A/N: So instead of working on what I am supposed to be doing, I did this. It's unbeta'd and definitely M. Hugs to the Gutterbugs for declaring it worthy. I own nothing. Really.
The Mirror
Red flinched as he peeled the sleeve of his dress shirt away from the bloody flesh underneath. One more scar to add to the collection adorning his aging body. He would have liked to say that he bore them with dignity, but the standing mirror showed him the pitiless truth. He was no longer the man he used to be. On a good day, with his bespoke armor surrounding him, he could pull off the effect of the cavalier criminal. But when you stripped away the tailoring, the fine fabrics, he was just old and tired with the scars of far too many battles marring his flesh.
This latest was merely a graze across his shoulder, but without Dembe to assist, tending to it would require some effort. The sound of steps echoed in the hall outside his door had him glancing at the door to check the lock. Lizzie could not see this. He had already failed to keep her off his path of destruction; the least he could do was not trouble her with his injuries. Truth be told, he couldn't stand for her to see him like this. Vulnerable, wounded, the lion in winter. He closed his eyes and pictured her on the beach in Cuba, glowing in the warm sun, the purple sundress showing off her smooth skin and firm muscles. He had clenched his teeth until his jaw ached to keep from touching her. From telling her what he needed, wanted from her.
His hands shook as he cleaned the laceration, and he took a sip of scotch, hoping to steady his hand. Thoughts of Lizzie still danced in his brain, though he tried to chase them away. She still thought he was her hero. He would give anything, including his life, to make that true. But it wasn't. It never had been. Now they were on this road of the damned side by side; she was there all the time. He had no respite from the desire she triggered deep inside him. The desire that had been there the moment she walked down those steps at the Post Office. The florescent lights had created a halo around her face and she had captured his entire heart and soul in the passing of a second.
The dress shirt now lay discarded across the bed of their latest safe house, as he carefully taped the gauze over the wound. He took another long sip of scotch, almost daring his thoughts to take a turn from his own pain. He yanked the leather belt from his trousers and toed off his shoes, no longer trying to censor the visions of Lizzie in his mind. He could picture her in a tank top and sweatpants, eating cereal at some kitchen table in Spain. Her breasts swelling under the low scoop neck, perfectly sized and shaped, as elegant as tree ripened peaches. He bit his lip, perhaps harder than he meant to, feeling himself harden against the fabric of his trousers. His hand slid down his stomach to stroke once, twice, on the third stroke he opened his eyes and realized he was still standing in front of the mirror. He took a much bigger sip of the liquor in the glass before undoing the buttons and zipper; his fingers touching bare skin, hard and almost feverishly hot. He allowed himself the pleasure of it, his eyes sliding closed as Lizzie appeared in his dream.
She was behind him; he could see her in the mirror. Her lips traced the moonscape of his shoulders like silk and fire. Her slim hands with those long, elegant fingers sliding around his waist, tracing his hipbones as he hissed in a breath. The arousal was bordering on pain at the moment, so desperately did he need her touch. But he couldn't bear to lay his hands, bloody as they were, on her soft skin. He stood, aching and ravenous, as her hands smoothed over his chest, threading through the light hair sprinkled there, caressing his abdomen until he moaned, almost pleading with the shadow goddess reflected in glass. Finally, her fingers wrapped around his length, circling, almost measuring the generous girth of him. Her touch was an insidious pleasure, each stroke, each time she changed the angle and her grip was a fresh wave of sensation that would drag him under. He had never been so willing to drown.
Her movements were quicker now, using the slick liquid that wept from the tip to ease the way. His breathing was labored, almost stuttering as she drove him to the edge and left him there for a moment. The mental movie in his head flashed through picture after picture, some real, some fantasy. Lizzie at the beach, smoothing on suntan lotion. Lizzie on her knees in front of him, her beautiful mouth torturing him endlessly. The coil inside him wound tighter with each image, until it snapped, tearing a harsh groan from his throat as hot liquid spilled over his fingers. His knees buckled with the pleasure and he sat quickly on the chair behind him. His heart slowed from the frantic pace that orgasm induced and his breath was easier, deeper.
His eyes opened again. The spell was broken and he reached for his scotch on the table beside him. There was no Lizzie in the mirror, just a broken man in undone trousers, scarred and far too frightened of the woman he loved more than anything. He turned away in disgust, thinking of her sleeping just across the hall. Lizzie had entrusted him with her life, even after he had torn the one she had made into shreds. He didn't deserve to touch her, he acknowledged that truth. The frustration at that fact simmered just below his skin, fed on the love and desire in equal measure, knowing both to be beyond his reach. With teeth gritted against the primal cry, he flung the glass at the mirror, watching it shatter and fall from the frame.
He scrubbed a hand over his face in exhaustion. Seven years bad luck. Perfect.