5th October, 10 pm

[therealpm]

*Peter is startled out of his usual preparations for sleep by the over enthusiastic ringing of his phone. He rummages around through the papers on his desk, eyes lighting up at the number.*

George! How are you? It's lovely to be able to speak to you again, after so long as a-

Oh really, DEFRA contacted you already? That's very quick for a government department, I must say. Well it's good the paperwork is all finalised I sup-

Yes, George, I know. I did already tell you, several weeks ago.

*Peter blinks in surprise*

Well... the inability to touch silver and a tendency to grow fur during the full moon was a bit of a hint.

Well what else could it possibly have been?

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout.

Look-

Don't be unkind, I'm still me.

I'm taking a potion for that, as you well know.

Well of course it's not risk free, but-

I see.

No, obviously you have to think of your family.

Right.

Fine.

George-

...

*The line goes dead. Peter replaces the phone on the desk and mechanically completes his preparations for bed. He won't give whoever's guarding him the satisfaction of having their suspicions confirmed. He won't.

Dropping onto the bed, he pulls the covers over his head and tries to cry quietly.*

Comments

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

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.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*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...

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

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.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

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

I'm fine.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

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

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

I didn't...

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

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

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.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

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.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

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?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

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.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

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.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

I haven't been crying!

I'm fine, Fiona, really. There's no need to worry.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

Peter, I've been hanging around you lot for years. The whole 'righteous indignation about a claim we both know is true' routine doesn't throw me anymore. You've been spending too much time with that idiot Tory if you think your friends are going to fall for that tired old trick.

It's too late, I'm already worried. Here, eat another chip.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter delays the need to reply by chewing on another piece of chip. He half shrugs, unwilling to admit that George hadn't visted after his first day of incarceration and will hardly be doing so again since the phone call. It's embarrassing how much he still cares for a man who's made it quite clear that he doesn't want Peter in his life any more and it hurts to think that he was so stupid, so wilfully blind as to not notice the ever decreasing frequency of phone calls. The excuses and hurried goodbyes. He clenches one fist and searches for a distraction.*

Worry about Alastair- he's the one who can't even manage a little cross country running without nearly passing out.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

I have three kids, Peter. I'm good at worry multitasking.

*If she can just keep him evading long enough to eat a whole meal...*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter smiles faintly*

How are they? I ought to have taken a picture when I first transformed back- a week's worth of beard growth. Grace would have had a fit.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

They're well. Calum is enjoying the new job. Grace seems to have sunk into university life without a ripple. Fortunately she tweets so we know she's still alive. The house feels a little empty now, but I suppose we'll get used to it.

You're lucky you didn't- Alastair would have had it up on Twitter in a heartbeat. But enough diversions; let's get back to you.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter completely ignores her flagrant attempt to get the conversation back on track.*

And Rory?

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

Rory is fine. You're not fine. Let's worry about you. Peter, what's going on?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

Well at the moment I'm being pestered into eating more chips in one meal than I've had in the entire month previous.

I am fine, Fiona. I have food, I have company, what more could a person want?

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

Thanks for reminding me. Eat another chip.

*"Not to be a werewolf!" Alastair interjects. Fiona gives him a quelling glare.*

That's what I'm trying to find out. Why leave your food and company to go hide in the loo? Whatever it is, it must be something pretty terrible. Even worse than having a beard.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter gives her a halfhearted glare.*

Why, have you assigned some sort of arbitrary chip-target which I need to meet before the end of dinner time, else my funding gets revoked?

I needed a glass of water and a respite from the sight of Frankenstein's monster over there. That's all.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

You can meet it with fish instead, if you like.

That explanation is made somewhat less plausible by your failure to get yourself a glass of water.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

...I was distracted by the two of you wailing and gnashing your teeth at my momentary absence from the room.

[furiously-fiona.livejournal.com]

And by crying.