There weren't many bars to choose from in Univille, so when Pete rolled into town, he simply chose the closest.

Wandering into its dim, smoky atmosphere, he felt an uneasy sense of familiarity wash over him. He'd been here before. Maybe not this exact bar, but hey. When it came to looking for a drink, all bars morphed into the same place. And he'd been here, standing inside the door and ignoring his conscience. It was telling him that he knew better than this. It was telling him that that last eight years of sobriety will have been for nothing. It was reminding him about the walk of shame he'd endure at his next AA meeting, where he'd have to confess his slip-up. There was an even bigger walk of shame involving the warehouse. Artie. Leena. Cute lil' Claw. And of course...

He grunted and made himself walk in. Pulling out his wallet, he gestured to the older man behind the bar. The place was quiet, just one other local knocking back a Bud before he went into work. Early morning was always the time to find the folks who drank more than socially. They were the only ones still in the bar, their buddies having gone home to their wives hours ago. Pete ignored the other sauce hound and simply pointed to a bottle of Jack.

"Pour a double. Neat. And leave the bottle." He tented a fifty on the table.

The bartender eyed him evenly as he reached for the Jack. His ancient gaze registered a young man about to fall off the wagon. Pete's downturned eyes and hunched-up self-loathing made him an easy read. A drunk wouldn't care and would meet the old man's stare. And a social drinker wouldn't even be here. That left a sober, soon not to be.

"Sure," he answered quietly. He'd been around too long. Interfering never helped men like Pete. He poured the drink and set the bottle down carefully. He straightened the fifty and leaned back to the till, fingering out his change.

Pete waved at him. "Keep it," he barked dismissively, staring down the shot in front of him, almost like he hoped it would blink first.

The man nodded and closed the register. Pete could feel his eyes on him, but not his judgment. He felt grateful for that, at the very least.

The man tipped his chin slightly and offered the only adage that ever gave him a dime's worth of comfort. "This too shall pass, man."

He slowly walked back to the other end of the bar. His morning paper had been delivered. He settled into a stool and opened it wide on the bar. He could do no more and he knew it. He skipped to the sports section and disappeared into his reading.

Pete sat. Staring.

He knew his fifty would buy him at least an hour or two to just sit there quietly. The peace of the place lapped at him gently, while the shot in front of him loomed like bad medicine. His mouth filled with the bitter taste of unhappy expectation. He put his elbows on the bar, wincing as his shoulders popped and the dried blood on his biceps caught unpleasantly on the inside of his coat sleeves. He was a mess. He should be at home in bed, letting Leena make him soup and put DVDs into the awesome entertainment system that Myka had given...

He fisted his hands tightly. Goddammit!

That goddamn name. Couldn't it leave him alone for five fucking seconds?

The shot called to him, reminding him that he didn't have to remember her name if he didn't want to. Just like he didn't have to feel the pain of his bruised body. The shot could take him somewhere fuzzy and warm, a million miles away from this clusterfuck. It could make him forget. It could make him numb. It could do so many things, and all he had to do was pluck it off that dented, tired old piece of maple and pound it back. Followed by another. And another. And another until that bottle was dry and he was seeing double.

His thumb tapped slowly, quietly on the bar.

He let his eyes drill that glass of amber liquid until they lost focus. He let his mind wander. With a deep sigh, he let himself remember.

Dark hazel green eyes. Full lips that bloomed into a knockout girl-next-door smile. Long, silky legs that slid sensually against his. His name murmured in so many different ways: surprise, happiness, playfulness, pretend outrage, bone-deep satisfaction. He smiled a little. Oh, yeah. Despite everything or anything that happened from here on out, Pete felt damn proud knowing that he was equal to the task for pleasing Myka Bering until she passed out sobbing in his arms. He hadn't just boned her like some average, macho dick who secretly felt threatened by her braininess. He'd bent over backwards to make sure she was enjoying him just as much as he enjoyed her. But more than that, she was a perfect match for him. She attacked him like she was starved for his touch. She crashed into him and kept the pace with a sexual madman. She wasn't afraid of his strength. She wasn't turned off by his manic enthusiasm. She was addicted to his body. And she had been delighted by the emotional bond they forged in their short time together.

Myka.

