Obviously Peter underestimated the depth of commitment both people in the room had to him. But instead of arguing, Claude and Rachel just exchanged a quick glance, then Rachel stood gracefully. "Just remember not to touch any part of your circle," she said quietly, one hand going to brush gently against it, and she smiled at the feel. "Otherwise it'll break."
Claude didn't move as she left, leaning back against the wall and half-watching Peter. For once he didn't offer advice or odd metaphors. It was Peter's power, now, probably for the first time. All Claude could do was watch.
Rachel returned, pulling her hair back as she walked in. She'd changed into workoutclothes, but was barefoot, ready to spar. Claude didn't even remove his jacket, though he grinned widely and shot Peter an amused look at Rachel's outfit. Lucky man.
Moving forward, they didn't even have to speak. Claude picked up a long pole from the corner and attacked Rachel without warning. She ducked under the blow, kick shooting out to unbalance him. Claude dodged and came after her with a fury.
It was like a dance, graceful and without hesitation. Both had obviously been trained and neither held back. Claude shimmered invisible only to reappear behind Rachel to take out her legs with the pole. Rachel rained swift blows down with vampire-taught precision.
And both of them kept Peter in the corner of their eyes at all times. The tension of waiting was nearly unbearable; so they sparred, releasing it, close at hand should Peter need them. And both of them pretended they weren't worried and didn't care, a careful charade they needed for themselves.
"Fine, don't leave when I tell you to," Peter muttered under his breath, taking a break to watch them spar out of the corner of his eye. He could help feeling slightly envious. Maybe, one day, he'd be good enough to be that confident. Not that Peter particularly wanted to learn how to fight for the sake of fighting, but being able to at least defend himself would be fairly useful.
It turned out that there wasn't much more he could do. He was already overly tired from the first part of Claude's training, and trying to focus and channel the radioactive power was fairly time consuming. A few more bursts of radiation, an hour later, and Peter couldn't work up the energy to do anything more today.
Peter smudged out of a portion of the chalk circle, breaking it - if he was going to set any more circles, he'd definitely have to practice doing so with more finesse. A quick glance at Rachel and Claude told him that they were still sparring, and he didn't want to interrupt. So he shuffled out into the kitchen, brushing back sweat-soaked hair with a grimace, and started rooting around in the cupboards for something he could eat.
I felt it when Peter broke the circle and I glanced away, receiving a stunning blow to my chest and another to my side for my trouble. Flat on my back on the mat, I blinked, staring up at Claude. "Thanks," I muttered, sarcastic, as I heaved myself up again. A sheen of sweat slicked my body and my hair was wild and frizzing out of its holder.
Claude, however, looked serene, though he was breathing heavily. He was sweaty, too; though he'd stripped down to a black v-neck t-shirt and it was apparent that his body was in prime condition. I mean, seriously. Damn. At least he showed signs of exertion. I didn't feel like such an out-of-shape slacker.
"You love him." It was a statement not a question and I froze at it, eyes wide and heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with our sparring. "Or," Claude amended, leaning on the pole and studying me, "you think you could, which for you is pretty much the same thing, yeah?" He didn't wait for my response - which was a good thing, because I was pretty much just going with the shocked staring angle.
"Give it up," he advised me, tossing the pole into a corner. "He's not the type of guy who falls for girls like you. And he doesn't need any more distractions. You'd drain him dry in a week, with your insecurities and neediness, and there'd be nothing left of him. Walk away, if you know what's good for anyone but yourself."
That said, he simply walked out into the kitchen, shouting at Peter, "Make me a sandwich, fire boy," before plopping down on the couch.
For a few long minutes I just stood in the middle of the training room. Shaking. Closing my eyes, I took a breath. He was wrong. Bastard had no idea. Not only did I not feel that way about Peter (did not, could not), but there was no reason why...
Okay, so he had one point. Guys like Peter... They were pretty much above me. In every way. Best I could hope for was a friendship; and I had that and I didn't want anything else and Claude could just shut his freaking mouth.
Heading out to the kitchen, I nudged Peter aside playfully, forcing a smile. "Go sit down. Chill out. Do anything but this," I commanded him. "I'll make you lunch."
When Claude started to bark another order, I pointed my spoon at him. "Shut up, old man, or I'll actually try next time, and then your ass is mine."
