A/N: Sam has not taken a turn for the worse at this point, just as a retroactive disclaimer on the brief smoking scene between Liz and Red. ;) Here is the floor plan of the Martha Jefferson Suite as well, if it helps to visualize (I totally want to go here someday, haha): jeffersondc dot com / upload / pdf / Martha-Jefferson-Suite-Floorplan dot pdf

Thanks so much for the lovely reviews—sorry I didn't keep it to a one-shot after the prologue; another chapter to follow!

II: Pulling

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"Sir, I—"

"Agent Keen." An edge crept into Harold Cooper's voice. "I know babysitting duty probably wasn't part of your Saturday plans, but we need someone on that detail."

Elizabeth sighed. Agent Geary's sudden 'personal matter' had better be a damn good one. "No, I understand."

"It wouldn't hurt to build your rapport with Reddington anyway. A happy informant is a helpful informant, and you, of course, hold that rarefied honor of being the only one he wants to work with." The reminder was needless, but Liz still winced on the other end of the phone. "Not to mention it's just another opportunity to hone your skills as a profiler. Pick at that brain a bit?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's at The Jefferson. Martha Jefferson Suite, top floor."

"Of course he is."

"Tener is on the same floor, and Zaworski and Hastings are stationed downstairs."

"Got it." Liz finished scribbling out a note for Tom on the counter. "I'm on my way now."

»»««

As she turned from M Street onto 16th, Liz was still shaking her head. She knew Cooper was right, but it sure as hell didn't help right now. Her eyes traveled up the façade of The Jefferson, coming to rest on the top floor. She walked through the hotel's main entrance and into the lobby, steps echoing across the black-and-white tiled marble floor. A tall, black gate adorned with a decorative Greek key pattern rose up to her left, barricading the now closed lunch restaurant, and a grand skylight, backlit for the evening hours, arched magnificently above. She wondered why she had never been here with Tom for dinner or a drink before. Behind the two reception desks was a large, dual-paneled painting of some people and cattle who appeared to be on the precipice of a cliff. A woman at the desk on the right looked up and smiled at her.

"Good evening. Welcome to The Jefferson."

"Hi, I'm Special Agent Elizabeth Keen, FBI. I'm here to join a security detail in one of your suites?"

"Oh, yes, of course! You're headed to 812. The elevator is right over there. Would you like an escort?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"All right. Just let us know if you need anything, agent."

"Great. Thanks."

Liz blew out a long breath as she watched the dial slowly arc towards the '1' on the half-moon floor indicator above the elevator. When she arrived in front of Room 812, the tall freedom fighter who had made the final cut of Red's handpicked security team was there to greet her. She smiled tightly.

"Hi."

Dembe gestured for her to come in, closing the door behind her. Crossing the marble-tiled foyer, she saw a kitchenette on her left and proceeded on into the living room. It was sumptuously furnished, all creams and greys and muted blues, with a patterned rug covering polished parquet floors, a gas fireplace against one wall, and a Juliet balcony facing the street. From across the room, Agent Geary glanced up from his phone and promptly stored it, meeting her in a few quick strides. He looked harried, but suitably sheepish.

"Sorry about this," he told her.

"Don't even worry about it. Do what you have to do," Liz replied, moving to conduct her sweep of the suite's layout and exits.

"He is in the toilet," Dembe advised, pointing. She raised an eyebrow at him, and Dembe's own expression turned innocent. "Shaving," he clarified.

Deciding Red should at least be made aware of her presence, Liz went in the direction Dembe had indicated, first passing a powder room and then glimpsing the intimate dining area that occupied the southeast corner of the suite, nestled between two more Juliet balconies. An iron and crystal chandelier dangled over a round dining table encircled by four chairs. She continued on into the bedroom, which boasted an enormous, all-too inviting canopied bed. Finally, at the end of the rough 'U' she had made from the entryway, she found the master bath.

