As John heads out the door, Pete glances over at Kitty, grinning and
picking up all the stuff from cleaning John's blood up out of the sink. He
inclines his head doorward, briefly, then returns his attention to what
he's doing. Which is, of course, turning the water on and then
flash-burning the stuff he's holding, then washing it all down the drain.
"That was odd," he says, simply.

Kitty just glances back at him. "Odd, he says." And then she phases
through the counter to lock the door; at the moment, she's really not
inclined to take the long way 'round. Click. Though she /will/ go to the
trouble of walking on her way back /into/ the kitchen, his sandwich still
in hand. "Why does talking to your friends always seem to involve someone
or other bleeding at some point?" Flash-burning, hurray.

There's a grin in response. "All right, so it's not as though I'm one to
talk. Or you. He's worse, I swear." Pete washes his hands one more time,
because disinfecting is all well and good but he's going to be /eating/,
thank you. Ha ha. "And what d'you mean /my/ friends? Seishi's shown up
bloody here before, and she's your friend, too. Granted, it wasn't her
blood, but there was someone blee-- ahh, fuck, /did/ he bleed on the
floor?" This last is Pete leaning over the counter and looking
unimpressed. "Goddammit, he left his shirt on the floor too. Did we just
let him walk out looking like a pimp who lost a bet?"

Kitty sounds faintly resigned. And a little less than faintly amused.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, we did. I'll deal with the floor. You eat. Oh,
and I /did/ tell Seishi you had some medical training, so she might very
well show up here bleeding at some point. Presuming she winds up bleeding
in the area, which given our lifestyles, is probably pretty much
inevitable. Eat your stupid sandwich before I think too much about what I
actually put in it."

"All right, all right!" The answer's quick, but not /actually/ as
irritated as it would seem. Nowhere near, in fact. Not least because,
well, /sandwich/. That Kitty made for him! Yay! But also because, well.
Kitty. Pete leans over, one hand bracing on the counter and the other
taking the sandwich from her hand, and kisses her quickly. "Meantime, I
promise not to ask questions with my mouth full if you tell me what the
hell went on tod-- OI! /Pryde/, the floor can fucking wait until you've
eaten. /EAT/."

Kitty kisses him back, fair toll - but not overly long. Because, well,
sandwich. And then she folds her arms and glares at him. "Pete. /Demon/.
/Blood/. It's not the /blood/ that's the problem, it's the /demon/ part. I
will eat when it is /no longer in our apartment/. Unless you want to save
the shirt for threatening Constantine with weird voodoo curses or
something later, but somehow, I can't see it."

"Bah! John was in the flat, and the blood came from /in/ him. Besides,
he's right, it was just a transfusion. But if you must, you can tell me
what you lot were doing with Holmes in a little more details. They're all
right, you said?" /Now/ Pete takes a big bite of sandwich. And is probably
going to make himself another one after this. And another after that. And
then another. And have some beer, too. And maybe some cola. And some
juice. And possibly some of those pickles in there. And a crate of
oranges. And and and. Wow, someone's hungry. Chew, chew.

He's so disturbing that way. Bastard. Kitty still looks none too reassured
by 'it was just a transfusion,' not any more than she did when John said
it himself. She dodges around Pete anyhow. Sponge, check. Does she have
spares? Yes, she does. Good, because she's going to ask him to incinerate
it afterward. Bleach, under the sink ... "Holmes asked Seishi and me to
infiltrate the hospital for a bit; we prompted Ballantine into thinking he
had to move fast and check on them before anybody went on rounds - that's
what Holmes needed me for, forging the email - and Seishi followed him.
They're physically okay, anyway. Seriously drugged, though."

Well he wouldn't normally be loading up like this. But he's making up for
a day of not eating. This may be missing the point. But it's a step in the
right direction, right? And besides, he can blame his metabolism. Chew,
chew. Bite. Chew, chew -- damn, sandwich /already gone/. Yes, he was
stuffing his face. Yes, that /is/ gross. No, he will not admit to it. He
wanders over to the fridge again, opening it and starting to fish around.
"It going to permanently affect them? Anyone know yet? Are they out of the
hospital yet? Are we waiting on anything else for getting them out, if
they're not? And has Holmes begun putting pressure on Blithe? Or was that
part of the first bit - do we have any mayonnaise left?"

It is, in fact, entirely gross. It's possible that Kitty has opted for
cleaning blood off the floor where it dripped simply because the sight
secretly disturbs her less. "First and second questions: I don't know; I
came home rather than trying to interrogate Holmes, and I wasn't there to
see it, and neither Seishi nor I are bio types as far as I know. No,
they're not out of the hospital yet. I think Holmes didn't want to risk
moving them when we're not really set up to handle the various problems
that can come up with that much sedation, and besides, I /think/ he's
angling to use the hospital discovering them itself both to hide our
tracks and to put pressure on Ballantine. Which also handles making sure
there are qualified people around to ease them out of the, you know,
drugs. Yes, we have mayonnaise left. I think I dragged it out onto the
counter - it might've gotten shoved back behind the lettuce." Which is
also on the counter. There's actually quite a bit of food on the counter.
Nobody here would be familiar enough with Pete's eating habits just to
drag stuff out and leave it there and save him the trouble of going
through the fridge, would she? No. She's innocent. And she's cleaning
tainted blood off the floor with a bleach solution. Sheesh.

