A/N: AU: Lizzie isn't FBI but a counselor (and an amateur astronomer), Red is still...shady. Not sure how much anyone will like this, completely unbeta'd. And obviously, I own nothing. Also thanks to my lovely gutterbugs who graciously allowed me to bounce this idea around like a ball on a squash court. :-)
Elizabeth Keen loved her new apartment. The ink had barely dried on her divorce decree before she high-tailed it out of DC, winding up in Bethesda. It was an unassuming complex; a block of four buildings, two stories each. It was smallish, but lovely and perfectly suited to her simpler life without her ex-husband. It was close to her new job at the counseling center and as an added bonus, she had a rooftop garden, to which she promptly hauled her favorite telescope. Here, away from the lights of DC, she could see the stars. Maybe not as many as she could back in Nebraska; but more than she could from Georgetown. She enjoyed her peace and quiet in the dark, reading her star maps with her red tinted flashlight, observing meteor showers and planetary movements. And very occasionally, the Concierge in the building across the street.
It was an accident, the first time. She was adjusting the scope when she bent to retrieve her light and knocked it with her shoulder. So now, instead of the stars, she had a stalker-eye view of the apartment across the road. He was standing at the French doors that led onto his balcony, and he was quite a dashing figure in his gray three piece suit. Lizzie supposed that's why she didn't immediately move the scope. You just don't see men that well-dressed anymore. Sure, maybe a suit and tie, but a vest? A fedora, for Pete's sake? She must have watched him for about fifteen minutes before her conscience caught up to her. He strode back and forth in front of those doors like a man on a mission, talking on the phone as far as she could tell. He took his hat off after the first few minutes and Lizzie had to suck in a deep breath. He was…handsome. Not many men could be described as handsome; they could be good-looking or cute, but handsome had a certain refinement, a level of panache that ordinary men just didn't bother with anymore. He was older than her by probably fifteen years or so, but he had lovely cheekbones and lips that could not be real. He was just beautiful really, solid and strong in his gorgeous suit, with his pretty mouth. Lizzie's brain waxed poetic until she realized her egregious error in judgment and, as penance, she packed up her telescope and went back downstairs to her apartment.
She didn't go back up to the roof for two days. But when she did, she couldn't stop herself from swinging the lens in the same direction. Sometimes he was there, always in a suit, usually on the phone; sometimes the curtains were closed tight. Lizzie always felt a little sad when that was the case. She wasn't sure when she started calling him the Concierge, at least in her head. Something about him reminded her of the people in the fancy hotels who made arrangements for guests. A table for dinner, tickets to a show, whatever was needed. They always seemed so posh, and they could find you anything you wanted. She imagined the man in that apartment didn't have trouble getting what he wanted.
It was a warm August night when things got a little odd. Lizzie brought her telescope up to the roof at sunset to watch the Perseids meteor shower. It was a hot and sticky night in Maryland and the humidity made her tank top stick to her skin. She studied the star charts while she waited for the night to fall completely and drank steadily from her bottle of water. Out of habit, she glanced over at the Concierge's apartment to find him on the balcony. That was new. She tossed her ethics to the wind for a moment and moved the barrel of the scope to focus on him. His suit jacket was discarded on the railing, the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbow and his tie was gone but his linen waistcoat was still buttoned up. He leaned on the railing of the tiny porch, with a glass of something in his hand. She stared so long at him she swore she could make out every ripple of muscle in his forearms and her pulse pounded dangerously in her brain. Suddenly, his gaze swung up to her rooftop and Lizzie jerked the scope away with a gasp and flung herself down on the bench. After a moment, she dared a peek, just with the binoculars, and sighed with relief. He was gone. All during the meteor shower, she gave herself a blistering lecture about voyeurism and people's privacy until her face was scarlet with shame. This was not how she was raised at all.