As elegant as the rest of the suite, the room was a cavern of marble and mosaic tiling. There was a small chandelier here, too, set in the recess of the ceiling. A deep soaking tub sat beneath a window to her left; the toilet and separate shower were beyond that, against the far wall, and to her right, two sinks. Red's shirtless form was in front of the nearest one, his chin high in the air as he went down the right side of his neck with a straight razor. At the base of the mirror before him, a hidden television was playing a nature program.

"Lizzy!" He stopped, catching her reflection. "This is a pleasant surprise indeed."

Still processing Red's state of undress, Liz jerked a thumb in the direction she'd come. "Um . . . I'll just—"

"Don't be silly; I'm almost done. How are things?" Rinsing the blade in the sink, Red moved on to his upper lip, flattening the skin there with his mouth and pulling down in short strokes.

"I can't complain," Liz lied. "Sorry for the last-minute substitution here."

"Are you kidding? Hand me your phone and I'll personally thank Agent Geary and whichever living or dead family member it was that pulled him away." Red rinsed again. "Sorry for cramping your style. I hope plans were not disrupted for the evening?"

"It's fine."

Red reached for his shaving brush and pot of shave soap. "God, I love the smell of sandalwood," he said, reapplying a fresh lather to the left side of his face. "You know, they say that smell is the sense most tied to memory."

"I would agree with that," said Liz. Red's eyes lit on her briefly in the mirror, but she did not elaborate, and he did not press. "So," she absorbed their surroundings in greater detail, her eyes settling on the bathtub quite longingly. "Just the Martha Washington?"

"Oh, I am capable of some restraint." Red stretched his cheek from above as he took the razor over it with his opposite hand, working his way down. "And wrong wife, but yes, to answer your question: the Presidential Suite was already taken for the evening, so I went Bridal. Isn't that skylight downstairs exquisite? It's from the '20s, when the building was first erected. Apparently they had it covered over for years and just recently restored it. You can see it from this room, you know."

"Mmm. Well, the whole hotel is gorgeous. I'll have to come here again someday."

"Under less mandated conditions?"

"Those are the best kind."

Stealing another glance at her, Red could see Liz eyeing the straight razor. He ran it through the water; smiled. "In my line of work, I've never found disposable blades or batteries for the latest dodecahedral-bladed implement particularly convenient. Plus, they do come in handy in a pinch." He winked knowingly.

Liz pictured Red brandishing a straight razor in a desert tent somewhere and nearly smiled herself. It was then that the show's narration fell silent for some sequence involving a lion, and the rasping of the blade grated loudly as Red finished the areas that remained.

"All pretty and clean," he murmured, dipping his hands into the water and briskly rubbing them over his face. In the light, Liz noticed a faint scar that curved diagonally across the right side of his abdomen. Too high for appendix, maybe gallbladder. When she glanced into the mirror, she found Red looking back at her.

Suddenly self-conscious, she raised her eyebrows in what she hoped resembled an interested expression. "Gallbladder surgery?" she asked casually.

He laughed. "Ho, if only! Though I suppose it is rather prosaic in its own way . . . a souvenir." Red shook his head at her reflection, frowning with his eyebrows and smiling with his mouth. "From Galway, of all places." After drying the razor's blade and scales with a hand towel, he moved his things aside on the sink and shut the TV off with the remote.

Liz was grateful for the chance to return to the living area, and she heard Red follow her as far as the bedroom. When he reappeared, he was buttoning the cuffs of a crisp, white pinstripe shirt beneath a vest that remained open. He caught Dembe's eye and jerked his chin up in acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Dembe."

Dembe nodded, making his way to the suite's door.

Liz looked from Dembe to Red. "Oh, you know, I'd rather—"

"He'll be back," Red assured her. "I think it's only fair to let them out every now and then, don't you? They have lives, too, you know."

Liz watched helplessly as Red's trusted friend bid farewell to his boss.

"So long," he called out, waving back. "Would you like to listen to some music?" Red walked over to the suite's sound system and gestured at the MP3 docking station. "This comes with the suite, but I had housekeeping set me up with some personal preferences for the night. Damned if I know much about anything past a cassette tape."

