Team Awkward Steps Up, Yo (Closed RP for Peter and Rachel)
((A continuation from here. Takes place later that evening/early the next morning.))
It had been...a weird evening. And I was wearing clothes that made me feel like a potato sack. Unfortunately, Claire hadn't left me much choice. Freaking meddling teenagers.
Instead of going on my run - it'd been a stupid thing, anyway, and wouldn't be hurt in the least by me putting it off one day - I'd spent the evening in, listening to music and putting away my piles of new grandma clothes.
Okay, so, they weren't that bad. Even I could appreciate the colors and patterns, the soft fabrics and the graceful cuts. But they just weren't me. I felt frumpy and awkward in what Claire had dressed me in and I couldn't imagine any of the rest making me feel better.
After my room was in some semblance of order, I curled up on the couch and flicked on my TV. (Or, rather, the TV that Claude had stolen for me when I threatened to charm all his beer to go flat and taste like fruit loops.) And then proceeded to stare blankly, uncomprehending of whatever mindless program had come on the channel.
An hour passed before I gave up. God, I missed my kitchen. Cooking always calmed me down, helped me think.
Missing my kitchen made me miss the tent. Which made me miss Peter.
Which was why an hour after that I found myself nursing my third glass of tequila and going over and over everything Claire had said. Everything Peter had told me. The fact that maybe - maybe - I was wrong. Maybe - just maybe - he did want me, the way I wanted him.
Maybe I could have this.
I only had a vague idea where Peter lived. A house elf helped with that, though, and, slightly tipsy and nervous as hell, I was standing outside his room before I had a chance to change my mind.
This was so dumb. I was so dumb. Dumb, dumb, stupid witch.
But I knocked anyway.
What can I say? I guess I'd rather get knocked out swinging than just curl up and give in. And I'd been doing way too much giving in lately. My best and worst quality, one boyfriend had told me, was the fact that I rushed through the door without thinking about what might be on the other side. At the time I thought he was just mad because I was totally kicking his ass in I.S. training camp. Now I realized that, while that might be true, he'd gotten something right in that. When I stopped to consider the depth of what I was plunging into, I tended to freeze.
Better to just run into the fire and hope to God that what you were heading towards was worth the burns.
It had been...a weird evening. And I was wearing clothes that made me feel like a potato sack. Unfortunately, Claire hadn't left me much choice. Freaking meddling teenagers.
Instead of going on my run - it'd been a stupid thing, anyway, and wouldn't be hurt in the least by me putting it off one day - I'd spent the evening in, listening to music and putting away my piles of new grandma clothes.
Okay, so, they weren't that bad. Even I could appreciate the colors and patterns, the soft fabrics and the graceful cuts. But they just weren't me. I felt frumpy and awkward in what Claire had dressed me in and I couldn't imagine any of the rest making me feel better.
After my room was in some semblance of order, I curled up on the couch and flicked on my TV. (Or, rather, the TV that Claude had stolen for me when I threatened to charm all his beer to go flat and taste like fruit loops.) And then proceeded to stare blankly, uncomprehending of whatever mindless program had come on the channel.
An hour passed before I gave up. God, I missed my kitchen. Cooking always calmed me down, helped me think.
Missing my kitchen made me miss the tent. Which made me miss Peter.
Which was why an hour after that I found myself nursing my third glass of tequila and going over and over everything Claire had said. Everything Peter had told me. The fact that maybe - maybe - I was wrong. Maybe - just maybe - he did want me, the way I wanted him.
Maybe I could have this.
I only had a vague idea where Peter lived. A house elf helped with that, though, and, slightly tipsy and nervous as hell, I was standing outside his room before I had a chance to change my mind.
This was so dumb. I was so dumb. Dumb, dumb, stupid witch.
But I knocked anyway.
What can I say? I guess I'd rather get knocked out swinging than just curl up and give in. And I'd been doing way too much giving in lately. My best and worst quality, one boyfriend had told me, was the fact that I rushed through the door without thinking about what might be on the other side. At the time I thought he was just mad because I was totally kicking his ass in I.S. training camp. Now I realized that, while that might be true, he'd gotten something right in that. When I stopped to consider the depth of what I was plunging into, I tended to freeze.
Better to just run into the fire and hope to God that what you were heading towards was worth the burns.