20th September, 10 am. Prison cell.

[therealpm]

*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.*

Comments

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter whips round at the sound of the newspapers landing on the bed, and his eyes light up. News. Proper news about the world outside, not the carefully edited stuff fed to him via briefings. He barely notices Fowler collapsing into a chair, but absentmindedly thanks the man, then settles down happily with the first broadsheet.*