Saint Peter

"Well, I'll be your correspondent," Nyasha returned. "And literally everyone already knows you're the gatekeeper. Everyone and their grandmother knows the name Saint Peter."

If he was trying to impress them, it wouldn't work. Watching over the pearly gates was nothing. They had an army. They doubted he did anything important when any treespasser could get killed as easily as any sinner on extermination day.

Not that they'd be having another one of those, of course.

Nyasha turned the folder around so he could open it if he so desired. "Our copy machine is currently having issues, so I can't provide you with documents to take home yet, but I will be making copies of all of these for your next visit so you can take them back. Right now, feel free to review them as much as you'd like."

“Oh—yes, well,” he said lightly, smoothing a hand over the front of his robe, “visibility does tend to come with the position.”

And responsibility. And structure. And a system that does not collapse into— No. Not helpful. Not out loud.

He stepped a bit closer, accepting the turned folder with a small nod of thanks before opening it. His gaze moved quickly over the pages, neat and efficient, the practiced scan of someone used to processing names, notes, outcomes.

Attendance. Chores. Behavioral notes.

Talked instead of fought. Again.

His expression stayed perfectly pleasant.

That’s still the milestone. Okay. Alright. Adjust expectations. Different environment. Very different environment.

He flipped a page.

More of the same. Incremental changes. Small steps dressed up in bright ink and encouraging comments.

They’re trying. They are trying. It’s just… starting from a very low baseline.

He closed the folder gently, careful with the edges, before offering it back with a small, approving nod.

“Thank you,” Peter said, tone warm and measured. “This is… helpful. It gives a clearer picture of what you’re working with, and where support might actually be needed.”

He rose smoothly to his feet, posture straightening as his wings adjusted neatly behind him, slipping back into that composed, on-duty presence.

“I’ll make sure there’s notice before I come by again,” he added, offering a polite, reassuring smile. “So you have time to prepare anything you’d like reviewed or shared.”

A small pause, then, just a touch softer—

“And thank you for your time. Truly.”

Nyasha listened, nodded. "Next time you can say 'that's a foolish idea and it needs to happen naturally or not at all,' I'll get it," they said. They noted it down, anyway. They were never going to let Charlie attempt to recreate Pentious's redemption directly again. They did not want a repeat of the train incident.

"I agree, but the issue is giving them those chances. Hell is not kind to those trying to be good people and many, many are prone backsliding into poor habits when given the chance. Everyone here wants to change, but the environment of hell itself is what's most detrimental to that. So the best option at any given time is to keep them here, and there's very little chance of any urgent situations arising within the building." They sighed. "Assuming things are going well."

"Anyway - I believe that heaven desires proper communication between the realms. Documentation, check-ins, all that. Better than what's currently established. The hotel wants a connection with Heaven so as to maintain peace between the realms and give our residents hope for the future." Nyasha concluded. "Will I be expecting you regularly for that?"

A small pause, then, a hint of something almost proud slipping in despite himself.

“I am usually stationed at the gates,” he added, just lightly, like it was simply a matter of fact and not something he was quietly very aware of. “It’s a… fairly critical role, so I can’t be away too often.”

Understatement.

“But Sera is working on arranging coverage,” he continued, a bit more carefully now. “The goal is to have someone able to take over periodically so I can attend these meetings on a more structured basis. Perhaps… once a month to start, with additional correspondence in between.”

His wings shifted, settling a little more neatly behind him as his confidence steadied.

“It’s just a matter of finding the right person to step in,” he added, almost apologetically. “The position requires a certain… familiarity with the system, and there aren’t many who—well.”

He stopped himself, smile returning, polite and composed.

So, no new information from him. They didn't expect much from him, but at least they had confirmation. Emily was not the best with that. They would have preferred to work with someone a bit more knowledgeable, but at least he was trying to be helpful.

"Precisely. I know the answer isn't exactly known yet. So we're theorizing and testing and enacting ideas," they said. "Charlie has been thinking of..." They paused, not wishing to dwell on this. "Creating a catalyst similar to the one that redeemed Sir Pentious," Nyasha managed to say, taking in a slow breath afterwards.

Charlie. Earnest, sincere, and sometimes coming across as utterly deranged.

“Oh—well—um…” His fingers laced together, thumbs pressing nervously as his wings shifted in a small, restless adjustment. “I would strongly advise against trying to recreate that specific catalyst,” he said carefully, voice still light but carrying a firmer edge. “That feels very difficult to control, and not exactly… repeatable in a safe way.”

