So for the third time this mission, he finds himself in the pub, scrolling aimlessly through his phone and trying to blend into the corner booth. He's had no contact with the Fringe Division yet today and he can feel his nerves settling down. A beer or two always promised Lincoln relief.
"Mind if I join you?" a suave voice calls. Lincoln looks up, an air of annoyance in his eyes. When he sees the voice, though, two thoughts come to his mind:
This is the man the secretary wanted!
Damn, he's beautiful!
"No – no, I don't mind. Sit." Lincoln's tongue is tied and he's stammering like the little nerd he is. "Do I know you?" Stay cool, Lee. Don't screw this up.
"No. You shouldn't know me anyway. I'm Peter. Sorry for intruding—"
Don't be sorry, handsome.
"—but I thought I recognized you." Peter smiles and extends a hand.
Lincoln reached out, willing his hand to stay steady. "Lincoln," he says. His hands... Fuck!
"You local?" Peter asks. He's trying to flag down a waitress, shamelessly flirting with the young blonde who brings them two beers.
Mine. Hands off, ditzy!
"No," Lincoln says. "I'm from out of state." Not completely a lie, he decides.
"Interesting. You seem nervous, Lincoln." Peter's eyes are doing something like a smolder and Lincoln can almost feel himself melting away under his gaze.
"Just… need more booze. Yeah, more booze." Lincoln drains the last of his drink and hails down the blonde ditz.
So they both drink, Peter looking Lincoln up and down, observing his every movement. Lincoln was hammered by beer number four, which led him to say some pretty dumb things.
"Did you know that Belgium has the most beer brands, like, ever?"
"That's nice, Lincoln."
"I have cenosillicaphobia."
Lincoln waited for Peter to respond, but all he got was a curious stare.
"Fear of an empty glass!" He shook with silent laughter, and then his face hit the table.
"Son of a bitch," Peter whispered. He was smiling at Lincoln, whose already messy hair was spiked every which way. Not to mention, he had already drooled on the table a bit.
"Let's go! I'm calling you a cab!" Lincoln's response was an abnormally loud snore for such a slender man. Peter couldn't help but laugh, which woke Lincoln for a bit.
"Are you an angel?"
"No, I'm the guy who's calling you a cab."
"Poo."
"Where do you live?"
"Dunno. Hotel, I guess?" Lincoln was falling back asleep, and Peter couldn't resist stealing a glance at his delicate face. Lincoln was jolted awake by the cold air.
"Shit!" he gasped. Peter was half-carrying him to his car, with his arm looped around his back and his hand on Lincoln's hip.
"Good morning, drunkard. You get to come home with me tonight."
There was a smile on Peter's face as he placed Lincoln in the passenger seat.
Mission is a success.