therealpm: (dazed)
*When Peter comes round, The Machine's display springs to life, helpfully informing him of the temperature, pressure, likelihood of rain (which Peter deems to be frankly ridiculous, under the circumstances) and phase of the moon.

It's nearly full.

By this time last month, Peter would be about to transform.  He reaches out to his wolf form, trying to draw up the now familiar claws.  Instead he gets... nothing.  Well, almost nothing.  His nails lengthen a little.

He frowns, curious and now somewhat more awake.  Something else doesn't seem quite right either.  After a brief investigation, it seems that he is not only on his side (a now unusual state of affairs), but he also lacks any sort of clothing.

therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter's head feels groggy.  He's been taking the new painkillers for three days now, and has spent much of his time in a supine haze, unable to feel any pain.  At first he was able to concentrate enough to hold conversations with The Machine when John was out of the room, but as time progressed he became steadily more detached- floating free in his own imagination.

Today, though, John is late with the painkillers and the opiate fog is beginning to wear off.  The pain in his veins and accompanying feeling of being nibbled from the inside out has died down since the beginning of treatment- Peter supposes that either he has become accustomed to it, or his wolf form has mostly died and there is little left for the mixture to attack.  What is new is a feeling of dampness under his shoulders, sacrum and heels, that sticks and stings when he tries to move.  He turns his head and sniffs.  The sheets smell appalling and he can just see a spreading sickly yellow stain out of the corner of his eye.  He gags, and tries to call for someone, but his mouth is dry.  Rattling the restraints does little beyond reminding him of the bruising on his wrists and ankles.  He tries to shift from the dampness slightly, and resigns himelf to waiting.*
therealpm: (smug)
*Sitting in the back of a vehicle with blacked out windows, huddled up once more in a hoodie far too broad for him, Peter looks across at Alastair and smirks.  Alastair thinks they're going for the equivalent of a jog around the park, and Peter has been careful not to indicate otherwise.  Today is going to be horrible, but watching Alastair slowly lose the will to live is going to make it utterly worth it.*
therealpm: (annoyed)
*The first thing that Peter notices when he wakes up is that he can't move.  The second thing he notices is the pain that shoots through his limbs when he tries.  On further attempts, he finds out that the first isn't strictly true (which is good, because if John or Nigel or anyone else had put some sort of physical binding spell on him on top of all the other restrictions then he might just have had to find a way to kill them with his brain)- moving is just very very difficult and very very slow. 

Black Rod has already delivered breakfast- it's steaming gently on the other side of the room, which right now might as well be half way up Ben Nevis for all that Peter can get to it. He shifts one leg sideways.  Slowly, so slowly, then winces as his foot hits the cold carpet.  After what seems like an hour but was probably less than a minute, the other leg follows and Peter rolls himself upright, suppressing the urge to groan.  Wasn't he meant to have got all this aching business out of the way yesterday?  He certainly felt like he'd had more than his fair share of muscle cramps and spasms.

He manages to drag one of the blankets around his shoulders- warmth is mean to help with this sort of thing, isn't it?- and pauses.  He's going to have to stand up.  And then walk.  Steeling himself, he tells his legs very firmly that they're going to have to move.


Eventually he collapses in the chair.  It provides, he decides, an under-appreciated view of the room and he ought to stay here for some time.  Not bothering with the knife, he stabs... well, slowly nudges the fork into some bacon and settles the blanket more securely about his person.

This is ridiculous, even chewing hurts.*
therealpm: (Confused)
*Peter wakes up feeling groggy and disorientated.  Although not as bone tired as yesterday, his muscles still ache and cramp.  Something nags at the back of his mind, something important that he needed to do and he rubs his eyes, mentally replaying yesterday's events, trying to remember.  The first memory that surfaces- being shoved into the wards by Alastair, causes him to shudder and wince.

His fringe drops in his eyes and he pushes it back, noting with distaste the grittiness of mud on his scalp.  Still trying to recall what it was yesterday, he heads off to the shower, limbs protesting against the effort and back stiffened straight more from cramp than good posture.

It is not until he is beginning to wash his hair for the third time (he hasn't felt so filthy since secondary school and it is not pleasant), that he remembers: the conference.*


*He finishes washing, then towels of and dresses rapidly, nearly running (well, hobbling quickly) to the phone.*

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


my presence is required at Labour conference next weekend.  Cancelling not an option.  At least one of the events is after dark.

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