A/N: I own nothing of what is mentioned in this chapter.

When Pete showed up at her hotel door pizza box, plastic bag, and stuffed animal laden, H.G. had to take a minute to take him all in. Accepting what looked like a strangely purple bunny, she took a step back to free up the doorway, frowning confusedly at the plush thing in her hands.

Walking past her, Pete slid the pizza box onto the table, hoisting two plastic bags up next to it. Turning around with a boyish grin on his face, he whistled. "H.G., I gotta say, purple and red are not your colors. I'd say you're more of a winter? Summer? Leena would know." When she frowned at him again, he pointed at his eyebrow.

"Oh. How kind of you to notice," she said sarcastically, "Did they teach you tact at that college of yours?"

Pete shrugged, grinning. "Nope, not on the syllabus, unfortunately. Besides, I was too busy chasing sorority girls, booyah." He waggled his eyebrows.

Not surprised in the least, H.G. shook her head, wished she hadn't, and walked stiffly over to sit in one of the chairs the hotel provided. Taking her hint, Pete pulled out his own chair. "Seriously, though," he lowered his voice, "How are you? Should I take you to a doctor?"

H.G. patted his hand. "I'm quite alright, I promise. I give you permission to take back this… Lovely little thing you have so kindly given me if it turns out I am wrong."

Pete puffed out his chest proudly. "That fine specimen of craftsmanship you hold in your hands, H.G., I'll have you know, is worth… Drum roll please," he cupped his ear, ostensibly waiting for some kind of response. When H.G. looked at him blankly, he sighed, "You're like Chip to my Dale, little chipmunk. You have much to learn." Without waiting for an answer, he drummed some kind of melody with his palms, hitting the table top, "Two hundred and fifty tickets, baby! Who's the winner? Huh? Ooh, ooh." He started dancing in his seat, doing a variation of his favorite victory arm movements.

H.G. smiled in solidarity, shaking her head. "Assuming that's something to be proud of, I congratulate you heartily. Much appreciated."

"Oh yeah, many many tokens went into getting you that, H.G. You should be thankful. His name is Mr. Bunnykins, by the way. Mr. Bunnykins, H.G. H.G., Mr. Bunnykins."

H.G. raised her eyebrow, then slowly placed 'Mr. Bunnykins' on the other side of the table, closer to Pete. "I'm convinced we shall be good friends. Now, if you'll excuse me," she moved to pick up the two plastic bags, but Pete shook his head and retrieved the fuller one. "It's for later," he smiled at her.

"I see. Alright." Smiling faintly, H.G. stood up and shambled as proudly as she could into the bathroom, acutely aware of Pete's concerned gaze on her back.

"Let me know if you need any help," he called out as she closed the bathroom door, "I promise I won't look!"

H.G. smirked. "And both Myka and Kelly would harm you if you did," she mumbled, clearing her throat and responding loudly, "Offer noted."

"Okay, good. …Hmm. Should I set it up now or crack open the pizza…?" Pete started muttering to himself, and H.G. tuned him out.

She took a moment to breathe deeply, hands resting on the bathroom counter. Her side did not like all the moving she had been doing, combined with the earlier putting on of a loose buttoned down shirt and pajama shorts Leena had so nicely given her when she had arrived at the bed and breakfast. Ice would have been heavenly an hour ago, but at least she had it now in the shape of artificial ice packs she could see through the plastic material. In quick order, she took everything out of the bag, placing the items onto the counter.

A tube of something called IcyHot, aforementioned ice packs, a half empty package of some sort of sweets called Gummi Bears (H.G. rolled her eyes – Pete was nothing if not consistent when it came to eating his 'gifts'), aspirin, a couple rolls of binding, another tube of ointment called Neosporin, and a box of varying sizes of… H.G. furrowed her brow. Scooby-Doo Band-Aids? Pete must have gotten that partly for Claudia, whom H.G. had heard mention this 'Scooby-Doo' before. She mentally shrugged and set the box aside for later. Cupping her hand under running water, she swallowed two aspirin tablets. Better to do that first thing so it would kick in sooner.

Taking one last look in the mirror, frowning at how red and purple her face had gotten around her left eye, H.G. decided against fully disrobing. Unbuttoning her shirt at a slower pace than normal, she picked up the IcyHot. After reading the instructions and making sure it was the correct product to use, she started to rub it into her skin. She smiled; it tingled pleasantly, though the smell was a little too intense for her nose. Managing to cover most of her strained muscles, she decided it was almost a pity she shouldn't ask Pete to help her. He was like a puppy, eager to please, and he had offered, but… H.G. just couldn't.

