Previous Entry Share Next Entry

Oh god it hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much?

*Alastair tries to wrap the duvet around himself for comfort but freezes as the pain in his arms explodes. He opens his eyes, which thankfully aren't quite so stiff and sore, and looks around the bedroom, powerless to move. He knows who is to blame for this, who will he be calling to shout at when he finally regains easy movement in his limbs and face. In the meantime, he needs sympathy.*


  • 1
*Fiona awakens to a whimpering noise*

*She turns over to find Alastair looking at her piteously*

You've no one but yourself to blame. Climbing around obstacle courses at your age, for fuck's sake...

But he made me!

How about a hug and a paracetamol for the old man, then? Some breakfast wouldn't go amiss, either...

*Fiona sighs long-sufferingly*

I'm not even going to ask what would happen if Peter dared you to jump off a bridge.

All right, but you're not getting crumbs all over the bed. If I medicate you you should be capable of making it downstairs.

*She leans over to give him a kiss and then bounces up to get him the paracetamol. Emphasis on 'bounces'. If he's going to spend the whole day moaning about his self-inflicted injuries, she's got to take her pleasures where she can find them.*

You think he hasn't?

Thanks, love. A nurse outfit would really complete... no, okay.

*He winces as the bed jerks under Fiona's slight weight. As she vanishes onto the landing, he watches and tries without success to will some of the pain away.*

*Fiona grabs the paracetamol out of the medicine cabinet. He'll probably want water too, the greedy bugger. She goes downstairs to get him a glass.*

*When she comes back with the water and the bottle of pills, she finds Alastair lying rigid in the bed, exactly as she left him. He must be pretty sore this time. Usually he manages to get to his feet so he can follow her around the house complaining about how terrible he feels.*

Poor baby.

*She sits down a bit more gently than she got up and hands him the medicine and the glass of water.*

*Alastair tentatively extends his hands, first extracting a couple of pills, then taking the water to wash them down. It's harder to tell which protests more at this compound torture, arm or neck.*

You're an angel. Now, give me ten minutes and I'll be good to go. That should give you time to get breakfast on.

What do you want?

I suppose I should make Peter up another care package too. If you're this bad he must be half dead.

Any variation on the full English is acceptable. Just make it hot.

I wouldn't bother if I were you. He doesn't deserve it, for obvious reasons. Plus his transformations are all up in the air right now - he wolf-ified in broad daylight yesterday. No point wasting good pork when John's probably keeping him perfectly happy on dog biscuits.

Hm. There's a few eggs left, and I know we have bacon.

Oh, I don't know, we could get him a chew toy. It might keep him from trying to gnaw on you. He didn't try to bite you yesterday, did he?

*Sighs happily.* Perfect. And orange juice?

Well... no, he didn't, not as such. I don't think. Only because he was tied up in the boot. The point is, based on his actions in both human and canine-killing-machine form, you just shouldn't be spending your energy on Peter when I'm right here and in desperate need of looking after. Where's my chew toy, hmm? tied him up in the boot? No, nevermind, I probably don't want to know.

I think Adam Boulton is still working for Sky, but you'd know where he is better than me.

*Fiona goes off downstairs to make breakfast. After a few minutes the delectable smell of bacon wafts up the stairs to the bedroom.*

*Alastair laughs at the remark about Boulton, and cringes at the pain this provokes. After Fiona is gone, he watches the ceiling for a while, slowly moving one finger at a time while he waits for the painkiller to work its magic.

When the smell of cooking bacon becomes too much, he eases himself upright, then swings both his legs out of bed and walks gingerly over to the door. He leans over the stairs, inhaling deeply, and hunger is enough to support him on the long hike down to the kitchen, where he sinks immediately into a chair.*

Ooft. When did I ever start thinking of exercise as a good idea?

When you realised you needed an excuse to get away from Tony. Not that I blame you.

*She scoops some bacon and two fried eggs onto a plate for him, along with some toast.*

Honestly, though. You're fifty-five, you've got to start having more reasonable expectations of yourself. Peter's a werewolf now; I don't suppose he can give himself a heart attack no matter what idiotic stunt he pulls. You're still human.

