therealpm

*Peter peers at the door and nearly groans. Unlike John, Ali and Fiona delight in knowing that they're not wanted and no amount of ignoring them is likely to make them go away. He considers using the speak and spell, but there's a slim chance he might actually survive the cure and be around to experience the endless mockery that will ensue if they catch him using a child's toy.

As Lindsay carefully unlocks the door and lets them in, he burrows further under the blankets and shifts back. It's not as easy this time. He's still worn out from the first shift (the lack of food hasn't helped) and neither form particularly wants to switch, but after a few painful minutes during which Alastair looks nauseous and Fiona merely curious, he shoves the blankets off his face and pulls on one of the shirts that he keeps by the bed (one little known fact about werewolves is their tendency to chache clothes everywhere, for obvious reasons). One polite cough to request a moment of privacy later, and he has boxers and trousers on too.*

Didn't sleep well, Alastair, that's all. How did Conference go?

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Better than it has in years! Ed gave the best conference speech I've heard since your last one, you should have seen it- *Belatedly, she notices the television on the wall.* Oh, I see you made John install a TV. I should have known you wouldn't miss it even if you were trapped in a prison cell.

*She looks back at Peter's face. He's not wearing the expression of smug triumph she'd expect at this victory over his jailers. In fact, he's not wearing any expression at all.*

Peter, what's wrong? This isn't just about Ed slagging off New Labour in his speech, is it? If you lot didn't want people saying you were too cosy with vested interests you should have been less crap at regulating the banks. Anyway that was Ed Balls, not you.

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A TV in a prison cell? What extraordinary luxury. I suppose it might make him ultimately easier to rehabilitate if he's kept in touch with the real world. Still, don't tell the Daily Mail.

Yeah, Peter, spill the beans. Or at least look like you're happy to see us, for god's sake.

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*Peter gives a half hearted shrug and considers his options. They're not going to be fooled if he tells them nothing's wrong, but he might be able to throw them off the scent a bit.*

The first night, the two people...

*He looks up at the two of them, twisting his fingers anxiously.*

...one of them's disabled from the neck down. I... I don't know about the other.

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*Fiona sighs, and goes to wrap her arms around him. He seems thin, despite the food parcels.*

I'm sorry, Peter.

*That could have been Alastair. But Peter obviously needs them right now, so she carefully files that thought in the back of her mind to freak out about later.*

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*When he hears what's happened, Alastair pulls away instinctively, feeling faintly nauseous. He watches Fiona offer Peter a hug, glad that she's the one to do it so he won't have to. He's not sure what to say, so he echoes Fiona's words flatly.*

I'm sorry.

*It's frustrating, not being able to help. At least before, they managed to bring Peter things, to make a bit of a difference. He can't make a difference to this.*

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*Peter accepts the hug gratefully, staring at the floor, then lets out a choked up half laugh, half sob.*

I'm not sure sending a card is appropriate, d'you think...?

Edited Date: 2012-10-08 05:17 pm (UTC)

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I don't think they make "Sorry I tried to eat you while I was a werewolf" cards, no. Limited demand, you see.

Nor are they likely to be eager to hear from you at this point. Give it some time, Peter.

*She gently pushes him back to sit on the bed and sits down beside him, putting her arm around him again. Alastair has edged back against the wall, probably thinking about his own near miss. She can't blame him. Still, it's a bit odd to find Peter so shook up by the misfortunes of others, even when he's the cause. He's a man of many virtues but compassion is not usually among them.*

*Then again, he has been confined to a cell for the past month with little to think about beside the harm he's done. Perhaps prison works after all.*

Edited Date: 2012-10-08 05:25 pm (UTC)

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*Alastair watches them sit down together and thinks about joining them - he wouldn't even have to touch Peter, just sit beside him and say maybe something nice, to help him relax. But his stomach is turning. There but for the grace of God...*

Well, there's not much that can be done now. Don't you have menial paperwork and things to take your mind off it?

*More than anything, Alastair wants his own mind taking off it. If only Peter would just say something bitchy and go back to normal. Alastair didn't have to come here, and now he's being made to feel bad about something done by Peter to a person he doesn't even know? Sod that.*

Go on, stop sulking. Dwelling on this won't make you feel better.

