Well. This is... not what he expected. Not even just the way Pyotr drapes himself over Gaeta in the most excruciatingly awkward way possible; all the confidence and quiet command of before has left the man, smothered the same way Gaeta's self-assurance died on the vine as his anxiety regrew.

He flinches a little at the hand on his chest. (Thinks, for a split second, of Mulcahy, and wonders --

No. Gods, he just needs to sleep, what use will he be to anyone if he can't even do that?)

"Okay," he manages, and cups his hands like a parody of prayer, waiting, hoping it'll work.