Her eyes widened. "Cassette tape?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I'm hopelessly low-tech. They're the precursor to the compact disc, you see."

"I know what they are. I used to—" Liz stopped.

Red's eyebrow lifted, a small and interested smile turning his lips. "Used to what?"

She shook her head. "Let's just say I had my own tunes I used to roller-skate with my Walkman to."

Something Liz could scarcely pinpoint crossed Red's still pleased, outwardly happy expression. "Well, we'll see if any of them show up on here." He made his selection, and the opening scale of "My Baby Just Cares for Me" sounded crisply throughout the suite's ample space.

"If you're hungry, we could order room service? The food here is excellent."

"I'm OK."

"You're OK." Red nodded, appraising her. "Well, then, from here I'd say you look like you could use a drink."

Liz shrugged ruefully. "I'm on the clock," she reminded him.

"I'm not going to tell on you, Lizzy, unless you feel compelled to tell on yourself for some reason."

She stared at him, the memory of his low voice in the early hours of an awful morning all too fresh still.

You gonna tell on me, Lizzy? Tell Harold how bad I've been?

Seemingly oblivious to her current thoughts, Red shrugged back at her. "If they ask, just say you were indulging me to stay in my good graces."

Liz's mouth twisted to one side. Screw it. "Yeah. Sure."

Red headed over to the refreshment bar. "So, what'll it be. If it's not on hand I'll ring downstairs, but I always keep as many options available to me as possible. Chardonnay? Something more Saturday night, perhaps? Cosmopolitan? Martini?"

"Ah, martini."

"Vodka or gin."

"Vodka."

Red opened the mini fridge, inspecting its contents. "Do you like it dirty?"

Liz's chin lifted. She looked at Red over her nose, his own face impassive as he turned for the answer.

"I do."

He smiled pleasantly. "Very good."

She shook her head to herself and began to wander the suite, examining the art and veritable history that decorated every wall as the instrumental break of the song meandered jazzily. At the very least, Red's expensive tastes meant she would be spending her time surrounded by interesting things. She heard him shaking the drink and slowly started making her way back.

Red was holding the martini glass out as she arrived. Plucking a snifter from the barware, he reached for a bottle of cognac for himself. "When in France," he said breezily, lifting a hand to the suite and all its Parisian-inspired décor.

"Hey, maybe I'll get more than a drink out of this," Liz said, watching him. "In vino veritas, and all that."

Red chuckled as he poured. "I appreciate your candor, Agent Keen. The only catch is I happen to be blessed, or cursed, depending on which camp you're in, with a naturally high tolerance. One I've had to cultivate even further, as you might imagine, based on the company I keep." He replaced the bottle and faced her. "The amount of vino you'll need to get at my veritas is quite substantial, I'm afraid."

Liz searched his face. Red just raised his glass.

"Cheers."

"Cheers." Liz tapped her own against his, and they both drank.

"That is a double-edged sword, anyway," Red said, licking his lips. "I can't wait to find out what Elizabeth Keen has to say when she's three sheets in the wind."

Is something he can't see / I wonder what's wrong with baby

Nina Simone was singing the last few lines as Liz returned his gaze. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

Red's smile from behind his glass didn't quite reach his eyes, and when no denial came Liz regretted saying it at all.

"Old habits, I suppose," he offered smoothly, after another long swallow. "The femme fatale may be an overused archetype, but I can assure you: she does exist, and you know what they say about the best defense being a good offense."

A soft and rather haunting piano piece started up in a minor key as Red moved past her into the living room. "Not to worry—I promise I'll be on my best behavior," he said over his shoulder. "The last thing I want is for Agent Ressler's number to be called the next time a changing of the guard is in order."

Liz cocked her head to the music as she followed him. "What is this?"

"Erik Satie, Gnossienne No. 1. Divine, isn't it?"

