therealpm

It's true, the drivel you write is hardly cutting edge.

From:

The sales figures don't half pack a punch, though. I don't expect you to understand all my work, shallow as you are, but at least keep your jealousy to yourself...

From:

*Their exchange of insults is halted by the arrival of Fiona with a steaming packets of fish and chips (for Peter) and a double portion of chips (for Alastair). Peter thanks her politely and procedes to pick listlessly at his dinner- he'd been rather hoping that he could palm off the majority of his dinner aka all the chips to Alastair.*

From:

*Alastair accepts his chips and gladly starts eating, remembering what it is that makes them so good. He sees Peter fussing over his own food and pauses to reprimand him.*

They're not poisoned, you know.

From:

I know.

Thank you.

*He adds hastily, as Fiona raises one eyebrow at him. He ducks his head, selects a chip and has a bite. After eating uncooked meat for a week, it feels far too warm and pulpy in his mouth.

ALastair's eaten nearly half of his already. When Peter selects his next chip, he nudges others over to the side a little, making the empty space appear as large as possible.*

From:

*From the look on Peter's face, you'd think he was being forced to eat cockroaches. Alastair tuts at him between mouthfuls.*

I don't know how you expect to get better if you don't feed yourself. Are you sure you don't want some ketchup or something? Or might that be a step too far out of your comfort zone, now that you're intimate with ex-Bullingdon boys and the like?

From:

*Peter stops eating and stares.*

I...

I need a glass of water. Excuse me.

*He grabs his cup, slopping water on the carpet and nearly races to the bathroom, shutting (not slamming, he'd like to at least try and maintain the pretence that he's here to get water) the door and leaning against it, cursing the lack of a lock.

He breathes deeply and tries to get his thoughts and face under control.*

From:

*Fiona stares after him open-mouthed. After a moment she steals one of Alastair's chips and munches on it absently while she studies the closed door.*

What the hell was that about? He looked like he was going to throw up.

Edited Date: 2012-10-09 09:10 pm (UTC)

From:

*Alastair stares too, both concerned and slightly affronted by the sudden exit.*

Dunno. Maybe he just hates ketchup that much.

*Or maybe he really is transforming this time. With some effort, Alastair keeps his voice steady as he calls through to the bathroom.*

All right, Peter? You're not suddenly going shy on us, are you?

From:

Peter's never sh-

*Oh. Fiona suddenly recalls the last time she saw that stricken expression on his face, like he's about to shatter into a thousand little pieces and he's holding himself together by sheer force of will. Normally when he's unhappy he tries to share his misery with as many people as humanly possible, but when Tony appointed him to Northern Ireland and gave him that bollocking beforehand, essentially telling him that he didn't trust him to do the job- Peter had been really hurt that time, and for once he tried to keep it to himself. Fiona had been arguing with Cherie outside Tony's office and she can still remember Peter's white face as he fled past them. He'd hidden in a toilet that time too.*

Ali. I think something's happened.

From:

*Fiona's seriousness makes Alastair turn away from the bathroom door to face her. His hands clench anxiously around the takeaway box.*

Well - well, Peter's just had a diva moment, but I take it that's not what you mean. Do you... want to go and ask him? Or something?

From:

No, diva moments are standard operating procedure. If he was having a strop right now I wouldn't be so worried.

*Fiona sighs. Alastair actually has a fair amount of emotional intelligence, but it's more trouble than it's worth to get him to use on behalf of any cause but Tony.*

Fat lot of help you are.

*She gets up and goes over to rap on the bathroom door.*

Peter? Do you think you could come out? Or maybe let me in? We could leave Alastair outside.

From:

*His knuckles go white on the edge of the sink. He can't come out- the mirror shows his eyes are far too red to let either of them see his face.*

I'm fine.

*He replies, hoping the slight quaver in his voice will be muffled by the door.*

I just... need a minute.

*He forces a slight chuckle*

Unused to normal food after a week of raw meat.

From:

Mmhmm.

*The wobble in Peter's voice may be somewhat muffled by the door, but the skepticism in Fiona's comes through clear as a bell.*

Peter, I know you. If you were going to throw up, you wouldn't have missed the chance to do it on Alastair.

Hiding in the loo won't make it go away, whatever it is. Nor us, for that matter. And I'm not going to let Alastair eat your whole lunch, either, so no chance as far as that's concerned.

From:

*Despite himself, Peter can't help but grin at that. He wouldn't; Fiona somehow always manages to characterise his 'friendship' with Alastair as more anatagonistic than it actually is (occasionally quite a feat), but her casual assumption of warfare even in the throes of food poisoning amuses him.

He's less amused by her threat of not leaving. Whatever happened to privacy? But realistically, other than begging help from Lindsay, there's nothing he can do to make them leave.

Well then.

He towels off his face, squares his shoulders and opens the door, giving both of them his best resentful glare. They probably won't cringe back far enough not to notice his red rimmed eyes, but it can't hurt to try.*

Why not? He's a growing lad. Admittedly sideways, rather than upwards, as we found out in the tunnels, but...

From:

Precisely! He takes up far too much of the bed as it is. I can't let him expand any further.

*She gives Alastair a fond glance over her shoulder before turning back to Peter. He's become very adept at crying silently, but that fair skin of his always gives him away.*

*She takes his elbow and guides him gently but firmly back to the bed.*

Come back and have a bit more of your lunch. You may not have much appetite for it now, but if you don't eat you'll feel even worse later.

From:

*He glares at her as much as he dares.*

I'm fine.

From:

You're a malnourished werewolf, and that was before you locked yourself in the toilet to cry. You are not fine.

From:

I didn't...

...the door doesn't even have a lock and I'm not malnourished.

From:

You've lost weight, and I don't care how much Paddy Ashdown tired you out, it can't be from exercise because you spend most of your time shut up in here. They're not feeding you enough.

*She nudges the chips toward him.*

Now have a nice chip and tell us what's really the matter.

From:

I'm fine, Fiona, really.

*He nibbles a chip, just to show willing.*

I was out more last week, that's all. And transforming twice in one day is very tiring.

From:

That line is about as convincing as "I've never known Gordon to bully anyone," but without the redeeming hilarity.

...we might be able to help, you know. I realise Alastair's track record on getting you out of trouble is not exactly stellar, but you're not much use to yourself trapped in a cell, are you?

From:

Well it is difficult to recall such incidents after one too many staplers to the head.

I'm not in trouble, Fiona, although I do agree on Alastair's general uselessness.

From:

I'm sure Ali will disagree with me on this, but you don't usually burst into tears for no reason. Something's happened.

*Even if she doesn't get him to talk, he's concentrating so hard on evading her questions that he's failed to notice he's eaten the whole chip. So this conversation is at least a qualified success.*

From: