Fringe ficlet: Say Cheese
Title: Say Cheese
Fandom: Fringe
Characters: Walter Bishop, mentions of others (see below)
Spoilers: Insane spoilers for season 4. If you’ve seen the first two episodes, you’re safe.
Notes: Written for the ghost story challenge at great_tales
Walter is making a cheese sandwich when he sees him for the first time.
Rye bread. He doesn’t know why he likes it so much, but it’s delicious. He slathers on some butter with a scalpel, then arranges the slices of cheddar onto the bread as best he can. It would have been better to have some Swiss as well, but he’ll make do.
Astrid should never have left him alone with the hot plate. Then again, if she had hidden it, he would have used the blow torch, and that would have left an even bigger mess.
“Say cheese,” Walter says merrily, and picks up his unfinished sandwich, turning to the hot plate.
There’s a man’s face on it, staring at him. It’s not like Jesus on a potato chip or Marilyn Monroe in a head of lettuce. The man’s face is clearly visible, and he’s moving.
“Walter. Help me.”
Walter abruptly drops the sandwich, the bread obscuring the metal surface, and he tries to wipe the butter from his shaking hands. He turns away and starts mixing up some more LSD, casting anxious glances back at his slowly toasting lunch.
It’s going to be one of those days.
Fandom: Fringe
Characters: Walter Bishop, mentions of others (see below)
Spoilers: Insane spoilers for season 4. If you’ve seen the first two episodes, you’re safe.
Notes: Written for the ghost story challenge at great_tales
Walter is making a cheese sandwich when he sees him for the first time.
Rye bread. He doesn’t know why he likes it so much, but it’s delicious. He slathers on some butter with a scalpel, then arranges the slices of cheddar onto the bread as best he can. It would have been better to have some Swiss as well, but he’ll make do.
Astrid should never have left him alone with the hot plate. Then again, if she had hidden it, he would have used the blow torch, and that would have left an even bigger mess.
“Say cheese,” Walter says merrily, and picks up his unfinished sandwich, turning to the hot plate.
There’s a man’s face on it, staring at him. It’s not like Jesus on a potato chip or Marilyn Monroe in a head of lettuce. The man’s face is clearly visible, and he’s moving.
“Walter. Help me.”
Walter abruptly drops the sandwich, the bread obscuring the metal surface, and he tries to wipe the butter from his shaking hands. He turns away and starts mixing up some more LSD, casting anxious glances back at his slowly toasting lunch.
It’s going to be one of those days.