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*It feels like a punch to the gut. It's true, Peter muses, that ruining the lives of two people isn't the only thing he's upset about. Perhaps, he notes with a twinge of guilt, not the thing he's most upset about, either. But still.

He breathes deeply through his nose. Crying or screaming will get him no where. Instead he grits his teeth.*

I'm so terribly sorry for being upset at ruining the lives of two people and very nearly making it three! I'll try and be more cheery about leaving someone paralysed and almost doing the same, or worse, to you in future, shall I?

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*Fiona tries to decide whether it's better for Peter to be miserable or furious. Probably furious. That's what she'd prefer in his place. The glare she gives Alastair is therefore slightly less frosty than it would have been otherwise.*

Ali's a dick, but he's not wrong. Moping won't fix anything. If you want to help them, start figuring out how we win the next election so we can stop Jeremy Cunt from selling off their healthcare to the highest bidder. And fucking eat something. You're skin and bone, Peter!

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*Alastair scowls at Peter.*

You could be as cheery as you like if it had never happened in the first place. But if you must have regrets, be a love and keep them to yourself for now, all right? It's unseemly. You don't even remember what happened. I do, and I don't need you reminding me.

*He meets Fiona's glare gratefully, nods in agreement, and glances round the room to catch sight of an untouched steak in Peter's food bowl.*

I'm never wrong. You really should eat something, Peter - what happened to that crazy appetite the first few days, hmm? Can't pulverise Tories properly on an empty stomach.

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*Peter scowls at the floor.*

I've got... scraps of the first night. I can remember bits of things. That's enough.

*He gestures at the bowl.*

I'm hardly going to eat that now, am I? It's raw.

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We could bring you a takeaway, I suppose. You look like you could use a treat. What do you want?

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*He interrupts eagerly.*

You know, there's a Pizza Express on Victoria. We'll get you extra meat on yours, Peter. Our treat.

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~~But I don't like pizza and I'm sick of meat by now.~~

*Peter's expression is less than enthusiastic.*

Do they do salad?

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*Fiona notices Peter's wince.*

It doesn't have to be pizza- it doesn't, Ali.

What would you rather have?

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But -

- *sighs* fine. Just so you know though, Peter, we're going to have trouble finding a takeaway that serves mashed oysters with snow leopard sperm, or whatever the fuck it is you and Little Lord Fauntleroy normally have for lunch.

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*Peter represses a flinch at the mention of George and tries to deflect.*

Well Harrods do deliver...

*He shrugs and gives Ali a flat glare.*

Battered cod, chips and mushy peas.

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Oh, you don't want it from Harrods, Peter. We'll get it from that Halibut place; they're much better.

Fish n' chips it is. *Fiona takes out her mobile to call in the order and grimaces at the lack of bars.*

Right, I'm going outside to order our food. You stay and entertain Peter, Ali. Try not to kill each other. If you behave we'll get pizza for dinner, all right?

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You drive a hard bargain, Ms Millar. Best behaviour it is. You can count on me.

*He beams at her as she leaves, then turns back to Peter.*

Mushy peas, then, is it? His Lordship would not approve. Good call.

The chips at this place she's ringing are really nice, by the way - you've got to let me have a few when they arrive. I'm starved.

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*Peter's stomach twists- usually he'd be irritated by Alastair's blatant jabs, but then he'd go home to George and they'd laugh about them over a couple of glasses of red. The knowledge that he can't do that any more, that he may never be able to share those moments with George again, makes him desperately unhappy.*

Take as many as you like, I'm not particularly hungry.

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Great! You have got to eat something at least, though. Not much point in us coming to check up on you if we're going to let you waste away even further. Skinny is not a good look for you, Peter, it's giving me Eighties flashbacks.

*But there's something about Peter's wretched demeanour, his failure to haughtily refuse or make some totally unjustified jibe about his waistline, that makes Alastair uneasy.*

Look, do you have to keep thinking about the vic- the bad news all the time? We get it, okay, you feel crap. You're capable of human emotion. Now it's time to put it on the back burner and lighten the fuck up.

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Hmph. No chance of you giving me eighties flashbacks- you're never getting that hair back.

Change the subject then.

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