therealpm

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...*

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*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.

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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.

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

And Rory?

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

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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?

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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.

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*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.

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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.

Edited Date: 2012-10-11 02:52 pm (UTC)

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

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And by crying.

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Yes, but it was touching, in a way, that Alastair found the lack of my presence so upsetting.

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Well, you know, he's a soft touch.

You, on the other hand, are renowned for your steeliness, which is why you have us worried.

You may as well tell us what's the matter, Peter. You know we're just going to keep prying until you do, and if we can't get an answer out of you we'll start asking everyone else. If you really want to protect your privacy...

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Firstly, there is nothing the matter. Beyond several twinges of guilt at the victims of my first transformation, I am fine.

Secondly, even if there were, hypothetically, something bothering me, I find the notion that I would have confided in someone else but not, given the length of time we have known one another, you, to be utterly absurd.

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*Fiona is honestly a little touched, although she knows that it's mostly a diversionary tactic.*

That may be so, but even if you haven't told a soul what's bothering you it won't be hard to work out. Your contact with the outside world is limited to a handful of people. Either one of them has done something to upset you or they've brought you bad news. All we have to do is ask your keepers when you started moping, and we'll be able to pinpoint the culprit.

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*Peter snorts derisively.*

I wish you the best of luck with your enquiries.

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*While they verbally meander about, Alastair has worked through most of his chips and is now taking a break, already having regrets. Fortunately, Peter and Fiona finally seem to be strolling into view of something resembling the fucking point.*

Or why don't we play twenty questions? It'd only take, I don't know, a few weeks to narrow down the list of possible candidates and work out who or what's being pulling your pigtails.

Alternatively, you could just break the habit of the lifetime and tell us the truth. Easier for everyone in the long run, Peter.

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*He sniffs haughtily.*

I've already told you the truth. If you don't believe me, that's your own problem, not mine.

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And the defence rests, does it? I hate to break it to you, but it sort of is your problem in that you're missing out on the expert advice and tender reassurances of your oldest and dearest friends, namely us.

If I was in your shoes - forward slash prison cell, forward slash bizarre and horrible predicament - I wouldn't be pushing away people who were still generous enough to give a shit. That is not the way to deal with pain, trust me.

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*Peter is about to snarl something vaguely sarcastic about 'tender reassurances' and 'attempted drowning', when he makes the mistake of actually considering rather than outright rejecting Alastair's second point. The number of people whom Peter could trust to 'give a shit', as Alastair so eloquently put it seemed to be rapidly dwindling. Tony and Gordon had self eliminated long ago, Philip died, George apparently doesn't want anything to do with him any more...

...from a purely practical point of view, it makes sense to concede something to Alastair and Fiona if it means they'll feel trusted and valued enough to stick around for when he actually does need them. Decision made, Peter shrugs miserably and says*

I... received some unpleasant news. I don't want to discuss it. Happy, now?

Edited Date: 2012-10-11 06:31 pm (UTC)

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*Alastair sees Peter's defensive retort die unspoken, only to be replaced with an unhappy concession. It's a start.*

That much we'd gathered already.

*He's never understood why everything personal has to be a secret with Peter, or how to play the convoluted games required to get him to open up like a normal person, but he does know that this admission of something not quite right constitutes a significant victory. One win is best followed by another.*

All right, then we don't have to discuss it. Just... give us a name, maybe? Or an initial.

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I am not playing twenty questions with you, Alastair. It's called a private life for a reason.

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*Alastair taps his fingers together sarcastically.*

Private life..? I don't... oh, I remember, it's a sub-heading on your fucking Wikipedia page.

Seriously, Peter - animal, vegetable or mineral?

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*Peter just glares at Alastair.*

None of your business.

How's Jack, anyway?

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