"Right, right, makes sense. All right. Well, that's a rather daft place
for it, innit? At least the beer's not up on the counter. That - this beer
doesn't warm particularly well. I need to get a paying job. I miss the
privilege of beer that can take a bit of time out of the fridge and not go
all wrong. As good as this lot are, yes, I'd rather not count on them -
and us - to try and ease them off the sedatives correctly. There's a
massive difference. But you knew that. You're not trying to convince me
this is actual turkey, are you? That's tofu, that is." Pete's silent for a
moment, drinking some of the beer he'd rooted out of the fridge and
sorting through the sandwich ingredients on the counter. And he yawns in
the middle of putting mayo on more bread. And looks annoyed, because
dammit yawns - if they're strong enough - take you over and make your
hands shake. "So what, did you end up leading a crumb trail to Melanie and
Claire for the - fuck, does this mean Claire's been in - how long's she
been under? Oh god. Has she even got anyone to come home to once she's out
of everything? How are the staff going to find them out?"

"We both need paying jobs," Kitty replies, absently dodging the first bit
of Pete's meandering. And not so absently wondering which part he's
actually thinking about, undereverything else. Constantine's rather
tattered shirt is picked up carefully and ferried back to be dropped in
the sink. "Which means I still need a decent identity; computer types get
hit with credit checks more often than not. I'm thinking about asking
Holmes if there's anyone he'd find it particularly useful to have lose a
significant bit of money. Or, conversely, anyone he /doesn't/ want hit at
the moment." And then there's Lindsey's off-the-cuff question, but that's
a problem on a different scale altogether. "It claimed to be actual
turkey. But, you know, advertising always tells the truth. No, all we did
tonight - so far as I know - was get in, prod Ballantine, follow him, and
get back out. I don't know how long she's been under. Ballantine's been
/hiding/ her, whatever condition she's in, for fifteen bloody years.
Holmes said something before about a cross-check with insurance records. I
don't know. I didn't even actually /see/ him; Seishi talked to him on the
phone. I don't know how he /got/ on the phone after getting himself
committed. Don't ask me why he got himself committed, either. Tonight was
a whole lot of not asking."

"Look here, you!" Pete twists around, mid-creation, and mock-glares at
Kitty. "They had /bees/ in the bag, all right? And they didn't get out!
And then they had other shite in the other one...I've 'ad bags of water
sitting out before and they din't leak, so just...tell me what I've done
with the horseradish." Shoulders down. Piling things into the sandwich.
And - he reaches up and pushes his hair out of his face, because fuck all,
he's needing a trim. And he yawns again, looking irritable. "Why not ask
Holmes if he knows of a simple way to get a new identity. And he got in so
he could observe from the inside. See who made what rounds when, find out
where everything was, and likely pick up twenty million other tiny
ridiculous little clues like what brand bubblegum the nurses prefer
because it'll tell him when people are most likely to use the water
fountain which'll tell him when he can go running in and making sure
there're labcoats and /eat a bloody meal or I'll throw a fit/." And take a
shower. I don't want you looking more tired than you are because it tends
to put the worry on and /I don't worry/. "Has anyone found out if she has
living family?"

"Because I was too dumb to think of asking him." Kitty drops the sponge in
the sink with the shirt, then comes to half-loop an arm around Pete's
waist, keeping her hand from touching either him or his clothes. She
presses a kiss to his shoulder. "Horseradish is in the fridge door, second
shelf down, about eight inches from the left-hand side. Unless you moved
it since I saw. I haven't looked into the family thing." She leans her
head against his arm, lingering a moment longer. "If you'll torch the
stuff in the sink, I'll wash up and eat. 'Kay? I /must/ need to - I didn't
clue in on how he got the names he gave me to plant in the email." Let
alone the details on the utility closet they swiped the coats and ID
badges from, or which room had no-one in it - too busy keeping the plan in
mind despite light-headedness. "You need a haircut before you stop looking
cute and start looking like Cousin It."

"Yeh. Starting to feel like a Ramone," mutters Pete, leaning his head over
a bit to touch the top of Kitty's. "Not dumb, you twit. Just used to
things being more complicated in some ways and less in others. Don't you
dare disparage my girl's brilliance. People've lost more than dignity for
less." Then he kisses where he'd been leaning, which only takes a little
more convolution, and straightens a little to open the refrigerator door
again to get out the horseradish, and goes about applying it liberally.
Eyes watering = good. "She's going to come out of it massively fucking
bewildered, she's going to need as much familiarity as she can possibly
get. Be like that flick with Max and Fort Lauderdale from the 80s. And the
intern bird with the purple streak in her hair from the Twisted Sister
show. But worse. I'll torch it. Go wash up." He closes the sandwich and
pushes it aside, then goes for the stuff in the sink.

