Memory returns in a series of snapshots, tossed through the darkness of his mind.
flip
The headlights on the dark, rainy country road, gleaming.
flip
His own hands on the wheel, still filthy and blood-encrusted.
flip
Her face, anxious even in sleep, drawn in exhaustion in the reflected light.
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Her body, curled like a child, limp in the seat beside his.
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Her wrists, old scars covered by the tears and cuts of flex cuffs, accusing.
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Light, everywhere, blue and strange, blinding.
flip
The seat beside his, empty, screaming reproach.
He jolts awake, reaching, gasping, Lizzie. Before his eyes even fully open, he searches.
There's nothing.
Nothing but white. He blinks again, trying to clear his mind. He's not in the car. She isn't here. The room he's in is small-ish, round, almost… spherical? It's disorienting.
White. No. It's not the right word, he muses thoughtfully. Not sterile or harsh. More like… alabaster, hewn by ancient Egyptians, flush with a rosy glow. Like her skin, murmurs the voice in the back of his mind.
He's disappointed the voice has followed him here.
Without her.
He takes stock. The room is completely empty; it's rather like sitting inside a ping-pong ball. The surrounding surface is smooth and surprisingly warm to the touch — he can't put a name to the substance. It's not metal or cloth. Not rubber or wood or plastic. The closest he can come is ceramic or porcelain, but that isn't quite right either.
He is fully clothed. Blood still cakes his fingernails; hands and clothes streaked with dirt, oil, tragedy. He appears to be unharmed, although he could use a meal.
The room appears to contain no doorway.
He stands, gingerly, testing the unfamiliar ground. It seems solid, the curve not as bothersome beneath his feet as he anticipated. He turns, slowly, re-examining the space around him.
It is every bit as barren as he first believed. Not even an air vent mars the pristine surface. He steps carefully over to the wall; resting a hand against it, he makes a cautious circle around the room, feeling the wall for minute cracks or flaws.
Nothing.
Where is she?
He sits, back in the middle of the bottom of his sphere, turns inward.
Assets? His gun, he assumes, was either taken or left behind in the car. It certainly isn't on his person. His wallet is also missing, his pockets utterly empty. Just himself to rely on, then, mind and body.
It could be worse, he tells himself, at least you have nothing to lose.
He sits, cross-legged, and waits.
He waits.
He refrains from checking his watch, knowing that time spent waiting crawls while feeling like eons have passed. He is not, he discovers to his own displeasure, as patient a man as he likes to believe.
And then.
And then she is just… there, in front of him, whole and safe.
Clean, her hair mysteriously dark and rich once more, damp. Her torn and filthy clothing has been replaced by a deep blue tunic, short and fitted. Lying flat before him, stretched out, she is all arms and legs — cuts, welts, bruises, all faded and at least half-healed.
Unaccountably, there is a slight, soft smile on her face.
How long had he been asleep?
Is she even real?
Touch her, murmurs the treacherous voice. Just this once, to make sure she's all right. That she's really there.
He reaches, hand trembling unaccountably.
His hand hovers over her, but… the filth of his hands. He doesn't want to mark her, leave a visible stain.
But he thinks he can feel her warmth, rising to meet him. Can see the rise and fall of her chest, smooth and even.
Before he can rethink, she's gone again.
No.
No.
Wait, he thinks, wait. It's me that has moved, this time. His surroundings are nearly identical, but for a small patch of what looks like mesh, a grate, on the surface directly in front of him. He slides his feet to get close enough to touch it; is halted in his tracks by the peal of a bell.
Beautiful, tinkling, sweet.
Uncomfortably loud, to his ears, deadened, accustomed to silence.
A voice. Not harsh, or mechanical, as he might have expected. Not fierce, or threatening, as he feared, but bright, musical, light. It is beautiful. He is unable to decide if it is male or female.
"You weren't meant to be awake," the voice chimes at him. "But since you are, you can make this process simpler. Undress."
