therealpm

*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.*

*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.*