Deciding to leave the ice packs for later, she turned her attention back to her face. Well, the scrapes were scabbing, which was good. Hopefully they would heal without leaving any scars. Quickly realizing that IcyHot would not help her, she picked up the other tube and gently applied it, staring intently into the mirror. Aside from the scrapes, H.G. paused, one corner of her mouth lifting, she looked remarkable for being a supercentenarian. She should remember to thank Claudia for teaching her that term when she got back.

Turning her attention to the ice and binding (which on closer look seemed to be called something like ACE), H.G. quickly realized that she was going to have more trouble than she had previously predicted. Looking at the ice packs, then at the ACE, then down to her side and left arm, she sighed.

"Pete," she called, pushing the bathroom door open enough to lean her head out.

"Yeah?" Looking up from the table where he had seemingly just opened up the pizza box, Pete blinked, a slightly panicked expression crossing his face, "You… You really want my help? I mean, sure, but, H.G. I like you and all, really, but I…"

H.G. chuckled, shaking her head, taking a step outside of the bathroom to show him that she had buttoned her shirt back up. "It's quite alright, Agent Lattimer," she drawled, "I will be fully clothed. Your virtue is safe with me, I assure you."

"Well, alright then. As long as you don't tell anyone!" he stipulated, waiting until she nodded at him, hiding her grin. Rubbing his hands together, Pete walked over to her, smiling, "What would you like me to do?"

Pretty quickly, H.G. and Pete managed to secure the activated ice packs against her side – over her shirt, Pete was happy to find out – by wrapping the bandages tightly around her upper chest and torso, working around her stiff arm and breasts. H.G. got great amusement out of the blushes and nervous mumblings Pete produced during the procedure, smiling wickedly at him with her eyebrows raised any chance she got. Concentrating on his embarrassment certainly helped her ignore the majority of the discomfort, though she was chagrined to admit that a couple of pained gasps escaped her mouth.

Standing back and straightening, Pete walked around her in a circle, studying their work. Satisfied, he smiled proudly at her, "Looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Though…" He frowned, studying her face. "H.G.!" he grabbed the discarded box of Band-Aids, opening it quickly and pulling out a couple of small paper-wrapped items, "You didn't put any of these on." Before H.G. could reply, he had already sorted through the ones in his hands, pulled out certain ones, torn open the paper, and affixed brightly colored cloth-like… bandages? …to her face with their sticky ends, covering her abrasions with a surprisingly gentle touch.

"Oh. So that's what those were," H.G. mused, turning to look at herself in the mirror. She couldn't help but blanch at the comical looking dog that practically jumped off of her face in a variety of patterns. Still, Pete looked so pleased with himself that she figured the loss of dignity was worth it. …Just as long as she took them off before Myka saw her, of course.

Ahh. The coolness was seeping through her skin, the makeshift bind working; she only hoped it wasn't too late and practically useless. Following Pete out into the main part of the hotel room – she pretended not to notice him swiping the bag of Gummi Bears off of the counter – she headed straight for the table, careful as she sat down. Pete handed her a paper plate and napkin with a flourish, sliding the pizza box so the part that opened faced her, lifting the lid. The smell of grease and cheese and tomato sauce hit her nose.

H.G. frowned. "What is this?" she asked, making the wide smile on Pete's face falter, "This is not the pizza I know."

"What?" Pete looked down at the offending circle of cheese and meat and various vegetables, brow furrowed. "Okay, first of all, I didn't even know you knew what pizza was," he raised his hands in a placating motion when she glowered at him, then shook his head, "But regardless. What's different about it?"

She waved at the pizza with her right hand, "The… The absolute drenching of cheese, for one thing. I'd heard about it in Italy, of course, but…" Staring down at the white topping, she grimaced, "I never had the privilege of trying it myself."

"Really? That's, like, what makes pizza!"

H.G. ignored him, studying the 'modern' pizza. Her stomach was growling fiercely, and once she got past the oily sheen the pie had, it did look somewhat appetizing. Noticing the change her expression must have had, Pete pulled out a triangle-shaped wedge and slid it onto her plate. He grinned at her.

H.G. glanced around the table. "If I am to enjoy this delectable morsel," she started, reaching for the plate and pulling it towards her, "Where is the cutlery?"

"What?" Pete blinked at her.

"Knife. Fork. With which to eat."

Seeing Pete mime picking up a slice and eating it with his hands, she looked furiously back and forth between him and the pizza on her plate, horror dawning, "You cannot surely expect me to… This? With my hands?"

Pete smiled. "It's part of the experience, H.G. 'Sides, how did you eat your 'hoity-toity pish-posh' pizza back in the day?" Still seeing the uncertainty on her face, he sat back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, a look of practiced indifference on his face, "I'm sorry to say we are all out of utensils today. May I suggest the alternative?"

"Which is?"

Pete sat forward again, smiling, "Using your hands."