Ha, he thinks, unlikely, mystery voice.
He waits.
"Undress," the voice repeats, no change of inflection. "Or we shall do it for you."
That sounds unpleasant.
Grudgingly, he takes off his shoes and pairs them neatly behind him. He peels out of his suit, layer by layer, folding each piece into a prim pile atop his shoes. Returns to his former position, naked, head high; waits.
A pale green liquid comes rushing out of the mesh panel in front of him. Steam rises invitingly, giving off a scent that is vaguely citrusy. He steps closer; it's hot and welcoming, though it is definitely not water.
Well, he thinks, it seemed to do wonders for Lizzie.
He puts a hand into the water cautiously. The heat feels wonderful; there is a mild stinging sensation. When he pulls his hand back, it is more than clean, it is cleansed — blood, dirt, scrapes, all gone.
Almost eagerly, he thrusts his body into the stream, caution forgotten. He scrubs his face and head with his hands; shifts his body and moving limbs to ensure complete coverage. When he steps out, he tingles all over as if he's been hit by a mild electrical shock. He feels marvellous.
He is clean to the point of glowing, his cuts, bruises, abrasions, either gone or greatly diminished.
He turns, hoping, and is rewarded by the sight of a square of moss green cloth, his own clothing vanished. His pleasure at the prospect of clean clothes is slightly diminished as he shakes it out to reveal another tunic — but it is clean, and the fabric, again unfamiliar, is soft and smooth against his skin.
He pulls it on, adjusts himself underneath it, and straightens with a shrug.
He waits.
Nothing seems to happen — no further noise, no announcements from the mysterious voice, he doesn't even appear to move.
But there she is; there he is. Back again.
He dares, this time, and kneels beside her to place a hand on her cheek.
At his touch, her eyes snap open, as if she had been but waiting for his touch.
"Reddington?" Her voice is hoarse from disuse, gravelly with sleep. "Where are we?"
The relief he feels at seeing her awake and unharmed is overwhelming. He offers her a hand, helps her to a sitting position, just to give himself a moment before speaking. She rises easily, confirming that she is whole and well and safe — at least for the moment.
"I'm not sure where we are, or what's going on," he admits. "We've been taken, by someone or something, for what, I honestly have no idea. They seem to be taking care of us, for the moment, at least."
She frowns, shifting uncomfortably, not sure what to do with her legs in the short tunic. "The last thing I remember is being in the car…"
"Yes," he agrees, "That's what I remember, too. Then I woke up in this room. I'm not sure what's going on. It's an uncomfortable feeling, I'll admit."
She laughs a little, as he meant her to. "I can't imagine it," she says teasingly, "That you don't know exactly what's going on."
"At last," he replies dryly. "My failure to achieve complete omnipotence has caught up with me."
She laughs at him, but then falters as a panel opens smoothly above their heads and a bent arm of some sort descends toward them. It looks like surgical equipment. He stands up and pulls Lizzie to her feet beside him.
The musical voice sounds again, filling the room.
"You have both been cleaned and superficially repaired," it sings. "Now your physical condition must be examined. You will need to lie down."
"What exactly are you proposing?" He feels traces of alarm start to end through his veins; he hopes they don't show on his face.
"You need do nothing," the voice chimes back. "Only lie down as asked, on your front, please."
Two short pallets rise from, or more accurately, seem to form from the floor, separating them. Not particularly plush, the pallets have a headrest, similar to a massage table, at one end. He exchanges a glance with Liz, and they both stay standing, without needing to speak.
"You must lie down now," the voice demands, chiming somehow taking on an irritated tone. "Or we will make you."
Their eyes meet; he raises a querying eyebrow and she shrugs.
"It's not worth fighting now," she says quietly. "Not until we know more about what's going on."
He's not so sure, but she's already folding herself onto the pallet in front of her, so he does the same, hoping that's he's just being pessimistic.