"It's lovely," Liz agreed. Red had taken a seat on the formal yet comfortable-looking couch, but she remained standing.

"You know it's compositions such as these, great works of art . . . they always makes me think this world we inhabit isn't all bad. That something so beautiful was created in it."

"Not exactly the happiest song."

"No. I find most beautiful things have some sort of melancholy about them, though."

Liz was struck by the singular reality of where she was in that moment: appreciating the finer things with someone who had eluded the FBI for the last twenty-three years. His comment on the world, however, reminded her once more of Stanley Kornish and the unsettling parable of destruction Red had launched into before killing him. Surely some event, some sequence of events, had turned Reddington into the man he was today. She was just going to have to get to the bottom of it.

"So." He regarded her from the couch. "How are things on the home front?"

Liz gave a small, unsurprised exhalation. "Jumping right in, are we?"

Red's face was nonplussed, looking about his immediate vicinity as if to suggest a lack of other available topics. "I mean, we have all night, but why not get the unpleasantries over with first?"

She met his eyes, holding them. "Tom wants to go to the Angel Station Hotel," she replied flatly. "The same place where the gun I found was apparently used to murder a Russian tourist. He's booked it for us and everything."

"And Tom's knowledge of this gun? And the box?"

"I haven't really confronted him about it yet."

"What does 'really' mean."

"I haven't confronted him about it yet."

"Well." Red sipped from his glass. "If you ever need assistance in this regard, I hope it goes without saying: you can rely on me fully."

Despite her best efforts, Liz could feel her anger mounting. "See, the funny thing about that is, when I'm alone with Tom? I'm not afraid something's going to happen to me."

"But you are when you're with me," Red finished her thought.

"You know this situation is beyond inappropriate. It doesn't matter that we have three other agents in the hotel."

"You're right," he chuckled; "it certainly doesn't." He could see she was unamused by the quip, and he bowed his head, a more sober expression in place when he lifted it again. "I don't want you to be afraid of me, Lizzy," he said, in a lowered voice. "I'm only trying to help you."

She considered him. "Are you?"

"Yes. And if you can walk away from your post tonight accepting that, I'll call this evening a win."

Liz drank at her martini, neither confirming nor denying anything.

"Now then. How about that skylight view?" Red rose from his seat. "We have to use the south-facing balcony off the dining room; you can't see it from this one."

She followed him through the hallway and into the dining room, admiring the chandelier that sparkled in the low, amber light as Red opened the curtains and desired window. It had been a warm fall day in the capital, but the gentle breeze that entered the suite promised the onset of something altogether colder. Police sirens wailed distantly as Liz joined him at the balustrade. He pointed the skylight out to her. Recently discovered, recently restored. Old and new, all at once.

"Despite what you may think," Red said, turning in her direction but not looking at her, "I do not exist solely to cause you agita."

Liz scoffed as she had in the living room, dipping into the martini she hated to admit was fantastic, and exactly what she needed at the moment. "How do you know what I think." Her mouth opened as they locked eyes. "Oh, that's right."

Red smirked. "You think I'm shadier than Muir Woods, no doubt, and you're right, of course." As though in illustration, his voice dropped to a rich, velvety tone. "All your training, your instincts as a profiler and as a self-reliant child are screaming at you to run away, and yet here you are," Red gestured between them.

"It's my job."

"You know what I mean, Lizzy. I know that trust is difficult for you, but I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me," Red amended. He sipped his drink. "Be right back."

Liz gazed down at the skylight and street below, weighing Red's words until he rejoined her momentarily.

"Can you hold this for a second?" He handed her his glass, and she saw the cigarette and lighter. Still full of surprises, this one. Red planted the cigarette between his lips and held the lighter up to her questioningly. "Do you mind?"

"Oh—no. No, it's fine."

