AN: This little fic is for Madele, for a Christmas gift exchange. She picked the prompt - Red and Liz snowed in, little cabin, fireplace, fluff, and smut. This will have two chapters, with the smut happening in the second. Admittedly, the first chapter could be fluffier, but the second should make up for it. I hope you all enjoy. Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think.
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"Understand that this wasn't my first choice," Red said quietly, sighing as he lead her into the tiny log cabin that would serve as home for at least a few days.
Newfoundland was only supposed to be a pitstop, a place to refuel and stretch their legs before going wheels up again, but a glitch with the jet's landing gear needed to be addressed before they could depart. It was a simple repair that could be done within a day, but a massive impending snowstorm mooted all efforts to rush. The first few flakes had already started to fall.
"On a godawful Christmas tree farm, of all places," Liz huffed.
"Well, it's better than sleeping on the jet - certainly warmer." He gestured towards the fireplace. "I'll go grab some firewood while you get settled in."
She shook her head. "The cabin is fine. Charming, even. It's just... the last time I saw a Christmas tree farm, it was a disjointed and hazy memory ripped from my subconscious by Braxton's doctor."
"Lizzie," he started, apologetic, but he didn't quite know what to say, so instead he just pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her temple.
She turned her head so that her ear was pressed against his chest, resisting the urge to hold him more tightly. His body was both hard and soft in all the right places, molded perfectly against hers as if by design. It wouldn't do to go down that road now, though it felt like the most natural thing in the world. The temptation she felt was surely beyond whatever he was trying to offer. Besides that, based on the little she knew about his own past, the trees probably brought up even worse memories for him than her own. She took a deep breath through her nose and shook her head slightly. "No, no, it's okay. I'm okay, sorry. We've been running so hard and for so long, that whole ordeal is usually the furthest thing from my mind, but then it hit me when we were walking through the trees. I'm just feeling a little vulnerable, I guess. I don't mean to complain. Go ahead and get the firewood before it gets all wet from the snow."
He stepped back and tilted his head, looking at her appraisingly. "There's no need for you to apologize, and no reason to be brave now. We're safe here, from everything."
Though tempted to return the sentiment, she also didn't want to bring up his ghosts.
Ghosts like attention.
She offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile and watched him walk back outside to collect the wood. His steps were weary, lacking in the jaunty swagger that she secretly adored, but that was to be expected, given their circumstances. With little to unpack or settle, she opted instead to investigate the cabin. It was studio-style, one room with one bed, a couch, television, and a kitchenette with a small table pressed up against the back wall. Next to the fireplace was a bookshelf stacked with novels - most of them in French, but some in English too, thankfully. The tiny bathroom was the only place that afforded any privacy, but it barely had enough standing room to get dressed or shower.
Red came back in within moments, his arms laden with wood. "Well, the good news is that the wood is covered with a tarp, so we don't have to worry about it getting wet from the snow. The bad news is that it isn't right outside the door, so we'll have to trudge through the snow to get more when this runs out."
She dashed over to help him unload the firewood from his arms. "Then let's pile it up now. I'd rather save us the walk later," she replied.
Outside, the ground was already covered in a thin layer of snow, with tips of grass poking out through it, sucking in the last bit of sunlight that they'd see for days. The fat flakes were falling in earnest, and they stuck to Liz's hair and Red's fedora, making him look like the beginning of a piece of pointilism.
He turned his head and caught her staring, but didn't call her out on it. "Have you looked around the kitchen cabinets yet? Remy said there's enough wine in there to keep us drunk for a week, but that he'd probably have to bring more food the day after tomorrow."
Uh oh. That could be trouble. Or if could be great. The breadth of potential for such a stockpile made her uneasy. "No, not yet. You sure that's a good idea?"
He laughed and grinned as he pulled back the bright blue tarp. "Oh, no. I'm not suggesting that we spend the week engaging in bacchanalian pursuits. I'm just passing along the information given."
"What an unusual change of pace," she wryly commented.
