The following is, I believe, my first fic based solely on the episode sneak peek. I'm sure tomorrow night's episode will blow this theory to bits, but for now... enjoy!

The Oracle of Pie

The pie, in the decade in which this sample was made, might be labeled unique by some. Or those without functioning taste buds. Someone purposely offered this offensive substance as nourishment to the weary traveler, taking his meager dollars in exchange for the sort of dessert they must serve in hell. By the third bite, a feat of polite determination, it works up to the level of revolting.

And yet he chews.

Unrecognizable faces peer from the corner booths of the diner, while the long stretch of Windex-splattered bar is left to the solitary man chugging milk to aid the pie's downward journey. The crust is fighting him, but the gelatinous cream capping the fruit-ish mass helps fractionally. He's a moment from coughing up the inedible substance taking root on his tongue but the waitress looks so forlorn, as though she'd made the damnable thing herself.

He wants to blend in. So he swallows. Hard.

That his phone rings again is something of an annoyance to the gathering, each minding their wisely pie-less business, sipping coffees and asking after relatives. Each newly arrived local who approaches the young man makes a point of asking if he's just passing through. This is a town of private sheriffs and the attention makes him nervous. Still, it's a peaceful place, clearly not known for pastry items but the view of ancient trees guarding the small parking lot is refreshing. The air is invigorating. The scenery is inspiring.

The pain is excruciating.

The phone is switched to vibrate and when the shaking at his hip becomes more disturbing than the pie, he opts for silent. Seventeen messages in two days and he's barely made it out of the region. The runner is doing what he knows best but others seem to think he should provide some sort of commentary as he goes. Where are you? When will you be back? Will you please just return one message already? They don't understand that some secrets can swallow a man whole. The digestion process requires distance. More distance than he's achieved thus far but he'll go no further today. He's lifetime of pure tired.

Too tired to think. Can't stop thinking.

The old man's messages would have been several fascinating shades of frantic, had he left any. He suspects there are no more words more profound than his own. You are not my father. Olivia's messages range from painfully understanding to faintly militant. He'll call when he's ready. Or he won't. Part of him strives for a righteous fury to which his kind can lay no believable claim. Most of him is merely numb, settling for disappointment that leeches toward indifference. So what if she knew? Had to know. Must have known. Objects from the other side glow when out of place. He's out of place. He glows. That she lied is almost insignificant now.

All that matters is pie.

Not far enough south to be considered rednecks but nonetheless worthy of some manner of offensive nickname, the people converging on all sides prepare to either lynch the stranger or invite him to Sunday dinner. It's an anorexic line he's walked many times and he considers actually paying for the atrocious slice of stomach erosion. A tip is out of the question. Nice people, perhaps, but poison on a plate is not to be rewarded.

Death comes in many entertaining forms.

Apparently a version of him is cold in the ground and he's never been more envious. There's something appealing about the life of a corpse; the silence, the solitude and no one bothers to call. The intrusion of vibration has him abandoning the stool, the diner and the witnesses to his crime of loitering in the wrong dimension. The screen says a new tactic is being employed. The least culpable among them calls now, undoubtedly leaving a soft, understanding message. Astrid won't beg for his attention but she'll imply its need strongly. Maybe if he runs faster, he'll find a place out of signal range.

He doesn't get far.

It's possible that the Pattern has attached itself to his shadow because it's clearly following him. A case, of all things, will halt his marathon and tripping over evidence that would excite the stranger secluded in a Boston lab, Peter's microscopic nobility wars with the suffocation inherent in acting responsibly and he curses the finger that dials. The recipient of his hostile request is surprised but immediately intrigued. And compliant with the missing man's wish for anonymity. A little help for the fine people who create horrible baked goods but smile as though it's an admirable flaw. He should feel good about this.

But this can't end well.

Anger is useful. Letting the clenched fist relax long enough to aid others is dangerous. It leaves him defenseless and shamefully exposed. Broyles can't be trusted to not give away his position and sparing lives is barely sufficient for the sacrifice. He just wants to be left alone. Wounds are best licked in private, hidden from the prying eyes of those who inflicted the damage. They will apologize. They will excuse.

And he's so afraid he will forgive.

Two steps from the car that his assumed identity procured, the pie makes an unfortunate return and his stomach is quickly divested of what little had been stored there. Crust and filling lay before moist eyes in a mockery of every secret they couldn't hold down. He should have died as a boy. He should have died on that bridge. He should die now, only he lacks the fortitude to follow through. The same lie drove his mother to her grave in the time of her choosing. What he'd presumed to be weakness is now counted as strength; she named her day. Perhaps when this inconvenient matter is over, he'll name his day. But not today.

He'll be damned if sinister pie will be his last meal.