Pulling out a box of pasta and grabbing some chicken from the fridge, I shut off my brain and just concentrated on cooking. And not at all letting Claude's words chase around my mind. Pasta in the pot, chicken in a sautée pan, and Alfredo sauce opened, I then set about making some garlic bread. Anything and everything to keep myself from looking over at Peter, from seeing Claude's stupid face, from acknowledging that I was feeling anything at all except hunger.
Making a quiet sound of disappointment, Peter let himself be nudged out of the kitchen and obediently made his way over to the couch. Damn, Claude was on the couch. Wrinkling his nose slightly (not that Claude was unpleasant, really, but Peter wouldn't be surprised if he got smacked just for daring to sit next to him), Peter then shuffled over to the bed and sat on the edge.
"I could sleep for a week," he announced, tipping backwards and staring at the ceiling. He hoped, when he got better at controlling everything, that pulling out abilities one after the other wouldn't be so tiring.
But, despite being tired, Peter was also feeling way too energetic. In mind, at least. He was still fairly excited over the way he'd managed to manifest the radioactive power, and that was energizing in itself. So he hauled himself upwards again and wandered into the kitchen, looking over Rachel's shoulder at what she was cooking.
"Hey, thanks," he spoke up quietly. "For your support back in there, I mean. It really helped."
"That's because you have the mental control of a week-old kitten," Claude shouted to Peter, shooting me a smirk when I snorted softly.
Draining the pasta, I ignored Claude's humming as I shook the moisture from it and dumped it back in the pan. I felt rather than saw Peter come up behind me, and it was a struggle to not just lean back up against him. But Peter wasn't Nick, nor was he Kisten, and Claude, though a huge bastard with bastard creme filling, had been right about one thing. Guys like Peter were way out of my league.
So instead I just turned the pieces of chicken over and seasoned the Alfredo sauce. Glancing over at him, I was quiet for a second, not really sure how to respond to him.
"You were amazing," I told him truthfully, turning around and holding out a spoon with some of the sauce for him to taste. "Too much pepper?"
Something in me had closed off again. Especially since I knew, without even looking, that Claude was watching our every move. I kept a distance between myself and Peter, holding myself apart. God, I'd been such an idiot. Letting the fact that Peter was this incredible guy overshadow the fact that I wasn't good enough for that. I needed to get myself together or else I'd look like an even bigger fool.
"Shut up, I'm trying my best," Peter called over his shoulder, though he didn't sound nearly as defensive as he might have sounded earlier. He'd seen Claude looking worried and proud by turns, and Peter was so pleased with this revelation (he'd thought Claude didn't really care) that any insult from the man was just going to be met with a smile right now.
Taking the spoon from Rachel with a crooked grin, Peter put on a thoughtful expression as he licked the spoon clean. "It's great," he assured, throwing the spoon into the sink. "Just enough pepper, actually." Rachel really was a great cook, and Peter made a note to thank her for that more often.
Rachel's distance didn't escape him, though. Sometimes she had no reserves about physical proximity, but right now she was holding herself away. Peter didn't know why, exactly, but this had to be rectified. Stuff Claude and his assumptions, Peter liked giving out free physical affection. So he hovered behind Rachel again, sticking his hands into his pockets and plonking his chin onto her shoulder. "And I wasn't really." Amazing, that was. "I'm bettered by the people around me, in times like that."
Oh, crap. My heart rate had to have gone up by about a thousand beats a minute. Forcing my breathing to remain steady, I briefly closed my eyes, reveling in the feel of him right behind me, his breath tickling my hair. I almost relaxed back into him, stopping myself just in time.
Apparently this was 'Torture Rachel' time. Great. Checking the chicken, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.
"No," I disagreed. "You're just amazing." One corner of my mouth went up slightly and I darted a look over at Claude. The man was watching us out of half-closed eyes, lying back on the couch with his arms behind his head. "Besides, if that was true, I don't think I would have helped you." I returned my gaze to the chicken, salting it a little, more for something to do than out of any culinary need.
Oh, Turn Claude. I turned my head enough to give Peter a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I'm really proud of you."
If Rachel was going disagree, then Peter was going to disagree right back.
Sometimes it was hard to believe that a woman like Rachel apparently thought so little of herself. Peter wanted to stand her in front of a mirror and list her good properties, over and over, until she actually believed it. He didn't immediately speak up, simply smiling softly at the kiss and watching Rachel cook.
