AN: I have no idea where this came from but that's how writing works sometimes. I'm planning on doing three chapters, so we'll see how that goes. Reviews are my best motivation and I really would love to hear your thoughts since the set-up this time is a bit different than my other fics. I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!
She's thinking about him again.
She's alone and it's early December and New York is a niveous mess and she can't fucking stop thinking about him. No matter what she does, no matter where she is, somehow her mind always takes her back to him. There's always a connection.
It's all over now. She's not a criminal anymore. Hasn't been for quite some time.
But he's gone, too. And she still doesn't know how to deal with that.
The list, the Cabal, all that is in the past, dismantled and uncovered, her name cleared, just like his. It had all happened so quickly she still needed time to process everything, the transformation from a fugitive to a celebrated agent. The team had offered her to return to the task force, or maybe another division, or maybe another agency, but she had been ready to move on and she had always loved New York. So she had closed that chapter, had left the FBI behind because law enforcement without the assistance of a wanted criminal had suddenly lost all appeal. There's just no fun in it unless you're there. And she was certain now that he wouldn't return.
Her Park Slope apartment is cozy, though more expensive than she could usually afford, but thanks to Cooper and her FBI pension she doesn't have to worry about it. It's peaceful here, and there's a bakery right around the corner that serves a sinful selection of pastries, so really, there's not much to complain. She's thinking about getting another dog because sometimes the apartment is just a tad too quiet and the park nearby is convenient. Her life is average now, lacks excitement, and she likes it that way. She's still dealing with the aftermath of her escape, has been to a therapist a few times, but has troubles explaining just what exactly is going on with her. She's not depressed and she gets enough sleep and yet something is missing since her return and she wonders if that something has a fondness for three-piece suits and fedoras.
After she had moved to New York he had called her a few times, checking in, making sure she was safe and happy, nothing more. Safe, yes, she finally had been, she still is, but happy, well, that's a whole other discussion. She has friends here, people she trusts and can rely on, and she's been out on a few dates but hasn't been in a relationship since Tom. There's always something that bothers her, something she just can't accept and ignore, and so there have been dinners and a few kisses, but nothing more. She makes a conscious effort to find flaws in her partners, tries to justify why it never feels quite right.
It's because they're not him, she thinks. But she can never admit it out loud.
She might know him better than anyone else, or at least she used to, got to know his habits, what he likes for breakfasts, what he wears to bed, how he sleeps on his side and never on his back, how he prefers his coffee, his favorite wine, what he looks like in jeans. Sometimes she allows herself to reminisce, allows herself to really miss him, miss him the way she had missed him when their life on the run had come to an end. The constant comfort of his presence, the scent of his cologne lingering in the halls.
Once, only once, she has kissed him. They had both been sharing stories over dinner, had spent the remainder of the evening seated next to each other on the couch, relaxed and as content as the circumstances had allowed, two glasses of wine on the table.
Later she had blamed it on the alcohol, the way she had rambled on about relationships out of nowhere, her struggles and insecurities, how she had always thought she wasn't good enough for whatever her partner had demanded. And Red had listened to every word, intently and patiently, until he had finally moved closer, his hand on her knee.
"Close your eyes."
And then, as she had complied, he had kissed her. Sweetly, skillfully, had deepened the kiss when she had finally responded. Had stopped it before there was no going back.
She still remembers the cadence of his voice, sincere, a hint of desire, slightly strained.
"Never question your abilities, Lizzie. You are-"
The way he paused to catch his breath.
"Magnificent."
He had never mentioned it again. Neither had she. But she replays the memory in her head often. Every detail safely locked away.
For all the challenges they had faced, for all the dangers and close calls, the moment of their separation had been quite unspectacular. The two of them in the middle of a deserted airfield in Nova Scotia, facing each other, and Red's jet behind them.
"Are you sure you won't be coming back to DC?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"So this is goodbye?"
"Not forever."
But he hadn't looked at her and she hadn't been able to grasp the idea of a life without him.
So she had stepped closer, had tentatively put her arms around him, had hoped for something, just something that would make this bearable. And then he had hugged her back, no space between them, had pressed his lips against her hair, had left a whisper there.
And that was that.
Ten minutes later she had found herself on a plane to Washington, tears no longer hidden, his words slowly but confidently breaking her.
Never doubt I love.
And now she hasn't seen him in over a year. She doesn't know where he is. Sometimes she finds a letter in her mailbox, no return address, no name. Just a note inside, a different quote, mostly poetry, handwritten and unmistakable. It's always a red envelope. She tears up every time.
Now, after years of running and working and endless escapes and finally safety, she can't remember a time when she hasn't loved him.
It's Sunday night and the cold and relentless East Coast winter has finally arrived in the city but she's home, has been all day, too tired to face the outside world. There's a kettle heating up on the stove, there'll be tea tonight, not wine, and she doesn't like to drink by herself anyway because it makes her feel lonely. So Earl Grey it is and there won't be a headache in the morning.
She walks over to the couch with a mug in one hand, a novel in the other, Great Expectations, and makes herself comfortable. She's working her way through the classics now because she has never gotten a chance to and because she hadn't been able to truly appreciate them when she was younger, but now, now she enjoys them tremendously; they calm her and distract her. Challenge her. The light is dimmed and the blanket is soft and she tries to remember where she left off, skips a few pages and makes a mental note to finally buy herself a bookmark, and then there's a knock on the door.
She doesn't expect anyone, which is made quite obvious by her attire, and she sighs somewhat irritated but gets up anyway, quickly checks herself in the mirror next to the coat rack- she's a mess but Sunday night visitors really shouldn't be expecting much else- turns the handle and can't believe her eyes.
"Hello, Lizzie."
She must be dreaming.
"May I come in?"
