the harried breaths of the two humans in the room warding away silence.

Then September darted for the hallway.

"Crap! He faked us out!" said Peter. "Close him off!"

"I've got it!"

The Bishops split up, quickly assuming control of either of the corridor's ends, trapping the Observer. Seeing this, September spun and whipped Peter in the side before taking advantage of the Boy's momentary lapse in defense to squeeze his way past him and enter the staircase.

"He's going upstairs!" said Peter.

The two sped off after him; yet by the time Peter reached the second floor corridor, their adversary had vanished. Peter immediately entered the guest room, yet found no one. When he re-entered the hall, he bumped into Walter, who, startled, proceeded to beat him, forcing Peter into a defensive position.

"I thought we were supposed to be on the same team!" cried Peter. Yet Walter failed to stop, pure fun taking precedence taking over such things as unspoken agreement. "Alright, have it your way!"

Peter changed his stance, deflecting Walter's pillow. Their familial skirmish was quickly interrupted, however, as September suddenly emerged from Walter's room, intent on taking them out. The Bishops made for the stairs, trying to escape the grasp of their sudden pursuer.

The pillow war went on for another fifteen minutes, a love letter to chaos and mayhem. What alliances formed there were short-lived, loyalties forged only as a means to save one's skin, broken when the common threat was driven back. For the most part, it was a three-way game of cat and mouse, with no one individual ever having the upper hand for more than a few moments. Peter couldn't stop laughing throughout. He laughed at the others and the faces they made when he hit them; he laughed at himself for having gotten involved in all this madness; he laughed at everything, because he found himself more content than he'd been in a long time, forgetting all of his troubles.

The climax of the battle was waged upstairs in Walter's room, with the three standing in a loose triangle and battering the other two with frenzied blows. Yet soon, their laughter crippled their movements, and the Bishops cramped onto the bed and floor, convulsing in hysteria. September soon joined in as well, thinking that this must be the appropriate response to the situation; it was a monotonous mimicry of their laughter, made without expression or smile.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha."

The Bishops stopped as they noticed the forced, out of place sound in the room. After a good ten seconds, September's pseudo-chuckles ceased, leaving only silence. Peter and Walter turned to one another, faces perplexed.

Then they erupted in raucous laughter once more, joined soon after by the robotic chanting of their bald companion.


XxXxXxXxXxX


"Where is the washroom?" asked September. "I must go u–"

"It's over there, to your right," interrupted Peter, barely sparing himself the image.

The Bishops watched as September directed himself to the door in question before disappearing inside, closing the door behind him; at least he understood the basic principles of using the washroom, thought Peter.

It had been five minutes since their episode of tear-eyed merriment concluded. Their throats were sore, as were their sides; and Peter's diaphragm twitched in spasm every now and again whenever the thought of the pillow fight resurfaced.

After delivering a hefty yawn, Walter spoke.

"How invigorating that was! Though I must admit that I am not as young as I used to be. I'm about ready to turn in."

"Good," said Peter. "You're going to need your rest. We're going to be getting up early tomorrow morning."

"What for?"

"Olivia called earlier," he explained. "She said bodies are going to be arriving at the lab, so we're going to have to be there as early as possible."

Walter nodded; however, an awkward tension broiled as both realized where the conversation was heading.

"We're going to have to tell the others," said Peter at length. "About him."

Just as Peter finished, Walter turned to grip Peter's shoulders.

"We can't!" pleaded Walter. "If we tell them, they'll take him away and lock him up!" Peter bid his father to lower his voice, which he then did, speaking in a more hushed tone. "Why can't he simply stay here with us?"

"If we don't tell them now, they're going to find out sooner or later," explained Peter. "We can't keep this a secret forever."

"But he has nowhere else to go! And I like it when he's here! I'm sure we can figure out a way to have him stay here without the others knowing. There must be a way! Please, Peter!"

He clenched his jaw as he looked into Walter's watering, supplicating eyes before announcing the verdict with a lengthy sigh.

"He can stay with us."

Walter proceeded to embrace his son like a child thanking a parent for a Christmas present.

"Thank you, son!"

The old man's face beamed with a childlike gratitude, and Peter couldn't help but smile, infected with contagious glee.

At that moment, September emerged from the bathroom, his arrival heralded by a flushing whirr. His head turned to them, and Walter disengaged from Peter.

"Alright you two," said Peter. "It's time to get ready for bed."

With that, Walter accosted September and guided him to the stairs while Peter followed some distance behind, knowing full well the decision he just made would come bite him in the ass when he least expected it.


XxXxXxXxXxX


...Klaatu...barada...nikto!

