It's a kneejerk reaction whenever Peter Bishop thinks he's going to die, he has the overwhelming urge to drink—a lot.

It's been a different context over the last year, but still almost a daily occurrence: instead of staring down the business end of a Glock 9mm in some back alley to almost being blown to smithereens in a building rigged with blinking lights because he's unwilling to let Olivia kill herself trying to disarm it with her mind; he always celebrates with straight whisky.

And after the night he's had, he could definitely use a few shots.

To Jacksonville and back in a matter of hours, red-eyed and overworked trying to keep the inevitable from happening: keeping a building somewhere in Boston from sling-shotting into an alternative reality with everyone in it. Even his above average intellect or Massive Dynamic's limitless resources couldn't change the unavoidable. He failed, hiding in the little control room in the basement of the massive building tinkering with the software because it was the only thing he could think of doing when Olivia found him.

"I figured if I could shut down all the non-essential functions, I can make these things run faster."

She blamed herself; he could read it on her face plain as day, and he almost expected it from her. He stepped cautiously to her, the overwhelming urge to comfort taking hold of him.

"It's too late. I failed. I failed and I'm supposed to be the one who can stop things like this."

It's a poignant moment when he reaches for her cheek, smoothing her skin with his thumb. There's a switch flicking on in his chest—he tried to rationalize that he only wanted to console his friend: that it was platonic, a partnership drawing strength from one another, but whatever he was feeling, it wasn't platonic.

"Olivia," He stumbles her name, hesitating. "You... I've never met anyone who can do the things that you do."

"I'm scared." She shares without wavering.

He wasn't scared; he guessed that he should have been. He should have been terrified because somewhere close people would be disappearing, but all he wanted to do was taste her.

"Don't be." He said, pulling her face to him. She pulled back.

"What?"

Realization dawns on her and he's only a second behind.

"Peter, I'm scared." She had her answer.

She found the glimmer, saved the building, and the day. Peter was high on the adrenalin from the outfall of the tense moments before she realized the affects of fear on her perception. He secretly hoped the fear wasn't from the thought of what he tried to do. With the seriousness of the situation passed, all he wanted to do was get shitfaced. And for once, she agreed to join him.

He takes her to a place near his and Walter's home, convincing her to walk through the brisk Boston air promising the heat the bar will provide. He doesn't miss the downward look she gives him when she arrives in his foyer, instead chalking it to nervousness and retrieve his coat, worried she's already regretted telling him yes to drinks for once. They make their way into the night, feeling the still air of the night as they leave.

Soon they're squished onto two stools at the bar at a place named Shamley's, on their third shot and Peter's starting to feel feather-light. He grins when Olivia orders two more whisky's, watching as her hair spills down her back and his stomach feels infinitesimally warmer; he rarely gets to see her outside of her FBI wardrobe and he's feeling slightly drunk and less than brotherly toward her.

"What should we cheers to?" she asks, shaking back the strands of hair that have fallen over her face as she holds out his drink for him. Ignoring the glass, he reaches out to brush the rest back over her shoulder without meaning to, his fingers lingering for moments too long in her hair. Caught, he pulls back and takes the glass, lifting it toward her. He's grateful that she decides not to comment.

"To surviving another day," he jokes, knocking it back and letting it warm his throat. He eyes her over his glass, watching her eyes bounce down to his throat as he swallows and back up before taking a sip with slightly reddened cheeks.

After an hour, he's purposely invading her space; their coats discarded and forgotten on an empty stool beside them, watching her lips twitch as she tries to keep herself from smiling when he shows her another card trick. She's leaning into him, knees inches from touching but he knows she's being cautious enough to make certain they don't. The bar is near deserted, most of the remaining patrons carrying on in their own conversations and leaving them in their own world.

"Okay, pick one from the stack," he goads, fanning the deck between his hands in front of her. She bites her nails, trying to work out the trick before she chooses. He likes it more to know bothers her that she can't figure it out.

