Fine Feathers
"It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds." - Aesop
Disclaimer - I own no part of The Blacklist, but would be open to a Red Rental.
AN: Many thanks to jackandsamforever for her assistance and encouragement. Also to Jessahme Wren for encouragement and keeping Lizzington's in line. If you haven't read stories authored by A or J, you have the next fan fiction finds for your reading pleasure. You're welcome. This was inspired by someone in the Lizzington world, who suggested that Red take Lizzie shopping. I promise I will credit that person when I'm reminded who it was.
Warning: Eventual Lizzington, might have to up the rating later.
The Blacklist: Frederick Barnes (#1.7) Red: "Agent Keen, I have a tip. You're a winter, not an autumn. Stop wearing olive."
With so much of her life wrapped up in cloak and dagger and not in brick and mortar, Liz found herself at a loss one Saturday morning. Autumn had curled up and settled into winter and Tom was off chaperoning weekend suspensions.
Loathe to attempt any of the to-do's on her list or waste a sunny (if chilly) day lounging around, Liz weighed her options. The all-consuming intrigue at the Post Office and the "Concierge of Crime" left her disconnected from daily life. While Liz was not inclined to indulge (outside of the tub of Nutella hidden above the refrigerator and a DVR full of the Real Housewives), for once she just wanted to do something for herself. She couldn't remember the last time she did something on her own time.
Liz looked down at her fraying sweatshirt and faded yoga pants. They were soft and well-loved, but rather pathetic. Walking to the bedroom with her coffee in hand, her open closet revealed more of the same. An astonishing array of drab suits she bought on sale and off-season. "It seems like an oxymoron to have such a variety of bland," she mumbled wryly.
She sipped her coffee again, musing over the gray/taupe/black morass, infiltrated by the occasional colored, if G-man regulation-style blouse. She rubbed her thumb over one light blue shell and sighed.
Liz had always been a tactile person. A bath mat, pure white and exceedingly fluffy, greeted her after every shower. Every day, it provided her feet with a simple delight. That, coupled with the most expensive towels she could afford, made the early mornings and late nights a bit easier to bear. Her sheets and bedding, though standard in color and pattern, were a high-quality thread count and her feather duvet and down pillows were items she never regretted putting on her wedding registry.
She gave up when it came to upholstery, and could not be troubled with drapery and wall paper. Liz wasn't at home long enough to become invested in the trappings of domesticity, though she did appreciate it when it looked cozy and welcoming. She did care about her wardrobe. Unbeknownst to Tom and the few people she considered friends, Liz was a clandestine clothes snob.
This longing began at an early age. While Sam did his best, his focus was on ensuring his daughter was in clean and reasonably modest clothing. Liz was never openly mocked for her style, but looking back, she realized that she'd begun dressing like a FBI agent long before she was out of Quantico. But she longed for pretty, frivolous clothes.
As a teen, Liz had wistfully admired the fashionable clothing of her peers, and squirreled away funds from babysitting jobs to afford the rare new piece from the mall. When she went to college, she allowed these indulgences less and less as her expenses increased. Thankfully, college fashion veered more to "workout chic", and Liz could live in a small selection of university shirts and sweatshirts with jeans like everyone else her age. After college, work, New York, and Quantico, little had changed outside of her array of bland office attire and a handful of serviceable dresses for events. Pretty had faded into practical, and a civil servant and teacher's salary didn't allow for seasonal wardrobe overhauls.
Liz smiled into her cup of coffee, and took a fortifying sip, and then another. She told herself that she really didn't care about the sad state of her wardrobe, and that she couldn't remember when she last reveled in the restorative power of a new outfit.
And then, like an annoying bedside alarm, she began to hear the voice of her criminal (Partner? Mentor? Friend?) in her head. Her eyes fell on an olive suit shoved in the side of the closet, abandoned several weeks ago. Unbidden, the voice repeated a jibe from that day, "Agent Keen, I have a tip. You're a winter, not an autumn. Stop wearing olive."
Inwardly she seethed. At the time, she had more important things to address, like catching a dangerous criminal and preventing a total catastrophe, but Lizzie had filed Red's remark away for future review. It hurt her feelings, distantly at the time, but now after a cursory review of her wardrobe, she had to agree that her clothing choices were abysmal. Damn him.
Liz shook her head and tried her best to also shake loose the discomfiting feeling of hurt. After setting the coffee cup down, she threw on a decent sweater, jeans and flats. She scrubbed her face, dabbed on some lotion and lip gloss, and pulled her hair into a high bun.
She examined her reflection and was not entirely displeased. In the soft morning light, she looked younger than her years, like a grad student or a low-level government staffer. Liz grabbed her wool coat, purse and keys.
It was time to self medicate with retail therapy.