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: (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: (Thinking)
*Peter is bored.  Very bored.  Nigel has been replaced by Dawn, who alternates between ignoring and threatening him with being re-shackled if he as much as pokes a toe out of line, so he's been unable to do anythin other than read through a seemingly endles series of briefings which, whilst preferable to having no connection to the power of a ministerial role, do tend to blur into a neverending screed of civil service speak.*
therealpm: (I don't think so)
The necessity to avoid attending public appearances in person is beginning to grate, though it does provide ample validation of The Machine's projectile capabilities.

The other project progresses apace, or at the very least, generates copious piles of notes. Certain matters of sport have provided an amusing distraction.
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