Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, I just like taking them out to play. :)

Author's Note: Sorry it's taken me so long to update you guys, had SO MUCH going on this summer that to actually have time to write was far and few between. Finally had an hour this morning to sit down and write this.

This chapter is dedicated to those of you who've actually read a fiction involving Linc/Liv and Petah 'inflagrante delicto'. Have to be honest, I've never had the balls (or desire) to read such a fan-fiction. Thankfully, for the entertainment of ya'll, Peter doesn't feel the same.

As always, Elialys, this is for you sweetie! I've missed you! ((hugs))


If he thinks she doesn't feel his eyes on her, he's wrong.

He's been sporadically peering over here, for the last two and half minutes, his focus moving from his work on the desk and then back up to her, a conspicuous and irritating curiousness of whatever Peter-esque thing he's thought up to contemplate now.

They're supposed to be finishing up their latest case reports, signing off on all the gritty, grimy, unnatural details so they can get the weekend off like they'd been promised.

But instead of paying attention to the papers in front of him, he's clicking the pen between his finger and thumb, obnoxiously, his mind clearly immersed in the invisible place that requires he keep looking up at her, and after the eighteenth instance of today's annoying habit, she can't take it anymore.

And when she sighs, she drops her shoulders, pinches the bridge of her nose as a tension headache threatens her sinus wall.

"What, Peter?" she asks, eyes closed. "What is it this time? Because obviously, you're too distracted to help me finish this paperwork."

When she looks up at him, his brow is furrowed, his cheek, dented while he bites the inside of it, and the narrow set of his grey-blue concentration shows he's trying hard to deduce something, an inquisitiveness of silent wheels that turn, always, way too loudly when he deliberates like this, to himself.

Or so he thinks. After so much time together, she should know him so well.

The pen stops as he leans back in his chair, his face, bearing now, the beginning of a cocky smirk when he scratches his chin absently.

"Would you sleep with Lincoln?

The question stuns her, freezes her, replaces her irritation with something incredulous, flabbergasted.

"What?"

His eyes are tapered sparkles of blue, harboring the self-amused crease that etches out his frown, and they bury under his brow when he looks at her, suggestively, below his black-fan of lashes.

"Have you ever had any…secret thoughts and desires about our skittishly enigmatic Agent Lee?"

Again, she's speechless, answerless, and the force of this new frustration has her sitting back in her chair to match his pose.

"What? Why are you asking me this?"

"Why are you avoiding my question with a question?"

This is ridiculous, he knows well that there's no one but him, hasn't been anyone, truly, besides him since that day, four and a half years ago when she tracked down his sarcastic, arrogant ass in Afghanistan, and really, she's starting to feel a little peeved, a little pissed off that he'd even think to ask her something as absurd as this.

For god's sake, he's spent the last hour and a half dawdling over it, most likely picturing her and their partner in questionable, and most probably sexually lewd predicaments, and it's disgusting and innately male, and an absolutely ludicrous waste of time for them both.

Maybe the apple doesn't always fall so far from the insane Bishop tree.

"Why in the hell would you ask me that?"

She doubts she really wants to know, is afraid to find out from what part of his mind's curious spectrum this is coming from, but when he leans his weight back on the desk, runs his teeth across the skin of his bottom lip, she's starting to think she may have a good idea.

Oh good god.

And when he speaks next, his face is a simulation of pout and offense, like a child who's just had his favorite toy ripped from his hands, and already, she fears the mockery that's coming.

"I see the way you two look at each other." he states, accusatorily, his face, still a rouse of disappointment. "I mean, really Liv, right in front of me?"

That beautiful mouth turns down now, in a second's haste, sets his features in a liquid fragility, and his eyes grow wide, gray-pale and almost watery because damn it, he's good at this, acting, faking, yanking her chain with his humor. Then, with a purposely stern upper lip he concludes.

"You could at least be a little more sensitive." He pauses for effect. "You know how I feel about him."

She'd laugh if it didn't come out as a defeated sigh instead, a soft groan into her hands as she's reminded, again, that this new fan-fiction reading habit of his is teetering dangerously on the edge of becoming a wrist-scratching addiction.

"You read a fan-fiction about us and Lincoln again, didn't you?"

Her tone was drawn, mundane, rhetorical, expecting of his male tendency toward viewing perverse erotica.

How in the hell he can handle such abhorrent illustrations is beyond her. Just the thought makes her want to throw up in her mouth. More then a little.

"Guilty."

He admits and when she groans again, it sounds too much like an irritated whimper, an exasperated noise because she's wishing, and she knows it's in vain, that he'd give up this genre of his hobby. She just doesn't understand the appeal. Then again, she doesn't grow a five o clock shadow, scratch her belly hair or have a scrotum either.

"Peter, why-

"There was an Eiffel tower in it this time," he starts to explain, as though it's reason enough, because to him it is. "But it wasn't in Paris. Lincoln did scream something in French though."

"Oh my god."

She breathes into her hands, trying, desperately, not to picture the scene in her mind's eye. God, she can already taste bile.

"I know." he says, more to himself then her, "I always pictured him as the silent type, too."

Oh god, this was too much information, too heavy with visions she'd have gone all her real life without imagining, and she squirms in her seat, suddenly way too uncomfortable from the fictional suggestion.

