( his head tilts at the question, brow arched in evident confusion as his eyes stare a little more intently at juno, just for a moment, but long enough. it takes a minute for it all to make sense to him, not because there's anything hard to understand about the question, but the way it makes him feel certainly gives pause. the kind of hot beneath the collar like when someone on a con starts asking the right questions, getting on to him, threatening to blow the entire heist by prodding all the more tender spots of his permanently artificial stories. he feels the pressure of being trapped, caught in his own web of lies that spins fatter and farther than anyone can ever really comprehend.

he's never been in this situation before -- with someone who can ask him questions, and he doesn't have to deny or deflect. peter has never been able to be honest, before. he makes a kind of stuttered, nervous sound ) Uh. ( and then sorts himself out, wiping the look off his face and shaking his head, mouth forming a softer smile. )

Most ... entrepreneurs like myself come from humble backgrounds. ( thieves, he means thieves. he waves his hand noncommittally. ) The man who raised me taught me that clothes left an impression, and. For a time, we got by with making our own.