It'd been a bad week. Caffrey had slipped through their fingers not once, not twice, but three times, and the agency was at their wits' end. Peter's job wasn't in limbo, not yet, but if Caffrey kept it up, it would be. And even if he hadn't been able to catch the bastard, or even get a good look at him, for almost a full damn year – even then, Peter knew Caffrey.

And Caffrey was going to keep it up.

So he was getting blindingly drunk in a shitty little bar in Boston that looked like it wanted to be a pub. "In fuckin' Boston," he told the counter, and ordered another shot of tequila.

It wasn't professional, and it wasn't mature. If Elizabeth could've seen him, she would have slapped him. Or laughed at him; Elizabeth was like that. But she wasn't here. Just the damn agents were – and Caffrey, somewhere. He wouldn't move on until they'd almost caught him, until they were staring at forged bills with his laughter echoing on an intercom.

Or on his fucking phone. He downed the shot. Damn Caffrey.

"Get me another one," he said to the bartender.

The woman raised her eyebrows. "You're not driving, are you?"

"I'm fine." Slurring already. "Just get me another." He had to get the image of the perfectly forged bills, the smoothly breached security systems, out of his mind.

After God knew how many more drinks, a stranger sat down next to him. "Come here often?"

It was a light voice, quick; it rang a bell, but Peter wasn't one for voices. Or faces. "Never," he said. "Why am I in the agency?"

"I couldn't tell you," the stranger said pleasantly. "Since I don't know what agency you mean. Can I buy you another one?"

"I'm blindingly drunk," Peter said. "Might not be a good idea."

"Oh, it's always a good idea," the stranger said, and pushed his money across to the bartender.

Peter's vision wasn't swimming yet; he wasn't at blackout stage. But he was, very definitely, at messy drunk stage. "Why're you even talking to me?"

"You look interesting."

"I look like a damn wreck."

"That too." The stranger leaned closer, pressing his side against Peter's. Peter knew he ought to move away, but he was equal parts too drunk and too depressed. "So. You haven't responded to my pickup line."

"Of course I don't come here often," Peter said irritably. "Come on."

"That's not the response I meant," the stranger said, and put his hand on Peter's knee.

Peter thought it over – as well as he could, at least, with the booze swimming around in his damn brain. He knew what the guy was asking.

The issue wasn't Elizabeth. Elizabeth – had a very close female friend. There were couples more flexible than they were, he was sure, but this wouldn't be a problem.

"Give me a name, first," Peter said.

The guy's smile was – Peter had to keep himself from gaping like an idiot. It was a good fucking smile. "Call me Nate," he said.

"You remind me of..."

Nate raised his eyebrows. "Your mom?"

"Funny. Someone. I don't know. Fuck." Peter slid off the barstool; the earth spun. "Bathroom?"

"I was thinking something a little classier."

The smirky way he said it clued Peter in. "Your car."

"Yep," Nate said, and got an arm around Peter's waist. "This way...what's your name?"

"Peter."

"Peter." Rolled over his tongue.

Peter was blind fucking drunk, but he could feel his dick responding anyway.

"Let's go," Nate said. He led them out of the bar.

||

The car was red, and small, and fucking nice. Peter wanted to stop and admire it, but the second his body was pressed against the metal, Nate was pushing him down hard.

"Admire the paint job later," he said, and kissed Peter hard.

It was a good kiss – or Peter may've been too drunk to tell. But he thought it was good, the way Nate's tongue moved in his mouth, the way his hands ran up and down his arms. He jammed a leg in between Peter's, pressing hard. "C'mon," he said, kissing Peter harder.

Oh, right. Responding. Christ: Caffrey had fried his brains.

He let himself feel it, kissing back and fisting a hand in Nate's hair, and – yes. Fuck, yes. It had been way too long; he hadn't seen Elizabeth in weeks and he'd been too busy - and maybe a little too proud - to think about a random fuck. But this guy was hard and aggressive and over him, and Peter already couldn't get enough.

"Been awhile, huh?" the guy said. His smile was nothing but smug, and normally Peter'd be punching him right about now - except the guy went in and bit his neck, and all he could do was moan.

The alcohol made him clumsy, his fingers fumbling uselessly and his breath coming in quick bursts. But Nate didn't seem to mind. He was grinding against Peter, cock hard, breath coming in harsh gasps.

"You like this," Peter said, feeling a wave of triumph when he felt Nate shudder. Part of him, the part that could think past the world spinning, knew that dirty talk wasn't exactly normal for random hookups. But it seemed to make Nate even more desperate. "C'mon, get your pants down."

"Pushy," Nate breathed, but he obeyed.

Peter didn't bother holding in his smirk. "Smart," he said, and pulled Nate in for another vicious kiss.
He got his hand around Nate's cock; Nate shuddered, fucking his fist. "Knew you'd be good at this," he all but growled, pressing hard against Peter.

Peter snorted, alcohol giving him the arrogance he'd normally only have when training new agents. "Please. Don't try to tell me you knew I'd be good at this back in the bar." Something about the way Nate shuddered gave him an idea. "Now. Kneel."

The guy jerked his head up and for a second Peter thought he'd been wrong. But Nate's eyes were gleaming, and the way he licked his lips..."What if I said no?" Nate said, still thrusting into Peter's hand.

Peter lowered his head, sinking his teeth into Nate's shoulder. "You won't."

Nate moaned and dropped to his knees. "Fuck," he said, mouthing the front of Peter's pants. "God, you're so -"

"Shut up," Peter said harshly, yanking Nate's hair.

Nate laughed, loud and carefree. "Sure, boss," he said, and pulled Peter's pants down.

His mouth on Peter's dick would've felt like a revelation even if Peter hadn't been drunk. As it was he lasted – not long at all. Maybe ten minutes, with Neal's tongue flicking over his dick and Neal's fingers digging into his hips. Maybe ten minutes of head-spinning pleasure, with Neal's mouth overlapping with his desperate need to catch Caffrey in his mind, his fingers digging into Neal's hair and his mind skipping over the evidence – forgery, slipping through their fingers, the exact opposite of this kind of reality, hard and wet and not going anywhere -

If he groaned Caffrey when he came – well. He was drunk, and anyway, no one could prove it.

He was vaguely aware of Nate standing, leaning against him and jerking off, coming with a groan into his hand and all over Peter's pants. Peter moaned when Nate laughed into his neck. "You okay?" he said quietly, mouthing Peter's neck.

"You're fuckin' good at this," Peter said in response.

"Mmm," Nate said. "Well. I'll see you around...Agent Burke."

It took Peter about ten seconds to realize what he'd said and throw himself off the car, gasping for air and looking around. But the world was spinning, and Caffrey...Neal fucking Caffrey was gone.

"Fuck," Peter said, staring at his filthy pants. "Fuck."

The red car clearly wasn't Caffrey's; that was embarrassing as it was. But also – damn it. He'd never tell the agency, but Elizabeth? Elizabeth would never let him hear the end of it.

"I'm going to fucking lock you up, Caffrey," Peter whispered to the empty parking lot. "I'm going to put you behind bars and wipe that smirk right off your damn face."

And once he did, he'd never have to see the bastard again.