Silently going to the door, Peter listens for any sign of impending trouble. Only Derek and his land lord know where he lives, and their smells he had memorized a long time ago. Also, only one of them knows his real name. Sadly, it is not Mr. Bardell. Peter certainly isn't expecting anyone else to pay him a visit.
All he's hearing through the wood, though, is a strong heart beat: his would be visitor is not nervous. Hmm. He throws the front door open, startling the person on the other side of it and sending his heart into a hard gallop. Ah, much better. He smirks lightly.
Standing on his porch with one hand raised to the call button is a young man, probably still a teenager, dressed in a delivery uniform. With mousey hair, ridiculous pencil mustache, and acne-ridden face, he is unremarkable enough to be easily overlooked. Even if Peter had seen him before, he wouldn't remember him now. It makes him yet more cautious.
However, what really gets his attention and raises his hackles is a parcel the boy is obviously struggling to hold one-handed. It's big, square shaped, and wrapped in colored paper so bright and garish, it's painful to look at. And there's a yellow ribbon artfully tied in a bow on its top. All in all, it looks like a present, albeit a gaudy one. Charming.
Peter regards him distrustfully, half-expecting a horde of hunters to jump out of the van that's parked a short distance away. It has the same hideous company logo as the boy's… everything. Every article of his clothing, starting with the cap and ending at shoes, and all of his trinkets have it printed somewhere. Nobody in their right mind would agree to be seen kitted out like that of their own free will.
Maybe it's a distraction tactic, and while he is busy dealing with this vapid crime against fashion, someone is sneaking into his kitchen to spike his morning coffee with aconite. And spit in it, for good measure. Peter would roll his eyes were he not so focused on his guest.
And the silence's just become a little too long. "Good morning," he offers politely. "Can I help you?"
Taking a few deep breaths to regain his calm, the boy adopts a professional — bored — attitude. "Are you Mr. Hale?" he asks glancing at his clipboard and back at Peter's face again, as if to compare its likeness.
Uh-oh. Depending on the outcome of this encounter, Peter might be forced to move out. Again. It is becoming tedious rather fast. His smirk widens into a smile, showing a set of sharp white teeth. "It depends on what you want with him."
The hand holding the clipboard starts to tremble. The boy thrusts it forward saying, "Sign here, please," in a voice that breaks merely a fraction at the end, which would be imperceptible to human ears. A drop of sweat slowly makes its way down his forehead.
Peter stares at him a moment longer before glancing at the papers. Aside from the fact of his address being known to the delivery company — and an unknown sender — everything seems to be in order. The sender column is disappointingly but not surprisingly empty. Heaving a great sigh, he reluctantly scrawls his signature, using a pen with the same thrice-damned ugly company logo. Really, who the hell uses something drawn by a color blind first-grader as their company logotype? Some people just don't have any sense whatsoever.
"Is this all?" he asks.
Oh, while Peter wasn't paying attention, the boy started freaking out. Which is, actually, strange. Usually it takes more unblinking staring and constant smirking on his part.
The boy nods jerkily, shoving the parcel at Peter. The moment he has his clipboard back, he turns around and, mumbling, "Have a nice day," over his shoulder, goes to the van as quickly as possible without outright breaking into a run.
Seeing him off, Peter hopes he is intimidated enough to want to forget about the whole encounter and not blab about it to the wrong ears. If not, then movers will surely give him a discount. Closing the door, he can finally focus on the parcel in his hands. Despite its size suggesting otherwise, it isn't heavy. Carefully putting it on the kitchen table and looking it over, he confirms his first impression: it appears someone had sent him a present. Anonymously.
And that understandably makes him nervous… considering that nobody alive knows the date of his birthday nowadays. Even if Derek remembers it, he's more likely to slit his throat — again — than send him a gift. That, of course, only serves to reinforce his suspicions. Having a total number of zero friends isn't helping either. To sum it up, it's not like he doesn't have a reason to be mistrustful. He hadn't anticipated its arrival; therefore, he certainly doesn't have a reason to believe its content harmless.
Contrary to popular belief, he had considered going to therapy: Hello, my name is Peter, and I have trust issues. Why? You see, almost all my family and I were locked in our basement just before it was set on fire, so I had to listen to their dying screams. Then, after years spent in a coma, basically the first thing I've done was murder my niece — along with some other unimportant people, but they deserved it — in a haze of madness; then I was burned again, and my nephew ripped my throat out with his claws. Um, are you all right? Doctor? Who are you calling?
Nah, it's not worth being prosecuted, or committed to an asylum, or both.
"It's not paranoia, but a healthy and — more importantly — justified concern," he tells himself firmly, sniffing at the parcel. It doesn't reveal anything useful.
The outer layer tells him that the delivery van is in dire need of cleaning, and a person who brought it here uses a cheap deodorant. Nothing he didn't know already. At least, there is no ticking sound. Well, no other choice left. Sighing, he slices through the ribbon and wrapping paper with a nail… and promptly sneezes at the cardboard box.
The reek of disinfectants is so strong, his nose itches. Whatever is inside, it smells like someone painstakingly wiped it clean. Peter is suddenly stuck with an image of a person in a Hazmat suit liberally spraying it with Lysol. Which, funny as it might be, likely isn't far from reality. Someone put a lot of effort into erasing his smell.
Anyway, no backing out now: his curiosity won't let him.
He opens the lid warily, not knowing what to expect… and finds it full to the brim with dvd boxes. It seems like every zombie movie ever filmed in existence stuffed inside this box. And lying on top of everything else, like the pearl of this collection, is the Twilight trilogy Limited Edition package. Peter suddenly has a feeling he knows exactly who sent it. He snorts. Time to watch Warm Bodies.