Jesus Christ. The bartender had no idea what he was talking about. How the hell could he ever pass beyond her? Even pretend for a minute that he could ever move on? He'd known the minute he'd put his hands on her, there was no getting over her. There was no recovering from her. She was poison. And, ironically, she was a cure-all. The best he could hope for was a life at her side at all times. A life where he was allowed to nuzzle her ear in just the right way, any time he liked. A life where they traded their separate rooms at the B&B for a master suite, the one where there isn't enough room for his entertainment system and her books and they'd have to argue deliciously for hours about who should get the limited shelf space. A life where Myka spoils him rotten with her better-than-a-million-Oreos hugs, the ones where her breasts press softly against him as she pets him down his back just to hear him purr. A life where he can tell her every day, every hour, that he loves her, and stops getting heartburn from the words left unsaid in his throat.

These things, they might save him. If he had them, uninterrupted, for the rest of his natural life, then it might be enough. If he was able to mainline Myka day and night, grow old alongside her and fat off of her hugs, then he might just make it through life in one piece.

But he didn't.

Pete snorted and pushed the shot closer to his hunched body with his index finger. He didn't have her hugs. He didn't share her room, never mind her bed. He couldn't push her hair back and neck her like crazy, turning her sassy, well-structured arguments into kitten-like mewls of pleasure as she leaned helplessly into his chest, wordless cursing him for making her want him when she was trying so hard to win their fight. She wouldn't read to him at night as they snuggled deep under the blankets on snowy nights. And never, ever, ever would he slide into that impossibly perfect body again. Her heat, her slippery, clenching perfection, her soft stranglehold around his neck as she quaked around him, oh, the tremble of her thighs and incoherent sobs. Her eyes. God damn the loveliness of her eyes.

Pete shivered. His unattended body felt clammy in the early morning chill. And his memories were torturing it further, he could almost hear his muscles whimpering like kicked dogs. The individual pieces of him weren't sure what he'd done to fuck everything up, but they did know that they wouldn't be happy until a certain soft, supple pair of hands coasted over them and made them warm again.

They were in for a long fuckin' wait. Pete looked at the bottom of the shot under his nose. He could see the warped texture of the bar through the whiskey. The smell of cheap peat filled his nose. He wrinkled his nose, suddenly hating it. The drink in front of him, whatever it had done for him in the past, wasn't going to help him now. He'd ruined the one good and pure relationship in his life. Getting drunk and staggering home to her would torch it completely. He'd already fucked himself by fucking her when she wasn't of sound mind. Was he seriously thinking about getting drunk? Jesus. As low as her opinion must be of him right now, what would she think if she could see him now?

"Pete?"

His head shot up and he turned. His blood ran cold and froze in his veins. Fear stabbed him in the heart, robbing him of oxygen. He gasped and didn't get a single molecule. "My?"

She was standing in the door frame, her hand holding it open and letting the dawn light her up from behind. Her outrageously gorgeous silhouette dipped and curved, from her curly hair, to her full breasts, into her slim waist and down her insanely hot legs. She'd put a wrap sweater on over her tank top, the same one she'd been dressed in during their abduction. Her voice had been soft...and appalled. Her eyes were liquid pools of disbelief. He watched as her lower lip trembled as she confirmed the worst about his whereabouts. She might have hidden from him in her bed like a little girl, but the look on her face told him that his preferred method of coping was a shocking example of bitch-not-cool.

"Oh, my god," she whispered softly, her head dropping low as tears filled those ridiculously pretty eyes.

"No, My. This isn't what-"

But she didn't hear him. Marching straight up to the bar, she didn't even look at him and she picked up the shot in front of him and hurled it against the wall. The little glass shattered in dozens of pieces, startling Pete and the bartender at the other end, who looked up in amazement.

Myka turned to the owner shakily. "I'm sorry. But don't ever serve this man ever again."

Grabbing the bottle of Jack from the bar, she whirled and stomped back out the door, leaving a terrified Pete in her wake. Stunned by her display of hurt anger, it took three seconds to make his legs work and run after her.

"Myka!" he called hoarsely, tearing through the door and out into the street. A strange, beautiful pinkish gold light was filtering down the sleeping street. It was still too early for most. Myka was pacing in the middle of it, the bottle hanging limply from her hand as she walked the double yellow line on the asphalt.

Pete stood on the blacktop, watching her with desperate and worried eyes. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, wanting to touch her, to grab her and smother her with kisses while he begged for forgiveness and assured her he hadn't touched a drop. She looked so miserable. So defeated. She turned back towards him and retraced her steps over the yellow paint.

Without looking at him, she rattled the bottle slightly in her hand. The liquid shook against the glass. "Are you kidding me with this?" she asked hopelessly. "I ask you for time to think and this is where I find you?"

