Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

It was raining outside. Peter was floating in nothing, spreading his mind out across the sea of emptiness. He wasn't wet. Though he was covered by it and laid in it, he remained dry. He was soaked with tears of guilt and covered with the salt of depression, but the water of purity, falling from heaven, never touched him.

As a child, his mother had offered up several hundred explanations for the weather. A thunderstorm was heaven's marching band, or, on occasion, a young angel's temper tantrum. A snowstorm? – God's dandruff, or run off from making snow cones up in heaven, since their seasons were different than on earth. And the rain? The rain was heaven crying. There was never another explanation to choose – when it rained, God was sad.

Peter wondered if God was crying now – even if he didn't believe, it was logical. After all, an angel had been lost today, and if the stories were true, God loved every human like his own child, and every angel was dear to him.

If it was his fault the angel was gone, would God send him to hell? Peter was pretty sure that was what he deserved. After all, if it hadn't been for him, that angel would still be here, smiling, laughing, brightening up the world. Well, not smiling or laughing – she did take things too seriously. But she would be there, protecting the world so that others could smile and laugh.

Peter struggled to remember if there had been rain after the others. Probably not. Not for Walter – who, despite his good intentions, had single handedly managed to ruin the world for so many people. After all, the tottering old man had once been a sane, if eccentric, young man who had experimented on hundreds of people, giving them talents that weren't normal, weren't acceptable. And his violent outbursts gave glimpses into the dangerous ways his mind worked. If she was an angel, then he was a demon.

And Astrid? She could be a saint, putting up with Walter's mood swings, cravings, outbursts, and forgetfulness. But you had to be voted on to become a saint, and no one would choose her – a not particularly religious young woman who helped a scientist who stood for everything that the Church did not – so no rain. Maybe a drizzle, for the loss of someone so smart, so promising, so sweet and caring. Certainly the angel had cried, as he carved the name into the wooden block and placed it in the mountains – a headstone on a nonexistent grave. She may not have been dead then, but once lost, it was only a matter of time.

There would be no tears for him, when he left. The sun would probably shine all the brighter – another demon was gone from the world. But he wasn't bitter – he had no scruples about what he was or what he had done. Still, he didn't think a demon should mourn so much for the loss of an angel. Shouldn't the demons be happy that there was one fewer to ruin their plans? But not him – never him.

It wasn't fair, how easily they had lost. How quickly they had been forgotten, ignored, then trampled out. What were they really, without their government given rights and special permissions? When the government had decided they were no longer useful, what was left? Just four people with a penchant for finding strange things. Two of them were demons, one was a saint, and one was an angel. Hell, he'd let Astrid be an angel too, because despite her dealings with the devil she was.

But without the government backing them up, instead of informed scientists, they became raving lunatics, spouting impossible facts and theories at anyone who would listen. Grabbing people off the streets and trying to explain how they weren't mad, all the stuff labeled "fantasy" was actually fact, and they happened to be the only four people in the world willing to speak up. People would listen, all right, but no one believed.

He wondered if this was how Walter had felt, when everyone had shunned him, and his own son told him he was insane and needed help. Did he feel the same emptiness, the same helplessness that Peter felt now? How could he go on? He was just one person, trying to bring down hundreds of powerful corporations and three governments. If the four of them together had little hope, he alone had none. After all, he couldn't even keep the angel safe.

He could survive – he was good at that. But that wasn't his specialty. Sure, he had spent years doing just that – surviving. But what Peter Bishop truly excelled in? That would be revenge. And it would be sweet.

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