[One knock, two. Peter bangs against her door in quick taps. He's got some chocolate tucked under one arm, a peace offering that he plans on using to make sure she'll actually talk to him. They hadn't left it at great terms when she was an adult, if she remembered anything from her time as a child he was sure he'd need help to keep the door from being shut in his face.]
Lizzie? Uh, Elizabeth? Look, I know that I- Can we just talk for a second?
[They've got plenty of alcohol from Peter's haul last month, fancy bottles of champagne to pass back and forth, and Peter's taken a few things from the mess hall to even it out. They've got the room to themselves, Tron rarely bothered sticking around anyway and for once Peter was grateful. They've got Stevie Nicks crooning about lost love and a box full of albums that Peter's put by Jean's feet. It's everything anyone could want for the world's best pity party.]
It just sucks, you know? [Peter hands the bottle back to Jean, grimacing at the taste. It's the first time he's spoken since getting her inside and telling her to pick out something to play. He thinks he should be slurring already, probably would be if it weren't for his quick metabolism. He'd started drinking long before he'd told her to come over.] People, this place, it just sucks.
[It's been only weeks since Peter was drugged into loosing time but right now he feels more out of it than he ever has. He feels like he's stumbling through the hallways, legs unsteady and chest too tight. The world has always felt too slow to him but usually he can push the pace to the back of his mind. Today it's all too present, too much a snail's crawl to process.
A jacket. That's what he'd been left with. A jacket, a letter, and a lump sticking to the back of his throat. Some part of him; the childish, angry part wants to pretend he doesn't care. To throw it all in the back of his dresser and viciously ignore that there had ever been a man named Sans at all. Some other part just wanted to cry.
Another part, the smaller, fragile piece is just grateful he'd gotten proof it had ever been real.
He stumbles into a room, in such a mental fog he barely registers where he is. He can't miss her though. Peter stops, staring at her with his breath caught in his chest.
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Elizabeth
Lizzie? Uh, Elizabeth? Look, I know that I- Can we just talk for a second?
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Jean
It just sucks, you know? [Peter hands the bottle back to Jean, grimacing at the taste. It's the first time he's spoken since getting her inside and telling her to pick out something to play. He thinks he should be slurring already, probably would be if it weren't for his quick metabolism. He'd started drinking long before he'd told her to come over.] People, this place, it just sucks.
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J
A jacket. That's what he'd been left with. A jacket, a letter, and a lump sticking to the back of his throat. Some part of him; the childish, angry part wants to pretend he doesn't care. To throw it all in the back of his dresser and viciously ignore that there had ever been a man named Sans at all. Some other part just wanted to cry.
Another part, the smaller, fragile piece is just grateful he'd gotten proof it had ever been real.
He stumbles into a room, in such a mental fog he barely registers where he is. He can't miss her though. Peter stops, staring at her with his breath caught in his chest.
J.]
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