Also absolutely not something I am signing off on, thank you.

He exhaled softly, gaze drifting for a moment as he tried to piece something useful together.

“I think… if that was a turning point, then it may not be the danger itself that mattered, but the choice within it. A moment where the individual prioritizes something beyond themselves, without expectation of reward.”

His eyes flicked back to Nyasha, a little more focused now.

“So, theoretically, you’d be looking for situations that allow for genuine, self-motivated change under pressure, but without forcing it,” he said, warming slightly as he found his footing. “Moments where they can choose differently than they would have before, and… mean it.”

A small pause, then a softer, almost sheepish addition—

Nyasha ignored his apology, deciding not to give it any merit. They were hardly near forgetting his words and attitude, after all.

They took to watching his observation, which they were half certain was him pretending to be thoughtful rather than truly thinking. They could see the judgement on his face, but they could let it slide, given he wasn't voicing it. At least he was pretending to see the merit in it.

"Collaboration itself is a big help. I'm sure you remember how close we were to war. Seeing the angels actively working with us means more than you realize." Simple presence proved the hotel was working, collaborating with heaven, bridging things between the two realms. That was vital.

"Then, I would like to get the answer to a question you all have previously failed to supply - what exactly gets a soul into heaven?"

They had been filled in on that farce of a trial after it happened. The fact that there was nothing on it was an oversight, to say the least.

"We redeemed Sir Pentious, yet others who have gone through similar growth have not reached the same outcome, as you might say. Of course, we are doing what we can on our end, but you all are meant to be the example."

Emphasis on meant to be.

"What kind of practices matter? What would really help? These are questions we are constantly working to answer, and another head would help." Someone who wasn't obsessed with koalas or pangolins.

Thinking about the question, though, his expression faltered again, just a touch.

“Oh—well—um…” His hands clasped a bit tighter. “That’s… actually what we’re still trying to determine.”

A small, careful breath.

“There are… theories,” he continued, choosing his words with visible caution. “Some believe it has to do with genuine remorse, seeking forgiveness—internal change that aligns the soul properly. Others think it may have been the… circumstances of Sir Pentious’s final act. A kind of self-sacrifice.”

He hesitated, eyes dipping briefly before lifting again with a polite, slightly strained smile. Choosing his words in a way he hoped Nyasha would appreciate.

“We don’t have a confirmed answer yet. Just… patterns we’re attempting to identify. And unfortunately for everyone, at this point there's not enough... data?”

And the one person who might know won’t just say it outright, he thought, a flicker of quiet frustration slipping through. “Look inside yourself,” as if that helped anyone operationally.

Peter smoothed his sleeve, composure settling back into place.

"Still didn't exactly say what you were so concerned over before," Nyasha remarked. Because yes, they were hearing him out, but that didn't erase any of his previous floundering, or the fact that the first thing from his mouth after arriving had been an implication that their establishment was unsound. "You would think such heavenly people would be excited to welcome new souls rather than worrying over the supposed implications."

They were beginning to suspect he might have been coached before this, and that might be adding to his general stress and hesitance. But they simply filed it away with the other various reasons for his behavior that they had yet to fully confirm.

"And I was informed they were meant to further the cooperation between Heaven and the Hotel so as to ease the process of rehabilitation and eventual redemption of Sinners," Nyasha answered. They had not really been told that in such specific terms, but they were good at filling in the gaps. Had to be when you were working with Charlie, and now Emily. Those two made eachother so much worse.

"Imagine my surprise when the first thing you said was a slight at us and everything we do," Nyasha elaborated, dryly. "Perhaps learn from that."

They finally opened their folder. "What I have here is a series of forms detailing the progress of all of our current residents. You may be familiar with the one known as Angel Dust, who was previously reported as our closest to Redemption, but he is currently... absent."

They didn't want to dwell on his current state. They'd seen him, when they visited the tower.

"I can't say with certain confidence if anyone is as close to redemption as you or I might hope, but I can say progress is being made. If you'll look at this report, I have the profile of Rooster here for you."

They passed him the paper in question, a form filled out mostly in Nyasha's neat cursive, but with occasional notes in Vaggi's military script or Charlie's bubbly lettering. It listed his name, when he arrived at the hotel, what activities he attended and when, his chore chart, and various comments, such as "talked with someone over a disagreement instead of starting a fight" and "Really opening up to us!" written in excited lettering from Charlie.

