I'm wondering, now, if I wrote this angry. I am unsure, as I am in a good mood, currently. If I did, why did I take it out on Walter? He's quite abuseable. But such things simply must be written, forgoing the consequence. I'm sure you understand, or simply don't care. Peter and Walter need to patch things up somehow. You know…eventually.

*I do not own Fringe, and the fact that the events and characters in this fiction seem to fall in sync to it is purely coincidental. It was not planned. Like my birth. : D

Chapter one.


He felt his eyes slide open a crack, and shut them again, the dark registering night in his mind. Night, for sleep… A premature instinct of all naturally sane creatures.

"Psst. Peter." Something touching his shoulder, a gentle nudge. At first, he thought it may have been a woman, but the prodding continued, and he realized he was single. Woman weren't attracted to a guy with…

"Peter, I'm really sorry, but I'm hungry."

"Eat your Pez, Walter," Peter grumbled, folding the pillow around his head.

"I'm out of Pez. And I ate the leftovers in the refrigerator, too."

"You wouldn't eat so much if you just slept, you freak," Peter growled, "Just make something. And go to sleep, for the love of god…"

There was silence for a few moments, and Peter felt himself dozing off again when his father asked, "…What do I make?"

"Alright, I'm up!" Peter said, sitting up. He kicked the blankets away, dislodging Walter from his perch to land on the floor with a thump.

"Ouch," Walter complained softly, knowing not to make a fuss now that he had acquired his way.

Scratching his stomach, Peter made his way down the hall and into the tiny kitchenette of the hotel room, swinging open the cabinet door with a smart crack. He reached inside, grabbing an instant ramen and pulling it out, "Do you see this?" He questioned flatly, holding the cup up in front of Walter's face, "This is food, you moron. Now make it." And he smacked it against his fathers' chest, "We keep food in cabinets, so you know where to look, next time."

Walter looked mildly offended, but left his thoughts silent; a rarity.

"Microwave, sink. Forks in the drawer," Peter pushed him toward the appliances, "Goodnight." And Peter turned away.

"Um," Walter interrupted, and Peter turned back to him sharply.

"Listen. I NEED SLEEP. It may not make a difference what time it is, to you, but we haven't all been in a lightless institution for a million freaking years, okay?!"

"Do you want one?" Walter asked quietly.

Peter paused, feeling his pulse surge a vein on his forehead as he bit the inside of his cheek until in bled, "Sure, Walter. Wonderful. We'll make it a tea party. You can be the Hatter."

"Your sarcasm stings, but still leaves my question unanswered."

"God I hate you!" Peter cried, pulling at his own mussed bangs, and he swept away, back to his bedroom, slamming the door. Walter took a seat at the counter, situating his bathrobe and pajamas patiently. The door slammed open again, and Peter emerged in the kitchen, snatching the ramen from his father and ripping it open, "You'd better like chicken, all we have is chicken!" He snarled.

"Chicken is fine, thank you," Walter smiled.

"I'm not doing this for you, okay?! I'm just too pissed off to sleep!" He continued to fill the Styrofoam cup with tap water, slamming it into the microwave.

"Agreeably so."

"And you're such an idiot, you'd burn me alive in my sleep!"

"It's a possibility."

Peter gripped Walter by the collar and shook him angrily, "If you agree with me one more time, I'll throw you crazy, old ass out the window, understand?! UNDERSTAND?!"

Walter looked at a loss, "What do you want me to say?!" He cried at last, "I don't want to go out of the window, Peter!"

"Unbelievable!" Peter released his collar, slamming his fist into the cabinetry. He let out a yelp, the surface being more solid than he had anticipated, and he cradled his hand to his chest. There was silence for a few moments, interrupted only by the nagging hum of the microwave.

"Are you alright, Peter?" Walter asked softly.

"No, Walter, I'm not. I can't take this anymore. I can't take you anymore. I think I'm going crazy, and my hand hurts like a bitch, okay?" Peter slumped against the cabinet, his eyes down turned as he struggled with his impulse to rip his father to pieces.

"Let me see your hand, Peter," Walter said, rising and reaching for his son, "You may have broken something."

"Don't touch me, you quack," Peter hissed softly, but he did not pull away as Walter took his hand in his own, and his palms were warm and callused with old burn scars, "I know I broke something."

"My heart doesn't count," Walter joked, his fingers moving calculatingly along Peter's knuckles, "Yes, I'd say you've fractured a few knuckles, broken your middle finger, as well. Boys will be boys, it's nothing that won't heal, in time," He sighed, "I'm going to need some bandages, to patch you up…"

"It's fine. Stop touching me."

Walter raised a brow, "You didn't inherit your fear of affection from me, did you?"

Peter glanced up sharply into his father's eyes, "Just your name. Nothing more."

Walter looked shocked a few moments, and a despondent smile touched his lips, "Yes, I deserved that. At the very least I should be able to take the verbal bashing, since you've spared me the physical one."

"Why, Walter?" Peter whispered, and pulled away, returning to his room quietly.

Walter stared at his son's door for what seemed forever, his words swept away in the traitorous winds of his mind. So much to say. He didn't deserve to say it. He was raised from his dismay only when the microwave gave a chime.