He cupped his hands and lit the cigarette, pocketing the lighter and tilting his head skyward so as not to let any of the smoke drift in Liz's direction. "You know the thing I miss most in the city, besides the stars? You don't hear the crickets. I've always loved—" Red paused, the hesitation so brief that coming from anyone else it would have passed unnoticed, but it immediately struck Liz as some means of checking himself. "I've always loved the sound of crickets," he finished simply, reclaiming his drink from her.

Filled with an inexplicable sadness at his words, Liz chose to lighten the mood. "You say 'always' funny."

He gave her a sidelong look. "You say charitable things to me funny."

They both smiled, and Red took a deep drag, blowing another stream into the night air. He clamped his mouth shut again in the way he often did, the dimples hollowing at the corners of his lips and drawing Liz's attention for some reason. He glanced over at her. She met his eyes, hoping he didn't notice the direction her eyes had traveled.

"You look like you could use this, too." He proffered the cigarette.

While never a smoker, some juvenile part of Liz always liked the intimacy of sharing a cigarette with someone. It made her feel rebellious, and it was especially sexy with a man. Why she was thinking any of that now, though . . . She finally quit staring and accepted. Red watched the way she smoked it with interest before turning his attention back to his cognac, upending it in one fluid motion.

"Well. It appears I am need of a refill."

Liz peered into her own glass and finished what was left. "Me too," she said, handing it to him as she chewed on the olives that had waited for her at the bottom.

He looked down at her glass in his hand, while Liz just shrugged.

"Maybe I was blessed with a high tolerance as well."

"We'll see about that," said Red, amusedly. He retreated into the suite.

The soft breeze whipped at Liz's face. She had to admit it bothered her that, for every question she wished to ask Red, he literally had none for her. Except for when it came to Tom, of course. While her husband was a constant source of fascination, none of the details of Liz's own past seemed to interest Red, which could only mean he already knew everything there was to know.

What if I were to tell you that all the things you've come to believe about yourself are a lie?

Liz pulled on the cigarette. Tom had to be the explanation for Red's supposed fixation on her. It was the only thing that made sense.

"Here you are," Red said upon returning, handing Liz her second martini.

"Thank you." She drank measuredly. "You said if anyone could give you a second chance, it's me. What did you mean by that?"

Puffing on the cigarette she'd given back to him, Red let out an abrupt cough. "Hmm," he chortled. "You women. Always in the market for a compliment."

Liz viewed Red as a husband in that moment, as the father of a young girl. In spite of everything, she could see it, strangely enough. A naval officer outnumbered by women in his own house.

"I'm serious," she said.

"No, this is fun." Red downed some brandy. "Please—keep drinking."

She took a longer sip, narrowing her eyes slightly in response.

Red rested his glass on the balustrade in front of him. "I imagine you think that I don't recognize the extent to which I have disrupted your life, but I have to tell you, nothing could be further from the truth. I understand your internal conflict, Lizzy, I really do. You're supposed to love Tom; you're supposed to regard me as a monster. Now you have no earthly idea what to think of Tom, and I'm starting to look like the one person you can trust to be honest with you."

Hearing Red repeat the term she'd called him in the aftermath of the day that just wouldn't seem to leave her thoughts, Liz glanced away, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Um . . . I'm sorry I never thanked you. You know? For saving me."

To say Red was surprised this was the main point Liz had taken from his comment was an understatement, but he tried not to let it show. Judging from the frown on her face, he could tell this was hard for her. He passed the cigarette, if only to get out of having to say something.

"That was the closest call I've had on the job yet." She looked at him. "But you already knew that, right? You know everything about me."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Liz nodded briskly to mask the emotion she could feel rising within her. "I just kept thinking about that tub, you know? When you said to check the drain in the motel . . . I just kept thinking the whole time I was trying to keep Kornish talking, that's all that's going to be left of me. Some chemical residue around a drain." She blew out a long exhalation. "Maybe a tooth, knowing what we know now."

A ghost of a twitch marred Red's face at the suggestion, but she was staring out over the city. He shifted, regarding her profile until she turned to face him again. At the threat of tears shimmering back at him, Red shook his head slowly.