"In short, our goal is to give Sinners a safe place and a supportive community so they have the opportunity to shed poor habits and develop healthier ones. From there, they can become better people, and one day ascend to heaven."

“Oh—well—I didn’t mean for it to come across as a slight,” he said quickly, hands lifting in a small, placating gesture. “I’m sorry if it did, truly. That wasn’t… that wasn’t my intention.”

Great. Wonderful. First impressions officially beyond repair. Fantastic work, Peter.

He accepted the folder with careful hands, like it might somehow judge him back if he handled it wrong, and lowered his gaze to the page.

Chore charts. Attendance logs. Notes.

Talked through a disagreement instead of starting a fight.

His expression stayed pleasant, but his mind was racing.

That’s… baseline. That is the baseline. That is what you celebrate when someone is five, not—

He stopped the thought there, pressing it down firmly, tucking it away with the same practiced restraint he used for everything else that didn’t belong out loud. Different environment. Different starting point. Of course it would look different. Of course it would.

Heaven, what were they like before this if this counts as progress…

Peter nodded along as if nothing at all was amiss, eyes scanning the page with polite attentiveness. “I see, yes… structure, consistency, positive reinforcement…” he murmured softly, more to himself than anything, as if categorizing it into something he could understand.

“Angel Dust,” he echoed a moment later, just a touch quieter. His fingers paused briefly against the paper.

Absent.

That word lingered longer than the rest. A small note filed away, neat and immediate.

Ask Emily about that. Later. Carefully. Pray she doesn't start crying again.

His wings shifted subtly behind him before settling again, posture straightening as he looked back up at Nyasha, smile returning—gentler now, a little more measured.

“Well, that does sound like a solid foundation,” he said, tone warm and encouraging, even if a faint thread of uncertainty wove beneath it. “Creating stability first, giving people space to… relearn healthier patterns. That makes sense.”

A small pause, then he smoothed the edge of the paper lightly, as if aligning it might help align his thoughts. He exhaled softly through his nose, then seemed to make a decision, straightening just a bit more as he gently closed the folder.

“And this is helpful,” Peter said, nodding once. “It gives us something concrete to look at, something to understand.”

His hands folded neatly again, posture settling back into that careful, attentive composure.

"So you're refusing to say what your stance is, only insisting you don't have one. Same effect as being moderate." He had what served to be no real backbone, nothing but niceties to offer in the face of conflict or discomfort. "Having the authority to make an official statement is entirely different from having the conviction to make a decision."

"I still fail to see what there is left to understand about Sir Pentious," Nyasha said evenly. "Which is who you're referring to with your language. He ascended, and he's in heaven. If you need to understand more about him, you should name it."

"You keep referring to 'sweeping conclusions' and the like. In case you're unaware, that was never a concern until you arrived," they explained, their tone having shifted from accusatory to a unique blend of boredom and condescension. "So, perhaps, so that we can be in the same page, you can inform me what you're so scared of. You've yet to name anything specific."

This was not ideal. In fact, it was deeply not ideal. Possibly the worst version of a first impression he could have managed, and that was saying something—he had once tripped over his own wings while giving a choir performance.

It was also becoming very clear that Nyasha did not like him at all. Fine, that was fine. He could work with that. He just needed to stay on script.

Stay on task. Be open. Be honest.

Right. Yes. He could do that. Probably.

“Unfortunately, Emily’s lack of… concern does not wholly reflect all of Heaven’s,” he began, voice still light and polite, though it wavered just a touch. “Not to say anyone isn’t excited! We are, it’s just… new. And new is, well, scary, as you put it. Not that I’m scared!”

He inhaled quickly, his gaze darting anywhere but Nyasha before settling firmly on the red skyline beyond the window. His wings tucked in tighter, feathers shifting in a small, restless adjustment.

“I’m just not… um…”

Used to conflict.

The thought sat there, loud and unhelpful. He could handle tears. He could handle joy, grief, relief, panic. He had guided thousands through those moments. But this—this insistent, circling pushback—Heaven didn’t do this. Not like this. He was centuries out of practice.

He cleared his throat softly, posture straightening again as he realized he had trailed off.

