therealpm

*Peter groans as he wakes up: his arm, though now free of the IV, still feels cramped and sore. His brief elation at remembering his newfound freedom is tempered by the sight of an 'innocently' smiling Miles sitting next to his bed, cradling a steaming cup of tea. He sits up and a brief struggle ensues, with Miles crying indignantly for Peter to get his own cup before eventually relenting and handing his younger brother the mug. Peter nearly scalds his mouth as he gulps the brew down greedily, though he only manages half a cup before his stomach protests and he begins to feel sick.*

You took your time.

"Your minion only phoned me last night. Look... Peter, if you're going to do ridiculously stupid things like turn yourself into a mythological creature or stand for Parliament, you could at least keep me informed."

I didn't turn myself... and I can't believe you're still harping on about that. I told you, I was very busy, and I-

*His sentence is cut off by a tactical hug from Miles.*

"Anyway, I had a chat with John and that DEFRA person last night. You're all clear to go home, which means I'm taking you home. To Asby."

*Peter's protests are cut off by another hug*

"You are not well enough to stay by yourself, and you are not staying here. I've already packed most of your things. Once you're ready to go we'll get you dressed and wheeled down to the car."

...I want to take Jack.

"Fine. The dogs could do with more company anyway. Who's taking care of him at the moment?"

Fiona and Alastair.

"....

...you never make things easy, do you? Fine. We'll stop by theirs and pick up Jack. But that's it."

*They bicker for a little longer as Peter slowly finishes the tea.*

*When Peter comes round, The Machine's display springs to life, helpfully informing him of the temperature, pressure, likelihood of rain (which Peter deems to be frankly ridiculous, under the circumstances) and phase of the moon.

It's nearly full.

By this time last month, Peter would be about to transform. He reaches out to his wolf form, trying to draw up the now familiar claws. Instead he gets... nothing. Well, almost nothing. His nails lengthen a little.

He frowns, curious and now somewhat more awake. Something else doesn't seem quite right either. After a brief investigation, it seems that he is not only on his side (a now unusual state of affairs), but he also lacks any sort of clothing.

Worrisome.*

*Peter's head feels groggy. He's been taking the new painkillers for three days now, and has spent much of his time in a supine haze, unable to feel any pain. At first he was able to concentrate enough to hold conversations with The Machine when John was out of the room, but as time progressed he became steadily more detached- floating free in his own imagination.

Today, though, John is late with the painkillers and the opiate fog is beginning to wear off. The pain in his veins and accompanying feeling of being nibbled from the inside out has died down since the beginning of treatment- Peter supposes that either he has become accustomed to it, or his wolf form has mostly died and there is little left for the mixture to attack. What is new is a feeling of dampness under his shoulders, sacrum and heels, that sticks and stings when he tries to move. He turns his head and sniffs. The sheets smell appalling and he can just see a spreading sickly yellow stain out of the corner of his eye. He gags, and tries to call for someone, but his mouth is dry. Rattling the restraints does little beyond reminding him of the bruising on his wrists and ankles. He tries to shift from the dampness slightly, and resigns himelf to waiting.*

*Peter stares at the ceiling, bored out of his mind. The expenses story has been satisfactorially steered away from John, and now he has nothing to do. He tugs at the restrainst again, no luck.*

*Peter scowls as two DEFRA lackeys remove his bed and replace it with a hospital gurney, stomach still aching from the purging potion he'd been advised to take the night before (the DEFRA official's comment of 'You'll regret not taking it once you're strapped in." had not made the potion any more palatable, nor its effects less unpleasant). His scowl only deepens as he notices the straps- heavy and made of the same stuff as the collar, that hang from various points of the thick iron frame and a board on one side that looks like it functions as a very spartan arm rest. He's been given some loose cotton clothing to wear- his own possessions have been tidied out the door along with the bed. Peter did protest the books but was brusquely informed that he'd not be in any state to read them. The only thing left, apart from a cleared desk is the TV.

A side glance out the door shows two IV stands, several boxes containing tubing, needles bags both empty and full of various fluids, a neat stack of blankets and one very nervous nurse in the corridor outside his cell. The nurse seems to be sticking some sort of clipboard to his door and trying to explain something to Lindsay, who just looks baffled. Meanwhile, all the carpet in the room except for a small strip under the desk has been cut and rolled away. The stone below has been sterilised and bolts put in to hold the gurney in place. Peter supposes that stone is easier to wipe clean of any fluids than carpet and the thought makes him feel slightly sick.*

*Peter sits on his bed, shuffling through the sheaf of papers and waits.*

*Peter works his way quietly through yet another brief, occasionally stopping to flick the fringe out of his eyes. His hair is far too long by now and it's beginning to annoy him.

The TV screen in the corner is on, but remains carefully blank. The Machine takes pains not to be visible when a guard might be peering through the door unless Peter specifically requests an answer. Last night had been their longest uninterrupted conversation since the programming of the doppelganger. Peter had guessed (correctly) that none of his guards would wish to miss The Thick of It, and so he'd had a whole half hour to talk with his creation.

