therealpm: (Bercow incoming)
Received confirmation that I have been removed from the no-fly list. Welcome news, albeit delivered within one of the most patronising letters I have ever had the misfortune to receive.

Corfu beckons.
therealpm: (Confused)
*Peter groans as he wakes up: his arm, though now free of the IV, still feels cramped and sore. His brief elation at remembering his newfound freedom is tempered by the sight of an 'innocently' smiling Miles sitting next to his bed, cradling a steaming cup of tea. He sits up and a brief struggle ensues, with Miles crying indignantly for Peter to get his own cup before eventually relenting and handing his younger brother the mug. Peter nearly scalds his mouth as he gulps the brew down greedily, though he only manages half a cup before his stomach protests and he begins to feel sick.*

You took your time.

"Your minion only phoned me last night. Look... Peter, if you're going to do ridiculously stupid things like turn yourself into a mythological creature or stand for Parliament, you could at least keep me informed."

I didn't turn myself... and I can't believe you're still harping on about that. I told you, I was very busy, and I-

*His sentence is cut off by a tactical hug from Miles.*

"Anyway, I had a chat with John and that DEFRA person last night.  You're all clear to go home, which means I'm taking you home.  To Asby."

*Peter's protests are cut off by another hug*

"You are not well enough to stay by yourself, and you are not staying here.  I've already packed most of your things.  Once you're ready to go we'll get you dressed and wheeled down to the car."

...I want to take Jack.

"Fine.  The dogs could do with more company anyway.  Who's taking care of him at the moment?"

Fiona and Alastair.

".... never make things easy, do you?  Fine. We'll stop by theirs and pick up Jack.  But that's it."

*They bicker for a little longer as Peter slowly finishes the tea.*
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: (annoyed)
*Peter scowls as two DEFRA lackeys remove his bed and replace it with a hospital gurney, stomach still aching from the purging potion he'd been advised to take the night before (the DEFRA official's comment of 'You'll regret not taking it once you're strapped in." had not made the potion any more palatable, nor its effects less unpleasant).  His scowl only deepens as he notices the straps- heavy and made of the same stuff as the collar, that hang from various points of the thick iron frame and a board on one side that looks like it functions as a very spartan arm rest.  He's been given some loose cotton clothing to wear- his own possessions have been tidied out the door along with the bed.  Peter did protest the books but was brusquely informed that he'd not be in any state to read them.  The only thing left, apart from a cleared desk is the TV.

A side glance out the door shows two IV stands, several boxes containing tubing, needles bags both empty and full of various fluids, a neat stack of blankets and one very nervous nurse in the corridor outside his cell.  The nurse seems to be sticking some sort of clipboard to his door and trying to explain something to Lindsay, who just looks baffled.  Meanwhile, all the carpet in the room except for a small strip under the desk has been cut and rolled away.  The stone below has been sterilised and bolts put in to hold the gurney in place.  Peter supposes that stone is easier to wipe clean of any fluids than carpet and the thought makes him feel slightly sick.*
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