[ The terrible and slightly tasteless joke earns a disapproving look, brows pinching together even more than they'd been on account of the headache. There's a scowl, too, which is weirdly difficult to manage when gravity's working against it — or maybe that's just the concussion talking.

So good cop, bad cop. Or goodish cop. Peter's seen the other guy around, even if they aren't on a first name basis, and he wastes a second trying to recall useful details before looking back to Metzger.

The irritation's still there, casually impatient in the face of what's clearly a life or death situation. Because hey, he's been through worse. Maybe. Not really, actually, but panicking (openly) isn't going to accomplish anything. Instead he gives a more subtle tug at his restraints, sending a low rustle of metal on metal through the links. It helps disguise the mild, instinctive flinch away as Metzger leans in, trying to keep distance. ]

That'd be a hell of a lot easier to do if I knew what you'd strung me up for. Communication, man, first rule of running a successful business.

[ That said, he's like, 99% sure this has something to do with smuggling. The problem is, he has no idea which job, and blind guessing seems like a bad approach. ]