She doesn't know how they got here. One minute they're arguing, tempers flaring and sparks flying, and the next they're on the floor.
And she's on top of him.
Liz thinks she might have knocked them down, she can't be sure, but it sounds like something she would do. Something about his infernally unreadable expression and inability to share any relevant information with her had Liz shoving at him and him grasping her arms and her kicking out and him toppling and slowly bringing her down with him.
And isn't that how it's always been?
And now he's flat on his back on the rug near the empty fireplace with her sprawled on top of him and warmth flushes through her despite the lack of flames in the grate.
She's got him.
Here, prone, unprotected. Exactly how she's always wanted him. Except this isn't quite as she imagined it.
(It's better.)
It only takes her a second, somehow, to get her bearings and wrench her arms from his loosened grip – he held her the whole way down, pulled her close to his body as if to protect her and she viciously shoves away the thought – and pushes her hands into his chest, shoving as she adjusts her weight to bring her legs up on either side of his hips, glaring down at him.
He simply stares back up at her, the twitch beneath his left eye going like mad, his jaw working furiously.
"Well, here we are," she murmurs, her voice coming out husky and low, the opposite of what she was expecting.
His mouth opens a little, but he hesitates before he speaks.
"Yes," he finally says simply, and Liz can feel the deep rumble of his voice in his chest, directly beneath her hands.
(And, oh, his chest is as firm as she's always expected it was underneath his suits and, boy, is she a sucker for that.)
And she doesn't know what force within her compels her to lean forward, inching closer to his face and consequently shifting her weight over him, whispering to him.
"And this is what you've always wanted, isn't it?"
It's almost a hiss, the way she says it, dark and cruel and curious with some strange sort of longing, and she's only a few inches away from his mouth, staring deeply into his eyes that have morphed into a wild green, dark and purposeful.
And she's lying there, draped over him, waiting for a verbal response to her whispered question, so sure he'll say something, looking forward to the vibration in his chest she'll feel when he does, the waft of his warm breath over her face –
But it doesn't happen as she expects.
Because all of a sudden, she feels his legs come up behind her, his knees knocking into her back and driving her forward just enough that he can crane his neck upwards and capture her lips and –
He's kissing her, his mouth on hers, his lips moving urgently as if he's taking the very air he needs to breathe from her and oh. Oh, this is his answer. His answer to her question and oh, she was right, she was always right, she just wasn't sure of it until this second, as he's devouring her on the rug by the fireplace in his safehouse.
And the thought that he has wanted her like this for so long has more of that drugging heat coursing through her and she's kissing him back and moving over him in a way that makes him let out a noise that has her gasping, breathing against his lips in a ragged, broken way.
And she feels his hands come up, finally moving to touch her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head and the other coming around her back to crush her to him and the elimination of the small amount of space between them has her biting down on his bottom lip.
But then things are moving around her, the room is spinning, but no, it's them, Red, using his grip on her to flip them over, reverse their positions and she waits for the impact of her head on the floor but it doesn't come because his hand is still cupping the back of her head, taking the impact for her and isn't he always doing that? Protecting her at his own expense. Even now.
He rips his mouth from hers with a groan that trails off as her eyes open to look at him and she only then realizes that in their reversal on the floor, she's brought her legs up completely to wrap around his waist and there he is, settling his weight on her, warm but not crushing and oh, she shouldn't love it nearly this much.
But he's staring at her again, all traces of green gone, swallowed by the blackness of his blown pupils taking over, and trying to speak.
"Yes," he breathes, and it takes her a moment to figure out what he's assenting to but her muddled brain makes it back to her previous question, the one that she asked before it all imploded between them. "Yes, I've wanted this."
And she can feel the words, coming from impossibly deep inside of him, rumbling in his chest and the feeling makes her moan and press closer to him, her arms coming around him, her fingernails dragging across his scalp a little too hard, pulling him closer, and he's groaning again, moving slightly against her in a way that makes her eyes roll back in her head, his own fingers digging a little into her scalp where they're buried in her hair.
(And they've always been like this, haven't they? She's always liked the sight of him a little bloodied up and hurting and he likes a little pain from her, something to make the pleasure of them more intense. Oh, they're so bad for each other.)
And then she's yanking his head back down to her, claiming his lips as her own, because they've been hers for longer than she's cared to realize, and in a sudden need to be back in control, in a different way than before, to be back on top of him, she tightens her legs around his waist and flips them back, letting his head hit the floor with a quiet thump and he thrusts slightly against her before she's even fully settled because he loves that bit of pain, just like she knew he would, and here she is back against him, just as they started, in a frighteningly different context.
She moves to kiss him again, an act she knows will progress to something they both want, something they can't turn back from, and it's that thought that has her pausing a few inches from him. He sees her hesitancy before she fully registers it herself and he looks at her questioningly.
"What is it?"
She closes her eyes against the feelings his voice dredges up inside her, trying desperately to get words out to tell him what she's feeling because she thinks something needs to be said between them before they go any further and what is it?
"Do you…the two of us…the way we are…is this…unhealthy?"
She wonders if he will understand her convoluted words that are barely even a question and she opens her eyes to look at his face and sees his eyes burning at her with an intensity she understands.
(They have always burned together.)
"Undoubtedly," he says easily, not sounding particularly bothered by it. "Do you want to stop?"
She looks at him for a second more, taking in his dark eyes and bruised lips, feeling her legs around him and the tension they share, coiled in both their bodies, knowing what she feels and what she doesn't.
What she wants.
And it's her turn to simply lean down and kiss him in answer, no more words offered up between them. Because they share their sins and their lives and haven't they always?
They burn together.