Peter's OD, or, I Love You

They kept the telepathic experiment a secret between themselves.

Telling Walter, they both agreed, would only be an invitation to drama. Better to wait until they'd made it work on their own: to gain some semblance of control over the ability before they offered it up to Walter like a turkey for carving. To that end, they went on with the regular experiments as they hadn't started a secret enterprise on the side.

And so it was business as usual at the lab: Peter getting strapped into the chair while Olivia sucked Sprite through a straw and gloated about it not being her turn. Walter, who had been in good spirits ever since he'd discovered that the vending machine had been filled with a row of Razzles, finished the IVs and waited for Astrid to double-check them. The monitors were already on, ticking and beeping and making generally healthy sounds, and the defibrillator stood innocuously on a cart in the corner of the room.

Peter's regular doses weren't nearly enough to make anyone worry about stopped hearts or syringes of adrenaline, and Olivia's were easily took twice as much as he did (having worked up to it for months). So, the defib suitcase hadn't seen so much as a dusting in quite some time, and maybe that would've worked out fine if they hadn't gotten overly comfortable with the procedure.

Amidst the bustling, not one of them noticed that Peter's vial of Cortexiphan was a slightly different color than it should've been. Because it wasn't holding Peter's intended dosage; it was holding Olivia's.

Peter managed to stay awake for five minutes after Walter opened the IV switch, but his heart stopped after seven, and for the next two minutes and forty-five seconds the defibrillator was the most though-of piece of equipment in the lab.


Peter blinked. He felt indiscriminately shitty. He always expected some novel aches and pains when they upped his dose, but this was wicked.

"Bad trip," he said gruffly. His eyes started to focus again, and the thought crossed his mind that he wasn't in the chair. No, he was definitely not in the chair. He was on a gurney. He was...shirtless? And everyone was huddled over him. The look on Olivia's face was all wrong, not to mention the look on Walter's...

He tried to sit up, but Astrid, at his shoulder, held him down with a palm that felt like the business end of a branding iron. "Stay," she said. Walter started making little gasping noises. "Walter," she said, turning to him and keeping her voice soft, "sit down." But Walter didn't: he stood up from his crouch and made a beeline to the rear office. Peter looked to Olivia.

"Really bad trip?" he asked.

"You've been out for nine hours," Astrid said. "You have no idea."


As Peter eased himself off the gurney, he thought it would have been nice if they'd kept him out for another nine. His chest ached and his joints were on fire,though that didn't concern him as much the fact that apparently he'd almost died and didn't remember any of it. It didn't seem real. Maybe it would sink in later, but all he had at the moment was the unnerving sense of having missed something.

A stretch of time passed as he sat gingerly in an office chair and sipped Gatorade. Besides the aches, he felt all right. He wondered if he was supposed to.

Walter didn't come out of the office. Peter could see his shadow on the drawn blinds, pacing. Olivia, exhausted, continued to sit at a desk and look anywhere but at him. She hadn't been crying.

If I were some other guy who just almost died, I might be offended by that, Peter thought, and then he felt bad for making a joke of it, even one that nobody could hear.


When Peter opened the back office door, Walter stopped pacing. He stood there helplessly, arms at his sides, while Peter moved toward him. His eyes focused on Peter's chest where the defibrillator pads had left faint red footprints.

"It's going to be fine," Peter said. Walter was unconvinced. He couldn't meet Peter's gaze but he couldn't stop looking at the rest of him. "It was an accident," Peter said."I'll take some time off, and then-"

"No", Walter said sharply, and stopped. He wavered, waiting for something to interrupt, but Peter had left off with the platitudes. He put his hand on Walter's shoulder, bending toward him, and Walter completed the arc. He reached for Peter's face, his neck, anything to knit him closer.

He couldn't overcome the feeling that haunted him, of the frail seven-year-old struggling to stay alive in his arms. Nothing about the grown man under his hands could cancel out the phantom press of the tiny nose and cheeks over his heart. That last exhale, smothered against his chest, penetrating his vest and shirt, the wet, feverish heat clinging finally to his skin.

"Son," he said, but his voice broke where he pressed his face against his Peter's neck, trying to pick up the anciently familiar scent with rough, clumsy breaths. He'd shocked Peter into stillness, but that was all right. He was a guest at the cathedral of paternal love and maybe he would be forever, staring blindly at the altar, and could only imagine how deeply he pulled at Walter's blood.

"It's okay," Peter said. He tightened his hold, planting his hands firmly across Walter's back.

"I can't," Walter murmured. It was like The Wizard of Oz; like walking through a field of poppies, slowly sinking. Peter was so warm. "I can't."

Peter shushed him quietly. His eyelashes grazed like buttercup petals against Walter's skin.

"It's okay," Peter said again.

"Peter," Walter whispered. He wanted to look his son in the eyes but he couldn't let go. "I loved you," he said, in past tense without realizing. For whatever reason, Peter said I knew instead of I know and it made Walter start to cry.


Peter left the office overflowing with love.

He drove Walter home overflowing with love.

He waited until his father was cooking in the kitchen to go looking for Olivia.

He found her alone in the sanctity of the living room, looking out the window. He watched her for a moment before saying her name in a way that held her in place. Approaching, he took her face in his hands and looked down at her evenly with a smile that may not have been there at all. She looked back. The dawn sun detailed her face in cool, clean light.

Peter kissed her certainly, surely. She barely had time to put her hands up to his face before he lifted his head away and gathered her into a steadfast bear hug. He held her for a long time, to the point where she became self-conscious and then past that until she became comfortable again. He took his time: intently, peacefully.

"I love you," he said. His head rested against hers; he spoke into the space above her shoulder. It was the first time he'd told her.

He pressed his lips to her neck for a moment, swaying gently with her, until Walter dropped a pot in the kitchen. The noise made Olivia jump. Peter released her, but she didn't move away until Walter appeared in the open wall, watching them with an expression of delirious joy.

It was only thatwhich set Olivia in motion toward the kitchen, blushing and muttering, I'm starving.