Hangovers were nothing new to Peter. Of course, that didn't mean he liked them. He woke up around noon, lying beneath the silky black sheets with a drained bottle of Midori beside him on his pillow. These days, alcohol was his mistress, and she was one hell of a bitch. Pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his face, he sighed, groping for the universal remote to shut the blinds before his head exploded. At this rate, he was beginning to wonder if maybe he'd been turned into a vampire in his sleep.

Once the room was dark enough, he forced himself to get to his feet, searching out some pain killers for his horrible headache before getting dressed. Hating the idea as he might, he had work to do today; a flat to visit. In a way, he hoped that revisiting his old demons would help demolish them and free him slightly of some of the weight on his shoulders. It was an unlikely thought, but it was worth a try, and why he'd come to London in the first place. Yet, as he fished his sunglasses out of his suitcase, he found himself thinking back to the girl at the bar yesterday. Pretty, a bit crazy… what was her name? Something to do with a flower- and aliens? No, no; her name didn't have to do with aliens… she'd been raving about aliens, hadn't she? Oh, it was all a blur. Damn whiskey. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Peter forced himself to leave the comfort of his hotel room, shaking his head. Whisky didn't matter, Petunia- no, that wasn't it- didn't matter; his parents' flat mattered. It was time he go properly pay his respects to the first people he'd ever abandoned to watch die.

… . … . … . … . …

Rose woke up a bit more pleasantly. She'd slept off most of her "hangover" early on in the evening the day before; and she'd only had one drink; so she felt the same as usual when she opened her eyes to the bright Friday morning sunlight. Well, maybe not exactly the same as usual; the sunlight was a change. In fact, it hardly shone at all here. The days, weeks, and months on end were a perpetual on again-off again rainstorm. So waking up to sunshine was a bit odd to say the least.

Rising from bed to get ready for work down at the shop, Rose found herself glancing at the telephone on her desk and thinking back to that wretched conversation she'd had late last night. What had been an innocent enough gesture had obviously turned that woman's crank the wrong way, and she was certain that she didn't want to know why. Doctor look-a-like or not, if Rose ever saw Peter Vincent again it would be too soon.

So, having been looking at the phone at that present moment, Rose nearly jumped out of her skin when it gave a shrill ring. A hand placed over her heart for a moment while she collected herself, she shook her head and crossed the room, hesitating before picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Rose! Oh, thank God! You didn't come by last night, and you didn't call…!"

Harmlessly tuning out her mother's anxious ranting Rose pinched the bridge of her nose, resisting the urge to sigh. She knew that her mother's heart was in the right place but she was utterly smothering her. Jackie, with good reason, worried for her daughter and she had ever since they first got stuck in Pete's world. She knew how much Rose missed the Doctor and so she made it her duty as a "good mother" to make sure her daughter ate and slept and "socialized appropriately for a girl her age."

Most of the time Rose wanted to scream that she "wasn't a girl anymore", but she knew it would do little to no good. She got her stubborn persistence from her mother, and so she knew perfectly well it was best to just go along with it to keep her hushed up and happy. Usually this meant stopping by the mansion at least every other day to give Jackie in-person updates about how her life was going and how she was adjusting to their new London, or calling her at exactly nine o'clock on nights when she couldn't make it down. Last night, Rose had been too distracted to do either of those things, and it had sent Jackie into a terrified frenzy.

"…Pete thought you might have died!" "I said no such thing!" "Oh, shut up, you! Where did you get off to last night?"

Biting her lip, Rose shook her head, hesitating in answering. Should she tell her mother about Peter? Deciding against it, she shook her head again. She'd vowed to forget all about him, and that's what she intended to do. There was no point in mentioning a man she was never going to cross paths with again, even if she did look startlingly like her Doctor.

"I went down to the pub with a few girls from work. I was right worn-out by the time I got in; didn't even think to call. I'm sorry; I should have. I don't want you to worry."

"Oh, you know me; worry anyway, I will. You had a nice time, then? With the girls?"

"Um… yeah. Yeah, I did. Look, I gotta go; I'll be late for work if I don't get ready now. I'll try to stop in after my shift, yeah?"

"Alright, love. Have a nice day. Pete says hello." "That, I did say." "Oh, you…"

Her mother hung up in the midst of saying something to Rose's "father", and she sighed, hanging up as well. She'd never get used to this entire scenario. In a way, Peter was right; it was all a little sci-fi, the alternate universes, and she didn't like it one bit, although it was for a very different reason than it feeling like something straight out of a Marvel comic. Sighing, she shook her head, making her way to the bathroom to get ready. Like it or not, she'd had to adjust to this world, because there was no getting back to her old one. She'd never see her London again, nor would she see her Doctor.

