Peter strolled into the office, more at home than anyone who faced a very real possibility of being shot (and likely with a wolfsbane bullet) ought to be. He was holding a fruit basket, which he set on the desk. Right next to the gun, the wicker nudging the barrel of it with a faint scratching noise. The sharpness of the citrus almost hid the scent of pain and alcohol, but not entirely.

"I'm performing a welfare check," Peter said, leaning on the edge of the desk opposite from Chris. "Making sure you haven't succumbed to your injuries and whatnot."

A welfare check no one asked him to make, but here was Peter nonetheless. Maybe he just liked making Chris uncomfortable-- emphasising how vulnerable he was while injured. Either way, a tryst wasn't exactly on his mind, not with Chris's condition. There was no greater blow to the ego than having someone pass out on you from pain mid coitus.