When Red looked up, lips poised to defend himself, she offered the sweetest little smirk, with her eyebrows lifted just so. It wasn't unlike his own, and she looked so lovely that his readied reply evaporated, instantly forgotten.
They piled up their arms with as much as they could carry, and then circled back for a final load, hoping that it would suffice.
After all that work, a drink actually sounded pretty good. So, while Red carefully unpacked and hung up his clothes, Liz ventured to the tiny kitchen to investigate her options. What she found was an entire cabinet filled with identical bottles of pinot noir. Having seen Red contentedly downing that unnamed white swill at Hempstead's apartment, she figured Red wouldn't complain about their current selection, or lack thereof, so she poured two glasses without bothering to ask if he'd like one. He looked as if he could use a drink too.
"Ah, thank you," he said as she passed it to him. He swirled it around for a moment and inhaled deeply from the glass before holding it up and making piercing eye contact. "Cheers?"
She raised her glass in suit. "Cheers."
He took a sip and hummed in appreciation, letting it swirl around on his tongue before swallowing. "Nice, soft oak finish. An '08 pinot noir?"
"Am I supposed to assume that you didn't already know?"
"Well, the year was just a guess."
They each retreated back into their own heads, quietly drinking their wine and occupying themselves. Neither were inclined to light a fire any sooner than it became absolutely necessary. The rows of Christmas trees were bad enough for their respective memories, but it was the same hellacious fire that still gave them both nightmares.
She remembered the smoke, god, so much smoke, along with the sounds of several nameless and faceless men and her mother's shouting. There was the person who found her in the closet, only to collapse and burn on the ground behind her while someone else carried her out, shrieking. A sickening, powerful sense of fear. A searing burn on her palm and wrist. Her once-white stuffed bunny, soiled by soot. On top of it all, the knowledge that there was no going back inside, no more safe returns, and no more sense of 'normal'.
And Red was there.
He was the only man that now had a name. What he might remember about that night was a big question mark hanging over her head, and she knew the moment that this new fire sparked, it would only swell above her, eagerly fed by the flames. As unwise as it was, it was her anxiety over this that caused her to continue to drink, as if to steel herself against a curiosity for the things that he wasn't ready to tell.
They'd collectively downed two bottles within a couple hours. While huddled up on the couch, her legs curled beneath a flannel throw blanket, Liz began to shiver. Red noticed and peered through the curtains at the snow-covered ground. "It looks like about five inches already."
A salacious voice inside her crowed, 'Oh, I'm sure it's more than that.'
Her expression must have given something away, because Red met her eye and smirked knowingly. She would have killed to hear whatever witty comment he was holding in. Instead, he quickly swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, and with his voice slightly lowered, said, "It's time to warm this place up a bit. I think I'll change out of my suit and get our fire started."
Maybe it was the wine talking, but that sounded pretty sexy too, she decided.
She watched him grab his bag and retreat to the bathroom, wondering what type of clothing he preferred for lighting fires. Oh, she needed to stop thinking like this, she knew, but the thoughts were coming more quickly than she could tamp them down.
When he came back, he was dressed in black sweatpants that were loose in the legs but hugged his hips delightfully, and a plain black cotton crewneck t-shirt. She tried to school her expression into one of indifference, but it wasn't easy. Having lived in relatively close quarters for several months now, on more than one occasion, she'd seen the way those pants made his ass look from behind.
He flashed an impish grin and nodded towards the kitchen. "You up for some s'mores? I saw the ingredients in the little cabinet to the left of the wine."
The couch was positioned directly across from the fireplace, so in the moment, no, she didn't much want s'mores. She wanted to enjoy the view while he turned around and started the fire. Before she could reply, he bent down to pick up a couple logs, and her mouth instantly went dry. She became acutely aware that her response was taking too long. It wasn't exactly a big decision."Ah, yeah. S'mores would be good," she croaked.
Smooth, Keen.
"Or you could just keep staring. I don't mind."