September was convinced there was no film more fascinating.

He wasn't aware of why that was; yet would he have known, he would have discovered it was due to the parallels that existed between his existence and that of the one called Klaatu. They both were of non-partisan stances regarding humanity, and both interfered in their affairs when it was absolutely necessary. They both knew more about the humans then they did. And Gort and Klaatu's craft were stylistically reminiscent of Matter, Yet Not Matter.

The messages of the film eluded his grasp entirely (as they were aimed to humans), but other elements captured his interest. He enjoyed Klaatu's remarks about the peculiarities of human behaviour and interaction. He enjoyed how Klaatu corrected the equations of Jacob Barnhardt (the answer was as obvious to September as it was to the alien). He enjoyed Klaatu's employment of advanced, sophisticated technology.

As the movie progressed, however, he found that Klaatu began to remind more and more of August, who had recently fallen. Just as August was shot due to his involvement with the humans, so too did Klaatu meet a fatal demise. He remembered with perfect clarity of the moment where he went to retrieve August using the Bentley parked in the garage of the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place. From there, September drove his comrade back to Perpetual Halls. Seeing as the bodily death of one of their own was unprecedented, they had debated long on what to do; yet to their surprise, That Which They Served took matters into its own hands. It emerged from the ground as an exact scale replica of their own forms. It took August into its arms, cradling him, staring at his body with what they failed to recognize as infinite loss; the figure then carried August into the darkness, never to be seen again.

The episode had stirred many questions. What happened to August? Where did he go? What happens to one of them if they die?

In retrospect, September unwittingly associated Klaatu's character with August, and when the movie ended, he desired to view it once more, not realizing that what he actually wanted was to see the August in Klaatu; for among his fellows, August had been the one he had interacted with the most, and they had held frequent discussions about many things, sometimes even observing events together. On his long list of favorite things, August ranked near the top; the thought that he would never see him again elicited disquieting sensations within him.

It took him some time to figure out how to replay the movie, especially since he could no longer interface with electric systems through touch, which he was inclined to do. But through trial and error, he found the solution, and proceeded to view the movie from the beginning.

Walter stirred on the couch, where he had chosen to sleep.

"Aren't you tired?" asked Walter.

"No. I had slept earlier in the day. I will only require another sleep cycle tomorrow at approximately four in the afternoon."

"Is that so?" asked Walter. "In that case, I suppose I'll leave you to your film."

"If you wish, I can cease watching, should it be troubling you," offered September; as he knew, humans needed the least external stimulus possible in order to enter their sleep cycle.

"Oh, no," said Walter. "I don't mind."

Walter turned over again, becoming silent; yet a few moments later, he spoke.

"I'm glad you're staying with us, September."

The remark was duly noted, and September resumed staring at the screen, sitting in his pajamas close to the television; but as Walter tossed with a short snore, the Observer decided that he was glad as well.


XxXxXxXxXxX


It was two thirty in the morning when Peter awoke from the sound of creaking floorboard and turned, only to see September standing at his bedside.

"Oh, shit!"

Peter shot up his sheets and immediately turned on the adjacent lamp, revealing the Observer.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, voice groggy and irritated.

"I was watching you sleep," replied the Observer blandly with a tilt of the head.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, since I know you probably don't understand how creepy that sounds, I'm going to forgive you," he said. "But for future reference, I'd appreciate it if you didn't creep into my room at night. Or at least knock before you do."

"Understood. It will not occur again."

September stood there, motionless, continuing to stare at Peter, who still had trouble rationalizing the sight of an Observer in pajamas.

"Can't sleep?" guessed Peter.

"Not at the present time. I will only enter my next sleep cycle in approximately fourteen hours." He paused for a moment. "I have come here to tell you something, Peter."

"What is it?" asked Peter, curious.

"Thank you for letting me stay and not telling the others about it."

Peter wondered whether September's act of gratitude was genuine or if it was a learned behavior; whatever it was, he accepted it without much of a fuss.

"No problem." Peter's brows then flexed. "Wait, you heard that?"

"Yes. You whisper loudly."

"...Oh."

The two fell into silence, where the Observer continued to linger awkwardly at Peter's bed.

"You are kinder than the other humans," noted the Observer. "You remind me of the dodos."

"Um...thanks?"

"I will leave you to your sleep, now," stated September.

And as he did, he took Peter's covers and replaced them over his body, then closed the lamp. He went to the door, and before closing it, spoke.

"Good night, Peter."

After September had left, Peter turned, drifting to sleep, only realizing several minutes later that he had just been tucked in by an Observer.