Matters of Perception

This story is for entertainment purposes only. FRINGE is the property of Bad Robot, Warner Brothers Television, and the Fox Broadcasting Company. No infringement is intended.

Based on spoilers and speculation I've been reading in the online Fringe-verse, all of which now seem to be wrong… how is Walter Bishop faring without the steadying hand of his son? Not well at all, but what at first seems to be a terrible event may prove his salvation… and Peter's.

1.

It had, in Walter Bishop's opinion, started out fairly innocently. He didn't think much of it when he first heard the voice. He had been stoned, after all – a special blend he'd mixed called Brown Betty.

He'd been stoned most of his adult life, really, but in the last few months, since the bridge had appeared, Walter found that being stoned 24/7 was vastly preferable to the sobriety required to deal with his alter, and with the events that had occurred. He didn't even know why Walternate – as they'd come to call him on his team – hated him, but hate him he did, with a vehemence that chilled Walter to the marrow. "It was an accident," he had told him when they were first confronted with each other; he didn't know why he'd said that, but it felt like the truth.

Fringe events had been happening at a furious pace since then. For some reason, they all believed that the exact opposite should be happening. After all, didn't the Bridge bring at least a semblance of balance to the universes? Walter never gave much thought to exactly how the Bridge had come to exist; it just was.

Luckily, they hadn't had to amber any of the tears so far. They had feared they might have to when Reiden Lake suddenly drained of its own accord. No warning, no word, no sudden climatic cataclysm; it just simply drained, leaving a frozen caldera in its wake. Reading the report filed by the local authorities, Walter found a portion of it had been intercepted and redacted by the Department of Defense. When he asked Agent Olivia Dunham why, she simply shrugged and said, "Government stuff, I guess. You know how they are – it was probably a missile dump site or something." Walter was satisfied with that answer. Olivia Dunham worked for the government.

Agent Astrid Farnsworth had been getting ready to leave for the day, and turned to Walter. "Walter, do you need a lift home? It's on my way."

Walter's eyes widened. He always dreaded this time of day; he barely managed to get himself out the door of his house to get in the car with Olivia every morning. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to leave the house; he didn't exactly think it was fear, though. It was more like an overwhelming sense of the familiar, a need to stay where he felt safe.

He supposed that would be called fear; he preferred to call it practicality. He was needed, essential, to the fringe event investigations. Why should he risk his safety by leaving the house, when he had built a perfectly serviceable lab in the unused – but strangely comforting – attic room at home?

Astrid's voice interrupted his reverie. "Walter? Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, yes, dear," he said irritably. "Uh… what did you say again?"

Astrid controlled the urge to roll her eyes. "Walter," she said gently, "Have you been using?"

"Using? Why, no, of course not! I wouldn't compromise the integrity of my work by performing under the influence! I'm not some college-aged stoner, doing experiments for laughs. I… "

Walter…

He heard the voice – a soft, male voice, gently scolding, but amused – as clear as day. He looked behind him, but saw no one. He looked to Astrid. "What is it, Walter?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said abruptly. "I'd like to go home now, please."

He said nothing else all the way home.

Walter quadruple-locked the door as soon as Astrid left. He didn't think he was rude to her; he just needed to be alone. Or not alone, as the case may be. "Hello?" he called out, half-expecting an answer without knowing why. When none came, he looked at the clock; it was 11:10pm. "Time for bed," he said aloud again, and shuffled up the stairs.

Too tired to shower before bed, or even turn on a light, he shed his clothes by the light of the moon streaming through his bedroom window. He climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin as he lay on his back and stared at the web of shadows created on the ceiling by the tree limbs outside. He was so tired, but as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was wide awake.

He tried humming some of his favorite Violet Sedan Chair tunes. He tried reciting the recipe for Coca Cola (complete with the secret ingredient). Nothing worked.

… Get some rest…

Paralyzed with something like fear, but not quite, he looked to either side of him without turning his head. No one there. "Crazy old man," he muttered accusatorily to himself, then went back to the task of getting to sleep. "Zero… one… one… two… three… five …eight… thirteen… twenty-one… thirty-four… fifty-five… "

Row, Row, Row, your boat… gently down the stream…

Tears filled Walter's eyes, and yet, for some reason, he couldn't say he was afraid. "Hello?"

… It's me… stop talking and close your eyes, okay?

Nonsense. "Eighty-nine… one hundred forty-four… "

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream…

He should be afraid. He knew that. But he knew that voice. He loved that voice. And he would be perfectly content to stay right there in his bed, stay right here in this house, and never leave, as long as that voice – that comforting, slightly exasperated voice – never left, either.

And so, Walter Bishop decided there and then, that he never would.