Cocky bastard. Yet as bold as it was for him to call her out, he played it off nonchalantly, not even bothering to look back at her over his shoulder. Maybe he worried that he was being too presumptuous.
"Staring at what? I'm just reluctant to abandon this warm blanket."
He gamely played along with her excuse. "Oh, well just wrap it around your shoulders and take it with you."
"Yeah, good idea," she grumbled, flouncing to her feet like a toddler, grateful that he wasn't watching. While in the kitchen, still pouting, she opted to open another bottle of wine, and the poor cork paid dearly for her sexual frustration. As she appreciatively watched every curve and flex of his body from the side, she swirled the wine in her glass and took a big gulp.
Maybe this fireplace business wasn't so bad, after all.
Still poking around with the logs, Red drawled into a story from his childhood. "When I was eight years old, my father planned this huge camping trip with our neighbors. It was a total disaster, just one mishap after another, from start to finish. I didn't mind too much, but when Bobby Krenwinkel smeared his piping hot, freshly-roasted marshmallow in my hair, I screamed like a girl."
While he talked, Liz carried over the s'mores ingredients, and then turned around to grab her glass and the bottle. Her heartstrings tugged at the thought of little Red's anguished screams. "Aw, that must have hurt! Did you get him back?"
He turned around and grinned, holding up his empty glass for a refill. "Well, the joke was on him when his sister, Susie, spent the next hour trying to help me extract it from my hair. I had a tremendous crush on her."
Liz's eyes narrowed into slits as she smirked at him slyly and poured. "You always get the girl, don't you?"
In a flash, his smile flattened into a thin line, and he sobered a little as he held her gaze. "Unfortunately, no... not always."
The air around them seemed to crackle with the unspoken, or maybe it was just the fire.
"I find that hard to believe."
"Call it a consequence of methodology, but I never make the first move, so sometimes..." He paused to take an unusually sizable gulp of his wine. "It turns into an interminable, painfully hopeful waiting game... and then I lose."
Was that supposed to be directed at her, or was she simply being presumptuous again? She found it impossible not to presume. Her mind took off at a dead run, sprinting back to the memories of just how good it felt every time he'd held her, and she knew, she just fucking knew that those lips, always so pillow-soft on her head, would bring her to her knees the very moment they touched her own. She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm the blush that was creeping up her neck, no doubt aided by the wine.
If this was meant for her, then one thing was undeniable - he was waiting, and he would just keep on waiting forever, because unlike her, he would never presume. He wouldn't be surprised if she didn't want him, but he looked so fit and desirable, in this moment especially, that she couldn't imagine not wanting him. Her eyes appreciatively scaled the length of his body, and when they settled on his face, her candid reply came out a bit stronger than she intended. "I always make the first move."
"Elizabeth, I have no doubt that you'll one day make a very hopeful man very happy." He sounded almost broken, saying the words aloud, as if utterly convinced that it would be someone else, she thought, or maybe hoped. It wasn't entirely dissimilar to their conversation about her deepest desire, her dream of having a family.
In an instant, before she could even react, his entire demeanor changed. His back straightened and he painted a little smile on his face. "So, s'mores?"
She sighed and returned his smile, somewhat disappointed that the moment had so quickly passed. "Yeah, s'mores."
They each speared two marshmallows on wrought iron fire pokers, and jammed them into the heart of the flames. Red carefully rotated his, and then extracted it from the fire when it was an even, golden shade all around. It probably wasn't even melted in the center yet, but he seemed pleased with the results. He ate them both carefully, directly off the poker. "That's not how you do s'mores, you know. The marshmallows are supposed to go between the graham crackers," she chided.
Her own marshmallows then caught fire, charred black all the way around. "Well, your marshmallows are ruined, so I'll be ignoring your advice on the subject."
"Oh no, they're not ruined. I like them burned to a crisp." She pulled them out, admiring her handiwork as she blew out the flames that continued to lick the sugar. "They're perfect just like this."
She didn't know it, but her words made his secretive little heart flutter.