When they are both arranged as comfortably as possible, faces turned toward one another, there's a hum from the machinery above them. The air around Red turns blue, and the mysterious arm sweeps over him — a scan of some kind, he thinks, that's okay, I guess.
Then there is another hum, and the faint noise of metal against metal. Her face looks alarmed, and he tries to turn to see what's happening. He can't, he can't move at all — somehow the light is holding him in place, or there are other forces at work that he cannot sense.
Then.
Then, it happens. The metal arm appears to have extruded some kind of…wand, which is now pushing inside him. It's very cold. Well, he thinks, with both an inner and outer wince, this is certainly a thorough examination. He closes his eyes, not willing to watch her face at this particular moment; clamps fiercely down on his vocal chords.
A further press, and he cannot suppress a grunt of shock. He's never had more than a cursory rectal exam before, and as… adventurous as his sex life may have been, that's one avenue that never appealed. Then, something… a click and it feels… he thinks the 'wand' must be rotating, judging by both the sound it's making and the stretching pain. The sensation is indescribably awful. Everything becomes extremely hot for one sharp, painful moment, and then the intrusion is gone, with a yank that feels as if it has taken half his innards with it.
He takes a moment to make sure he isn't going to weep, then cautiously opens his eyes to see that she has buried her face in her headrest, perhaps not wanting to witness his "examination". He still can't move, and as the long, wand-like arm moves across and begins to scan her prone body in turn, he closes his eyes tightly. What the hell is going on?
He takes three deep breaths before he hears her muffled cry of pain and shock — she may have been expecting it, but there's really no way to prepare. Her cry chokes off; he thinks she is trying to be stoic. When the humming noise of the machine ceases, he opens his eyes again. She's looking back at him, her face damp and pained, frightened and pink.
He offers her a half-smile. "Well," he says, trying for his normal, cavalier tone. "That was different."
She looks at him for a long moment, undecided, and then tears start to stream quietly down her crumpled face. He wiggles his fingers, testing, then sits and (hurriedly) stands and hobbles over to her. Squatting down with some effort, he runs a soothing hand over her hair and down her back; she buries her face in his tunic for a precious minute.
He holds her gently, rubbing her back and whispering comforting nonsense into her hair. A minute later, the now-familiar chime sounds, and she pushes herself to standing and offers him a hand with a watery smile.
"Thanks," she says quietly. "What do you think…"
"Excellent results!" their captor's voice rings out. "You are both in very good physical condition — congratulations! The female is a touch malnourished, but we've planned sustenance that should help restore some energy."
They exchange a look. "Really?" he asks, letting some of his anger bleed into his tone. "After that… violation, you're just going to offer us a nice meal?"
There's a brief pause, then the voice returns, a little stiff. "That was merely a standard physical examination. We… apologize for any inconvenience. And we were under the strong impression that food was an important part of the ritual. We have studied these matters very carefully for a number of years."
"Inconvenience?" he blurts, desperately wishing for something to punch. "I'll show you an…"
She stops him with a firm hand on his arm and he waves his other hand — go ahead.
"What… ritual would you be referring to?" she asks, voice trying for cool and professional and not quite making it.
There's a longer pause.
"The mating ritual, of course. You are a matched set, are you not? We were certain of our identification, and our examination confirmed that you have the appropriate interlocking parts. If we have made an error, or our equipment is faulty…"
If she gets any redder in the face she might actually burst a blood vessel.
"Who are you?" he demands. "Show yourselves and tell us what you really want!"
A lengthy silence follows. He's starting to get twitchy, and Lizzie looks positively murderous, before the voice returns.
"We did not wish to frighten you. If you would prefer, we can accommodate your wishes."
"Please," he replies. "It would be much simpler for us if we could speak face to face."
He has never been so wrong, not once in his long and tumultuous life.
Like before, nothing at all seems to happen, but they are in a bigger room. This one has a lot more going on — it's still white and spherical and seamless, but it also has instrument panels and what looks like a computer console of some kind, as well as monitors that show other rooms, including the one they had just vacated.