“Listen,” he said more carefully, hands clasping together in his lap. “My job, up until now, has been to watch the gates, welcome winners, and help with… festivities. This is new to me, and I am trying.”

There was a small pause, his expression tightening just slightly before he pushed through it.

“I would appreciate it if you could extend some grace,” he continued, tone still gentle, though a faint, earnest strain had crept in. “Heaven’s entire system has been turned upside down, and everyone—on both sides of the gates—is trying to figure out what this means and how exactly it happened.”

“We would love for everyone to be redeemed. Truly. I mean, heck, if everyone can make it to Heaven, maybe I can finally retire!”

He let out a small, nervous laugh that didn’t quite land, his smile flickering for just a second too long before settling.

“…That was a joke,” he added quickly.

A beat.

Then, more carefully and measured, he asked, “…Were you told why these… meetings are being delegated?” Choosing each word with visible caution.

Careful. Be careful. Don’t overstep. Don’t say too much. He could practically hear Sera’s crisp, firm voice walking him through it for what felt like the fiftieth time after that incident weeks ago, still fresh. As if he'd forget. As if it didn't almost kill him.

"That is what a moderate position is," Nyasha returned, happy to see that they were getting to him. It gave them a better idea of who he was. His smile was horribly fake, and when they had spent over a year with Alastor, his irritation was clear as day. "It's when you choose neither side. It favors the status quo, namely, it favors the idea that sinners cannot get to heaven."

Nyasha was relaxed, even smug in their position. "Yes, he's an exception, in the way that it hasn't happened before. Yet you're insisting on doubting the outcome - his arrival into heaven as a redeemed soul."

"If you only receive the result, what result is there other than his ascension? Does he appear to be unstable to you? Do you even know him?" Their voice was sharp now. "You didn't welcome him through the front gate, therefore, you don't think he can truly belong there? Are you holding out hope he'll fall back down to hell, and everything will make sense to you again?"

Oh, that was very pointed. That was extremely pointed. And also— wildly off-base, thank you very much—

“Oh!—no, I— I think we’re getting a little… off track here,” he said quickly, hands lifting in a small, careful gesture, like he could gently guide the conversation back into something safer if he just… handled it delicately enough.

Because wow, that escalated.

“I’m not doubting his arrival,” he added, a bit more firmly, though his tone stayed soft, polite, almost cushioning the words as he spoke them. “He’s there. He arrived. That’s not— that’s not in question. No one is standing at the gates going ‘oh, sorry, clerical error, back you go.’ That would be—” he gave a small, strained laugh, “—that would be horrible. We don’t do that.”

His fingers laced together again, a little tighter this time.

“And I’m certainly not—hoping he falls?” he continued, visibly flustered now, brows knitting just slightly. “That’s… no. Absolutely not. That would defeat the entire purpose of—everything, really.”

A breath. Small. Controlled.

“I just—don’t have the authority to redefine the framework based on a single case, even a successful one,” he said, a touch more carefully now, like he was choosing each word before it could be twisted again. “That’s not me being moderate, that’s me being… assigned a role with very specific limits.”

His wings shifted, a faint, restless adjustment before settling again.

“But,” he added quickly, almost seizing the word like a lifeline, “that’s why I’m here.”

There it was. Redirect. Gently. Politely. Please take it.

He straightened just a bit, smile forcing itself into something less strained, hopefully more inviting.

“Heaven’s position is… cautious, right now,” Peter said, tone pushing back into something more professional, more structured. “We have an unexpected result, and we’re trying to understand it before making any… sweeping conclusions.”

His head tilted slightly. Practiced, following the script he had tried to insist to Sera that he didn't need.

“So I’m not here to argue outcomes,” he continued, voice warm again, though there was still a faint edge of nerves beneath it. “I’m here to understand your side of things. What expectations Hell is operating under, what systems you’re putting in place, what you’re hoping this… process actually looks like going forward.”

A small, hopeful smile.

Nyasha listened, feeling satisfied with his argument, all the way until his final statement. At that, they smiled. It was not a kind smile; the kind of smile that said they'd gotten him right where they wanted him.

"So you're choosing to be the moderate," they concluded. "Even when you know, truly, what it takes to get to heaven - you refuse to apply that knowledge to the human soul after it's passed on. You're choosing to give in to the fear of being wrong rather than taking the stance you know is correct." They paused, allowing him to feel the weight of their judgement on his choice before they continued. "We already know what difference it makes: none. Sir Pentious, who I'm sure you've heard of, went under the exact change you and I have just described. Yes, it happened in hell, after his death. And he got to heaven." It was as simple as that.