"Back when I had just discovered that I could do stuff like flying, I didn't exactly have the right idea about it." Peter paused briefly to tuck his chin more securely on Rachel's shoulder, enjoying the warmth that came from being so close to another human being. "I didn't know I could hold on to the abilities - I thought I was only something when other special people were around." He did have a point here. "Honestly, even though I've learned, I think that's still the case," he grinned, giving Rachel a quick kiss on the cheek.
Before she had a chance to argue, Peter ducked out of the kitchen and headed off to find a change of clothes. Trained-in clothes were not exactly comfortable.
Swallowing hard, I tried to force my thoughts anyplace besides just following after Peter and...
Yes. No. Chicken needed to be taken out of the pan. That was a good distraction. Almost as good as burning my finger, to which I gave a small hiss of pain and immediately stuck it in my mouth. Claude started laughing, and I glared at him. Jerk.
Cutting up the chicken, dishing it up over the pasta and adding the sauce, I grabbed a tomato and some fresh basil from my windowsill and added them as garnish. Three plates were set on the table along with a pitcher of ice water and a plate of garlic bread. Claude grabbed a seat and shoveled a forkful in, grunting in thanks.
Okay, I could do this. There was no reason I needed to turn into a puddle of mush around Peter, and I was definitely strong enough to stop myself from being an idiot. Taking a seat, I crossed my legs and poured myself a glass of water, thankful for the liquid. Claude had given me quite a workout - first one I'd had since Ivy that had actually challenged me (and hadn't come from someone trying to take my head off).
Reappearing from changing, Peter practically threw himself into a chair, grinning at Rachel. "This looks good," he commented, eagerly picking up a fork and digging into the food. If Rachel kept up this caliber of cooking, Peter was going to have to reconsider his status as a good cook.
Shoveling food into his mouth, Peter glanced up at Claude, and absently wondered when the man had actually eaten decently. Living as Claude did probably didn't lend itself to eating hot meals, unless he wandered into restaurants and stole them.
"When was the last time you ate something decent and healthy?" Peter asked suddenly, eyeing Claude in concern. There were some serious physical drawbacks to not eating properly!
Rolling his eyes at Peter's concern, Claude ripped off a piece of his bread and used it to sop up some sauce. "Oh, mommy Peter's going to make sure the poor, helpless invisible man gets his veggies eaten, yeah? Going to follow me around and knit me a sweater, too?"
Claude ducked as Rachel flicked a piece of tomato at him, chewing his mouthful around a large grin. "Don't worry yourself, Petrelli, amazingly enough I can take care of myself just fine. Don't need you or your little girlfriend to make sure my belly's full or I've got a place to sleep. Whole lifetime of practice, and never once needed a keeper."
"Ivy and I had a deal," Rachel said abruptly, apparently sick of Claude's monologuing. "She'd go grocery shopping and I'd cook dinner." She paused, then grinned a little, fork halfway to her mouth. "Well, that had less to do with my cooking skills and more with the death threat that made it slightly difficult for me to leave the house. But still. Lots of experience in making meals. I like it. It's soothing."
"A lifetime of practice, huh? I didn't know you'd been living on the streets since birth," Peter replied mildly, sure that 'a lifetime' was an exaggeration. If it wasn't, he was going to feel pretty bad.
Despite his words, Peter still alternated between looking at his food and looking at Claude in concern. He couldn't help it, Claude was someone that mattered to him, and therefore someone he worried over. If he felt Claude needed sweaters, he probably would try to knit.
Wait, what. "Death threats?" Peter raised his eyebrows at Rachel. "Why did you have death threats? Do you still have death threats?"
"Oh, growing a backbone, this one," Claude smirked, pausing in his non-stop eating. "No, math wiz, not since birth. But I have been able to wipe my ass without help for quite some time now, so I'll thank you to stop giving me those cow eyes of yours so I can eat in peace."
He was silently laughing at me, though, when said cow eyes got turned on me. Grimacing, I pushed a bit of chicken around on my plate. Oh. Crap. I'd forgotten he didn't know. "Yeah," I shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "When I quit my job, they put out a death threat on me. Sent a demon after me, some fairy assassins, stuff like that. A few black charms aimed at me. I got out of it." With Ivy and Jenks - if not for them, my ass would have been grass the first day. "And, um, kind of? There's a few people who wouldn't mind if I turned up in the obits." Again I shrugged and offered him a smile. "It's not a big deal. Mostly they're back in Cinci. And I've got it covered."
Maybe he'd drop it if I just glossed over the nasty details?
