therealpm

*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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I'm sorry if the natural consequences of my high-testosterone virility are interfering with your viewing pleasure, mate. At least I never let my hair run amok on my face.

I'm happy to change the subject. I just don't want to be sitting here talking about the weather, or the climate in your cell or whatever, when you've got a frown on you like a man who's just remembered he's Nick Clegg. Seriously, it could be worse, couldn't it? Try to get the good out of anything bad, that's what I always say.

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'High testosterone virilty', eleven-seconds-Ali?

I'm stuck in a cell- I'd be worried if I wasn't frowning.

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You wish I had eleven seconds to waste on you.

Stuck in a cell with me, though! You're just being stubborn now. Give us a smile or I will not hesitate to tickle you.

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You wish you could last eleven seconds with me.

Attempt it and I may yet shape shift for an unprecedented third time in one day.

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Hi boys. Everyone still alive? Good, good.

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*Alastair eyes Peter, wondering how serious he is about the shapeshifting. Probably not at all, but you can never tell.*

For now, yes. I think Peter'd be happier if that weren't the case, but he'll be fine once he's got some food inside him.

*When Fiona has left to go and pick up the order, Alastair turns to Peter with a grin and wiggles his fingers purposefully.*

Who's a grumpy wolf who wants his tummy scratching, then?

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