He gestured helplessly, not knowing what to do with his hands except cup her face. But he didn't. "Myka, please. Just let me-"

"Let you what? Explain?" she spat the word angrily. She held the bottle between them and shook it harder. Tears slid freely down her cheeks and Pete groaned as he watched them. "How could you do this, Pete?"

"You left me!" he wailed at her, throwing his arms up and roaring. "You ran. You goddamn ran, My! You promised! You said you'd try so hard not to! But you did! You looked at me like a fucking rapist and you ran from me!" He made a sound of acute frustration and palmed his temples. "So I ran, too."

She sniffed, her anger pulling back a bit. "I ran home," she whimpered brokenly. "Our home. If I'd known that..." she looked at the bottle again, "...that this was where you'd go..."

"I needed you," he gritted harshly. "Goddammit, I'm in pain and I'm scared and I needed you, but you wouldn't see me. You wouldn't even look at me!" His mind screamed, forgetting she could hear it. I love you! Stupid, sick in love, remember? And I...I...

The sensation of their passionate coupling filled her mind and she gasped raggedly at Pete's agony. He felt horrible. He felt responsible. He felt insane ecstasy and guilt for enjoying it. He felt lovesick and terrified and, yes, he felt like a rapist.

Myka couldn't bear it. Her love for him, her consent for him, instantly rose in her own mind. She pushed it towards him, showing him that she had wanted it. Mindless of everything except giving him comfort, she conjured her own memories. The thrill of his power. The delirious acceptance of his love as they writhed in the sheets. The pure, disgusting happiness of just being with him, no matter what the circumstance. Nothing in her memories of Pete, before or after the arrows, had ever been anything but annoyance, silliness, flirtation, contentment, and now love. Stupid, sick in love.

She watched as his eyes widened with the overwhelming blast of her feelings. He took a step back, steadying himself. His eyes went black with stimulation, the intensity of her pleasure making him react in the most primal way.

Without breaking eye contact, Myka lifted the bottle to her lips and took a deep pull of whiskey. Moving it thoroughly around her mouth, she broke her gaze and spat the burning mouthful onto the street. The bottle followed, arcing high and smashing into diamond chips at her feet. She looked back at his shocked expression. The burn of whiskey brought more tears to her eyes as she took three steps and ended up right in front of him. Her mind could still read the pain in his arms, so her hands rested on his cheeks.

"This is the only way you're ever tasting alcohol again." She brought his lips to hers and kissed him gently. Whiskey and the essence of Myka pressed into his mouth and Pete moaned harshly and gripped her hard around the waist, crushing her to him as he deepened their kiss into breathless, tonguing desperation. His eyes rolled up under his lids. His mind purred her name wildly. And when he pulled away, she followed, not wanting to lose him, not even for three inches.

He smiled wanly. "Spit," he said gruffly.

She squinted. His smile warmed with her questioning gaze. He thumbed her cheeks, adoring how she was so soft that it should be illegal, and kissed her nose. "I don't want alcohol. I want you. Spit that shit out and lemme taste you."

The combination of hard liquor and brown sugar, the signature Jack taste, did nothing for him. On the contrary, it was in the way. Myka was kissing him, giving him back her lips and tongue and perfect, bossy mouth and anything else involved was just a contaminant. Her taste was obscured. He watched with pleasure as she turned her head and spat coquettishly over her shoulder. Sucking her cheeks in, she swallowed as much of the stuff as she could, flashing her teeth when she was done. "All better?"

He finally allowed himself to grin. "Let's see."

His kiss started slow, reacquainting himself with her. Oh, fuck him sideways she tasted magnificent. Pete let his hands coast over her timidly. Myka nodded into the kiss, murmuring her approval, and kissed him even deeper as he cupped her ass.

"Yes," she breathed longingly. "Oh, god, you feel good."

"Put your hands on me," he rasped against her lips.

Myka made some womanly squeak of compliance and ran her hands everywhere she could reach. Through his hair, across his face, down his throat and chest, around and up his back. She avoided his arms and he melted, knowing she was feeling his pain.

"Take me home," he whispered through the heat of their kiss. "Take care of me. Let me take care of you."

"Yes," she sighed breathlessly.

"To bed," he specified, gripping her hips. "Together. No locking yourself away from me."

She shook against him. "No. No more running," she leaned back into his arms and smiled brokenly. "Either of us."

She sucked her cheeks again and turned to spit the minute amount of booze still clinging to her mouth.

Pete laughed softly. "I think you got it all. A couple drops won't kill ya."

She smiled knowingly and nestled against his shoulder, letting him support her as she cuddled close. "No, but I'm pretty sure whiskey isn't good for our baby."