"Want more bread?" I asked Peter with a hopeful smile, ignoring Claude's all out smirking. Jerk.
He didn't have cow eyes, did he? Peter almost wanted to go look into a mirror and check. "I'm just concerned, there's no need to insult me," he muttered, stabbing his fork into his pasta.
And he supposed the death threats were understandable, in Rachel's line of work. That they were 'mostly' back where she came from made Peter frown, but he didn't pursue it - she looked unhappy enough even talking about it. Great, he was stuck a table with two decidely unwilling to be emotional people. Not that he didn't appreciate it when Rachel reached out, but seriously, all of this non-emotional lack of contact was going to drive him insane.
"Thanks," Peter mumbled, grabbing some bread and dropping it on to his plate. He could probably eat enough for four - must have been all that energy he'd burnt during the work out.
"Don't need to," Claude agreed. "'S more of a stress reliever, really."
Oh, crap, now everyone was being all pissy. And after Peter and I had been doing so well. I was blaming it on Claude. Stupid human.
Nudging Peter's leg with my foot I shot him a quick smile, mentally searching for a topic. Something that had nothing to do with death threats or cows - which for me was actually way harder than it sounded.
Fork frozen halfway to his mouth, Peter raised an eyebrow and stared at Rachel. "You can? ...Huh," Peter said, clearly baffled, mostly from the complete randomness of the topic change.
Turning into an animal would be quite handy, he assumed. Maybe something awesome, like a crocodile. Or a lion. Or a T-Rex. Temporarily drawn off into dream land about which animal would be cool to turn into, Peter stared down at his pasta, frowning in thought.
Claude didn't move as she left, leaning back against the wall and half-watching Peter. For once he didn't offer advice or odd metaphors. It was Peter's power, now, probably for the first time. All Claude could do was watch.
Rachel returned, pulling her hair back as she walked in. She'd changed into workout clothes, but was barefoot, ready to spar. Claude didn't even remove his jacket, though he grinned widely and shot Peter an amused look at Rachel's outfit. Lucky man.
Moving forward, they didn't even have to speak. Claude picked up a long pole from the corner and attacked Rachel without warning. She ducked under the blow, kick shooting out to unbalance him. Claude dodged and came after her with a fury.
It was like a dance, graceful and without hesitation. Both had obviously been trained and neither held back. Claude shimmered invisible only to reappear behind Rachel to take out her legs with the pole. Rachel rained swift blows down with vampire-taught precision.
And both of them kept Peter in the corner of their eyes at all times. The tension of waiting was nearly unbearable; so they sparred, releasing it, close at hand should Peter need them. And both of them pretended they weren't worried and didn't care, a careful charade they needed for themselves.
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It turned out that there wasn't much more he could do. He was already overly tired from the first part of Claude's training, and trying to focus and channel the radioactive power was fairly time consuming. A few more bursts of radiation, an hour later, and Peter couldn't work up the energy to do anything more today.
Peter smudged out of a portion of the chalk circle, breaking it - if he was going to set any more circles, he'd definitely have to practice doing so with more finesse. A quick glance at Rachel and Claude told him that they were still sparring, and he didn't want to interrupt. So he shuffled out into the kitchen, brushing back sweat-soaked hair with a grimace, and started rooting around in the cupboards for something he could eat.
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Claude, however, looked serene, though he was breathing heavily. He was sweaty, too; though he'd stripped down to a black v-neck t-shirt and it was apparent that his body was in prime condition. I mean, seriously. Damn. At least he showed signs of exertion. I didn't feel like such an out-of-shape slacker.
"You love him." It was a statement not a question and I froze at it, eyes wide and heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with our sparring. "Or," Claude amended, leaning on the pole and studying me, "you think you could, which for you is pretty much the same thing, yeah?" He didn't wait for my response - which was a good thing, because I was pretty much just going with the shocked staring angle.
"Give it up," he advised me, tossing the pole into a corner. "He's not the type of guy who falls for girls like you. And he doesn't need any more distractions. You'd drain him dry in a week, with your insecurities and neediness, and there'd be nothing left of him. Walk away, if you know what's good for anyone but yourself."
That said, he simply walked out into the kitchen, shouting at Peter, "Make me a sandwich, fire boy," before plopping down on the couch.
For a few long minutes I just stood in the middle of the training room. Shaking. Closing my eyes, I took a breath. He was wrong. Bastard had no idea. Not only did I not feel that way about Peter (did not, could not), but there was no reason why...
