It's been a long day. Not the kind when you fall into an exhausted, satisfying slumber before your head hits the pillow, but the frustrating, trying kind you drink copious amounts of alcohol to forget.
As soon as they return to their hideaway of the moment, Liz all but collapses on the couch in the living room and Red wordlessly sets about preparing glasses of scotch for them both. It's become a routine over the past few weeks whenever they hit a roadblock in their search for Berlin, which is more often than not.
He sets the bottle on the coffee table in front of the couch before he retrieves their glasses and hands her one; he slumps down next to her, careful not to spill his own.
She's lost track of how much they've had to drink by the time he kicks off his shoes and props his feet on the coffee table and the moonlight streaming in the window draws her attention to his socks. They're a rich, deep red that complements her blouse far better than his suit. Somewhere in her drink-addled mind, she wonders if he intentionally matched his socks with her shirt and why on earth anyone would do that.
She's just drunk enough to try to ask him, but instead of an answer, he leans in with an inelegant lurch and kisses her. It's a good kiss as drunken, one-sided kisses go, but she doesn't kiss him back; she's too surprised to even push him away.
He pulls back, rests his forehead against her shoulder for a moment to steady himself.
"I'm sorry," he says, slurring slightly. "I know I'm the last person in the world you would ever consider… And even if I weren't, you probably don't… I know I couldn't even look at anyone that way for months after…"
Her head is swirling and she can barely process what he's saying. With one kiss, he obliterated any lingering suspicion she had that he was lying to her about being her father or using a loophole of technicality or figurative language to avoid a lie. He left her adrift now without an explanation for why he was willing to die for her, willing to kill for her, willing to surrender—actually surrender—only to her.
Well.
Perhaps he has left her with an explanation—handed it to her on a silver platter, really—but it isn't one she's ready to face.
He's oblivious to the internal turmoil he triggered. He makes a noise in his throat like he's fighting off a miserable groan and his eyes seem to have trouble focusing. "I think I need to lie down."
She expects him to stand, hobble drunkenly for his room or maybe the toilet, but instead he curls up on the couch next to her and pillows his head on her thigh. He's asleep before she can protest.
She stares down at him in shock. She should shove him off of her, head back to her own room for a glass of water, a couple aspirin, and some much needed sleep.
She should.
She doesn't.
His hand is between her lower back and the cushions and the heat from it is soothing on her tired muscles. She runs her fingers over his scalp, traces her way down a sideburn; he nuzzles his nose against her abdomen before settling again.
She sighs.
The couch really is too comfortable for its own good.
The couch. Not anything else.
She closes her eyes and lets sleep overtake her, too.