Give me more holding hands, that simple act nearly overwhelming one or both of them, thumbs stroking over knuckles, fingers interlacing.
It's all they can do, here in the back of an FBI SUV, in full view of Ressler and Samar in the front, with Ressler's tactless eyes flicking to the rearview mirror at regular intervals.
It's been another day, another life-threatening situation, another close call. This time they were both there, Red and Liz, as the team was surrounded, at least twenty guns pointed at them, the foreign hit men gesturing and yelling in a language none of them spoke. It was so scary, all of them fully expecting a gun to go off somewhere, and one of them to be struck by a stray bullet.
Killed by chance. Completely uncontrollable and unpredictable. Terrifying.
But backup arrived right in time and they're here now, on their way back to the post office to be debriefed, no time to be alone in the near future. But they need something. So, by mutual agreement, their hands snuck forward on the seat until they touched and Red wasted no time in lacing their fingers together, almost too tight. But for Liz, it's not nearly tight enough, and she's squeezing right back, occasionally running her thumb over Red's knuckles in her desperation to touch and be touched.
She can't seem to regulate her breathing to anything other than short and harsh, knowing Red can hear her. And she can see Red's other hand in a tight fist on his knee and she knows it would be touching her in a million different places right now if he had the freedom to do so. And Liz thinks that's fair because if they were alone, she would have swung her leg over his hip and been in his lap long before now.
But, with them clutching at the only part of each other they can safely reach, their hands, here in the car, wishing they could be closer but holding themselves back, with Ressler and Samar talking quietly in the front, this is all they can do.
It will have to be enough. For now.