Okay, so he had one point. Guys like Peter... They were pretty much above me. In every way. Best I could hope for was a friendship; and I had that and I didn't want anything else and Claude could just shut his freaking mouth.
Heading out to the kitchen, I nudged Peter aside playfully, forcing a smile. "Go sit down. Chill out. Do anything but this," I commanded him. "I'll make you lunch."
When Claude started to bark another order, I pointed my spoon at him. "Shut up, old man, or I'll actually try next time, and then your ass is mine."
Pulling out a box of pasta and grabbing some chicken from the fridge, I shut off my brain and just concentrated on cooking. And not at all letting Claude's words chase around my mind. Pasta in the pot, chicken in a sautée pan, and Alfredo sauce opened, I then set about making some garlic bread. Anything and everything to keep myself from looking over at Peter, from seeing Claude's stupid face, from acknowledging that I was feeling anything at all except hunger.
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"I could sleep for a week," he announced, tipping backwards and staring at the ceiling. He hoped, when he got better at controlling everything, that pulling out abilities one after the other wouldn't be so tiring.
But, despite being tired, Peter was also feeling way too energetic. In mind, at least. He was still fairly excited over the way he'd managed to manifest the radioactive power, and that was energizing in itself. So he hauled himself upwards again and wandered into the kitchen, looking over Rachel's shoulder at what she was cooking.
"Hey, thanks," he spoke up quietly. "For your support back in there, I mean. It really helped."
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Draining the pasta, I ignored Claude's humming as I shook the moisture from it and dumped it back in the pan. I felt rather than saw Peter come up behind me, and it was a struggle to not just lean back up against him. But Peter wasn't Nick, nor was he Kisten, and Claude, though a huge bastard with bastard creme filling, had been right about one thing. Guys like Peter were way out of my league.
So instead I just turned the pieces of chicken over and seasoned the Alfredo sauce. Glancing over at him, I was quiet for a second, not really sure how to respond to him.
"You were amazing," I told him truthfully, turning around and holding out a spoon with some of the sauce for him to taste. "Too much pepper?"
Something in me had closed off again. Especially since I knew, without even looking, that Claude was watching our every move. I kept a distance between myself and Peter, holding myself apart. God, I'd been such an idiot. Letting the fact that Peter was this incredible guy overshadow the fact that I wasn't good enough for that. I needed to get myself together or else I'd look like an even bigger fool.
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Taking the spoon from Rachel with a crooked grin, Peter put on a thoughtful expression as he licked the spoon clean. "It's great," he assured, throwing the spoon into the sink. "Just enough pepper, actually." Rachel really was a great cook, and Peter made a note to thank her for that more often.
Rachel's distance didn't escape him, though. Sometimes she had no reserves about physical proximity, but right now she was holding herself away. Peter didn't know why, exactly, but this had to be rectified. Stuff Claude and his assumptions, Peter liked giving out free physical affection. So he hovered behind Rachel again, sticking his hands into his pockets and plonking his chin onto her shoulder. "And I wasn't really." Amazing, that was. "I'm bettered by the people around me, in times like that."
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Apparently this was 'Torture Rachel' time. Great. Checking the chicken, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.
"No," I disagreed. "You're just amazing." One corner of my mouth went up slightly and I darted a look over at Claude. The man was watching us out of half-closed eyes, lying back on the couch with his arms behind his head. "Besides, if that was true, I don't think I would have helped you." I returned my gaze to the chicken, salting it a little, more for something to do than out of any culinary need.
Oh, Turn Claude. I turned my head enough to give Peter a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I'm really proud of you."
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Sometimes it was hard to believe that a woman like Rachel apparently thought so little of herself. Peter wanted to stand her in front of a mirror and list her good properties, over and over, until she actually believed it. He didn't immediately speak up, simply smiling softly at the kiss and watching Rachel cook.
"Back when I had just discovered that I could do stuff like flying, I didn't exactly have the right idea about it." Peter paused briefly to tuck his chin more securely on Rachel's shoulder, enjoying the warmth that came from being so close to another human being. "I didn't know I could hold on to the abilities - I thought I was only something when other special people were around." He did have a point here. "Honestly, even though I've learned, I think that's still the case," he grinned, giving Rachel a quick kiss on the cheek.
Before she had a chance to argue, Peter ducked out of the kitchen and headed off to find a change of clothes. Trained-in clothes were not exactly comfortable.
