What Chris got in return was a small shrug, an almost rueful concession to his accusation. His very valid, not incorrect accusation.

He took his glass with him as he stood, held it loosely by his side as he strolled down the hallway with Chris. On the outside, Peter looked the part of an amiable, polite houseguest, making sure Chris wouldn't fall down and hit his head before getting to his room. Certainly no one who didn't know him would accuse him of behaving strangely.

But the facts as they were was that Peter seldom did anything without reason. Whatever game he's playing, he's keeping it close to his chest, tight under wraps.

“Not tonight, I think,” he said, the purr more than audible in his voice. Hadn't he said so already earlier? Chris needed rest.

In the bedroom, he located his shirt and held it up. “But I'll be taking this. Thank you for holding onto it for me.” Peter polished off the last of his scotch, and set the glass down on the dresser with a gentle clink. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

With that final phrase, Peter turned around and showed himself out.