But this isn't what has Lizzie draining of colour and clutching his hand like a lifeline. In front of them are their captors, two of them. Normally, he'd take some kind of action, but… these are not run-of-the-mill criminals. They are something else entirely.
Huge, toad-green, one-eyed, seething masses of lumps and tentacles, resembling nothing he can name, but something like a mutated octopus. Their… surface glistens as if wet, and the tentacles make a faint sucking noise against the floor. Their single eyes blink in unison with an amphibian inner eyelid — it's distracting, as well as vaguely revolting.
So, he thinks, a tendril of childlike wonder slipping in amongst the rush of horror and disgust, they're real! Aliens! They're real, and they… wait.
"Did you say mating ritual?"
There is a rush of indiscernible gurgling before the more familiar chiming comes from the console.
"Yes, of course. We have been studying Earth and its inhabitants for some time, but humans appear the most complex life forms by far. We need to observe you in a proper scientific setting to ensure our data is accurate."
"And by mating," he says, wanting to be absolutely clear.
"You mean sex," Liz finishes flatly, her hand grasping his so tightly he can feel her nails breaking skin.
"The interlocking, yes," the console chimes, the creature on the right's tentacles waving madly. "We are very interested."
"You can't just…" Liz bursts, starting to redden again, but he can feel her shaking beside him.
"What my friend means to say," he interrupts, not wanting to anger these creatures — who knows what they are capable of? "Is that we are not… engaged in that sort of relationship. We're not the right people for your… data gathering."
"Nonsense," rings the console. "You are a correct set. You are strong and healthy. We have cleansed you and offered you sustenance. All the steps of the ritual are fulfilled."
"It's not that simple," he says firmly. "We have… the performance of the 'ritual' is not merely physical."
"Currently," one answers, taking on a darker note, "It is only the physical aspect that we are interested in. We would greatly prefer that you take this action voluntarily, as the data will be more accurate. But we can force you. Alter your minds. Control your bodies. Use you as we wish. Is that what you want?"
It reaches out a tentacle and touches his face — it is moist and unexpectedly warm, and applies a faint pressure that makes it feel as if it is sinking into his skin. It is singularly unpleasant, and he recoils instinctively.
"Red," she says quietly, tugging on his hand so he will look at her. "Please, no. I can't… having these things control me, us like that. It would be more than one kind of rape. After the box, I… I just can't bear any more. You and me, we're… well. It won't be the worst thing we've ever done to save each other, would it?"
He huffs out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and reaches over to tuck her hair behind her ear.
"No, sweetheart," he replies. "I don't suppose it will be, at that."
They have been sent back to the smaller, quiet room, the equipment disappeared without a trace, and the two "medical" pallets on the floor have been replaced by a single larger, softer one. The technology these beings wield is truly astounding, and he harbours a small, boyish desire to explore their craft and learn everything he can about them.
But Lizzie is by his side, still shaken, her hand cold in his own. He knows she is frightened, and he's not sure how to assuage her fears. The damnable little voice in his hind mind is clamouring to touch her, now, it's all right, now, we have permission.
"Come here and sit with me," he says, leading her to the pallet. "Are you all right to sit?"
"I think so," she says. "It's just a dull ache, now. It'll pass completely soon enough."
And she's right — the new pallet is soft enough that it isn't bothersome to sit on. The initial light twinge on sitting fades quickly, and he can focus on the situation at hand.
"I don't know exactly what to say," he admits, giving her a wry smile. "This is certainly a unique position to be in."
"I always have the most interesting times with you, Raymond Reddington," she answers, with a half-smile back.
He laughs outright. "'May you live in interesting times'," he quotes cheerfully. "What a very accurate curse that is."
She shakes her head at him, her little half-smile left behind on her face. Then she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "Well," she says, "Let's get on with it, then."
His own smile fades a little, and he shifts away on the pallet.
"What," she demands immediately, "Is it that unpleasant a thought? I know I'm not your usual type, but I'm not hideous or anything. It's only sex, anyway." The last thrown out defiantly, like a shield.
