Just a little birthday fic I did for my friend astralazuli on tumblr! I really enjoyed writing this fic, despite being ill as all get out. Anyway, I hope you have a happy birthday, Lexi, and enjoy!

"Cheers!" Maka hands Soul his glass filled to the brim with champagne, and he takes it from her grasp gingerly, lifting it in the air.

"Cheers," he echoes back, clinking the rim against hers before downing the effervescent drink. He's not usually one to shoot the moon with his alcohol, especially not such a tame one as sparkling wine, but they're celebrating. The term 'fuck it' rises to his mind, and any and all tension he was holding built up from the case dissolves. Maka steals a couple sips from hers, setting the elongated glass down on the side table between the two of them after. Her emerald eyes settle onto his crimson ones, and suddenly his tie feels as though it's restricting his air passage.

"We did a good job," she tells him, her hands pulling down the edge of her skirt, thereby successfully drawing his attention to the creamy alabaster skin of her legs. It doesn't help him one bit that they seem to glow from the light cast upon them by the dim lamp, the only source of light in the room. He reminds himself that he's not a weak man—he can handle a couple of long, voluptuous . . . legs—and the other most important thing being that Maka Albarn, top-of-her-game anthropologist of the Jeffersonian, is his partner. They're business only with a bit of amicableness thrown into the mix, and that's it.

His heart, however . . . it doesn't want to comply with that.

"Yeah," he breathes back, casting his gaze to the side. His fingers curl around the collar of his red dress shirt, tugging so he can ease his lungs a bit. It doesn't seem to work, so he gives up. "We make a pretty good team."

"Yes, we really do!" She grabs another swig of her champagne before lifting the green bottle in the air, pointing at it with her index finger. "Would you like more? There's plenty left and the night is still young." He nods and she tips the bottle to the edge of the glass, filling it until there's an inch of space left. The bottle returns to the table, and she focuses her attention back onto him.

Soul's not sure what started this little post-case celebration of theirs, but he's awfully glad for it. Maka's great company, and he enjoys the time he spends with her. Of course, most of that time is preoccupied by decomposed corpses and shady suspects, but it's the inbetween that gets to him the most. The cracks of space that aren't stolen by solving a murder are filled with personal conversations, ones that allow them to grow closer to each other.

He never had a favorite color before, but now that he thinks about it, green seems to be an appropriate answer.

God, he's fucked.

"So, how's Harvar?" Her expression indicates that she is taken aback by the question, puzzled. " . . . You know, my boss?" Maka shoots him a glare that says of course you dolt, but that doesn't really provide him with an answer. "You do remember that you're dating him, right?"

"I ended it with him weeks ago," she says, still messing with the hem of the skirt of her dress, this time out of nervousness. He can easily see through her mask of emotions, though, and senses the tinge of secrecy lying beneath her words. He raises a brow at her.

"I thought you two were hitting it off pretty well, last I saw."

"He wasn't my type. Too serious, no humor. He got boring fast." Soul would like to point out that how could she know boring when she drones on about the bones of dead people all day long, but refrains from saying anything that might offend her. He's trying to be less of an asshole. Emphasis on trying.

"You have a type? Didn't peg you for the kind of person to be picky when it came to relationships." Maka blushes from his comment, her cheeks turning a gentle pink.

"Well, yeah. Doesn't everyone?" Great, now the ball's in his court. He gulps down his second glass of champagne before allowing her a response.

"S'pose. Depends on the person." Soul stretches his legs out in front of him, sliding down in his seat. It doesn't by any means look like the world's most comfortable pose, but it is for him.

"So what you're saying is that one person can set the standards for a whole sea of other people?" She does this adorable thing where she cocks her head, challenging him with her gaze. Something sticks in his throat as he contemplates an appropriate answer, one that won't get him in trouble.

"Sure. It's kind of like with serial killers." That's a pretty shitty comparison, Soul. "Wait, forget that description. What I mean to say is, you have one person who makes the mold, and then if you don't keep that person, you use that mold for all the other people who enter your life. It's just an endless cycle of people who seem like they can make the perfect fit, but in the end, all you want is that first person. You want the person that made standards possible in the first place."

"And you have that one person who sets the standards for all other people?" Well shit, he walked himself into that one. What does he do now? Does he tell her the truth and suffer the consequences, or does he lie right through his teeth and never find out if it would have changed things for the better?

"I might," he replies coyly, his eyes remaining forward. "Do you?"

"Fair enough." Maka downs the remainder of her drink, pouring herself another one afterward. She offers the bottle to him again but he politely declines this time. He wants to remain lucid for this conversation if he can, because it has definitely piqued his interest, to say the least. "You know, I could sort of relate that to bones." Okay, she's caught his attention for sure this time.

"Oh yeah? How so?" The corners of her mouth tug upward into a shy smile, dimples making an appearance on her cheeks.

"We've all got the same bones, the same skeletal structure. We all fit into the standard of this one complex puzzle, but the phalanges from one person could never fit another person's. One standard, multiple outcomes—it's all the same."

"Why do you always have to bring science into romance?"

