In answer to a call to arms by ltlearthquake who asked for a Lizzington oneshot before last week's episode. Sorry my dear, it's two chapters and very late!
This is dedicated to all fans of our sweet ship and of these two beautiful characters. I hope you enjoy this little story!
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Disclaimer: I own nothing but my feels, but therein lies the wealth.
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Liz emptied the bullets into the paper target methodically. 1-2-3-4 staccato pops that rang hollow and exaggerated in the cavernous shooting range in the basement floor of the Post Office. She raised her gun, letting it rest warm in her hand as she pressed the return to retrieve the target she'd been shooting at.
She frowned, her dark blue eyes fixed on the tight distribution of holes on the paper. She laid it down on the surface in front of her and hung another target.
When Red found her she was standing rigidly at the shooting range, legs spread and feet apart, her well-toned arms evident in the black tank top she wore. The end of that tank was tucked into the waistband of a pair of army-green cargo pants he had never seen her wear.
She didn't hear him approach, the red protective earmuffs tamping out most of the sound save for her own breathing.
Liz liked it here in the quiet of the Post Office after hours. Down here away from the noise of the Hive she could think; she could forget. She was halfway through the clip when she felt a cool shadow fall over her. Her stomach tightened, suddenly aware of a presence behind her.
Instantly she whirled, instincts and training taking over, and looked down the sight of the gun and into the smug face of Raymond Reddington. Her finger still hovered over the trigger and the safety was off. Liz took a few seconds to regulate her breathing before lowering the weapon.
"What the hell are you doing here, Red? I could've killed you."
He walked toward her casually in the cream suit he favored in warmer months. He had his hands in his pockets and looked completely unconcerned that she had not yet put away the weapon completely. Indeed, she still held it firmly by her side, her forearm tense.
"Looking for you," he answered easily. He tilted his head in a charming smile, and when he did she could see the cunning eyes that never successfully hid under the brim of the perfect hats he wore.
"Well I'm right here. Where else would I be," she said sardonically as she released the safety on the gun and tucked it into the back of her pants. It had been months since Tom died, and there were only so many Hampton Inns a girl could stand before enough was enough. The Post Office had become a second home to her.
He watched her slip the gun behind her and raised an eyebrow. "New weapon?"
Her mouth opened just a tad and when she exhaled, she blew an errant strand of hair away from her face The shorter style was not as convenient as the ponytail she was used to wearing, so she frequently tucked the layered lengths behind her ears or used bobby pins to keep them out of her face.
"Yeah," she said easily. She withdrew the weapon again, handing it to him butt-first for inspection. He took the gun and turned it over in his hands.
It was a Remington R51, a subcompact handgun with a sleek body and plenty of power. Not FBI issue, though. This gun was for protection.
He worked his mouth thoughtfully. Red was well aware of Liz's paranoia since Tom's death, of her hyper-alert, defensive reaction to the world around her. But most of all, he was painfully aware of her stubborn refusal to allow him to help.
"Nice," he said simply, but it wasn't. It was a common, off-the-rack model; he could've provided a handgun much more suitable, he thought. Red handed her the weapon and looked at her thoughtfully. "So you're down here...blowing off steam?" He smiled warmly at her and Liz found it maddening how he could diffuse her mood with the simplest of gestures.
She nodded. "Practice makes perfect," she said tightly. She moved to the range again and replaced the protective earmuffs. "Now, if you don't mind," she said as she appraised him coolly. She turned her back on him and resumed shooting.
A few moments later she felt his hand on her elbow, warm fingers wrapped around the crook as his other arm snaked around her waist. She gasped, surprised by the contact and then completely overwhelmed by his proximity. He had invaded her space as easily as he had entered her life, presumptive and without preamble. He reached up and removed the earmuffs.
"Don't be so rigid," he murmured in her ear. "Guns start to resent you if you hold them too tightly."
His warm breath glanced across the lobe of her ear, feathering the wisps of hair there. She felt lightheaded, surrounded by his scent and the warmth of his embrace. She shivered, praying to whoever would listen that Red hadn't noticed. He corrected the angle of her elbow as his other hand pressed into her waist, rotating her torso almost imperceptibly.
She narrowed her eyes. "Sort of like me," she said pointedly.
He nodded against her hair. "I've given you your space, Lizzie." Red adjusted her hold on the handgrip of the pistol, and the hand on her waist moved up an inch, his fingers splayed across her ribs.
"You have," she admitted. Her heart was beating double time, and she fought the urge to lean into his touch. "Until now, that is."
