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[SHOOTING LINCOLN IN THE FACE.

I mean.

This post is for journal threads]

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I— can do that, yeah. One second.

[takes a coffee and steps in, setting the coffee down on the nightstand by Peter's bed. he steps back out and quietly shuts the door.]

How are you feeling?

. . . better. Rested.

No side effects?

I'm okay, I promise. And I really did ask him to do it.

He shot you.

Because I asked him to.

Do you know how alarming it is to hear a gunshot and find your partner passed out with a possible criminal?

I didn't know you were nearby. I thought it was so late . . . there's weird sounds here all the time, anyone who heard it wouldn't have really batted an eye at it. And he's not a criminal.

He's questionable.

He's my friend.

I know. But I just can't trust him. Not yet.

Then trust my judgment, especially when it comes to me.

All right. I'll try.

. . .

I— sorry. For worrying you.

It's what partners are for.

. . . right. For what it's worth, I don't plan on doing anything like that again any time soon.

If it's the only thing that'll get you to sleep...

I don't want to become dependent on it.

Fair enough.

Thanks for . . . sticking around. You must be exhausted.

I've had worse nights.

Yeah, well. Still. I owe you.

You know that's not how it works.

A little . . .

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