"Don't say I never offered you a first-hand experience shadowing me," Beckett responds, somewhat dryly, her voice thick and whiskey-laced. She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes as she tilts her head back to take another, liberal sip. "Being held at gunpoint definitely does wonders for the creative process, I'm guessing."

Her free hand reaches back to scratch the juncture between neck and shoulder, where a few stray strands of hair have fallen to brush, ticklish against her skin. She leaves her hand there, resting diagional across her front, an unconsciously placed shield as her gaze drifts over, down and somewhat along his left side. Without missing a beat, she finishes off her drink.