He laughed, withdrawing his hands after making the corrections in her hold and stance. He let his fingers drag along the waistband of the green cargo pants he was growing more and more infatuated with. "I've missed you," he said.
She closed her eyes, instantly missing the warmth, the proximity of his face to hers. As much as she had needed space and time to reflect on the mess of the past few months, she had missed Red far more than she was ready to admit.
Liz turned around, looking at him softly. As maddening as he was at times, he was the most stable presence in her life right now. As much as she needed time to sort things out, she found herself craving the comfort of their partnership. Her eyes suddenly brightened as a thought occurred to her.
"You wanna go?" She gestured to the shooting range behind her and smiled impishly.
Red quirked his mouth, squaring his shoulders in that subtle way of his that denoted he had taken some offense. "Lizzie, are you implying that I, a known felon, would bring a concealed weapon into the hallowed halls of the FBI?"
She raised an eyebrow at him. "That's exactly what I'm implying. Best out of three?"
He moved toward her smoothly, reaching inside his jacket to access the discreet shoulder holster that lay concealed beneath his suit. He withdrew the gun, pulling the chamber back dramatically. He looked at her curiously from beneath the brim of his hat. "Best out of three or what?"
Liz looked at him, momentarily puzzled.
"It's not a wager if there's nothing to lose," he said smoothly. "Or gain." He smiled. "How about the best out of three buys the other one dinner?" He was still looking at her rather beguilingly, his eyes twinkling.
She chewed her lip thoughtfully. She was a pretty good shot. If she lost, she'd get dinner either way. "Deal," she said quickly before she had the chance to change her mind.
They hung fresh targets and sent them down the path. Liz held her frame stiffly, looking down the barrel of the gun and depressing the trigger smoothly and methodically as she had before. Her mind cleared, a blessedly blank canvas devoid of any sign of her past or current problems or concerns.
After each empty cartridge they compared the targets. Red had won first one, his bullets landing squarely in the center or just to the center of the bullseye with almost unsettling precision. Liz had won the next one though, a fact she took great pride in. On the final round she was determined to keep her edge.
After reloading for the last time, she pulled back the slide too hastily and pinched her finger.
She cried out and immediately started shaking her hand as if to shed the discomfort there. It was a stupid thing, she thought, a rookie mistake. She hadn't pinched herself when racking the slide on a gun since Quantico. She cursed to herself.
It was the movement rather than the sound (because Red wore his own pair of protective earmuffs) that garnered Red's attention and he promptly stopped shooting and walked over to her.
He reached for her hand, but she drew it behind her. "It's nothing," she said. Her cheeks were red and she was more annoyed at herself than in actual pain. She exhaled a few short, exasperated puffs. This was more about pride now than dinner. Although Liz didn't understand why, she needed this. She needed to win. She put the gun down on the counter in front of her.
"May I see it?"
She looked up and Red was standing in front of her gazing at her softly. The protective earmuffs were pulled down around his neck, and he wore a hint of a smile. She pressed her lips together and proffered her outstretched hand.
He took it gingerly, rubbing the angry red crease that smarted along the pads of her index and middle fingers. He could feel the tension in her hands ebb a little under his ministrations and it pleased him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She looked up at him then. He still held her hand and was languidly rubbing her fingers. His eyes betrayed a deeper meaning, more so than any supposed sorrow for her non-injury, for her stupid mistake. I'm sorry your life turned to shit was probably what he was really thinking.
Before she could take her hand away, he drew hers to his lips and placed a soft kiss across the hurt. "Is that better?" he mumbled into the palm of her hand.
She had forgotten to breathe, and the exhalation she did manage was shaky and unmeasured. She jerked her hand away as if recoiling from an open flame.
"Don't mother me Red," she snapped at him. "That's not what I need right now." She turned her back on him before he could see her cry. She swallowed the tears, allowing her face to cool as she felt the frustration slide back down her throat and settle sourly in her belly.
He was still there; she could feel him solid against her back although he had not touched her. She could feel the radiant heat from his body, his silent entreaty as he stared at the back of her head.
"But you need this?" he said acidly. "Living like a hermit? Squatting at an FBI black site and pouring all of your grief and frustration into paper targets?"
She turned around, his words still ringing in her ears. The anger welled within her. "How dare-"
"How dare I what," he asked her flatly. "How dare I care about you?" His eyes softened as they found hers. "You have to fight, Lizzie," he said quietly. He smiled a little sadly at her. "You haven't lost yet. Now get your ass up there and finish what you started."
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A review would make my night and probably give me the encouragement needed to finish Chapter Two. Please let me know how I'm doing! :)