Opportunity: noun. A favorable or advantageous circumstance.

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Takes place three days after the events of "Snow Day"

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Danny rounded the corner of the locker room, slowing to a stop as he watched Lindsay toss a handful of wavy curls over her shoulder, slinging her leg over the bench near her locker, sliding her service pistol free from it's holster. He stepped back only just, keeping out of where she might catch him in the corner of her eye, leaning his forearm against the locker bay, shifting his weight to one foot and laying his uninjured hand along the belt that balanced precariously on his hip.

He was fascinated by her, Lindsay Monroe. Lindsay the scientist. Lindsay the cop. The pieces of her that had become New Yorker. The part of her that would always stay a country girl. She stole the beats straight out of his heart, rolled her eyes where the menagerie of blondes he usually dated laughed. She smiled at him differently than any girl he'd ever wanted. Like he was missing the crucial evidence, or his fly was down. Or that she had just figured out he was full of shit.

He was far past the beginning to come to terms with how he really felt about her, first weary of sabotaging the connection they had made when she had let him pull her out of the thick dust a few months ago. But, again, she had left him confused, pushing away just as fast, standing him up, keeping him at arm's length with brisk, steely, mechanical motions leading her through her shifts. It was a startling, abrupt change, and it shattered his heart, and his confidence, leaving him second guessing every look, every smile, every word they had exchanged since her arrival to New York. Then she went to Montana, and everything changed all over again. He was thankful, each and everyday, that he had followed her. The plane ride might have been the greatest gesture, but he had quickly learned that a life was shared in little moments rather than large ones.

Course, he never wanted his life to be a Disney movie.

She didn't understand him sometimes. Didn't have the congested, highrise background to always see what he was thinking, or why he thought it. She was nothing like Aidan, wholesome and bright where the Brooklynite had been sly and quick. He had always been certain that he would fall for a native city girl; had always assumed that he'd only be happy with another New Yorker, this town was such a large portion of his personality, it didn't occur to him that his heart could be happy anywhere outside the five boroughs.

But, there she was, just the same.

He sauntered across the room carefully, humbled out of his cocky swagger by astonishment and comfort, awe in the fact that she had let him in, trusted him. She'd chosen him. His eyes swept over the pile of wavy curls, glittering in the florescent overhead lights in golds and browns. The grin came on too fast for him to stifle it as he remembered what they looked like tousled and sexed on his pool table, the tickle they caused as they toppled over the bare skin of his arm. Distracted by his thoughts, he didn't notice her glance back at him, still busy with her piece.

"Shouldn't you be at home, popping vicodin, Detective?" Her voice held a light teasing quality, laced with sincere concern that nearly made him groan.

"I took some tylenol with breakfast." He shrugged, coming to lean against his locker for a moment, shaken by how much he had missed her in the last two days. "I don't like the hard stuff." He mumbled, glancing at the crisp, clean bandages that enclosed his mangled hand. She threw him a doubtful expression, and he rolled his eyes.

"I just-"

"Et tu, Brute?"

"Fine, fine. Your hand. Your decision." She turned her attention back to her gun, and he couldn't bite back the relief, glad she wasn't going to play nurse with him, or brand him incapacitated. "What are you doing here, Dan?" her tone became softer, quieter, pulling at his heart.

He didn't answer straightaway; instead moving from the lockers to the bench and sitting behind her. He straddled the bench, sandwiching her between his knees, snaking his good hand around her waist and resting his forehead on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her curls. She stiffened for a fraction of a moment before relaxing into his touch.

"Someone's going to see."

"No one's around." His words came out muffled in her shoulder, hot on her skin, making her shiver, remembering the last time he had whispered against her. Leaving the gun, forgotten, she shifted, reaching over to take hold of his left hand. He let her easily, no fight at all in his muscles as she ran her fingers gingerly over his bandage.

"I filled the script for the vicodin."

"I know."

"I left it on the counter."

"I know."

"The doctor said to take it."

"I know." He felt her sigh, giving up and delicately wrapping her ten slender fingers around his larger five.

"My shift ended an hour ago."

"I figured you'd still be around."

"When did Mac say you can come back?"

"Two weeks." They sat there, in silence, for several minutes. Danny sat up, nudging her close, watching her examine his hand.

It seemed fast- really though, it had been months coming. They'd danced around each other for nearly a year, the playful banter between them turning starkly suggestive over a span of months; the last few a series of backward steps. This thing between them, it had exploded- they had exploded- and it wasn't occuring to either of them that it would ever be a poor idea. Danny had spent too long realizing he couldn't think without her. Fast or slow, whichever one it was, it was odd to suddenly find themselves in the middle of this, a layer of intimacy and affection dollopped into their already comfortable, effective working relationship. It was odd, not unlike discovering a shot of vodka in a margherita instead of the usual tequila, and it definitely dismantled Lindsay's common sense and restraint.

He dropped a chaste kiss to her shoulder, and she cocked an eyebrow at him, standing and twisting around, sitting back down facing him full-on. He hooked his good fingers under her knee and pulled her closer, draping her leg over his. She didn't protest; instead, she leaned across the slim distance between them and kissed him softly, a hand along his jaw, pulling away a few moments later.

"You know, Detective, while I'm not supporting your resistance to the prescribed narcotics, I will remind you that tylenol, unlike vicodin, does not react adversely with the alcohol contents in, say, a couple of beers." Her feet wriggled, suspended in the air, running coyly against the back of his calves.

"'Magine that." Danny smiled softly.

"In fact, you are due to take another dose pretty soon, and tylenol works better if you take it with food."

"What'd you have in mind?"

"There's a Ray's a few blocks from my building." She climbed off him and stood, flashing him an innocent smile as she snatched her gun off the bench and stowed it in her bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder, ready to go.

"Boom." He chuckled, catching her hand with his right and pulling her close, taking the opportunity to kiss her thoroughly, backing her the few steps against the lockers, deepening and parting her mouth with his tongue effectively. His head was spinning deliciously with ways to make this work, and what potentially lay ahead for them when the pizza box was empty.