H.G. groaned. Seems if she did not want to starve, she'd have to make do without silverware. Slowly, still not quite sure what she was getting herself into, H.G. picked up the piece of pizza, wishing she had use of both arms when it sagged a little in her hand. Getting a better grip on it, thankful the bottom crust prevented her from feeling the grease, she took a tiny nibble of the pointed end.

Flavor exploded on her tongue, and she stared at Pete, taking a bigger bite, this time with some peppers and meat in it. "Well," she declared, setting the piece down so she could wipe her mouth with a napkin, "It's not so bad."

"Score!" Pumping his fists, Pete shoveled three pieces onto his own plate, devouring the first one in quick, enormous bites. "Hey, the pizza'd been taunting me the whole way over here!" he explained when H.G. shot him a mildly disgusted look, "And I'm a growing boy."

"The only thing that's growing is your waistline," H.G. muttered, picking up the pizza wedge again.

"What?"

"Nothing," H.G. took another bite.

"Ohhkayyy… I'm too hungry to get indignant, so you're lucky, young lady!" Pete wagged his finger at her. The effect he was going for was ruined by the tomato sauce smeared on his cheek.

H.G. chuckled. "Young lady. I see. This supercentenarian thanks you for the compliment."

"Super… Wha?"

"Ask Claudia."

Pete narrowed his eyes, picking up his third piece. Staring intently at her, he took a big bite and chewed, swallowing noisily. "Don't doubt I will," he threatened emptily, retrieving another piece for H.G. when she finished her first one.

H.G. smiled, nodding. She handed Pete a napkin, laughing when he wiped everywhere but the place he had the tomato sauce. Her side twinged, but it was bearable, even if sitting constricted her midsection. As long as she could breathe and eat, she was happy.

Finishing off her third piece, H.G. was full (Pete after seven). There were still a couple of pieces left, and Pete placed it into the complimentary refrigerator, assuring her that cold pizza was well regarded as a suitable breakfast. Then he pointed her to her bed, telling her to take a seat on the end so he could clean up and set up what he had brought. Eager to see what it was, H.G. did so without complaint.

Dropping everything into the trash and picking up the bag he had previously denied H.G., Pete walked over to the hotel television, looking it up and down. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he pulled out what looked to be a black control box of some kind, two white buttons and a red lever on the top of it. Taking a cord and attaching it from the control box to the side of the television, Pete turned it on and fiddled with the channels. Pretty soon, Retro Arcade Pac-Man showed up on the screen in big, block letters, a strange yellow creature underneath it. With a victorious 'ahah!' Pete threw her a wide grin and started pushing buttons and moving the lever on the control box in his hands, making what seemed to be control menus flash across the screen. H.G. leaned forward from her seat on the bed to get a better look.

"I told you I'd bring the video games to you!" Pete crowed happily, walking over to sit next to her on the end of the bed, pushing the control box into her hands, "And see? So retro it should be a piece of cake. …Ohh, cake…"

H.G. stopped studying the clunky box to shoot him an unbelieving glance. "You're hungry already?" she asked, looking back down, experimentally moving the lever up and down, side to side, raising her head to see something that blinked on the screen match her movements, jumping from word to word.

"I always have room for cake!" Pete protested, then reached over and pushed the white button labeled 'A' a couple of times. The television let out a couple of beeps, informed them that the game Pac-Man was selected, and a grid filled with yellow dots and white labyrinthine lines appeared. "Alright!" he pointed at the screen animatedly, "See that little yellow guy?"

Startled at how quickly Pete seemed to be shoving her into the game, H.G. squinted at the screen, "The… half circle that appears and disappears?"

"Exactly! That's your little Pac-Man. In a bit, he will solidify, and then you are to use that joystick," Pete poked at the red lever, "To move him around so he can eat his yellow food pellets. And fruit."

H.G. tilted her head. "Is that a… Cherry?"

"Yup yup. Ohp, time's up. Move! You don't want the ghosts to catch you! That would make Ms. Pac-Man quite sad if you got ated by a ghost."

H.G. thought about admonishing him for his bad grammar, but Pete gestured wildly at the screen in exaggerated motions, suddenly yelping and shaking her shoulder as some kind of red… blanket with eyes started to blink into existence behind her yellow half circle. Even if that by itself hadn't spurred her into action, Pete's wild grab for the control box convinced her that if she indeed did not move her Pac-Man and avoid the ghost, her partner would steal the game and never give it back to her. Experimentally pushing the joystick down and then left, the Pac-Man went down and left, a strange 'waka waka waka' noise coming from the speakers.

She managed to avoid the ghost by doubling back and slipping around one of the handy box walls, and, with Pete's encouragement and animated commentary, quickly got the hang of the game. She'd never tell, but slipping up behind the ghosts and eating them before they could eat her really was quite exciting.