therealpm: (Confused)
*Peter sips his very milky tea and does his best to ignore Miles, who is chattering away about a "very good physiotherapist, he lives in the next village.  I'll give him a ring and see if he can come round today."  Eventually, he points out that actually, he is perfectly capable of walking and doesn't need any assistance; a notion that Miles quickly shoots down by reminding him of his ill-fated attempts to get out of the car and walk up the garden path by himself yesterday.

His mood further deteriorates when Miles points out that being a werewolf would be an excellent hallowen costume.  There's a pang of loss at the thought of his other form, which he doesn't quite know how to deal with.  Instead, he gets out his phone, ignoring Miles' protestations about work at the breakfast table and texts John:*

Text from 07### ######

Bercow,

I haven't died.
Miles is somehow managing to be even more annoying than you.
wish the children a Happy Hallowe'en for me.

-Mandelson
therealpm: (Confused)
*Peter stares at the ceiling, bored out of his mind.  The expenses story has been satisfactorially steered away from John, and now he has nothing to do.  He tugs at the restrainst again, no luck.*
therealpm: (Thinking)
*He's been told he has another inspection today- apparently it was delayed by a combination of staff cuts and his extended transformation, so Peter's dressed up in one of his better suits and tied his necktie loose enough that the collar can be inspected if necessary.

Bored for lack of work to do- Jo hasn't delivered the next tranch of paperwork yet and he's read all the books, he picks up The Machine's readouts and tries to work out precisely what got him into this mess in the first place.*
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: (smug)
*Peter stares at his desk, filled with smug satisfaction.  He's finished the briefs.  All of them.  Even the extra ones the civil servants dug out of the back of an old filing cabinet in order to keep him busy.

He stretches and winces as his joints pop.  Far too much time spent hunched over a desk, but really, what else was there to do?  Besides read Alastair's laughably inaccurate and self aggradising diaries, of course.

He cups his chin in his hands and sends a tendril of magic out to explore the wards.  They've died back a bit since John's panicked reinforcements a few days ago, but they're still far stronger than they'd been before.  Still, no wall was without its weak spots.

Careful not to draw Lindsay's attention, Peter closes his eyes and tentatively explores the wards a little further.*
therealpm: (I'm listening)
*Peter scratches his way through the summary of yet another brief.  Apparently he is ahead of what the BIS civil servants had estimated he would be able to summarise.  A small satisfaction.

He stretches his hand and stares out the window, willing away the cramping up his forearm and takes another sip of water.*
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.*
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