His wings gave a small, reflexive twitch before he forced them still again, posture straightening just a touch too rigidly.

“Oh, well, no, that’s not—” he started, voice still light, still pleasant, just barely catching on the edge before he smoothed it back into something presentable. “I think there’s been a bit of a miscommunication there, because I’m not… choosing anything, exactly.”

His hands clasped together a little tighter in his lap.

“I’m saying we don’t know yet,” he continued, words coming a bit quicker now, carefully enunciated like if he just explained it properly enough it would stop being twisted into something else. “One case—one very unusual, very specific case—doesn’t establish a universal rule. It establishes that something is possible under circumstances we don’t fully understand.”

A small, polite smile. Slightly strained at the edges.

“And that’s important! That’s wonderful, even. It means there’s something worth studying, something we might be able to replicate, or at least better define. But it doesn’t mean we immediately restructure an entire system that,” he hesitated just a beat, “has been functioning for a very long time.”

His fingers fidgeted, thumb pressing against his knuckle now.

“I’m not refusing to apply anything,” he added, a hint of flustered insistence slipping in despite his best efforts. “What I said is that I don’t see the process. I receive the result. There is a difference between acknowledging the limits of one’s position and refusing to take a stance.”

He shifted slightly in his seat, wings tucking in closer again.

“And yes, Sir Pentious changed after death,” he said, nodding quickly, like agreeing might keep this from spiraling further out of his control. “Yes. That’s… that’s the point. That’s the exception we’re all trying to understand.”

A pause.

“…Which means it’s not proven that there’s no difference,” he continued, softer now, the confidence dipping just a little as he tried to keep his footing. “It just means we’ve seen one instance where the outcome aligned. That doesn’t tell us how consistent it is, or how stable, or whether it—”

He stopped himself, pressing his lips together briefly before forcing his smile back into something gentler, more composed.

Nyasha hummed in acknowledgement. The uncertainty told them he was not confident. The reason that refused to leave told them he was uncomfortable. His politeness itself was a mask instead of something heartfelt, which meant they'd likely encounter difficulties when he refused to express outright what his issues with ideas were.

Then he said that, and Nyasha very nearly smiled, but didn't. Predictable.

"Let me ask you a question, Peter," they intentionally disregarded his 'Saint' title to test if that would be considered disrespectful or not. "As the gatekeeper, you see every single soul who enters heaven. Have you noticed any patterns among them?"

They reached Nyasha's office in the third floor, and they held the door for him to enter first. Inside, the dark wood desk was clean, with a worn but beloved typewriter taking center stage, filing cabinets taking up much of the wall behind the desk. A bookshelf took up the opposite wall, filled with books about anything from heavy tomes on the law of hell itself, to the bible, to magic, to fiction, including To Kill A Mockingjay. Nyasha closed the door behind them and sat down at their desk, gesturing for him to take the seat across.

The room was lit from light streaming through a wide window on their left side that opened to the expanse of hell, giving them a clear view of a large bloodthirsty bird dropping a sinner from the sky so they could splatter on the ground. The wall on their right had a large hung painting of Nyasha alongside Emily, Vaggi, Alastor, Niffty, Husk, Angel Dust, and Sir Pentious. Charlie and Vaggi were holding hands, Charlie beaming while Vaggi smiled softly, her eyes on Charlie instead of anyone else. Niffty was happily perched on Alastor's head as Alastor himself smiled widely. Husk was depicted scowling with Angel Dust slung over his shoulder, making a crude gesture with a smirk.

"Let's say, for example, a woman who grew up in sin and committed sin for much of her life. Thievery, debauchery, you name it. When someone lives in poverty on earth, it's very common." He would know that if he used his brain. He lived on earth once, too. They were looking to see if he'd be insulted at any point. "But, as she grew older, she began to realize how these things were wrong. How they hurt others, and herself. She repented to God for her sins, and by the time she died, had quit all those sinful habits."

Of course he didn’t. Titles mattered. Titles were structure, and structure was the only thing keeping everything from dissolving into… well, this. But he let it pass. For now. Smile steady, posture pristine, as if nothing at all had shifted.

