A/N: As most stories do, this one began with a simple comment that sparked an idea. This time, it happened to be my question about the show's clothing budget given that Lizzie wore a stretched out men's tank undershirt for most of the premier. Thanks to the incomparable HasFar2Go for unknowingly prompting me with, "Maybe it's Red's tank?" The rest is history.
"It'll be fine," he reassured, his smooth, buttery deep voice floating around her in the compartment of their nondescript van, now their getaway vehicle.
"They'll set a perimeter," she said, crawling back in her mind through years of training. Textbooks. Field exercises.
You're thinking like a cop, he had said.
But that was a lifetime ago. A lifetime of upset, triumph, heartache and healing all shoved into two years.
Two years as...partners, yet in so many ways he remained a mystery to her. A beautiful mystery shrouded in elegantly tailored suiting complete with the most expensive woolen hats that money can buy.
She turned to look out the window on her side, steeling herself for the moments that would surely follow while he sat close enough to feel the rise and fall of her body with her quickened breath, close enough to smell the fear manifesting itself as a light sheen across her brow. The over-analytical side of her needed to know if he noticed but she quickly denied that he saw the situation and his proximity to her for anything other than what it was on the surface. But if he could just…
"You'll need to put that on," he instructed, tossing a vest in her lap.
The weight of the Kevlar seemed to snap her into her usual hyper-awareness, assessing the situation, profiling all the possible paths they could choose next to get to safety. Her safety, though, was something Raymond Reddington staked his life on and surely he had contingencies in place for such a time as this. She needed to trust he had assets and a plan; he needed her to trust his experience but moreover, he needed her to know that out of his undying love for her, however she viewed that love, that he would move hell with his bare hands to keep her safe.
All they needed was a little time.
He offered his hand to help her out of the van, doing everything to avert his eyes from meeting her own. He was off his game for perhaps the first time in twenty years. Not two steps ahead, not even one. But he had to have her confidence right now; he had to know she believed in him to get them out of this fortress of a city and into the wild where they could run free and far from the tightening grip of the bureau. Lizzie found herself looking at Red more openly in latter days and among other things, she had the ability to see when he feared he would fail her. She knew it was one emotion he nearly killed himself to keep in check. He couldn't allow her to see that.
Not today.
The plush bachelor's flat was worlds away from the sub-level bunker of the downtown bar with its dusty bottles of Cabernet in reserve, musty cot and meals-ready-to-eat leftover from whatever conflict Red had last served in. How the Naval enlisted survived on that garbage was completely beyond her and one of the many failures of the US government on behalf of its servants. It was, however, entirely problematic actually eating an MRE with the knowledge that every law enforcement agency had now made its number one priority to capture her and with her, Red. Her stomach cranked into knot upon knot while Red, in yet another display of how he had mastered control of his nerves over the years, cleaned his plate and poured a second glass of the questionable wine. She could only stare at her glass, watching the buttery tannins coat the side of the cheap stemware, catching the image of her own reflection in the cup and finding it redolent of her days with the Baltimore Police Department. When their escape from the underground hideout to the contemporary loft apartment became more imminent, turning Red's initial estimate of two weeks into a mere two hours, she was all the more glad the only thing coursing through her veins was pure adrenaline. At least, that was the name she would give it for now.
The hastily prepared go-bag held little reinforcements for a female. Red had been on the run so long and so long alone that he had become accustomed to doing things routinely for himself. He had longed for the day when he would be able to protect and care for Lizzie without the interference of her imposter ex-husband, he had just never imagined it would come so soon, and with such dark portend.
None of that mattered now. She needed him. Not just a man, not just a protector, but Red. Uniquely qualified for the job as the one person alive that would sacrifice his very breath, his life even, for her; specifically qualified in deflection, disguise and disappearance.
He rummaged through the duffel, stalling for time and seeking any items he had that could possibly help her. He located and handed her the boxed hair color along with several sets of rubber gloves, a fresh white towel, plastic sheeting and a drawstring garbage bag. She quirked her head to the right, curiously pinching her eyebrows together at the items he happened to have in this mysterious bag.
"Everything goes in the bag when you're done. We leave nothing behind," he instructed, his training going into overdrive, Naval Intelligence precepts etched in his memory.
"My clothes…I…," she uttered, fingering the edge of the stiff polyester uniform blues. She looked down then, unable to string her racing thoughts into anything worth giving breath to.
He cleared his throat softly, scanning fruitlessly around the apartment and shifting the balance of his weight from one foot to the other. She'd seen him stall before, but this was something new. Finally, he took one calculated step backward and then another, squaring his shoulders to her, his back facing the stark white wall behind him. Avoiding her eyes, he opened the buttons of his own uniform shirt, opening the sleeves and then tugging them off over his hands until he had both arms removed. It was dizzying and spellbinding and all happening in what seemed to be a slowed down version of time. She forced her eyes from following his hands down his shirt to instead seek his out and as if he could feel the magnetism of her gaze, he slowly lifted his eyes from the floor to connect with hers. Before she could stop herself, she allowed her body to take over, carrying her forward, closer to him as he pushed the shirt the rest of the way off of his broad shoulders.
