A/N: If you are hanging in there with this story - thank you! While seven is viewed as the number of completion, or perfection, it proved to the the number of frustration in this universe. I am in no means done with this story, but I wanted to cover their emotions so much that it has take on a life of it's own. Now I understand! I so appreciate all the thoughtful reviews. They make my day and truly help me to become better at this! Disclaiming no ownership and purely enjoying the fun writing these lovely characters provides.
The ride to his place was quiet but comfortable. Her friends would all agree that she was a fairly chatty girl, but right now? Lizzie now felt the need for introspection. And of course, reordering the entire timeline of her life in her mind and heart. She stared out the window as people and buildings blurred by. The hum of the car and the gentle sway through traffic was lulling her into a fresh calm until she caught a glimpse of a man hoisting his little girl up on his shoulders. A single red balloon was tied to the girl's wrist and she was mesmerized by it. Like the world was a black and white photograph with a stirring pop of color. Her strong and attentive daddy maneuvered them through the crowded Manhattan streets. Lizzie imagined that they had just come from a circus or something that dads probably did with their daughters. She wouldn't know.
Of course she had Sam, of course she did. Learning the truth about her real father didn't change that. But the paradigm had shifted. She couldn't deny what she now knew. To say it was overwhelming wasn't giving the gravity of that past few hours any credence. So far, she felt she was doing a good job. The little girl with the balloon was just the straw.
She recalled the day she left for college and trying to be brave. Sam was always brave. She tried so hard not to cry especially given how stoic he tried so hard to be for her. When asked how he could make it through such emotionally taxing experiences, he let her in on his secret: just smile and swallow.
His warm hand covering her own startled her back to the car ride, to how close Red was. She felt his eyes on her and silently prayed he wouldn't notice the inner struggle that was threatening to make itself known. The quiver in her throat she willed away with each passing exhalation.
"Lizzie, a dear friend told me once if you don't want people to see you cry to smile and swallow. But you don't have to hide your tears from me. Given what you have just been through, what you have just learned, it's okay to feel, to grieve, if that is what you are feeling," he tried to comfort her.
"Sam told me that the night I left for college. It's not really working," she managed before the sob she had been forcing down finally was escaped. She felt even more defeat then, throwing her head down into her hands, crying.
He reached across the seat and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her toward him. She was reluctant at first, but then allowed herself to be drawn toward him, cautiously relaxing into him. With his arm around her now, he reached up and gently coaxed her head toward his shoulder. He kept his hand there for a moment, stroking her hair, lightly shushing her and repeating calming things over and over to her.
He was trying to do all the right things by her. Tell her what she so desperately wanted to know. Comfort her like a friend. Be there for her when she was reluctant to be alone. Twenty, even ten years ago, he would have tried harder to hold her at arm's length, but while she was actually in his arms? He was falling, hard. She could be his soft landing.
She could be his everything.
A soft sigh escaped him before he could even realize how much he was lost in his own thoughts of her. She sighed softly, leaning into him even further. Utterly content in the moment of closeness, they were unaware when the car came to a stop.
Dembe got out and opened the door for them.
"Sweetheart, we're here," Red said, gently lifting her chin, their faces mere inches apart.
Being in his arms, just being close had been so soothing, she was now drowsy and relaxed. He offered his hand to help her out and once she was on her feet, she didn't let go.
A short elevator ride brought them up to Red's apartment on the top floor. He led her in and took her coat again, fingers skimming her neck as he did and sending a shiver through her. Dembe had long disappeared through the apartment, closing a door behind him.
They were alone.
"I hope you don't mind, but I'd like something a little stronger than coffee to drink," he said lifting a bottle and tumbler from the bar top in the study. "Would you like me to pour you a few fingers?"
It was another of those moments when their many differences plagued her. Here she was, now standing in his world, on his turf, being offered his drink. She was too interested to shy away.
"Sure, is that scotch?"
"Yes, twelve year old single malt. Sure you can handle something this strong?" he said sauntering toward her with the glass stretched out to her unsteady, waiting hand. Now there was a question.
Something this strong. Something new and wild, tempting and intoxicating.
She took the glass, grazing his fingers as she did. Their eyes locked for a moment before he returned to pour his own drink. With his back turned to her for a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, mentally shaking his head to banish the wealth of unspoken thought.
With his back turned to her, she took a small sip of the liquid fire in her glass, grateful for that one moment to be out from under his watchful gaze.