"And you know, I should have at least gotten a cigarette after what I did for both of you." he says this and it's both a whine and a statement while he throws a hand in the air, casually lounging back in the chair till his knees hit the desk, "but no, instead I sleep for fifteen hours." his voice raises, the octave passionately argumentative, as he's become too seriously enthralled in the notion of this despite its ridiculousness, its flat out repulsive pointlessness. This, right now, is his self-consummation in his flippant form of sarcasm. "Fifteen hours, Liv." he elaborates, purposely, "As if I don't have a job, or a life, or I don't know, an alarm clock."

"Unbelievable."

"You're telling me. No sex god needs that much sleep."

She blows out an exasperated breath, bats away an invisible hair from her face before her fingers brush through the whisper-gold of her crown.

"I'm talking about the story, Peter." she says, aggravated now, that she's even so effected by this.

This is classic Peter Bishop, uber-testosterone infused- male, sarcastic ass-extordinaire. And god-fucking-damn her for secretly loving the hell out of his thirteen year old methods and the crack they form along her steeled professionalism. God knows she doesn't have the audacity to be so carelessly silly when she's wearing pants suits and holstering a Smith and Wesson.

Office hours, however, have never applied to the man she's helplessly in love with.

"I don't know why you read stuff like that." she comments, knowing it'll fall on deaf ears. "It's extremely disturbing, not to mention, absolutely disgusting."

His brows draw down again, and dark-cerulean thins out playfully.

"Are you saying you've never imagined…" his lip curls up, teasingly, "…savoring a Pecoln sandwich with every one of your five, sexually charged senses?"

Oh god. For the love of-

"No." she answers, desperately keeping the image at bay. "I haven't, and to answer your earlier question, it's no, too. I've never wanted to sleep with Lincoln, and you know that." She feels her forehead tighten as her voice raises. "In fact, I've never even imagined of him, professionally or otherwise, in any way whatsoever, and I know, you know that too."

Her breath is hard, when she inhales the end of her words, but instead of taken-aback, the look he's wearing tells her this is the reaction he wanted from her, flustered, frustrated… distressed.

Son of a bitch.

He clucks his tongue against the inside of his cheek, as that damn appealing twinkle shines in his stare.

"You know, you should see yourself when you get defensive," he points at her with the pen he'd obsessively clicked earlier, and for a moment, she wonders if that smirk would still be there if she stabbed him with it. Most likely. Probably. For sure. "You get this cute little line above your nose. It's adorable."

There's an eight year-old amusement, now, written all over his beautiful face and in the way it always does, it's convincing her to resign her irritation, to realize this is all a game he's concocted to entertain his boredom. And to her dismay and un-admitting appreciation, her boredom too.

Involuntarily, her mouth curves with her next words.

"Look, if you're going to indulge your male hormones by reading that kind of thing, please just don't tell me about it, okay?"

He throws his hands in the air, clearly pleased that she's given up her resistance and broke into a smile.

"Vous me blesser, mademoiselle!" He says, in mock defense. "You know you're the only thing that truly indulges my male hormones."

She blushes, and he pretends not to notice before he continues. "This, is simply mindless entertainment on an erotically scarring scale. "

"Yeah, a scarring scale I'd rather not be exposed too."

His hands hit his lap with a loud 'plop' as his eyes grow wide.

"Don't tell me, tell Lincoln, according to our fan base, he likes exposing things to you."

She closes her eyes, rubs them as she fights her grin from betraying her earlier façade anymore.

"Jesus, Peter-"

"No, he's not in this story. Astrid shows up though."

"Ugh."

"Wouldn't a foursome just be called an orgy though, I mean, let's be honest-"

Now it's her turn to throw her arms up, as she feels a slight pain run behind her eye-lids, creep up her temples.

"Stop, okay? Please god, I don't want to hear anymore."

She hears him chuckle, satisfied, and when she lets in light, again, it seers through her skull while he's staring at her, in what looks like both awe and placation.

She doesn't know if she's more surprised by his sudden quiet, or intrigued by the way he can look at her like this, and always, something sears, bubbles, heats her from her fingertips to her middle, and so she swallows, sets her jaw as she feels her cheeks redden from his study.

She knows he's waiting for her to say it, but she swears this time she won't. Nope. She won't do it…..she refuses. Will absolutely not ask….

Oh fuck it.

"What?" she questions, and already hates herself for it.

"I knew you'd admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That I'm a god. Sexually."

That searing she feels only indulges him, pulses deeper between her solar plexus, and she moves in her seat, trying to calm her sexually-static Peter-nerves. It makes her bite her molars together before she eyes him with a raised brow.

"If I say yes, would you stop?"

"I don't know." he answers, to fucking thrilled with her over-stimulated reaction. "Test the theory."

She shifts, licks her bottom lip before crossing her arms across her chest again.

"Fine." This time when her mouth curves, it's on purpose. "You satisfy me in ways I could never imagine."

"Satisfy you more then Lincoln ever could?"

"Peter-"

He opens his palm in the air on her warning, continues with his diatribe from before.

"I gotta tell ya', sweat and limbs were everywhere after Astrid joined us, some kind of indistinguishably gooey stuff too. I think it was-"

Oh, fucking fine.

"Ugh, yes, okay?" She admits, augmenting her tone, rolling her eyes. "You hit all the erogenous spots no one else ever can, because no one else is a self-absorbed sex god that knows how to make me scream in almighty bliss."

She lowers her shoulders, settles.

"There. Now are you done?"

That fucking beautiful smirk gains enough width, it crinkles those beautiful eye lines.

Fuck.

"I would be." he admits. "But I should probably tell you…Lincoln told me that exact same thing last night."

She was right. He did like being stabbed with that pen way, way too much.