… . … . … . … . …

Anxiously shifting from foot to foot, Peter frowned at the old, unkempt estate before him. It was nothing like the Hard Rock hotel back in Vegas, and it made him shudder. Back when he'd lived her when he was a boy, around six, it hadn't seemed so bad; the brown paint had been fresher, and there were fewer cracked and broken windows. It wasn't the richest part of London, but it was home nonetheless. At least, it was. Taking a shaky breath, he made his way up the steps, trying the doorknob to the stairwell and frowning when he found it turned with no protest whatsoever. He'd thought he might have to pick the lock, or bribe one of the poorer residents to let him in, but he didn't have to do either. My God, this place has gone downhill.

That was the thought that ran through his head as he made his way up the creaky old staircase to apartment 325A, finding all of the doors to the flats had chipping paint, and some were even ajar. In fact, the entire place felt eerily empty. The only sign of life was the sound of a television; an old television, given the grainy voices; coming from a flat somewhere on the second floor as he continued up the stairs. There was also a black cat that brushed his leg when he reached the third, nearly making him jump out of his skin, or at least the black leather of his jacket; the last thing he needed in this damn building was someone, or something, touching him. He was on edge enough as it is.

Now, if he were in America, seeing that black cat likely would have put anyone in the country off given their fear of it being an omen of bad luck, but not in Peter's home country. In England, black cats were supposed to do the opposite; they were omens of good luck. Yet, even with that omen, Peter felt edgier than ever. Maybe he'd just spent far too much of his life in America.

Reaching the door in question, he shut his eyes, taking a shaky breath. He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to look at the still glossy, chipping red paint his mother had put on it that day, not knowing that her blood of a similar shade would be splattered on the carpets later on that night. It made him shudder, and he felt tears burning behind his eyelids which he quickly tried to blink away. He should have been quicker. He should have told his parents there was someone in the flat before it was too late for them to get out. Hiding hadn't been good sense; it had been cowardly, and he still hates himself for it to this day. Sucking in another ragged breath, he pulled the old key from his jacket pocket that he'd held onto for years, trying it in the lock and not surprised that it hadn't been changed in the nearly thirty years since he'd lived there. No one would want to live in a flat with such a gruesome backstory.

Pushing the door open, he nearly sneezed at the musty, dusty scent in the air, coughing a little as he shut the door behind him. It was just as he remembered it; and just as his lifelong nightmares had preserved it. There was the hallway leading away from the door that had once been painted an indigo-like shade of blue, now faded to a homely, dusty grey. He wondered if that sickly colour at all resembled what shade his parents' rotting flesh would look like. He gagged and shoved the thought away.

Walking down the hall, he ticked off details in his mind, one by one, as he remembered them; hallway closet where he hid amongst his father's jackets from Jerry; sitting room, the same musty colour as the hallway, just outside of it, with the kitchen entrance on the far right of the room and the two bedroom doors on the far left with a bathroom neatly situated in between. The place wasn't huge, and it had never been extravagant, but it was just enough for the Vincents. They were perfectly happy there, until Jerry swaggered in one night and robbed them of life and Peter of his childhood innocence.

His heart beating harder in his chest the further into the flat he walked, Peter tried to keep his cool, but it was hard, because he was getting closer. He was close enough now for the memories to start playing in his head, more vividly than in his nightmares because it was all here, right in front of him. It couldn't be twisted or morphed; it was all here. He remembered it all too well.

His mother had read to him from The Hobbit that night as he lay nestled in his bed, perfectly content and happy. He didn't even know that they were poor, or that the very book he was having read to him had belonged to his father since it was published in 1937. All that Peter had known was that his mother had a wonderful reading voice; Elizabeth Vincent was a stage actress who performed in local plays in their neighborhood, and she didn't get paid much, but, like the rest of her little family, she was happy; his belly was full from the soup they'd had for dinner, and he wanted to be a wizard, just like Gandalf. Gandalf had always been his favourite, and by now Peter almost knew the entire book by heart. After she finished reading to him from the chapter where Bilbo meets Gollum, she had kissed his forehead and called Patrick in to say goodnight to his son. Patrick was a burly man, with a thick accent and a love of cussing, but he loved his family more. To any ordinary burglar, the mere sight of Patrick, all muscles and piercing brown eyes, would be enough to scare them away. Yet, as horrible as it was, that had been the exact thing that caught Jerry's attention. A man that tall and heavily built would have heady, almost alcohol like blood. He didn't know that the man had a wife inside; or that he had a child, which he would learn until years later; but he didn't care. If anything, he just counted it as an extra treat.

After being tucked into bed by both of his parents, Peter went to sleep. He remembered sleeping for a few hours; long enough for both of his parents to be asleep when he awoke. It was probably late, but he didn't know the exact time. He couldn't tell time yet at that point, anyway.

Glancing over at the kitchen, Peter struggled not to vomit as the memories continued to assault him. He'd gotten out of bed when he woke up, which he wouldn't usually do, but he was thirsty. Horribly thirsty, and the symmetry of the events that followed his thirst still taunted him at night. He'd gotten a drink of water from the sink, and he'd been taking a sip when he heard the door down the hall open. It was odd; he knew for a fact that his mother and father were both asleep, so it couldn't be either of them. So, Peter did what any sensible six year old boy would do; he waited until the footsteps were near the bedrooms before darting down the hall and into the closet, burrowing himself behind the jackets. He was small and sprightly, which was likely why he grew up to be so lean; unlike his father; so even the vampire didn't notice him pass through the sitting room and down the hall.

