23rd September, 5:30 pm, prison cell.

[therealpm]

*Peter drags himself through the cell door and falls face first on the bed.  His hair is plastered to his skull with rainwater and the rest of his clothes are similarly sodden.  It has not been a good day.

When John had acquiested to Peter's begging requests to be allowed out of his cell more frequently, Peter had naturally assumed that it would be nothing more taxing than a stroll around a park.  Or some woodland.  At the most, a quick jaunt up Box Hill, then back again.  He hadn't reckoned on John's usually hidden, but well nourished, streak of sadism.  Nor on Paddy's ability to instill sheer terror and the desire to run with nothing more than a soft growl.

It had definitely not been a good day.

The heavy rain had turned the cross country assault course to a muddy swamp- difficult and filthy to wade through.  The shoes and clothes he'd been issued were ruined.  Normally Peter would have been in the shower like a shot, scrubbing off the dirt with fervant zeal, but right now he was just too tired.  His legs ache.  His arms ache.  His back, feet, hands, neck... even his forehead aches from squinting against the ever present rain.  And he is cold.

Ignoring the mess he's making of the blankets, Peter kicks off his shoes and wraps himself up in the covers, shivering.  Paddy had promised another session 'at some point this week'.  Peter wonders whether a silver bullet wouldn't be preferable.*

Comments

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter draws the covers up to his chin- the warmth may be uncomfortable, but it's still better than the bone-deep chill he suffered before. Forgetting his prior decision not to argue, he responds as icily as a man can manage when curled up under a tartan blanket.*

I fail to see how it is any of your business whether I shower now, later, or not at all.

[dasouzzle.livejournal.com]

It wouldn't be, except I know that if you go to sleep in wet clothes you're going to be miserable tomorrow and it's more pleasant to guard you when you're in a decent mood.

Come along. I'll have your bed all nice and clean again for you when you come out.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter glares again, but he's too tired to stare her down properly and has to look away.*

Fine. Just so long as you leave me alone to sleep afterwards.

*He kicks the blankets off- they look ruined from all the mud and drags himself out of bed. It's a very slow process, all of his muscles seem to have turned to wood. He fumbles for some clothes in the chest of drawers, but despite the warmed blankets his fingers still haven't properly unfrozen yet and it takes longer than it should.

Eventually he trudges off to the shower, dumping his muddy clothes in one corner and slumping under the jet of water. The warm water feels like it's scalding his skin, but as he warms up it shifts to being more bearable. His arms are so tired that he doesn't do more than ruffle his hair to get most of the muck out- shampoo and soap will have to wait for another day. Eventually he gets out and wraps himself in a towel, resting a little, getting ready for the arduous task of Putting On Clothes.*

[dasouzzle.livejournal.com]

*While Peter is occupied in the shower, Frances sets to work on the bed. Her time doing field research in the developing world taught her some decent laundry spells, but manually separating the dirt from fabric doesn't give it that satisfying, crisp smell of cleanliness it gets from washing powder, and she did promise Peter a clean bed. She strips the linens from the bed with a wave of her wand and sends them down the hall to John's bathtub. Sally won't be ecstatic, but it serves John right for letting Paddy overtax Peter so badly. A quick summoning from the Bercow's linen cupboard supplies her with a replacement set, and she makes the bed and fluffs Peter's pillows for him with another wave of her wand.*

*The blankets are going to be more of a challenge, probably beyond the capacity of the Bercows' washing machine. Frances casts her mud removal spell, which leaves her with a pile of mud the size of a cowpat and some rather bedraggled looking blankets. That won't do. She banishes the mud out the window and dumps the blankets into the Bercows' washtub along with Peter's filthy sheets and gropes around their flat for a replacement. It seems Sally hasn't replaced the set from their spare room that they lent to Peter- that bed just has sheets on it. But on the top shelf of their linen cupboard Frances finds a few spares.*

*When she spreads them on Peter's bed she finds out why they were spares- they have little snowmen printed all over them. Oh well. At least they're dry and they look warm. And he won't be able to see how tasteless they are in the dark.*

*Hopefully he's too tired to care.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*When the towel has absorbed most of the moisture, Peter levers himself upright and painstakingly gets dressed. He gives his hair a quick towelling off, leaving it sticking up at odd angles, then drops the towel next to his sodden training clothes and wanders out of the bathroom.

He gives Frances a quick nod of acknowledgement, then tumbles beneath the covers and is asleep almost immediately, utterly exhausted.*

[dasouzzle.livejournal.com]

*He's too tired even to see the blankets, as it turns out. Won't he have a surprise waiting for him in the morning.*

*Frances smiles and turns out the light in the cell, and then settles down at the desk with her reading to guard him through the night.*