Disclaimer: I don't own Leverage.
Pairings: Nate/Sophie
Rating: PG
Warning: Some sexual situations, drinking, and mild spoilers for the season finale.
Notes: This is my first Nate/Sophie fic. Title comes from the song Last Call by Leanne Womack. Also, first time writing in this style.
Summary: Five times Sophie picked Nate up from a bar - and one time she didn't.

1.

She gets the call at two-twenty in the morning. Her cell phone is in such a frenzy that it almost rings itself right off the table. She lets out a montage of curses in various languages and accents before grabbing the annoying thing. She knows it's him without checking the caller id.

"What?" she groans. She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling as she listens to him slur the name of some bar over the phone. She inhales deeply and tells him she'll be there in twenty minutes before crawling out of bed and dressing quickly.

When she arrives at the bar she sees him standing outside, leaning against a streetlight. "Soph!" he greets as she pulls up to the curb. A few heads (not many due to the hour) turn curiously toward them. Her eyes narrow. "Ah knew Ah cou' count on 'ou," he slurs.

"I've half a mind to make you walk home," she snaps as he slides into the seat. She pulls away before he can remember how a seatbelt works. "Honestly Nate, it's three in the morning now. We will be on a plane at eight." She sends an irritated glare his way. "That is in five hours. I have to be presentable in five hours."

"Ah know." He reaches for her at the stoplight and she glares again. "Los' track a time," he explains.

She snorts and taps her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. "Nate…" she sighs finally. "I don't know what to do for you."

"Ah'm fine." He looks affronted (or quite possibly sick) at the suggestion. "'Member, Ah'm a functioning alcoholic."

"Of course you are," she snorts. Her eyes stare into his and she's mildly disappointed when he breaks eye contact. "Everyone can see that." The light flicks to green but she's still watching him. "It's why I know directions to every bar just by name."

"Ah'm fine," he repeats. His hand is surprisingly steady as he brushes a strand of dark hair out of her face.

2.

"Sophie, now," Eliot's voice sounds in her ear. He nods to her as he passes with a tray of drinks in hand. She tilts her head slightly so he knows she heard before maneuvering the mark around so that she can see behind him. Ah yes, right on time.

"I'm terribly sorry to leave so suddenly but apparently my husband is rather incapacitated at the moment." Her eyes move past Henry Cooper to where Nate is brooding in a stool at the wet bar in the corner. He has a glass of scotch in one hand; the bottle is in the other, looking the part of the alcoholic husband. She only wishes that she can completely believe it is all an act. "I had better take him home before there's a scene." She flashes an artful smile. "Thank you for the stimulating conversation."

"Your husband," Cooper murmurs into her ear, "he does not deserve you."

She hears Parker making gagging noises over the comms. Hardison says something as well but she's learned to tune them out by now thankfully. "Thank you, that is very kind Mister Cooper," she replies easily. "And very close to being correct." She hopes Nate heard that. "Until later."

"Of course."

She glides across the room until she stands in front of Nate, hands on her hips. He looks up at her cautiously and her eyes narrow at the alcohol in his hands. He watches her as he takes a sip from the glass and she's almost ready to throw it on the floor.

"Somethin' th' matta?" he asks innocently.

"It's time to go," she replies. "Come along Dear," she adds with a false smile. She grips his arm hard and he gives her a look. She ignores it easily because his eyes are more unfocused than they should be and he's unsteady on his feet. "How much did you drink?" she hisses. Cooper offers a wave and she smiles. "I hope to speak with you later!" she calls. He raises a glass in acknowledgment.

"Sophie, can we…can we not…?"

"Not what Nate?" she hisses. "Not talk about your problem?" They exit the building and she releases him, storming over to his car and opening the door for him. He looks at her suspiciously and she smiles. "I'm a thief," she reminds him. "And you are not driving."

She sits in the driver seat and places her shoes in the back as she slams the door. "We've got him," she tells the others.

"Sophie…"

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it," she snaps irritably. She steadfastly ignores the sound of his head hitting the window.

3.

Another bar, another city, another night of interrupted sleep.

"You're a mess," she tells him quietly. She slides into the chair next to him. The table is sticky and she makes a note to avoid it at all cost. The lights are low, the air hazy with lingering smoke and strobe lights of the colored variety. There's a guitarist on the low stage crooning into a microphone while strumming.

"Ah didn' think you'd come," he replies. He's staring into the glass of scotch like he expects it to hold the answers to the world. She glances at him and he shrugs a little, downing the rest of the glass. "Yer a'ways 'ere though."

"I'm here because of you. You fool," she sighs. He lifts his eyes to hers and she tries to smile but fails miserably. "Come on, let's go," she adds. She stands and he follows suit more slowly. He leans on her while she navigates their way out of the dingy bar and out into the street.

He pulls her against him outside the bar, arm around her shoulders. "Let's take a walk," he says. She stares at him in surprise but lets him guide her down the street toward the park she had noticed on her way. They don't talk but the silence isn't uncomfortable. She leans into him as he leans into her.

The air is warm, the sky clear and bright with stars. She can almost imagine that this is more intimate than it's meant to be. That he isn't stumbling because he's drunk, only because he can't see the roots in the trail they're wandering. He tucks her hair behind her ear and she smiles at him warmly.

"I'm functioning," he murmurs quietly.

She sighs and looks at him. "Shut-up Nate – don't ruin the moment." He chuckles drily into her hair and she wonders if she should feel worried at how content she is.

4.

Neither of them knows how they ended up here. Well, that's a lie. He knows it involved a phone call, a car ride, and a door opening. She knows it involved an interrupted bubble bath, a few words that wouldn't be said sober, and a convenient door.

