therealpm: (Default)
*Peter sits back in his chair and smirks smugly at the stack of papers in front of him. John's gift of a TV had been a greater boon than he'd expected. In his panic, John hadn't placed any wards on the TV at all, and so it had been a simple matter for Peter to 'adapt' the TV and the remote control to allow him to communicate with The Machine via a tele-text style interface. Peter did wonder whether anyone would notice, given teletext had been cancelled for a while, but apparently it appeared innocuous enough to pass under his guards' radars, and now, the fruits of The Machine's labours are stacked neatly before him on the desk. He hasn't had time to do more than frantically scribble down notes, but even this preliminary reading has suggested several new ways in which the potion might be improved, or at least rendered less likely to kill him; and who knows, if he survives this, he might even be able to get a paper out of it.  Grinning with anticipation, he picks up the first sheet and begins to work.*
therealpm: (fetch it your fucking self)
*Bored, he paces the cell.  The inedible remnents of Fiona's gift basket are stacked carefully out of the way in the fireplace, above which is tacked a hand drawn card from John's children. His legs and back ache, signalling that he's going to be changing form soon. He should, he supposes, get under the blankets and wait there, but John had been significantly less amenable to letting him out for at least short breaks than Peter had hoped: he's been kept alone in this room for days now and the confinement is making him restless.

A muscle in his flank spasms. He grits his teeth as others follow suit- it's starting. Hobbling, he makes his way over to the bed and burrows under a blanket, biting the edge to avoid crying out in pain as his form shifts.*
therealpm: (fetch it your fucking self)
*Peter paces the cell.  His legs ache from yesterday, but unlike his human form, his wolf form seems more inclined to walk it off rather than curl up in bed.

John had tried the dog food again this morning, and was once again rebuffed until he caved and brought down two packets of sausages, the potion and a bowl of fresh water.  Peter had tried to follow him out the door, whining that this cell was far too small for an adult wolf, but John clearly hadn't been paying attention as he'd nearly closed the damn thing on Peter's nose, leaving Peter to scratch forlornly at the wooden surface.*
therealpm: (Bercow incoming)
*Peter sits at his desk and stares at the courtyard outside, drumming his heels against the chair legs in a way that he hasn't really been bored enough to do since secondary school.  He's finished the paperwork along with his breakfast, drunk the potion, read and reread all the books and is now waiting for Dawn's shift to end so that he can investigate the wards again (she has a nasty habit of checking that he isn't doing anything he shouldn't, something that Lindsay is too trusting and the Tory too terrified to do).

He considers shape shifting again, but although with practice it's got easier, it's still very tiring and he doesn't like having the collar on display for anyone passing by the cell to see, so instead he sits at his desk, drumming his heels, and waiting.*
therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter sits at his desk and sulks.  He's already paced back and forth across the room 60 times (he counted), and is now waiting for the hour before he'll do so again.  It's become a bit of a ritual, something to break up the day and stretch his legs in the confined space of the cell. 

He glares at the stack of BIS work still left to do.  The stream of paper is seemingly neverending, and that's part of the problem.  There is never any sense that he has completed something- achieved anything indeed except knocked down one more briefing to a digestible size, with a thousand still to go.  He makes no decisions, alters no part of government policy, merely reads in, concatonates and writes out a one page summary in what is now perfect longhand.  He is bored out of his skull.

Peter hasn't tested the wards since Paddy was last on guard- all the guards since have been magical and rather more inclined to enquire as to what he is doing than previously.  He supposes John has warned them to be extra vigilant and the lack of even an illusion of privacy grates.  He hasn't managed to de-spell the phone either, and the knowledge that it has taken over a week to fail to do something he would normally be able to complete in under 10 minutes is yet one more frustration on top of the pile.  It is growing incresingly difficult for him to maintain his temper, to keep to the social niceties and not just snap at the next comment, change into the wolf and howl at the door.  But for now he bides his time with pacing and thinking up excessively creative means of revenge.*
therealpm: (weary)
*Peter works steadily thoughout the day.  His meeting with Jo is moderately productive, although he's slightly worried when she tells him Bryant has been snooping around.  He doesn't have enough magic to maintain a detailed glamour for more than a few minutes, but transformed he should be unidentifiable.

He therefore spends the afternoon under the blankets of his bed, attempting to practice the transition and make it as rapid and fluid as possible.  To his surprise, it is far harder for him to locate and draw up the wolf's form than it had been a few days ago.  He eventually manages to switch back and forth, but the effort drains him far more than it should and he drops off to sleep soon after.*
therealpm: (annoyed)
*Peter stirs awkwardly awake.  His right arm feels dead from being held above his head all night and he winces as he staggers to his feet, prodding the palm to try and get the blood flow to return. 

Yesterday had not been pleasant- Dawn had shackled him out of reach of his desk and Peter had been bored after the first 5 minutes without his briefings.  The following twelve hours, broken only by Black Rod's smirking arrival with food, had not been much better.*
therealpm: (Deep thoughts)
*The first thing Peter does is to ring George, partly because he misses him, partly because he's overheard whispers of a reshuffle and if anyone's going to have inside info, it's going to be George.  He still hasn't managed to crack the charms on the phone, but he moves the equations from the manuscript to campbell's book for safe keeping, reasoning that people were somewhat less likely to pick up and flick through the latter.

He ignores breakfast when it is brought.  Magical binding or not, Peter has read that some werewolves are able to transform voluntarily and if that's the case, then it's a weapon he means to add to his currently meagre arsenal.  He stares at his hands, trying to draw up the feeling of transformation.  Are the hairs on the back of his hands a little longer?  Perhaps not.  He refocuses and tries again.

By lunch time, Peter's famished and in need of a nap.  He's just about managed to get fur to grow, but his human self reasserts itself after about 5 seconds.  He collapses into a chair and almost inhales the plate of food, ignoring Black Rod's disapproving glare.  After lunch, he curls up on the bed and dozes off.*
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