What followed after he hid is what still taunts and haunts him, filling his nightmares.

Obviously Elizabeth had thought it was Peter who was walking around in the sitting room, so she'd got out of bed to go scold her young son and tell him to go back to sleep. However, what she was greeted with was far from a six year old. Given that he was hiding, Peter still doesn't know exactly how everything went down, but his imagination likes to supplement the details. He does remember hearing his mother's blood curdling scream, followed by horrible guttural gurgling, his father shouting her name and the sound of bullets being fired and missing, hitting the wall by the kitchen entryway; the three holes are still there; and then a thump, another scream, animalistic feeding noises, a louder thump, and then nothing. For the longest time, there was nothing but silence, and Peter was terrified. Being the child he was, for a little while, he'd thought perhaps his mother's Bilbo impression had been just a bit too good and Gollum had come to throttle them all in their sleep. But, when at last more noises came, he knew it couldn't be the creature from the story. The footsteps were far too heavy, and Peter trembled in the closet, not knowing what to do as they drew closer and closer and closer…

Then they stopped. They stopped directly in front of the closet, and Peter wanted to cry and scream and beg for his parents to come and save him, but he didn't make a sound; he couldn't. He was paralyzed by fear, and when the closet door flew open; there's still a mark on the wall from the handle hitting it; he simply sat in the corner, quivering, utterly silent. No, the creature before him was not Gollum. It was a man; a tall man with dark hair and something red all over his face and clothes. He smelled bad, and Peter felt the urge to vomit, just like he did right now. But, thanks to his tiny size and silence, the man didn't get him. He didn't realize he was in there. He; Jerry; just continued walking, went out the flat door, and left. He left Peter trembling in the closet for hours, waiting for his parents to come and find him, and when they didn't, he hesitantly crept out on his own. The sun was up by this point, and no one had come to help when they'd heard the screaming and the thumping and the whimpering late on coming from Peter in the closet; the residents were used to screaming and thumping in these parts. Get involved, and you'd just be another scream and a thump, too.

Glancing down at the rug on the floor at his feet, Peter felt the tears starting again, and this time he couldn't stop them. It was all too real. He sworn he would never come back here; he'd never relive that fucking horrible night. Yet, here he was, standing over the spot where he'd found his mother, blond hair drenched in her own blood, eyes wide on the rug, and his father in a similar state, throat torn out and blood staining the walls and the carpet and his mother's nightgown from where it had sprayed. It was a gory, terrifying mess, and Peter had done the only thing a six year old boy could do; he screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed until he could scream no more, and then he cried. He cried like he did now, loudly and heavily and painfully until he made himself sick, adding to the stench in the room. Then, when he had no more tears, he started screaming again. The cycle went on and on until, finally, someone from upstairs came down to see what the racket was, and she started screaming, too. Soon after, the police came, and they ushered Peter and the horrified woman out of the flat. Peter's parents' bodies were taken away, and he never saw them again. He had no other relatives and the Vincents didn't have many friends, so there was no funeral; at least none that Peter ever knew of. If there was and he did attend, his mind had blocked it out and locked it up with a tight chain, refusing to let him remember.

After that, he spent eleven years being thrown from orphanage to orphanage and mental hospital to mental hospital until he turned eighteen and moved to America to escape it all. The only thing left he had from this flat that didn't traumatize him was a dream; a dream to be a wizard, like Gandalf. So he became a proper magician; no more card tricks and hats and the stupid things he'd tried in his boyhood; and used it to do the one thing he couldn't do that night; save people from vampires. He named the show, ironically enough, after that moment in his childhood; his Fright Night. It was supposed to be innocent. It was supposed to help him forget all of this ever happened. It wasn't supposed to end up being real.

It sure as hell wasn't supposed to get the only other person he ever cared about killed because he did the same thing he did that night; he hid. He hid and he cried and then he did the only thing he knew how to do; he tried to run away. Charley was the only thing that stopped him from doing it all again, because he told him the truth. He told him that he was a fucking coward, and he was, and Peter hated himself for it. So he'd gotten bloody smashed on Midori, loaded up on weapons and decided to kill the fucking monster that killed his parents.

Now, here he was. Back in that same flat, crying until he felt sick, utterly lost. In that moment, it came to him; he wasn't Gandalf. He would never be Gandalf. He was Bilbo, the pathetic little hobbit who wasted most of his life doing nothing, and then mucked things up when he tried to make things right. Fright Night had been Peter's ring, and Ginger had been his Frodo. Basically, Peter realized that one of his heroes had been a bloody fuck up, just like him, and he didn't know what to do.

Not anymore.