Kitty has been kissed on the head; she is, therefore, content. "Going,
going," she says cheerfully, and steals the use of the bathroom sink.
Which means that when she comes out a couple of minutes later, the
cosmetics have been scrubbed off her face, and while the gray isn't /out/
of her hair, it's spottier, damp, and very clearly makeup. She looks her
proper age again. /And/ her hands are clean. And there are no bloody
shirts in the sink! The evening is definitely looking up. And - his fault
- she's been absently whistling 'Baby, I Love You' in the mean time.
"Right. Food." Rabbit food? Well, mostly. Sandwich, yes. Meat, no. She's
still trying to be good. And she's staying oh so very far away from his
sandwich, because, really, it scares her. "But once the hospital knows
about the two of them - if they can sort out who she is, and Melanie
probably either knows or can help once she's conscious - they'll probably
contact next of kin ... still worth looking into, though. And that will
put pressure on Ballantine - we'll need to be ready to keep somebody with
Melanie, though, Blithe might try something - and set things up with Ray,
if we can get Blithe arrested ... make me stop trying to think when my
head's spinning?"

"There a way - right, your head spinning, that's /bad/. In this instance,"
modifies Wisdom with a leer, turning to regard Kitty, then ruining it
completely by taking a bite of the most frightening sandwich to hit the
planet since the last sandwich he made for himself. Just be thankful they
don't have any Marshmallow Fluff. Chew, chew, wince! chew, swallow. Beam.
"Food. Eat food. And then it'd be lovely to go to bed. That's what I'm
thinking."

Oh, believe her, she's thankful. Kitty eyes Pete, making the obligatory
face at his eating habits. "I'll admit, there's something to be said for
that idea," she grants, nibbling absently at her own. The amount of greens
involved is /just/ to disturb you, Wisdom. "Though I'd been thinking of
trying to get a little more work done first..." Yes, she's teasing. Pete's
yawning, and he's the night-owl - she's definitely teasing. "I mean, what
with losing the evening to faking ID badges and all. Why do places even
/bother/ with those things half the time? They're absolutely pointless.
Especially when on any given day a significant number of their own
employees forget about 'em. I don't know why I'm griping about them making
our job easier, mind you..." Less talking, more eating. Well, more
nibbling in between staring in horrified fascination at /Pete/ eating.

"No you weren't," says Pete cheerfully, taking another bite and leaning
against the counter. Chewing contentedly. And yes! Eyes watering now.
Because oh my god that's a lot of horseradish. He sniffs. A lot. Sniiiiif.
"Are you enjoying your leafy greens, love? If your nose starts twitching
I'll be amused. And start calling you Samantha. And expecting magic of the
sort that doesn't make my skin crawl." Yay for mixing references madly.
"Making job easier /good/." Words are beginning to fail. Yes, the night
owl is very tired. But, sandwich. "Is it cheating to gorge after a fast?"

Kitty menaces him with a stray piece of lettuce. The ritual 'okay, you
win' words are invoked: "Don't make me have to hurt you, Wisdom. Uh, with
your metabolism, I don't think it's /cheating/ so much as unavoidable."
Nonetheless, she's sticking to just enough to make her head stop spinning,
at least temporarily. Oh, and she eats the piece of lettuce she was using
as a weapon, too. "If you were anybody else, I'd say you'd probably make
yourself sick, but I'm not sure that's even possible with you." She
pauses, glancing sidelong at him. "Though I /could/ try to work a
/different/ kind of magic on you. When you're done eating, anyhow. If
you're not /too/ tired." Since either he gave her that opening on purpose,
or he's barely staying on his feet.

"Never too tired. Think you'll be wanting me to Listerine though." There's
a pause. "Almost never too tired. Not going to boast. Much. No, really."
Pete regards his sandwich as though it were food in front of a starving
man. Er. Then he grins up at Kitty and starts trailing over to the back
room, with intentions of heading for the bathroom himself. And while
Kitty's watching - bad man! - stuffs all of what's left of the sandwich in
his mouth at once. Then flees, chewing, trying not to grin.

Kitty's yelp follows him. "Pete! /Gross/!" And then she presses her own
free hand over her mouth, trying to muffle her laughter down to a level at
which it can't be heard from the bathroom. Mostly failing, too. And she
hastily stows perishables back in the fridge - sneaking half a glass of
water while she's at it. Anything that won't spoil ... can stay out on the
counter overnight. If the dragon eats it, the dragon eats it. They'll
live.