"I wasn't going to let that happen, Lizzy."

The import behind the statement and mere sound of it on Red's voice—deep, soft—was somehow welcome and terrifying at the same time. She thought of the lingering way he'd placed his hand on her head, and how it had comforted her. How truly happy she had been to see him materialize behind Kornish when she did. She sniffed, hating whatever part of her she felt breaking inside.

"I was so scared."

Red's jaw clenched. "I know."

Liz brought the cigarette to her lips with a hand that slightly shook. She saw it, and gave a mirthless chuckle. "Some FBI agent, huh."

"Not at all. You did good, Lizzy."

She glanced at him. "Was that for me?"

"Was what for you, dear."

"Kornish. Killing him like that."

Red pulled at his cognac, his eyes crinkling slightly as he swallowed. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Yes."

Liz hesitated. "There was a picture missing out of that book you gave me."

"Oh, Lizzy," Red sighed.

"What?"

He shook his head. "You really are going to be the death of me one of these days. You know that, right?"

"Tell me this, then, at least. What you were saying, before you—killed him. Your family."

Red worked his jaw again. "Donald has my file. He should be able to fill you in on all there is to know."

"I'm asking you," she said, and Red met her gaze. "Are . . . do you miss them?"

A surreal rush overcame Liz as the instant, glinting loss flooded Red's eyes. It was like she desperately wanted to know the answer but could not bear to hear it.

His voice, while it had fallen to a near whisper, was steady. "I'd never have left them. Would you believe that? Not in a million years."

The sibilance of the last word hung on the air, and her own eyes sparked with fresh tears. "Yeah," she breathed.

Red nodded shortly and sipped his drink. Liz did the same as more sirens sounded in the city night.

"Ah," Red broke the silence between them. From his upturned face, he was looking down at the hotel's main entrance. "There's Dembe and your employer's apparent peace offering accompanying him now. You're relieved. In more ways than one, I'm sure."

Liz went to see for herself, but Red was already inside, so she stubbed out the cigarette and followed him. He set his glass down on the dining room table. The sound system was playing "Take Five" by The Dave Brubeck Quartet.

"I'm just going to run to the bathroom," she said, placing her glass next to his. She walked past him and headed for the powder room.

Out of nowhere, Red grabbed Liz from behind and whirled her into the bedroom, pressing her against the wall with his body and covering her mouth with his hand. He turned for a peripheral look, then redirected his attention forward. Liz's chin was moving up on him, and he mirrored the action with his own as he held her fast, peering down at her.

"Take Five" was thunderously loud now, all rattling drums and minatory, persistent piano. Liz strained to hear another noise behind it—something Red had heard, perhaps, but she did not hear anything. Stupefied, her thoughts ran from the unlikelihood that Dembe and her alleged replacement were steps away from entering this suite to the inescapable irony that the man who had just assured her of his good intentions was, once again, the FBI's #4 Most Wanted, and she at his complete mercy. She breathed anxiously against his palm.

Red drew closer still, the line of his teeth emerging. Even with the lingering scent of smoke from the balcony, Liz could smell his cherished shave soap on his skin. "Not one sound," he ordered, whispering. "Do you understand?"

She smelled the brandy, too. The starkness of Red's language seemed to confirm a legitimate threat was, in fact, upon them, and the thought brought her back to a bunker far beneath the earth, far removed from everyone, both their lives at sudden risk of being lost forever.

His face hovered inches from her own, blond eyelashes batting evenly. They had a way of making the eyes within them appear darker than they really were. Surely this was the scene Stanley Kornish had faced in those minutes before his death. Staring wide-eyed back, Liz nodded.

Red's hold eased against her then, but the hand did not lift away. Meanderingly, impossibly, he began dragging it down her face instead, his gaze dropping to follow. There was no trace of uncertainty in his expression or his touch, and Liz's mind reeled as she watched him—as she felt his thumb deliberately move to brush over and between her lips, pulling her lower lip with it before detaching completely. Frozen, she half expected Red's hand to continue its path down her entire front. It didn't. He lifted hooded eyes back to her.