She finally selects one; leaning away from him to guarantee he's not cheating. She accidently brushes her knee against the inside of his as she tilts, and Peter has a hard time remembering the rest of the trick as he takes in the shock of electricity that passes between them. She returns upright, unaware of what transpired to hunch down low in her seat to return the card in a new place in the stack, her eyes flashing wickedly. She lays her chin onto her hand, elbow crooked on the bar: waiting with a bemused smirk. She swipes at her whisky and sips, her smile coming easier with each passing drink.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you take whisky like a frat boy?" he says and she snorts, covering her face with her hand and turning away to hide her laughter. Her mood is contagious and he can't help but join her, cupping the cards in one hand to pry her fingers away from her face with the other, wanting to turn her focus on him so he can watch her giggle.

"Hey," he starts, but the change in her face stops him from finishing the smart-ass thing he forgot to say. With a quick turn of her chin, he's cupping her cheek, fingering the loose hairs swaying there and his stomach jumps into his brain. He could feel her breath tickle his wrist as he watches her laughter fade and her eyes droop someplace below his nose. He could feel his throat bob as he swallows convulsively, forgetting the cards as the trick dies in his hand and he abandons them on the bar, moving his hand instead to rest tentatively on her knee as it sits between his and feels the same heat radiating through her like a current. He wonders if he touched her hard enough she'd shock him.

"Peter," she whispers, the side of her mouth pulling up into a lopsided grin. If she was anxious he couldn't tell because Peter was scared shitless at the way she's looking dangerously at him. He doesn't trust himself to answer so he just waits, his eyes shifting for a moment behind her as she leans toward him cautiously.

But Peter isn't watching her anymore.

His eyes focus on the two men sitting at the end of the bar: a big guy with a black leather jacket and a shorter greasy looking prick with a thick mustache—both focusing pointedly at him. Peter feels the blood drain from his face as he places them in his memory. Terrifying images of dark allies and broken fingers swirl around like smoke in his mind and his fight or flight instinct kicks in.

He shifts his thumb over her lips, halting her inch from his face and she makes a little 'humph' sound that would be torture if he wasn't sweating bullets right then. Her eyes widen as she notices he's not looking at her anymore, that he's lost somewhere behind her.

"What is it?" She whispers, he can smell the whisky on his face she's so close to him. Her whole body coils reflexively from her FBI training and he's not sure what to tell her.

Peter's voice is strained and when he talks the words come out gruffer than he intends: "We've gotta go." He says, disentangling from her to reach for his wallet with shaking fingers to pull out two twenties to toss on the bar. Rising to his feet, motioning for Olivia to do the same, and pulls her up when she's too slow on the uptake. Her face is a blank canvas as he shoves her leather jacket at her as he's sliding into his own, scanning the rest of the bar inconspicuously for anyone else he may know. There's no one, save the men who are now standing in unison; he grips Olivia's arm hard before she even has a chance to put her jacket on as he towing her through of the bar, damning himself for suggesting they walk because now they'll have to make a run for it. He's mapping out their escape route in his head as they clomp their way through the bar for no other reason other than to pretend he had some sort of plan.

"What's going on?" Olivia barks, shoving her arms into her coat but not before slapping Peter's arm away. Peter slides his eyes over her, searching without hope for the holster that's usually glued to her, the irony of the situation not entirely lost on him. He steers her unapologetically, his hand gripping her again as he pushes the door open to shove her through into the night, looking over his shoulder to see if they were followed. The men remain by the bar, and Peter feels a surge relief and for a split second he thinks he's overly paranoid, but it's better to be crazy than dead.

He's almost jogging, pulling her behind him as they travel the length of the exterior of the bar; she's a little shaky on her feet but his hand is a steel vice on her arm to keep her moving. Fear is radiating off him like a homing beacon and he feels almost more exposed out in the deserted streets, and he wonders if it was a better idea to say inside the bar—but he wouldn't put it past the men to show tact while murdering him inside a bar full of people. They see the corner and he's almost calmed down enough to breathe, dropping his hand down to grip Olivia's, realizing he's probably left his palm print on the inside of her arm. He turns to shoot her a reassuring smile, hoping it's enough to bluff his ensuing freak-out he's sure he was going to have when they get out of this unscathed.

They round the building and he feels the attack before he sees it, feeling the sharp pain exploding his face as something hard and fast collides with it and the world goes black.