7 am, 3rd September. Parliamentary prison cell

[therealpm]

*Peter wakes up several times during the night.  The bright sodium glare of the streetlights regularly tricking his brain into thinking it's dawn.  Eventually, he gets up, grabs a spare blanket and hangs it on the highest window bar he can reach.  It doesn't block all the light, but enough to let him sleep until morning.

The morning is not a happy one, Peter's mental stock taking: 'Owner: one.  Practically incurable disease: one.  Means to contact George: zero.' does not lend itself to cheer.  Now that he's less furious, he can feel his magic roiling beneath D'Souza's binding, giving him a continuous need to figit or find some other outlet for the pent up force.  He paces the room.*

Comments

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*He clenches his jaw, but says nothing, walking back to his cell as steadily as before, always two steps in front. By the time they reach the door, his mouth is a thin line of displeasure. However long they were in the court, it wasn't nearly enough. Still, he waits patiently as Frances waves aside the wards, and steps inside without prompting.*

[dasouzzle.livejournal.com]

*She lowers the wards behind him and restores him to visibility.*

If you clean yourself up perhaps John could be persuaded to take you out for a proper dinner tonight. With your magic bound you're not much of a flight risk, and he owes you an apology.

*There's an edge in her voice that suggests this apology will be forthcoming whether John feels moved to make it or not.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter inclines his head.*

I will need a razor.

[dasouzzle.livejournal.com]

You do, rather.

*Frances thinks for a moment. Shaving is not something she feels capable of doing magically without inviting unpleasant accidents, especially not when it involves someone else's face, and the Campbells had, with what for them constituted uncommon good sense, omitted the item from the toiletry kit they provided.*

*Ah well. She can always summon John's. She's used the toilet in the Bercows' flat before but she's never paid much attention to John's shaving supplies, so it takes her a while to locate them. But after a few moments of mentally groping through his cupboards a half-empty bag of disposable razors and a can of shaving cream appear in her hands.*

*She picks out a razor, gives it a dubious look, and hands it through the door to Peter along with the shaving cream.*

Here. Bring the razor back when you're finished, please. All of it.

*She leaves the obvious threat- that if he can't prove he can be trusted with it they'll leave him to spend the next two months looking like a hermit or a Liberal Democrat- unstated.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*He nods. He hasn't just spent the past half hour being good as gold to throw it all away on such an obvious deceit.*

Thank you, I assume these are John's? Would you mind providing a mirror over the sink as well, please?

[dasouzzle.livejournal.com]

They are. I'm sure he'd be happy to donate them for a good cause.

*Unlike shaving, a mirror is easy enough to supply through magic. She waves her wand and a rectangle of air above the sink becomes perfectly reflective.*

I don't know why we didn't think of doing that earlier. There's no danger of you shattering that and turning it into a shiv.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*He deadpans,*

I'm not Gordon.

*then picks up a suit, and wanders into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him and showering quickly.

The room's sink has no plug, perhaps John thought he would use the chain as a garrotte, which makes things somewhat more difficult; and when Peter looks at the mirror he sees it has no depth. He is careful not to let his disappointment that the mirror is air rather than glass show (because if several years in New Labour teach you anything it's that people are always watching) and instead focuses on removing his unwelcome beard as efficiently as possible.

Shaved and suited, he exits the bathroom and hands the razor back; his face a picture of perfectly poised politeness.*

[dasouzzle.livejournal.com]

*Frances accepts the razor and sends John's shaving cream back to his flat, since she doesn't know if he has a second can. Besides, Peter can probably think of a way to fashion shaving cream into a projectile weapon, if he is sufficiently bored and motivated. Judging by his impeccable behaviour over the past few hours, he certainly is.*

Do you feel a bit more yourself? You look it, anyway.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter fiddles with his cufflinks. They're an alloy of some sort, and probably have a bit of silver mixed in as they sting his fingers a little.*

Yes, thank you.