Mornings seemed to come too quickly. Or maybe it was just that Vegas always felt tired since getting shot. He should probably be thankful he can feel anything at all. He clawed his way back from death's door and got a little stronger, felt a little less pain with each passing day.

And he wanted to get better. For Pete. If not for Pete, well, he wouldn't really have any motivation to go on. He had put a gun to his own head, after all.

Even if mornings came too soon, there was one good thing about them: waking up with Pete curled up beside him. Vegas was stuck on his back, but had an arm around Pete, holding him close against his side. He hadn't gotten up yet to start the day and bring them breakfast. The house was quiet and, for a few minutes, it was easy to pretend it was just the two of them. Carefully, very carefully, Vegas shift onto his side -- though he couldn't help a hiss and a groan as he did so.

"Are you awake?"