Peter being Peter, this had mostly involved a set of detailed instructions on what The Machine should do if the 'cure' killed him, and a request to both monitor and if possible, strategically intervene in the care pathway of Peter's two victims. They were too far away for The Machine to do anything directly of course, but all patient records are computerised these days and overstressed doctors tend not to notice slight alterations to a patient's records or prescriptions when they've got another few dozen to manage as well.

The Machine tells him they're doing better and that LaGarde seems to be doing her best to make Osborne miserable. It helps. A little.*

*Peter sits back in his chair and smirks smugly at the stack of papers in front of him. John's gift of a TV had been a greater boon than he'd expected. In his panic, John hadn't placed any wards on the TV at all, and so it had been a simple matter for Peter to 'adapt' the TV and the remote control to allow him to communicate with The Machine via a tele-text style interface. Peter did wonder whether anyone would notice, given teletext had been cancelled for a while, but apparently it appeared innocuous enough to pass under his guards' radars, and now, the fruits of The Machine's labours are stacked neatly before him on the desk. He hasn't had time to do more than frantically scribble down notes, but even this preliminary reading has suggested several new ways in which the potion might be improved, or at least rendered less likely to kill him; and who knows, if he survives this, he might even be able to get a paper out of it. Grinning with anticipation, he picks up the first sheet and begins to work.*

*A combination of sunlight and the sound of snores more akin to a donkey being sawn in half than anything that should emanate from a human throat drag Peter up from the depths of sleep and deposit him, dazed and confused, in a somewhat tangled mess of blankets and more limbs than he remembered having last night. He struggles to sit upwards, blinking back the fog clouding his brain and reaches for the mug of water he always keeps on the desk beside his bed.

The wall of bottles and wineglasses in his way gives him some clue as to the source of the acrid taste on his tongue. He swirls the water round his mouth to clear it, then considers the noisy lump at the end of his bed more carefully. On closer inspection, it is clear that the errant limbs belong to the lump- Peter hasn't turned into a were-spider or something similar in the middle of the night and sprouted extra, which is a relief- his clothing bills are high enough already.

On even closer inspection, including a 'gentle' prod with one foot, the lump turns out to be a somewhat bleary and hungover Speaker of the House of Commons.

Well.

That would go some way towards explaining the provenance of the bottles, the contents of which could probably have been used as a downpayment for a family home. In London.

He prods the lump again and receives only a muffled grumble in response.*

*Peter stares out of the window at the thoroughly dismal weather, unable to concentrate on the briefing in front of him. It's a new one, so it probably contains something of value if leaked to the press via one of his erstwhile colleagues, aka Tinkerbell, aka Alastair. He should at least search for something to give Chuka, but he really can't be bothered.

He shivers. Despite much prodding from Fiona, he's barely had anything except tea and some toast since Friday. It probably isn't helping his concentration, but he just doesn't feel like eating.

He catches sight of the phone out of the corner of his eye and considers ringing the ~~stupid~~ ~~wonderful~~ ~~heartless~~ man, just to see if he can make him feel as bad as Peter does, but resists. It probably wouldn't work. George already thinks he's a monster, Peter doesn't want him thinking he's pathetic as well. He shoves the phone under some papers so it's out of sight and tries to get back to work.*

*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.*

*He's been told he has another inspection today- apparently it was delayed by a combination of staff cuts and his extended transformation, so Peter's dressed up in one of his better suits and tied his necktie loose enough that the collar can be inspected if necessary.

Bored for lack of work to do- Jo hasn't delivered the next tranch of paperwork yet and he's read all the books, he picks up The Machine's readouts and tries to work out precisely what got him into this mess in the first place.*

*Bored, he paces the cell. The inedible remnents of Fiona's gift basket are stacked carefully out of the way in the fireplace, above which is tacked a hand drawn card from John's children. His legs and back ache, signalling that he's going to be changing form soon. He should, he supposes, get under the blankets and wait there, but John had been significantly less amenable to letting him out for at least short breaks than Peter had hoped: he's been kept alone in this room for days now and the confinement is making him restless.

A muscle in his flank spasms. He grits his teeth as others follow suit- it's starting. Hobbling, he makes his way over to the bed and burrows under a blanket, biting the edge to avoid crying out in pain as his form shifts.*

*Peter paces the cell. His legs ache from yesterday, but unlike his human form, his wolf form seems more inclined to walk it off rather than curl up in bed.

John had tried the dog food again this morning, and was once again rebuffed until he caved and brought down two packets of sausages, the potion and a bowl of fresh water. Peter had tried to follow him out the door, whining that this cell was far too small for an adult wolf, but John clearly hadn't been paying attention as he'd nearly closed the damn thing on Peter's nose, leaving Peter to scratch forlornly at the wooden surface.*

*Sitting in the back of a vehicle with blacked out windows, huddled up once more in a hoodie far too broad for him, Peter looks across at Alastair and smirks. Alastair thinks they're going for the equivalent of a jog around the park, and Peter has been careful not to indicate otherwise. Today is going to be horrible, but watching Alastair slowly lose the will to live is going to make it utterly worth it.*

*The first thing that Peter notices when he wakes up is that he can't move. The second thing he notices is the pain that shoots through his limbs when he tries. On further attempts, he finds out that the first isn't strictly true (which is good, because if John or Nigel or anyone else had put some sort of physical binding spell on him on top of all the other restrictions then he might just have had to find a way to kill them with his brain)- moving is just very very difficult and very very slow.

