It doesn't take much to get Pyotr drunk these days, but it doesn't take much to wake him up, either. His sleep is shallow and gunshy, easily shattered by the knocking on his door, but it still takes him a long moment to muster the will to actually climb out of his bathtub and answer it. Maybe this is retribution for his sins, he considers somewhat whimsically, as he follows the walls of his flat back to the front door and, leaning heavily against its frame, fumbles the locks and latch into opening.

"Oh, it's you," he murmurs, squinting at the wavering and overlapping figures of Gaeta in his doorway. "Are you here to castigate me for the violation, or request a repeat of the experience?"