"Romance is a science," she defends herself, her arms crossing against her chest. "Are you going to tell me there's no scientific method involved in sexual intercourse?" Soul rolls his eyes at her, amazed by her ability to turn any conversation they held into a lecture.

"What, you mean like hypotheses and variables and shit?" Maka nods. "You've gotta be kidding me." He pauses a moment before adding, "I guess that's what they mean by 'experimenting in the bedroom'."

"Soul!" Maka exclaims, punching him in the arm lightly as he breaks into a peal of laughter.

"You have to admit, that was a pretty good one." Her cheeks puff outward, letting him know that she's embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

"It's not funny!" she says, but even he can see the visible smile pushing its way towards her surface. "You're terrible."

"Also, 'sexual intercourse'? What era are you from even? Next you're gonna start spouting out words like 'suitor' and 'courting' and shit." She's not very enthused by his teasing, but it's nothing she's not already become accustomed to during the course of their partnership.

"I'm perfectly capable of using normal terms, Soul." He's not convinced.

"Suuuure. Whatever you say, Maka." He reaches over to the table and takes the bottle of liquor, studying it in his hands. "Hey, you never mentioned what was up with this sissy stuff, anyway." Maka scoffs, looking offended.

"Hey, I like champagne!"

"But it's not as good as whiskey. You're holding out on me, Albarn." Her mouth puckers and quirks to the side, a twinkle of amusement hidden in her eyes.

"You've gotta earn the good stuff, Evans."

"What? What the hell does that even mean?! C'mon!" he whines, squirming in his spot. Maka reaches over and grabs the bottle from him, his arms flailing in protest.

"Now that I think about it, you don't even deserve this. You definitely haven't earned it."

"Hold up, let me get this straight-I help you and your little nerd squad solve a murder case and book the culprit, only to have you tell me I don't deserve it? I call bullshit on that." He watches with contempt as Maka backs the rest of the drink, clanking the bottle onto the side table once she's finished. Without missing a beat, she says,

"Oh yeah? Prove it." There's a spark concealed in her emerald eyes, and the restriction in his throat becomes more prominent. She's not asking him, she's daring him. But daring him to do what, he doesn't know. Soul would like to pray for a miracle, but he's not going to get one, he doesn't think. No, things don't work out that way with him, not in his lifetime. He remains cool and relaxed, not pushing any boundaries that they've so steadily built around them.

"I got us out of the party, didn't I? That's gotta count for something." Maka's not convinced.

"I don't know . . ." He presses further.

"Alright, you know Stein was going to make us dance. I got us out of that, and that deserves at least four or five bottles of whiskey. That's a huge feat, Maka." He watches her go rigid at his comment, definitely not the reaction he was trying to goad out of her . . . Wait, did she actually want to dance with him?

God, life is confusing.

Maka's keen, though, and a response tumbles out of her mouth, her tongue drunk on liquid courage.

"Dance with me, Soul." She allows a moment of contemplation before continuing. "We don't have to do anything fancy or tell anyone about it, you know, to protect your 'cool guy' façade or whatever. But I think I deserve at least one dance out of you, Evans. I am your partner." Soul must've had a malfunction in the firing of his neurons, because he swears his partner just asked him to dance.

"Hah?" Slack-jawed, he stares at her, wondering if she's being honest-to-god serious right now or not. Maka's never been one to allow physical contact—Tsubaki's the exception to the rule, but that's because the two of them have been friends for years. She and Soul have barely known each other for over a year, and that's not something that qualifies and grants him access to such an intimate activity as dancing.

So forgive him if he's puzzled beyond belief.

"Soul," Maka urges after a minute of silence from his end, "Dance with me or not?" Her hand remains extended out to him, waiting for his moment of acceptance or rejection. The direction they go is entirely up to Soul, and he's not sure if he can make a rash decision like this. But her eyes remain determined, a fire smoldering inside them, one that he hasn't seen in her before. His hand lands on hers without a second thought, fingers intertwining.

"Alright. Let's dance, Albarn."

They walk towards the center of her office together, her heels clacking on the floor with each step. She's several inches taller in them, but she's still on the short side, barely reaching below his chin. Her palm lies flat atop his shoulder while his grasps at her waist, the space between them practically non-existent. The setting is way too carnal for people who pretend that their relationship exists within just the boundaries of professionalism, and hope pierces his mind that maybe, just maybe, they might be getting somewhere.

"You know, you're a better dancer than I thought you'd be," Maka comments, grinning. Her feet bump up against his, her coordination off, and he chuckles at the thought of a genius like her not being able to figure out something as easy as dancing. He smirks back, leaning in so that they're almost nose-to-nose.

"And you're a worse one," he retorts, coy. She gasps, but she's only faux offended, amused by Soul's teasing. It's no different from any other day, not really—it's their norm. They bicker and they bicker, and they tease and tease, but in the end, it's only a cover-up for something bigger.