Edited at 2012-09-29 09:21 pm (UTC)

*He accepts breakfast gratefully and, after considering it for a moment, scoops both bacon and eggs between the toast to make a sandwich of sorts. He digs in.*

Can't he? Shame. Anyway, you're only as old as you feel which admittedly this morning means I'm about eighty - reasonable expectations are for wimps. Nobody ever won an election on the back of reasonable expectations.

*Fiona scowls* The reasonable expectation would be that no one would vote for the fucking Tories in the first place. We don't live on a reasonable planet.

*At the rate Alastair is plowing through his improvised sandwich, seconds will be required. She scoops her own egg and bacon out of the pan and puts on some more rashers, taking her plate over to the table to eat while the next round fries.*

But you're not going to be much use to the war effort if you kill yourself racing Peter through some ridiculous obstacle course. Right before Conference is a bad time to give yourself pneumonia-

Wait, Conference. Isn't Peter meant to be doing that Philip panel with you? How's he going to give a talk if he's liable to turn into a wolf at any moment?

Too fucking true.

He was meant to, yeah. You won't be surprised to learn that he's pulled out. The fashion for hairy Labour politicians died some time ago, and never extended quite that far. I'll just have to up my game to make up for his absence, which won't require much effort.

All that extra flirting you'll have to do to make up the balance, though. You'll exhaust yourself.

*Fiona finishes her breakfast and goes to get Alastair's second helping.*

Right. You finish that, and I'll put together something for Peter. And then we can go to the pet shop and see if we can find him a nice bone to gnaw on.

*Although most of the responsibility for Alastair's idiocy lies with Alastair, Peter must have known he wouldn't be able to resist a dare. Fiona is not above getting a little of her own back in the form of humiliating gift baskets.*

Irresistible as I am, I may have a hard time flirting with myself. But if anyone could do it, I could, I guess.

*Alastair accepts his second helping and finishes it gratefully.*

Hey, while we're there we can get him a nice bell to go on his collar. You know, to warn off birds and other potential snacks.

*Fiona grins and puts another set of rashers on the pan for Peter*

I meant with the audience!

Birds, Tories, you...

Aha. Are you sure that's wise? They'll be enraptured enough as it is; if I encourage them I may not escape unscathed.

Oh, no, we don't want to warn off Tories. Peter eating or at least severely maiming one could be the only good thing to come out of this mess. I was thinking more of the protection of the innocent public... and me, yes.

*Fiona shrugs* I've resigned myself to you being mobbed by besotted journalists in denial of their homoerotic crushes by now.

Tempting, but I'd hate for anyone in this Government to be killed- they couldn't replace them with anyone more incompetent and alienating than the people they've already got. Hopefully we can fill him up with bacon instead so he'll just nibble on a leg or two.

*She goes to the fridge to see if there are any sausages she can add to the fry-up.*

Are they even in denial at this point? Bloody media, no interest in self-scrutiny...

Huh. Yeah, I suppose you're right. God, but I wouldn't mind taking him a hamper full of George Osborne's internal organs...

*Alastair looks wistfully into the pan full of frying bacon.*

It seems he's more interested in George Osborne's external organs these days.

Oh, for fuck's sake, Ali. You've had two rounds already!

*Fiona gives him two strips of bacon and wraps the rest in foil for Peter. She puts the sausages on, although Alastair is probably going to wind up eating half of those as well.*

Oh, thanks a lot, Fiona. You've put me right off my food.

*Despite this, Alastair accepts the bacon and eats it up in four bites.*

Don't say that like it's a bad thing. I ran the length and breadth of the horrible English countryside yesterday, I need sustenance.

*His pleading face is hard to resist, at least when she isn't angry with him over something.*

Oh, all right, you can have some sausage. I guess we can buy Peter some dog biscuits to make up the difference.

Hurrah! Peter won't mind, he loves dog biscuits. I assume.

*Fiona packs the basket while Alastair finishes his breakfast, and they drive over to the pet shop. Fiona scans the cluttered aisles until she finds the one with the bones and chew toys. She calls to Alastair over the constant screeching of the parakeets.*

See if you can find something avocado flavoured!

  • 1

Log in

No account? Create an account