AN: A new multi-chapter fic. I love undercover stories but have never written one before so here's my attempt to rectify that. I would love to hear your thoughts, so please leave a comment once you're done reading. Thank you all for your kind support! Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Red. Predictable.
The dress is beautiful. Of course it is. Elegant, expensive, purest silk, impossibly soft against her skin. And red. The fabric undercover missions are made of. The fabric that triggers gun shots in embassies and waltzes with criminals and vengeful ex-lovers and I'm your plus one.
It's a perfect fit. The cut and the color. He really did have impeccable taste. It's not all suits and ties and vests. No, sometimes it's red dresses, too. And heels and clutches. And a determined knock on the door. Lizzie? Time to go.
The car ride is quiet yet his gaze rests on her shoulders like a burden. Being regarded by Raymond Reddington in this fashion, with such intensity, is nearly breathtaking. He's almost staring, looking at her like she's a masterpiece, something divine, and she can barely stand it and it's merely a sober you look wonderful that finally leaves his lips. And then he turns away and swallows. Hard.
They had been on good terms lately. Friendly, professional, cooperating. The occasional dinner, the occasional reassuring touch. Some nights he comes over for a night cap, tells her stories, makes her smile, and then leaves with a quick goodnight. He's less intrusive now, after the Braxton ordeal, because he doesn't want to push her. He wants her trust back and almost desperately so, but he wants to earn it and work for it, wants to show her that he really does care and that it has nothing to do with some device that was once carefully hidden and now God knows where. His courage blossoms with every casual conversation, every brief contact. They can still read each other without words- what's wrong?- and there's comfort in that - everything- because he knows their bond remains a remarkable one, something worth cherishing, something that transcends formalities and customs and physical attraction even though her eyes wander to his lips rather frequently. Just the same.
It's hardly a dangerous mission this time, much more high society than high risk, but necessary for intel and contacts and research and all these countless infinitesimal essentials that determine the success of their operations. Another gala, New York instead of Washington, a gathering of wealth and vice. And so Red had insisted on going undercover, with Liz by his side and a ring on her finger, one of the numerous upper class couples that roamed through Manhattan in such abundance. And Liz had agreed without objecting, much to his surprise. And hers.
She loves the city, especially at night. Bright lights flying by, endless streams of flashes and stars and wonder and yes, memories, too. It seemed like lifetimes ago, her trembling arm linked with his, that ever- intriguing amalgamation of tux and dress, experience and innocence. We are going to make a great team. They had certainly looked the part. She almost believed him then, although she had despised his smugness and vanity. Or maybe she had envied him. She was still so new to all of this. Nebraska seemed continents away.
The Freelancer, right. When her illusions had been shattered, when she had realized that the good and the bad are rarely unequivocally discernible. Evil makes eloquent speeches. Evil wears diamond earrings. Idols are prone to disappoint and prestige is a fraudulent concept. She had learned some valuable lessons that night. Looks like she's dying. A syringe on the floor. Definitely dying. What the hell was wrong with him?
And then the sunrise. That stunningly innocent sunrise across the East River. With blood on her hands and him facing the other way. We never really know anyone, do we? He still spoke in infuriating riddles, spoke of trust and how fucking dare he. Her life was already in ruins, she just didn't know it. But he had been well aware. The conviction in his eyes betrayed him. And then he had walked away without a care in the world, as if his words hadn't just initiated an irreversible process poisoning every certainty in her life. Bastard.
Since then months had gone by. Struggles and contentions and embraces had passed. There were times when she sought his closeness, his warmth; there were times when she wanted to stick another pen in his neck. Some days she observes him reticently, detects that lingering vulnerability in his stern expression before it vanishes without a trace. His armor used to be indestructible but it not longer seems that way. She wonders if she has done this to him. She wonders if notorious criminals can grief. She wonders why the distance between them results in such frighteningly vivid dreams and why it's always him that saves her and no one else. Her mind is racing and she can hardly keep up.
And now back to the start. In this tux, in this limousine, he looks like he owns the world and she can't help but be impressed. The power that radiates from him, the prosperity and intellect and sophisticated nonchalance, tonight it all belongs to her. Tonight she is the queen to his kingdom.
I have our wedding bands, he says. Business as usual. The velvet box he pulls from his pocket seems heavy and consequential. He opens it cautiously, takes the simple but stunning ring - may I?- and she just nods and watches her hand being lifted gingerly, his fingers caressing hers and there's an ache in her chest that threatens to submerge her and now there's gold around her skin and she can't bring herself to look at him.
The car stops. He lets go, somewhat reluctantly it seems, rather sighs than speaks her name, opens the door.
This is how it begins.