He was still cursing but he watched her grab the chair, yelping a bit as she dragged his away from the table and planted herself down in front of him. He scowled at her through his bangs, his ribs aching too much for him to want to move again now.
He'd heard that saying often enough, usually when he was complaining to Nic about something. And yes, he wasn't the only one in this situation. But considering the night he was having...he didn't think he could be blamed for being pissed off. And he kind of resented being lectured like a child over it.
The cowboys with gills were the immediate problem, at least as far as Peter can see, but the main issue was getting out of this town. Getting off this fucking planet, if what she said was true. He wrapped a hand around the mug of coffee, barely even noticing how fast she moved. He was too tired to track her movement properly, especially if she was taking advantage of vampire speed.
"Nais tuke," he murmured; that phrase, at least, came out relatively un-mangled. Peter was oblivious to just how painful his accent was to Phaedra; he was used to speaking a bastardised mix of English and Roma, and that mostly with second or third generation american immigrants. He could see the slightly pained look on her face, though. His mistake was thinking it was because of his appearance.
Or perhaps not mistaken after all. He hissed as she slowly eased him back from the chair, the bruises along the lines of his ribs stark, already black against pale skin.
"I'm fine," he insisted, wishing he'd found a shirt next door. The last thing he needed was to be fussed over. Reaching up, he pushed his hair back from his face, biting back a sharp cry as the pain worsened. Every time he turned on the wrong moon, forced his body to change, it hurt worse. A normal turn was bad enough, with the full moon beating down on his shoulders. Turning like this...it would tear him apart if he wasn't careful.