[ peter hasn't slept properly since his arrival — fitful nights of sleep broken only by inevitable crashes when he's too tired to pay attention to the endless concerns and worries and thoughts that keep him awake at night; before, he'd waved it off with a loose 'it's too cold' followed by blaming it on everything that had happened with the — well, whatever the hell that had been with half the city intent on killing the other half.

now, though? he's settling on blaming it on the bangs coming from outside, irregular and he's a light sleeper, okay? (if asked). the humidity doesn't drop even at night. it's a stark contrast to the snow and the cold and quite frankly, peter isn't sure which he's less a fan of. he's hot and clammy and the layers he'd opted for previously have been swapped for shorts and a t-shirt, though it's not quite helping — he's used to humidity in summer, but this is something else entirely.

(gross gross gross.)

he recognises her, of course: rosalind(, the vampire). he's seen her in and around the lab, though their paths — peter's and hers — had crossed only in terms of various iterations of excuse me. his skill with diy isn't much better than hers (though he harbours a sneaking suspicion he could do better than that), and he watches her build (or: attempt to build, key word — attempt) to build what he can only assume is supposed to be a box for only a moment before chiming in with: ]

I'm guessing the instructions got lost in the move. [ he shifts his weight a touch, peering at her handiwork with curiosity he doesn't attempt to disguise. ] Maybe if you put a complaint in to the gods, they'll provide us with an Ikea.