Kid would be having a hay day right about now, Soul thinks to himself, but he's more than glad he's not. He doesn't want to mess this up, and Kid would just pester them about how they have feelings that they're concealing, stating that if they could only express their emotions aloud then they'd be doing much better. Maka's not into that psychology bull, and Soul's kind of annoyed by his mind being preyed upon, but here, right in her office, all of that pressure and tension seems to melt away. Her hips sway side-to-side underneath his fingertips, warmth pressing up against his chest, and he figures this is what it feels like to have someone close. If anyone were to raze the walls he's built so high, he's glad it's her.

"So, Agent Evans, is this as bad as you thought?" she asks him, her coquettish charm causing his stomach to fill with butterflies. His grip on her hand tightens, his traitorous legs pushing him closer and closer to her. Soul shakes his head.

"No, I guess not. But," he adds, "I'm only doing this for your sake, Dr. Albarn. It's good to get you out of work mode and away from all those bones. You spend too much time using that big brain of yours when you just need to kick back and relax every once and a while. You might even learn something from it." Maka's brow raises as she studies his expression.

"And what might I learn from dancing with you?"

"That you've got two left feet." Her eyes narrow at him. "Also, you're gonna kill me with those heels of yours. Guy's gotta keep his toes."

"Does that mean you want to stop dancing?"

"No," he's quick to say, so quickly that it's almost embarrassing, but he doesn't really care. He wants to dance with her as long as possible if she lets him, and the longer they remain together like this, the more he craves her touch.

He's really, really fucked.

"O-okay," she stutters, her emotions becoming indecipherable to him. His fingers curl tighter around hers to keep her grounded to him and they continue swaying back in forth in the dim of the light, the minutes passing by slowly as if the world had been halted somehow. Despite his mind reeling from dancing with her alone, he maintains his focus on her and just her, letting the scene play out however it wants to without a worry or care. Soul attempts to break the tension that's filled the room.

"So, do I deserve the good stuff now?" he jokes, but his slight laughter dies off when he catches sight of Maka's contemplative expression. She nibbles nervously at her lower lip, her eyes distant before they snap back up to his. Her intentions are unreadable, and it puts Soul off a bit.

"No," she decides, furrowing her brows.

"Tch, you're just messing with me now," Soul huffs. "What else is there?" Maka presses closer against him, her lips hovering only inches away from his, breath caressing his skin with a pleasurable heat. There's lust and desire trodden in her gaze this time, telling him everything he needs to know. His heart races with each passing second, his brain gone into sensory overload.

"I think you already know," she finally whispers. And he does. So he kisses her.

Kissing Maka Albarn is nothing like he thought it'd be—it's everything.

Those reserves he held about pursuing a relationship with her before dissolve before his eyes as his lips press up against hers. He'd like to kiss her and touch her until she's seeing stars, and if the night goes as he plans (right now, in his head), then that will be the outcome. But for now, his mind gets caught up in the heat she provides him, her hips rolling against his as his fingers thread through the fine strands of her wheat-blonde hair. Soul thanks God for this being the one day she let her hair down from those pigtails she prefers to wear, just so he could test out—scientifically, of course—if her hair was just as soft as he thought.

He was right.

He moves them so that she's constrained against the wall and continues to kiss her senseless, fingers trailing against her inner thigh. He feels something wrap around his wrist and the generous contact between the two of them cuts off, Soul's eyes meeting Maka's warily. There's a hint of a twinkle in her emerald irises, so he's reassured that he's done nothing wrong, but there's still something she's trying to communicate to him.

"Soul," she pants, her cheeks a warm rosy color, "I think you've earned it." As she rips herself away from him, a thought flashes through his mind—he's crossed the line. Of course, it was an invisible line, but it was still there, and he didn't just toe it. He swept it away with one grandiose gesture, leaving uncertainty in its place, an uncertainty that he wasn't too sure he liked.

"Maka," Soul hums softly, her name barely registering his own two ears. She pops up next to him once again, disheveled from their encounter, but chipper nonetheless.

"Alright, so I have some Eagle Rare, and you're gonna have to take the cups—"

"Maka."

"But it's the good stuff, I promise—"

"Maka." The third time's the charm, and when he states her name firmly, it catches her attention.

"What?" She's smokescreening her emotions again, the thing she always does when people get too close and surpass her ten foot pole of distance. He probably shouldn't have pushed it in the first place, but she's so goddamn stubborn that he felt like he needed to. Tsubaki's agreed with him on the subject of Maka—sometimes, if she doesn't get pushed in the right direction . . . she gets stuck. Maka's anchored to the solitary life because she doesn't want to get hurt. Soul's set out to prove that she can rely on him, and he needs to know she's still on his side through thick and thin, even when things get a little messy.

"Are you okay? Are . . . are we okay?" Maka stares blankly at Soul for a long while, putting their situation under scrutiny.

"We're okay." He almost has a heart attack when she finally responds, but his anxieties settle soon after when he senses the familiar tug of her tiny fingers grasping at his hand, tender and slow in her movements. She wants to get this right, and he allows her to take all the time in the world—he would at any given moment, if only for her.

Maka's strength is in bones, but Soul specializes in matters of the heart, and one day they'll find a happy medium. For now, they're Maka and Soul—anthropologist and FBI agent, partners in crime. If they can get through this, then they can get through anything.