"Don't be obtuse, please," he replies sharply. "You know perfectly well… you know that you are the most important person in my life. It could never be… only sex, not for me. If it truly doesn't bother you, I suppose that I can't be anything but glad that this won't hurt you, or damage our relationship. But perhaps you can give me a minute to adjust my thoughts."
He stops, with difficulty. Her face is unreadable now; there is no point in making a complete ass of himself. He closes his eyes briefly, gathering his persona about him like a cloak. Only to falter, breath stuttering, when he feels her warm breath on his cheek.
"Red? Will you look at me, please?"
Her voice is softer again, and because she asks rather than orders, he opens his eyes. She's right beside him, her hand scant millimetres away from his, her face so close that it takes him a moment to bring her into focus.
"I'm sorry," she continues, "I was just… trying to put a brave face on things, I suppose. I didn't mean for you to think it was easy for me, that you don't mean anything to me. You must know…" But now it's her turn to falter, and she looks truly at a loss.
"Don't worry," he says, unable to keep that small trace of bitterness from his voice. "I know you don't think of me that way."
"It's not… I… You're a very attractive man, Red — we both know you're well aware of it. Just like I'm well aware of the parade of sophisticated, beautiful women in your life. If I've never thought of you, of us, it's at least partially because you didn't want me to."
He pauses, considering the truth of this. "Maybe," he concedes. "Maybe I just thought it would be simpler for us both."
She bites her lip, looks down at her lap for a moment. When she looks up again, her face is a little pinker, but determined.
"If I had to be caught up in this… situation with anyone, I'm glad it's you." She says this in a rush, and looks away again the instant she's finished.
Moved, as he's sure she meant him to be, he lifts a hand and traces the curve of her cheek with a light fingertip. She shivers at his touch and looks at him again; her eyes are very blue, and her expression has something new in it that kindles a spark in his belly.
"You are so beautiful," he murmurs, all four fingertips now tracing her cheek, over and over. She leans into his touch, just a little, but it's enough. He closes the small distance between them, and kisses her, gently, softly — it's just a brief meeting of lips, but he feels the thrill of it all the way down to his toes.
"Red?" Her voice is very quiet; she sounds a bit shaken. "Would you do that again, please?"
He opens his eyes, wondering — her face is a study of intensity. Her eyes burn into his, and as he watches, the tip of her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. Heat slowly starts to uncurl inside him. He bends his head to hers and kisses her more firmly, opening himself to it, letting himself feel it, feel everything.
Her lips are soft and yielding, opening easily to his questing tongue, meeting him partway. She tastes faintly of cinnamon, and he tries to reach every corner of her warm mouth to see if it's all the same. He slides a hand into her hair, around the back of her neck; her hand grips his thigh, her breath quickening.
He thinks he could kiss her for hours, but she pulls away after only a few minutes to stare at him, panting a little.
"I can't think," she gasps, sounding absolutely lost. "Everything's all scrambled. I feel… I don't even know what I feel. But, Red, they're watching us. Like we're a show or…"
"Don't," he answers, delighted by her admission. "Don't think about that. There's no one in this room but us. Just look at me, sweetheart, just let yourself feel. This, us, it's real, and don't think otherwise."
She offers him a shaky smile. "Oh, I know it's real. Nothing has ever felt more real. I never imagined…"
He has a second to wonder what she's imagining, then her mouth is on his, sweeping his thoughts away. She's taken the role of aggressor, now, mouth fierce on his, both her hands wound into his tunic. Without breaking their kiss, she shifts, pulling at his clothing for leverage to help her get her knees underneath her, press her upper body into his.
He wraps his arms around her, savouring the closeness — her body, slim and soft; the cloud of her hair around his face; the small points of her nipples rubbing against him. He feels drunk, on sensation, every nerve in his body awake and burning. Her fingers are flexing, twitching against his chest.
He needs to touch her.
