no subject

[ "I'm not a baby," says the man she just carried home specifically to put to bed.

He's clearly not a baby – because he's at least five. ]

Stop complaining, Peter.

[ She doesn't bother reassuring him that she doesn't think he's a baby when he obviously isn't, and she gives him a vaguely reprimanding look.

She makes herself at home where she sits on the bed, her hand set near Peter's arm as she cocks her head, thoughtful. ]

What was the name of that song on your Zune? With... Thunder only happens when it's raining—

[ There's a lilt to the line as she offers it, only distantly following the tune of Fleetwood Mac's, Dreams. ]