Instead, he moved to the offered seat, smoothing his robe as he sat, ankles neatly aligned, hands folding in his lap before one thumb began to idly press against the other. His eyes flicked to the window just as a sinner hit the pavement with a sickening splat. He quickly looked back at Nyasha, his smile firmly pinned in place.

"Patterns? Well, the most consistent pattern is that they’re usually quite breathless with relief," he began, his voice light and airy, though his fingers tapped a rhythmic beat on the arm of the chair. "But you’re asking the wrong person about 'journeys,' Nyasha. I don't get the live feed. I don't see the struggles, the 'pulling oneself up by the bootstraps,' or the dramatic third-act apologies. I’m the finish line. By the time they reach me, the ink is dry, the book is open, and they’ve already… well, arrived."

He leaned back, his wings giving a small, sharp flutter of discomfort as his gaze drifted to the painting on the wall. He recognized the snake. Sir Pentious. The example to strive for.

"As for your hypothetical woman…" He paused, his expression softening just a fraction, a rare moment of genuine reflection peaking through the sass. "I made mistakes. Quite a few of them, actually. I was impulsive, I was loud, and when things got truly terrifying, I… well, I wasn't exactly 'Saint material' in that moment."

"But Heaven isn't a math equation," he continued, his tone turning a bit more firm, even a touch defensive. "It’s not a ledger where you subtract the 'debauchery' from the 'late-age repentance' and hope the remainder is a positive number. If it were just about actions, half the people in the clouds wouldn't be there. It’s about the… the soul." He gestured vaguely toward his chest. "The inner self. Who you are at the core when all the noise of the world stops. If she truly changed, if her essence became something that 'fit' the vibration of Heaven, then yes, her name would be on my list. Actions are just the symptoms; the soul is the diagnosis."

Nyasha had been spending the last couple weeks trying to get documentation in order. Despite what Charlie may think, cooperation with heaven was a much more complicated process than just getting sidetracked talking to Emily for an hour about some random topic. They could stand keeping Charlie on track, or perhaps Emily, but the both of them in the same room never ended well.

Thankfully for everyone else at the hotel, they'd gotten involved.

Nyasha had made it their job to write down who was who, what they were doing, and proof of their progress - or the basis for that, in the case of those who had yet to stay here line enough to make any progress at all. Everything relevant to actually getting this place running on a consistent, systematic level. They still didn't know exactly how Sir Pentious happened, but they'd be figuring it out.

Some of the newer residents were fighting them on it, but that wasn't new.

They were currently handling intake forms at the front desk, because that was better practice and Vaggi was helping them implement it, when the doors opened. An angel stepped inside.

They suppressed a smirk at his visible discomfort. He was trying to be polite, at least. They'd give him the same courtesy.

Nyasha stacked the papers in front of them and put them into the desk drawer. "That would be me," they returned, placing their folder under their arm and getting up from their seat. The cane was beginning to feel natural, and they weren't sure how to feel about it. "Saint Peter, correct?" They extended a hand for him to shake; their grip was firm. "Come with me to my office."

Peter brightened almost immediately, relief slipping into his expression as he clasped Nyasha’s hand with a polite, measured shake. “Yes! Saint Peter,” he confirmed, just a touch too chipper, as if enthusiasm might smooth over the faint tension still lingering in his shoulders.

“Oh, I—yes, of course,” he added quickly, falling into step behind them without protest. Efficient. Direct. Organized. He could work with that. This was already going better than expected.

“I’m here to… review progress, I suppose,” he continued, smoothing a hand over the front of his robe as he walked. “Documentation, structure, overall viability of the program as it stands.” His smile stayed neatly in place, though his eyes flicked briefly to the cane before snapping back up, politely pretending he hadn’t noticed at all.

“And, um, to assess how cooperation between Heaven and the hotel might proceed moving forward,” he finished, tone still light, professional, pleasant.

God, it’s been forever since I’ve done a poll on one of my roleplay blogs. Anyway, I’m trying to get back into the swing of things, and I recently rewatched Seasons 1 and 2. I realized I’ve been roleplaying Saint Peter based on how I interpreted him from his one scene in Season 1, slightly nerdy, overly worried, and a little uppity, but on rewatch that might not be accurate. He might fit more of a “mean girl” or “fake nice” archetype instead.

Things that wouldn’t change regardless: he still cares too much about what people think, and he’s still nice to newcomers, etc.

This change would mostly affect things like his internal dialogue and mannerisms.