Black Rod has already delivered breakfast- it's steaming gently on the other side of the room, which right now might as well be half way up Ben Nevis for all that Peter can get to it. He shifts one leg sideways. Slowly, so slowly, then winces as his foot hits the cold carpet. After what seems like an hour but was probably less than a minute, the other leg follows and Peter rolls himself upright, suppressing the urge to groan. Wasn't he meant to have got all this aching business out of the way yesterday? He certainly felt like he'd had more than his fair share of muscle cramps and spasms.

He manages to drag one of the blankets around his shoulders- warmth is mean to help with this sort of thing, isn't it?- and pauses. He's going to have to stand up. And then walk. Steeling himself, he tells his legs very firmly that they're going to have to move.

Owowowowowowowowowowowowwwwww

Eventually he collapses in the chair. It provides, he decides, an under-appreciated view of the room and he ought to stay here for some time. Not bothering with the knife, he stabs... well, slowly nudges the fork into some bacon and settles the blanket more securely about his person.

This is ridiculous, even chewing hurts.*

*Peter wakes up feeling groggy and disorientated. Although not as bone tired as yesterday, his muscles still ache and cramp. Something nags at the back of his mind, something important that he needed to do and he rubs his eyes, mentally replaying yesterday's events, trying to remember. The first memory that surfaces- being shoved into the wards by Alastair, causes him to shudder and wince.

His fringe drops in his eyes and he pushes it back, noting with distaste the grittiness of mud on his scalp. Still trying to recall what it was yesterday, he heads off to the shower, limbs protesting against the effort and back stiffened straight more from cramp than good posture.

It is not until he is beginning to wash his hair for the third time (he hasn't felt so filthy since secondary school and it is not pleasant), that he remembers: the conference.*

Fuck!

*He finishes washing, then towels of and dresses rapidly, nearly running (well, hobbling quickly) to the phone.*

Text received from 07### ######

John,

my presence is required at Labour conference next weekend. Cancelling not an option. At least one of the events is after dark.

-Peter

*Peter drags himself through the cell door and falls face first on the bed. His hair is plastered to his skull with rainwater and the rest of his clothes are similarly sodden. It has not been a good day.

When John had acquiested to Peter's ~~begging~~ requests to be allowed out of his cell more frequently, Peter had naturally assumed that it would be nothing more taxing than a stroll around a park. Or some woodland. At the most, a quick jaunt up Box Hill, then back again. He hadn't reckoned on John's usually hidden, but well nourished, streak of sadism. Nor on Paddy's ability to instill sheer terror and the desire to run with nothing more than a soft growl.

It had definitely not been a good day.

The heavy rain had turned the cross country assault course to a muddy swamp- difficult and filthy to wade through. The shoes and clothes he'd been issued were ruined. Normally Peter would have been in the shower like a shot, scrubbing off the dirt with fervant zeal, but right now he was just too tired. His legs ache. His arms ache. His back, feet, hands, neck... even his forehead aches from squinting against the ever present rain. And he is cold.

Ignoring the mess he's making of the blankets, Peter kicks off his shoes and wraps himself up in the covers, shivering. Paddy had promised another session 'at some point this week'. Peter wonders whether a silver bullet wouldn't be preferable.*

*Peter sits at his desk and stares at the courtyard outside, drumming his heels against the chair legs in a way that he hasn't really been bored enough to do since secondary school. He's finished the paperwork along with his breakfast, drunk the potion, read and reread all the books and is now waiting for Dawn's shift to end so that he can investigate the wards again (she has a nasty habit of checking that he isn't doing anything he shouldn't, something that Lindsay is too trusting and the Tory too terrified to do).

He considers shape shifting again, but although with practice it's got easier, it's still very tiring and he doesn't like having the collar on display for anyone passing by the cell to see, so instead he sits at his desk, drumming his heels, and waiting.*

*Peter stares at his desk, filled with smug satisfaction. He's finished the briefs. All of them. Even the extra ones the civil servants dug out of the back of an old filing cabinet in order to keep him busy.

He stretches and winces as his joints pop. Far too much time spent hunched over a desk, but really, what else was there to do? Besides read Alastair's laughably inaccurate and self aggradising diaries, of course.

He cups his chin in his hands and sends a tendril of magic out to explore the wards. They've died back a bit since John's panicked reinforcements a few days ago, but they're still far stronger than they'd been before. Still, no wall was without its weak spots.

Careful not to draw Lindsay's attention, Peter closes his eyes and tentatively explores the wards a little further.*

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