She gasps as his lips drag against her neck and she clenches her hands in his hair, tugging at the strands in her grasp. She feels him laugh against her throat and the action sends shivers through her. His mouth is on hers again and she feels the doorknob against her back but doesn't care. She's waited too long for this and damn her if a doorknob's going to get in the way.

His breath tastes of scotch and whiskey and it makes her head spin a moment.

She pushes back against him and together they stumble across the room to the bed. His hands are sliding up under her shirt and her breath catches as she pulls him down with her onto the bed. He chuckles against her collarbone and maybe it's just the alcohol but she can't help but wonder why the hell it took so long for them to get here.

In the morning she may curse herself for allowing this to get so far. Or he may curse himself for allowing it to happen. It may never be the same between them again – for better or for worse. She'll blame the alcohol; he'll just add another demon to his long list. And she knows she should stop now, really, she should just go and let him sleep this off. But damn it, she's tired of waiting.

So for now she'll push her conscience aside. She'll enjoy the feeling of his mouth on her skin, the feel of his body pressing against hers. She'll forget that he's drunk; she'll forget that she just retrieved him from another bar. She'll let her fingers pull at his hair, tug at his clothes and scrape against his skin.

She'll let herself imagine they both need this.

5.

"You are both idiots," she exclaims. Nate slumps a little in the front seat and she can see Eliot glaring in her rearview mirror. She doesn't care though. Her eyes narrow at his reflection. "Especially you."

"You had to call her?" Eliot growls at Nate.

He has a wad of gauze pressed to the cut over his eye. He still looks menacing though in the glow of streetlights filtering through the tinted windows. Neither of them will tell her what led to them calling her up in the middle of the night to pick them up from a shady roadside bar. She doesn't want to know.

"Who'd ya have me call?" Nate slurs. "Hardison?"

Eliot snorts. "Parker. She wouldn' ask questions." He shoots her a look and she feels her shoulders tense. "We can trust Parker. Turn right."

"I thought this was behind us now," she grumbles. She takes the turn into the neighborhood though, driving slowly in case there's a surprise turn ahead. Her eyes shift to Nate who still has his head against the window. "Maybe you do need rehab," she says finally. She can sense both men tensing and Eliot shifts in the backseat. "Maybe revenge wasn't enough."

"Sophie…" Nate's voice is low, dangerous. The tone that he usually reserved for when he caught her mid-con.

"Your drinking hasn't gotten any better," she points out. "I think it's got worse actually." She looks at Eliot's reflection for backup.

"I ain't gettin' in the way of this," Eliot snaps. "Like I said before, I don't care if he drinks himself to death – long as I'm not dragged down too." He ignores her narrowed eyes, shifting as she hits the brake for the stop sign. "Let me out here before you two go at it – my head's already killin' me enough."

"You don't have to go," Sophie protests halfheartedly. He shrugs and opens the door, climbing out.

"I'm close enough." He gives her a strange look she can't decipher before closing the door and sauntering off down the side street.

"Ah don' need rehab," Nate slurs after she's turned the car around. "Ah still…Ah still function."

"Of course you do," she snaps irritably. "That's why I'm driving and Eliot's bruised; because you can function so well." She turns the radio on to fill the silence.

6.

Her phone is ringing on the desk down the hall. She can hear it from where she's soaking in her bathtub, inhaling the scent of French lavender from Provence. She recognizes the ringtone almost immediately and there's a wry, humorless smile on her face she knows.

She wants to drop the glass of red wine in her hand. She wants to stand and wrap herself in a towel before hurrying off to answer it before it goes to voicemail. She wants to know he's safe and all right. She wants to ignore the late hour and the tired feeling in her body. She wants to help in the only way she can.

Instead she sets the empty glass on the little ledge and rinses off carefully. She dries slowly before pulling on the fluffy robe she had bought in New York. She doesn't hurry to the phone; she doesn't worry when it stops ringing. She knows he'll call back like always. She ignores the chiming of the clock as she stares down at the phone in front of her.

It rings again and she smiles bitterly before picking it up. His name is illuminated on the cover and she takes a deep breath before flipping it open and pressing it to her ear. Her eyes close and she expects to hear the background voices. She can almost smell the smoke of the place, hear the taunts and barbs, feel the eyes of drunken men staring at her intently – that's how many bars she's been in since she joined Nate's little team. But there's no noise, no yells or loud music, no breaking furniture of glass. She frowns.

"Hello?"

"Soph!" He sounds happy to hear her voice and her throat tightens a little. "Ah, Soph, glad 'ou wasn'-asleep."

"Nate…" she tries, voice soft.

"'Ey, Soph, think 'ou can do me a favor? Ah…Ah need a ride 'ome…"

"Where are you?"

"At th' office," he answers. "Come on, what d'ya say?"

She can imagine what will happen perfectly if she does go. She can imagine the ride up to the office, see him waiting for her. He sounds happy tonight so that will probably lead to kisses and caresses that mean nothing once the alcohol leaves his system. She can anticipate not getting home until morning.

Her free hand tightens on the sash of her robe. "No," she murmurs. If he's at the office, he's fine. He can sleep it off on the sofa. He can sleep it off in his desk chair or on the conference table or the hallway floor for all she cares. He isn't a risk, he isn't at risk. "No," she repeats louder.

"No?" His voice loses some of the friendliness, turns confused and annoyed. "Sophie…"

"No, Nate." She takes a deep breath. "I can't be your last call anymore. I can't be the one to come in and pick up all the pieces. No."

She hangs up the phone before he can respond. She turns it off before he can call back, or before she loses her nerve and calls him. Silently she sets the phone in the desk drawer and closes it, tries to avoid temptation. She closes her eyes again briefly before turning back to her bathroom and the lavender bubble bath that was waiting. After all, she still had more than half a bottle of French wine to help her get through.