"That's right. Yay, grindcore," Pete was saying, as he locked the door and fought off the urge to pile up all the furniture against it. Once he turned to look at her, he forgot all about that urge. Instead, he was confronted with a sixteen year old trying to do the whole Britishly stiff upper lip thing and failing miserably. And maybe the realization dawned on him that he was still a tiny bit buzzed still from drinking, earlier on. Whoops.
With a sigh, he put a hand on Gwen's shoulder and guided her to the couch, applied just enough pressure to get her to sit down, and then - very awkwardly - gave her a pat on top of her head. Just once. Because he did not know what else to do. That made him thinking that he would be a rubbish father, since he was terrible with little kids (they picked up too many curse words) and he wasn't at all certain what to do when confronted with terrified teenagers.
"I don't think you're stupid." That seemed like the right thing to start off with, because he was no stranger to bad dreams. "But I am lost. So update me on who this count is and why he would be after you. I'll be listening while I make myself some coffee that's the fucking consistency of tar. Do you want a cuppa, petal?"