He tears himself away from the ecstasy of her mouth to lay a path of kisses along her jaw, down her neck, pulling a little at the collar of her tunic.
"Lizzie," he speaks between kisses, "I'd like…to touch you…see you…may I…"
She wriggles back a bit and pulls her tunic over her head in a long, smooth movement. She kneels beside him, gloriously nude. Her skin seems to glow from within; though she's thinner since they've been on the run, her gentle curves seem to beg for his hands.
"Lie down," he suggests, his voice a deep rumble.
He can see the tremor that runs through her, and then she's sliding around him to lie on the pallet. He swivels to see her face. She's smiling, and she quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Quid pro quo, Red."
He laughs, and yanks off his own tunic, eager for the feeling of all that silky skin against his own. Her eyes darken and she reaches for him, her fingers hot against him. He lowers himself, hovering over her, truly oblivious, now, to everything but her, Lizzie, here in his arms.
Methodical as ever, he starts at the top and works his way slowly downward, kissing every corner of her. He lingers a long time at her breasts, touching and tasting, losing himself in her. She runs her hands over him, everywhere she can reach, moaning, her head back and her own body trembling.
As he moves on to her ribcage, stomach, hips, shifting his hands to cover her breasts and tease at her nipples, her moans become more intense and more entrancing. It's a music he could easily get used to. When he puts his mouth on her hot core, she cries out and grips the back of his head, letting her legs fall open to him.
He draws her into his mouth, suckling at her clit, dizzy with lust. She's starting to move under him, her hips lifting and falling, putting the pressure where she wants it. Her thighs tighten a little against his head and he murmurs in encouragement. The vibrations, coupled with the attentions of his mouth, tip her over the edge, crying out, pulsing her release.
He rubs at her soothingly with his hands as he kisses his way back up her body, easing her down, and sliding himself into position just as he reaches her mouth. He settles himself between her legs; she wraps her limbs around him and pours herself into his kiss. Her hips are still twitching as he comes against her, and he finds himself sliding inside her with no effort at all.
The push-pull of it happens easily between them, finding a rhythm after a brief moment of hesitation. Her fingers dig into his back; his hands, forearms, press into the pallet beside her head. He can't think, can barely breathe, has given up on kissing her and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Their panting breaths, cries, moans, all mingle together as he drives himself into her over and over.
"Red," she gasps out, clenching around him like a vise. "Oh, God, Red."
It's the catalyst he needs, and he releases into her in long pulses, groaning into her neck and shuddering in her arms. He slows, stills, trying to breathe, trying to keep from just dropping into her body and staying there. She turns to plant soft kisses on the side of his head, taking her turn to soothe, to ease. They lie still without speaking, wrapped together, sated and replete; minutes tick by unnoticed.
Then the chiming sounds again, harsh and discordant now. The familiar voice surrounds them as they both tense; he makes sure her nudity is covered by his body.
"That was excellent," their captor enthuses cheerily. "We captured an enormous amount of data! We couldn't be more pleased, really."
"It's okay," she murmurs in his ear, "I'd like to sit up."
He shifts obligingly, heaving himself to sitting and helping her disentangle herself. He runs a hand through her hair and kisses her, one more time. She smiles at him, her eyes soft; picks her tunic up off the floor and pulls it over her head. He does the same, thinking idly that it's a kind of a shame.
"If you have what you wanted from us," she asks, a little nervously, "Will you let us go?"
"Of course," the voice rings back. "We never intended to harm you. Don't worry about a thing."
There's a slight change in the air, and he finds his eyelids drooping; Lizzie is already slumping against him. He has just enough time to feel a surge of panic before it all goes black.
When his eyes open again, he's back in the driver's seat of the car at the side of the road, Lizzie beside him, blinking awake. They are both in their own clothes, clean now, and he thinks they may have been showered again as well. He starts to say something; is interrupted by one last chiming note.
"Thank you for your service," the voice says. "If we have further questions, we will be sure to call on you again."