Without a word and without a gesture, he left her there on the wall. The thought this might be some kind of sick test occurred to her briefly, but the urgency and literal force that had emanated from Red's bearing in a way Liz had never witnessed told her otherwise. The audacity, though, the excuse of using sheer proximity to touch her in such an intimate manner . . . And then, of course, the imposed silence, in which she was not allowed to respond. Whether it was meant to distract her, or exert some power over her, all Liz knew was that it had left her virtually fastened to this spot: and if that had been his main objective, then Raymond Reddington was officially cleverer than she ever gave him credit for.

Red, meanwhile, had re-entered the dining room. He casually grabbed Liz's martini glass and brought it back into the kitchenette, where he poured himself another cognac. Taking it with him, he cut through the middle of the suite again and stopped. The gauzy curtains that concealed each of the dining area's balconies were now both fluttering in the breeze. Framed by the window that faced the street, the Spiderman stood in silhouette.

"Well," Red said. "What a displeasure it is to finally meet you."

He was small, a good five inches shorter than Red, but wiry and lithe, with smooth, dark brown skin and a quiet intensity all his own. His hands and all-black ensemble bore smatterings of chalk dust.

"You are familiar with my work." The voice was tinged with a French accent.

"Yes."

"So you know there is not much time."

"Associates have regaled me with stories of you. Or, shall I say, the evidence of you," Red wagged his finger at him, grinning in begrudging admiration, "but informed sources nonetheless. I know when the job calls for a quick in and out, nary a trace behind, you are the man to call. It is, after all, why they call you 'The Spiderman.'" His free hand waved idly through the air again. "That, of course, and your penchant for urban climbing."

From the other side of the wall, it all seemed strangely expository, until Liz considered that it was for her benefit. Was she supposed to run, or did Red not expect to walk away from this encounter? She was suddenly, oddly, afraid for him.

"I also know you're not a contract killer," continued Red, lowering his drink, "and that you're not here for me. Unfortunately, me is all you have. I am sorry you scaled eight stories for nothing, but that amounts to little more than your daily exercises anyway, I'm sure."

"Where is she."

"Gone."

"Of course she is not."

"What could you possibly want with her?" Red murmured, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"Not for me, friend. You know that."

"And your plan is what, exactly—you going to rappel back down with your quarry in tow?"

"As you say: I am no contract killer, but I am able to disarm someone very well."

Liz's heart pounded in her chest. Red was giving her the chance to escape. She had to take the unobstructed path to safety while she had it.

Now.

Red smiled musingly as he raised his snifter and drained its remnants. Then, like it was nothing, he brought the glass crashing into the top of the chair in front of him, a chunky third of it remaining in his hand while the rest scattered onto the floor and table.

"You can't have her."

Stoically, the Spiderman regarded the makeshift weapon the man before him clutched, the unmistakable brightness striping it from behind. He lifted his dark and intelligent eyes to the ones already settled on him. "Something happens to me here, you know what happens," he said. "Another person, another day. It buys you nothing."

"Maybe so. But for tonight, that's all I can live with. You want anything more than that, you're going to have to parkour right over me to get it."

The Spiderman's head tilted back on his neck then, a small smile quirking as he looked over Red's shoulder. "There is our girl."

Fooled, Red turned, and the Spiderman vaulted across the table, snatching up one of the glass's forgotten shards as he did.

Whether he had actually given him the idea or not, Red silently cursed his big mouth right as he felt the glass cut into him.

END 2/6

Quietly he laughs and shaking his head
Creeps closer now
Closer to the foot of the bed
And softer than shadow and quicker than flies
His arms are all around me and his tongue in my eyes
"Be still be calm be quiet now my precious boy
Don't struggle like that or I will only love you more
For it's much too late to get away or turn on the light
The spiderman is having you for dinner tonight"

~ the cure, "lullaby"