He crossed to a sumptuous-looking leather sofa and sat in the corner, inviting her to sit as well. She sat within his reach, learning forward on her elbows, drink cradled carefully in both palms. The silence buzzed between them for a beat, she looking curiously into her drink, he gulping his down while she wasn't looking. Anything to level out the erratic way his nerves were quivering within him. His characteristic steadiness was uncharacteristically absent. They had just spent hours together talking over coffee, but now? With her next to him on his couch, in his home?
Thankfully she was keeping her distance. Before he could think better of it, he rose and refilled his glass and seeing that she had barely touched hers, returned again to sit next to her.
"Never waste good scotch. Lizzie, I can get you something else if you don't care for that," he offered, head cocked slightly, staring at her curiously.
"One of two things happen when I drink. I'm just pacing myself," she said, finally turning to look at him.
"Two? You don't just feel intoxicated?"
"Well, yes," she began, trying not to show her discomfort with his question. "I either fall asleep or become rather, friendly, shall we say?"
He knew at that moment, he should send her home. Definitely should.
The last thing he would ever want is for her to do something while intoxicated that she might later regret. But the alarm bells that would normally sound off in his subconscious were dulled by strong liquor and the strength of the tidal-like pull he felt toward her.
She took another sip, warmth spreading throughout. Feeling a bit more at ease, she moved close to him again, tucking in against his side. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, she relaxed her head against it. He toed his shoes off and crossed his feet on the coffee table, encouraging her to make herself more comfortable as well.
She took another sip.
"Red?"
"Lizzie."
"What were you like as a child?"
"Shorter."
She giggled and turned her head so her cheek lay over his heart.
"No, tell me something about you. I look at you and I see this mysterious, impeccably dressed man that I want to know more about. I don't even know what you do for a living," she said.
"I was a normal boy, I guess you could say. I was great at arguing, so much so that my parents wanted me to become an attorney. I was athletic, although you would never guess that these days," he answered, patting his soft belly.
"Stop, I happen to think you look great," she said putting her hand over his. He froze, anticipating what she would do next and whether or not he should let her. He couldn't get enough of her skin. Every time it came into contact with his own, he felt at home, but she was more welcoming than any home he had ever known before. Welcoming and accepting. He was so afraid to tell her the truth. To burst this bubble of sweet ignorance.
It could be sweet bliss if only his overactive brain could just stay silent. If only he could succumb to the desire of his flesh for a woman, for this woman, and deal with the consequences later.
She was now comfortably snuggled into his side. 'Just a few more hours of this,' he thought. A few more hours with her before he shattered her image of him.
"When I was a boy, my parents would take me to the university with them in the summer as they set up their rooms for the coming year. I always felt drawn to the art wing, the smell of acrylic paint and canvas, to see the brushes situated in their cups drying and preparing to be used of their master again. I would sit and look at the works in progress and completed pieces and just awe at the gift that some people had," he began.
He chuckled, "I imagined it couldn't be that hard to pick up a brush and paint a masterpiece until I actually tried. When I surveyed what I had done, in truth, it was awful. Indistinguishable. I knew I had other gifts but artistry clearly wasn't one of them. I sat on my stool trying to figure out what it was about this horrible painting that made me continue to stare at it. My mother walked up behind me during these moments and was taking in the view when finally, she said, 'Raymond, I love it.' Of course, I didn't believe her and she was an English Literature professor, so what did she know? When I told her how much I didn't like it and asked her how she could she said, 'Because no matter what you create, I see the art in you. Your color in life, the light in your soul, and our creations? No matter what they look like, even if they appear messy, they are a reflection of our lives, full of beauty and mess intertwined."
A strange tightness and tingle collected in the center of her chest. The more he spoke, the more he endeared himself to her heart. A completely different side of him was being revealed. A softer side, reminiscent, full of experiences just waiting to be shared with her. The more he spoke, the more she felt herself falling.
"Your mother sounds like a pretty amazing woman," she said.
He got quiet for a moment. Her head felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a long breath and exhaled an audible sigh.
"She was amazing," he said resignedly.
She sat upright, facing him, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment. A far-off and sorrowful look crossed his face.
"Oh. I'm so sorry, Red," she whispered as his sad eyes drew themselves to hers.
Before she could let the moment pass them, she quickly leaned in and kissed him, softly, tentatively.
She pulled back slightly and opened her eyes to find his piercing back at her. He didn't protest. Did he want more?
