4.

Peter slipped into the bench seat at the end of the dimly lit bar, still watching her out of the corner of his eye. He jumped only slightly as someone asked, "What can I get you?"

Peter looked up at the tall, bald bartender, "Uh- a beer."

"Oh- you're the new guy, aren't you? Philip Broyles," he offered his hand over the bar, "Welcome to Casa del Sol."

"Peter Bishop," Peter replied, shaking his hand, "yeah, I guess I am the new guy."

"Is it just you, then?" Philip questioned, passing a chilled Budweiser to him with a coaster, "Staying with us, I mean."

"Yes- I mean, no. I'm here with my father and a friend, and we're only staying the night." Peter murmured his thanks as he lifted the beer to take a drink.

"You look a little wiped out. 'You okay?"

"Yeah. Listen-" Peter covertly nodded toward the blonde at the other end of the bar, chatting and joking quietly with Charlie, "who's she, do you know?"

Philip glanced in her direction, and smiled, "Who, Olivia? Hey 'Liv!" he called, and she looked up, "come here for a second!"

Peter frowned, muttering "Thanks, man," into his beer, as Olivia rose from her seat with a look of interest, slinking her way down the bar toward them.

"This is my buddy Peter," Philip said, unconsciously polishing a shot glass- a traditionally bartender thing to do, Peter noted, "He wanted to say hi."

"Well, hello to you, too, Peter," Olivia smiled, offering her hand, "I'm Olivia, Olivia Dunham. Sorry I had to take off before I could catch your name, we were getting some of the power issues sorted out."

"Yeah. Hey, no problem," Peter replied, shaking her hand, "I'm Peter Bishop."

Olivia took a seat, "So, where are your friends?"

"Oh- Astrid went to bed, and I don't blame her. Walter's looking for something to eat."

Olivia smiled at him quizzically, then glanced at Philip, who shrugged, then moved off to talk to Charlie, "So, you and her…?" Olivia questioned.

"Oh- no. We only just met, really," Peter chuckled taking another drink of his beer, "If you could call it that, I mean."

"What do you mean?" Olivia questioned, standing and stretching over the bar to grab a beer. Peter forced his eyes away from her smooth curves.

"Well, this is going to sound totally crazy… and it really hasn't sunk in for me yet, either, but… she hit me with a car. Our car ran out of gas, and I went to flag her down… I guess she fell asleep, and slipped off the road. I don't remember much, but Walter says she hit me, knocked me on my ass. A small wonder that neither of us were hurt," Peter shook his head again, "I don't believe it either, don't worry."

Olivia laughed, "I've heard crazier. All of us have some pretty wild stories, here. And if we don't have them, we make them up, if only to pass the time."

"What are you, around here? Do you work here, or are you just staying?" Peter questioned.

Olivia sighed, blowing a stray lock of hair from her eyes, "Ah, a little of both, I guess. All of us are a little like that. One night you just stop in, and when you blink, you've just become a part of the place."

"What do you mean?"

She smiled again, a humor that seemed tired, "Take Charlie, for example. Now, officially, he's the night manager. But he's just like us- he stopped in, and just stayed on. He used to be a beat cop in New York, when he stopped a mafia shipment of illegal moonshine. He thought he would get in good, for it… but it turns out his partner was dirty, and shot him in the back."

"But… why would the Mafia be dealing in something as small as moon shining? Alcohol is legal."

"I told you the stories were crazy, didn't I?"

"What about you? What's your story?"

She took a drink and shook her head, "That's a story for another time."

xXx

Walter was pondering the walnuts in a bowl on the counter of the empty buffet, and eventually decided that they were too dusty, for his taste. He looked up for any sign of life, and found none- Astrid had gone off in search of anyone that could help them, but some time had passed, since she had gone. Walter quelled his uneasy feeling by giving the shiny bell on the counter a chime, then muting it with his palm.

The silence seemed stuffy, in the empty place, and his eyes traveled over the dim expanses of white tablecloths to rest at last on the dark door of the kitchen. He glanced around suspiciously, then crossed the restaurant, craning his neck to peek into one of the small door portholes. The bright sheen of stainless steel surfaces beckoned him, in the dark, and Walter glanced over his shoulder before he pushed his way inside.

He paused as the door swung shut behind him, blinking until his eyes had adjusted to the dark. He began to register the low surfaces of linoleum worktables, and the hanging racks of utensils, as he ventured further inside, and he was reminded, nostalgically, of his days as a sues chef, when he was working his way through school. When he would sneak in, after a long day, and make himself a little something…

He wondered how long it had been, since he had made his way around a kitchen.

Walter surmised that he could shake off the mental dust that covered the culinary skills he possessed and whip up some enchiladas, now that he had the chance. It might even be a good chance to impress that young lady, to rub off the initial shock and bad impression of the accident.

Walter searched around and eventually found his way to the walk-in, flipping on the light in the strangely barren pantry as he hauled open the large freezer door, pushing aside the broad plastic strips that obscured his path. He was humming to himself cheerfully and tunelessly as he scanned the shelves, taking up a bag of shredded cheese and a stack of frozen tortillas. He was pondering where he could get a few fresh tomatoes when he pushed aside a hanging side of beef and a face met his own.

Walter stumbled back, dropping his acquired articles as his shoulders collided with a stack of boxes, and he lost his footing, landing hard on the cement. His inhale suddenly stung, in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat. He grasped at the stitch in his chest as he stared up at a frozen body, hanging from the meat rack.

Walter struggled to draw a rattling breath, pushing himself back, away from the body and against the wall. His lungs burned, and he found himself coughing uncontrollably, wheezing with pain. He held his hands over his mouth as he stared into sightless, glazed eyes, and hot blood trickled through the gap in his fingers. He tried to call out, and only choked.

Hands seized his collar, dragging him to his feet and forcing his terrified gaze away from the horrifying sight before him. Walter now locked eyes with a tall, bald, pale stranger, who frowned, "You aren't supposed to be here," he said, his hairless brows furrowing.

Walter wheezed inaudibly, his chest feeling as if it were being torn apart. He pushed the stranger away, covering his mouth as he coughed into the crook of his arm. He was growing dizzy, and lost his footing, falling forward. The stranger caught him before he met the slab, and he spiraled out of consciousness.

xXx