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Yes. No. Chicken needed to be taken out of the pan. That was a good distraction. Almost as good as burning my finger, to which I gave a small hiss of pain and immediately stuck it in my mouth. Claude started laughing, and I glared at him. Jerk.
Cutting up the chicken, dishing it up over the pasta and adding the sauce, I grabbed a tomato and some fresh basil from my windowsill and added them as garnish. Three plates were set on the table along with a pitcher of ice water and a plate of garlic bread. Claude grabbed a seat and shoveled a forkful in, grunting in thanks.
Okay, I could do this. There was no reason I needed to turn into a puddle of mush around Peter, and I was definitely strong enough to stop myself from being an idiot. Taking a seat, I crossed my legs and poured myself a glass of water, thankful for the liquid. Claude had given me quite a workout - first one I'd had since Ivy that had actually challenged me (and hadn't come from someone trying to take my head off).
Ah, awkward silences.
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Shoveling food into his mouth, Peter glanced up at Claude, and absently wondered when the man had actually eaten decently. Living as Claude did probably didn't lend itself to eating hot meals, unless he wandered into restaurants and stole them.
"When was the last time you ate something decent and healthy?" Peter asked suddenly, eyeing Claude in concern. There were some serious physical drawbacks to not eating properly!
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Claude ducked as Rachel flicked a piece of tomato at him, chewing his mouthful around a large grin. "Don't worry yourself, Petrelli, amazingly enough I can take care of myself just fine. Don't need you or your little girlfriend to make sure my belly's full or I've got a place to sleep. Whole lifetime of practice, and never once needed a keeper."
"Ivy and I had a deal," Rachel said abruptly, apparently sick of Claude's monologuing. "She'd go grocery shopping and I'd cook dinner." She paused, then grinned a little, fork halfway to her mouth. "Well, that had less to do with my cooking skills and more with the death threat that made it slightly difficult for me to leave the house. But still. Lots of experience in making meals. I like it. It's soothing."
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Despite his words, Peter still alternated between looking at his food and looking at Claude in concern. He couldn't help it, Claude was someone that mattered to him, and therefore someone he worried over. If he felt Claude needed sweaters, he probably would try to knit.
Wait, what. "Death threats?" Peter raised his eyebrows at Rachel. "Why did you have death threats? Do you still have death threats?"
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He was silently laughing at me, though, when said cow eyes got turned on me. Grimacing, I pushed a bit of chicken around on my plate. Oh. Crap. I'd forgotten he didn't know. "Yeah," I shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "When I quit my job, they put out a death threat on me. Sent a demon after me, some fairy assassins, stuff like that. A few black charms aimed at me. I got out of it." With Ivy and Jenks - if not for them, my ass would have been grass the first day. "And, um, kind of? There's a few people who wouldn't mind if I turned up in the obits." Again I shrugged and offered him a smile. "It's not a big deal. Mostly they're back in Cinci. And I've got it covered."
Maybe he'd drop it if I just glossed over the nasty details?
"Want more bread?" I asked Peter with a hopeful smile, ignoring Claude's all out smirking. Jerk.
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And he supposed the death threats were understandable, in Rachel's line of work. That they were 'mostly' back where she came from made Peter frown, but he didn't pursue it - she looked unhappy enough even talking about it. Great, he was stuck a table with two decidely unwilling to be emotional people. Not that he didn't appreciate it when Rachel reached out, but seriously, all of this non-emotional lack of contact was going to drive him insane.
"Thanks," Peter mumbled, grabbing some bread and dropping it on to his plate. He could probably eat enough for four - must have been all that energy he'd burnt during the work out.
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Oh, crap, now everyone was being all pissy. And after Peter and I had been doing so well. I was blaming it on Claude. Stupid human.
Nudging Peter's leg with my foot I shot him a quick smile, mentally searching for a topic. Something that had nothing to do with death threats or cows - which for me was actually way harder than it sounded.
"Did I ever tell you I can turn into a mink?"
I was so the queen of random.
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Fork frozen halfway to his mouth, Peter raised an eyebrow and stared at Rachel. "You can? ...Huh," Peter said, clearly baffled, mostly from the complete randomness of the topic change.
Turning into an animal would be quite handy, he assumed. Maybe something awesome, like a crocodile. Or a lion. Or a T-Rex. Temporarily drawn off into dream land about which animal would be cool to turn into, Peter stared down at his pasta, frowning in thought.
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