Before she could say anything to cover the tension between them he reached for her cheeks, cupping them with both hands, he crushed his lips on hers. This kiss was anything but tentative. He kissed her hard and wantonly, working his hands into her hair and pulling her even closer to him. She was every bit as hungry in her response to him, tangling her tongue with his. She slid her hands down from his neck to his vest, working the buttons open. Pulling his hands from her now tangled locks, he opened her cardigan and pushed it from her shoulders.
They were consumed by each other. With no room for logical thought, animalistic instinct had taken over. Cradling the back of her head with one hand, he moved to lay her beneath him on the couch. She parted her legs to allow him to get even closer.
He left her lips, trailing kisses down her neck and crawling backwards, lifted the hem of her shirt to place some sweet, warm kisses at the sensitive skin there. He felt more than heard her moans of appreciation. Every sound she made lit him on fire from within and encouraged him to keep going. Sensing he didn't plan to stop at her belly, she put her hands in his hair, gently caressing him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her scar.
She was scarred. She had walked through fire. He had walked through fire, for her. This couldn't go on any longer.
He sat back on his heels, she propped herself up on her elbows.
She looked thoroughly debauched. Hair tousled and shirt wrinkled. She looked up at him through heavy lidded eyes, lips still engorged.
"Red? Is something wrong?" she quizzed.
"Lizzie, we need to stop." He had to look away from. Seeing her, laid out before him, waiting for him was squashing the scrap of resolve he still had left.
"The hell we do," she breathed, reaching up for his neck to pull him back to her mouth. She bit and sucked at his lower lip, trying to convince him to pick up where he left off.
He pulled away once more. If the words didn't come out now, he feared her enthusiasm would stave off this conversation until the morning.
"No, we can't do this. Not like this," he whispered, voice faltering under words he didn't wish to speak.
"I don't understand. I don't want," she huffed out a sigh, "– why do we have to stop?"
"There's something you need to know, Lizzie, before this goes one minute further. I should have told you sooner," he admitted, moving to settle back into his corner of the couch. She pushed herself up into her corner, feeling a wave of dread and embarrassment. Running a hand through her hair, she finally settled her elbows on her knees, her head down and face shielded from his stare.
"God, please don't tell me you're married."
"No, Lizzie, it's nothing like that. You asked me earlier what I do for a living and I didn't answer you. I knew that if I did, you would have run from the house and I just wanted a chance to be close to you. Even if just for a few hours. I knew I might never get this chance again," he confessed.
A look of horror crossed her features. She swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay.
He rose, pacing slowly in front of the couch that they would be making love on right now if he hadn't stopped them. He grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You're going to find this out sooner or later, given what you do. I wanted you to get to know me first in hopes that you would allow me to explain, that you would believe me and not jump to conclusions." He picked up his glass from the coffee table and quickly refilled it. Courage in liquid form.
"I'm listening," she finally said.
"Lizzie, I'm afraid I have earned a reputation over the years. Absolutely unintentional, but I hope you will come to understand that I have done what I have done simply to survive. In the midst of it all, however, I ended up as one of the FBI's most wanted. I hope you'll give me a chance to expl–" he was abruptly cut off by her springing off of the couch and grabbing the discarded cardigan from the floor.
"You hoped I'd give you the chance to explain? You're telling me that you are a killer and you wanted the chance to explain that to me?" she shrieked. Shoving her feet into her flats she headed for the door.
He reached out to try and stop her. To try and calm her, do anything to keep her from leaving in this state, knowing it could be the last time he set his eyes on her, but she flinched away angrily, nearly hissing at him.
"Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me again!" She ran from the apartment, the cold metal door hammering shut behind her and coursing a tremor through him.
She ran down all eleven flights of stairs.
The cold night air hit her and she ran across town until the adrenaline waned and her limbs threatened to give out.
She threw her fists into the wall of a brick building, allowing tears of loss, anger and confusion fall.
She felt so foolish. She had fallen for a killer.
The agony propelled her the final blocks to her apartment and once inside, the full flood came. Unashamed, uninhibited, she wept openly into the night and into the desperate quietness of her apartment for her foolishness, her pride and her now broken heart.
Laying a cool, damp cloth to her face, she washed the ugly cry for him down the drain and out of her life. The girl in the mirror stared back at her, a girl nearly unrecognizable.
She schooled her expression to one of indifference, though her heart would betray her with every pulse.
"Never again," she said to the reflection.
Something happens when you learn the truth about someone.
The truth changes everything.
