She looks at him with a small smile, taking another bite of stale pizza – ah, stakeout dinners.
"You know," he says, with that characteristic humor in his voice, "I don't think he's ever going to come out. Terrorists just love to play Parcheesi on Thursday nights, you know."
She yawns. "He has to come out sometime."
He chuckles and she can't help but notice the lines of his profile – she knows that this isn't what she should be thinking because he's her partner and they have to rely on each other in life-or-death situations involving very, very bad people with too much money and a penchant for diabolical schemes – until he turns and grins at her.
"I know," he quips, "I could've been a contender."
She narrows her eyes at him. "Your Brando voice could use a little work."
Their walkie-talkie crackles with static; a new transmission from inside the building – a gruff voice goes, "I can't believe people care about this Lindsay Lohan crap. Your roll."
Dale bursts into laughter and she can't help but follow suit.
"Can you believe it's been six years?" she asks.
"I know," he says, with a little bit of wonder. "Amazing you haven't killed me by now."
She leans into him, indulging herself for a moment, letting her head fall against his shoulder.
He brushes her hair behind her ear, his touch searing through her. She takes a shaky breath. "Dale," she warns. "We can't—"
"Six years," he says. "You don't trust me?"
She rolls her eyes.
"I'm going to take that as a positive sign."
"Of course I trust you." The walkie-talkie crackles as the group talks about switching to Charades or Trivial Pursuit. "I wouldn't be sitting in a car in a dark alley by the docks with you if I didn't."
"Well, not to brag or anything, but I have been known for my abilities to show a girl a good time."
And as she's chuckling, he suddenly leans in and touches his lips to hers; it's soft, gentle, and when he pulls away, she licks her lips. "What was that?"
He shrugs. "I don't know."
And then she's leaning in, lips tantalizingly close before settling on his, deepening the kiss, fingers brushing through his short hair. She moans as his hands settle against her neck, fingers brushing against her cheek.
When they pull away, her face is flushed, breathing ragged, and he thinks it would be so easy, right here, just to snap her neck with one quick movement; the crunch of breaking bone and the last gasp of a dying human being.
What he finds alarming is the way he finds that endearing now, and not just despicable. There's something delicate about her; she's fragile, vulnerable.
He can't help himself; he leans in one more time, presses a kiss to her neck, tongue flicking against the warm skin. She sighs.
He catalogues these details in his mind: the way she looks, smells, tastes. Her eyes are on his again, a bright blue that unsettles him.
The walkie-talkie crackles. "I told you I'd kick your ass at Pictionary," a thick Northern Jersey accent says. Erica arches an eyebrow. "You ready to go, motherfucker?"
"Yeah, yeah," they hear. "Let's load up."
He shuts off the light in the car, reaching for her hand. "Happy six year anniversary," he mumbles. "Let's go catch bad guys."
She clicks the magazine into her gun.