Without missing a beat and before she could further invade his space, he peeled off his white undershirt, handing it to her with a sad and regretful look on his face. Of all the things he should regret right now, he chose to focus on the minutia of a nondescript garment. In his dreams of longing and desire, he clothed Elizabeth Keen in only the very finest, the most exquisite and lovely pieces that complimented her piercing blue eyes, the gentle creaminess of her skin and the satisfying curve of her breast. In all of those dreams, he never imagined handing her a worn, men's undershirt when she deserved so much more. He had, unfortunately, discounted having to actually witness her wearing it.
Nonetheless, his overdeveloped situational awareness was forcing him to accept the change in status quo - probably forever.
"What's this for?" she quizzed, still holding the shirt in the same posture as when he had given it to her.
"You need to change more than just the color of your hair," he swallowed hard, casting his eyes to the floor once again, avoiding whatever expression she might wear in response. She nodded slowly with a grimace, the gravity of their situation still coming together in pieces.
Clutching his offerings to her chest, she weaved her way through pristine, stiff leather furniture and glass topped end tables to the bathroom. She paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder one last time. There was no question they were in the midst of a storm, but there was something else in the atmosphere between them - a feeling that everything was about to change. He caught her reflection in the smoky glass one last time before she turned and closed the door behind her.
But she had stopped to look at him.
And all he could do was think about her and how his thin shirt would slide down over her curves, stopping briefly to appreciate her breasts before skimming down over her belly and stopping at her waist. He imagined her scent overwhelming his senses as he ran his nose up the inside of her thigh, up past the place that made her thighs twitch and finally to the hem of that shirt. Would she laugh as he pushed the shirt up to her chin with only his teeth? Would she bite her lip instead? No, she was the loud type; the kind of woman that pushed her head back into pillows while ecstasy escaped from her lips.
Through the door, she could hear him begin to run through next steps interspersed with stunted commentary about the mid-afternoon news, their poor choice of anchor and what the choice of wardrobe said about their clothing budget. She wondered if he was covering the awkwardness with his usual attempts at humor, but in any case, the distraction was welcome. She listened to his voice more than she heard what he was saying, her mind clouded with the image of his bare chest, rising and falling in time the way hers had in the van. The way it was now.
As quickly as she could, she rid herself of the borrowed DC Metro uniform. It was the first item she tossed into the garbage bag Red had given her. She pulled the soft white tank over her head, pausing briefly to let the neckline brush over her face and linger while she breathed him in, relishing in the scent that was uniquely Red. The spicy sandalwood was heady and intoxicating. In any other circumstance, she would allow herself a moan of pleasure and in any other circumstances, she'd not feel guilty for imagining the way he would smell right after sex; all sweat and musk, his essence enveloping her like the pillows and blankets strewn around them.
Fitting it down over her curves, she realized it still held the warmth of his body. She pressed her back to the closed door, taking her time running her hands over her breasts, up her neck and into her hair. For just a moment, she couldn't deny herself the fantasy of Red, walking her back into a wall and stepping in between her parted legs, pinning her wrists down with his strong hands while the tip of his nose ran up the length of her bare neck. Looking at him ever again without these images flashing before her would surely prove problematic.
He had his own problems to consider, like how to get her out of the mess that she had unwittingly dragged the both of them into. There was something even worse than being on the wrong side of the law and she realized that it was being on the run from people you used to call your friends. She didn't go there to kill the Attorney General. But he just wouldn't stop. He wouldn't stop going on and on about everyone in her life that he would make suffer for her choices and it was trying and hurtful until he found the pressure point, and squeezed.
Treason charges and the death penalty.
Just thinking about it made her insides knot. It could have easily ended so differently. She realized, had she not gone to Cooper for help, none of this would have happened. She wouldn't have heard Connolley's plans for everyone on the team: for herself, for Red, even Aram was not exempt from threats he vowed he'd make good on. But Red. Red would certainly fare the worst. He had, in the Director's own words, 'it coming to him.' That sentiment made her wonder. For someone to have such a directed passion about a person, to have such a specific agenda and a deep-seated need to see him suffer, there had to be a history and way more than Red had ever let on.
And now, she stood before a reflection she hardly recognized, giving her blonde locks a shake and a slanted glance. Not the first time she went drastic with color and by the looks of things, not the last. Throwing the towel over her shoulder, she swallowed hard, laid her hand to the door and with a deep breath, pushed it open.
TBC...