3. "It's three in the morning."
Bang, bang, bang.
Red looks up from his book, startled, and stares at the door.
It's just him alone in the living room of the hotel penthouse. Dembe is asleep in one of the back bedrooms. Red had tried to follow his lead earlier and get some rest but insomnia had decided to kick in at full force, making him toss, turn, and eventually swear off sleep. So here he is in the late hours of the night (or early hours of the morning, he thinks wryly) reading Proust.
And someone is banging on his door.
With a sigh, he snaps his book shut and tosses it onto the table, getting up and taking a moment to stretch before the pounding at the door starts up again. Red grabs the nearest weapon, a steak knife from the kitchen area, and proceeds cautiously to the door. Looking through the peephole, he sees a dark-haired woman, her up-do a little tousled, clad in a short red dress, barefoot, her black heels clutched in one hand.
Lizzie.
Red quickly replaces the knife in the block in the kitchen and hurries back to the door, wrenching it open.
"Lizzie – "
"You!"
The word has a distinctly slurred quality and Lizzie says it with such gusto, jabbing a declamatory finger at him, that she stumbles and has to catch herself against the door jam.
Ah.
Lizzie is drunk.
She looks around for a moment, bleary-eyed, and then seems to notice that she is leaning heavily against something. She frowns at the door jam as if it has said something rude to her and pushes herself off with a little too much strength that sends her tumbling in the opposite direction. Which is right into Red's arms.
He catches her instinctively, obviously, and holds her safely against him until she rights herself. However, her sense of balance seems to have abandoned her completely as she sways dangerously close to the door jam again. So, Red decides it's best to just keeping holding her.
For her safety, of course.
Seeing as Lizzie will probably be here for a while, (he tries not to get too excited at the thought) Red decides that there's no sense in standing here with the door open so he kicks it shut with his foot. At the loud noise, Lizzie startles a little and then turns to gaze into his face, looking a little surprised to find herself so close to him all of a sudden. He looks down at her.
She seems very small without shoes on.
"What about me, Lizzie?" he prompts gently, half curious as to where she was going with her earlier exclamation and half desperate to distract himself from the warmth of her in his arms.
"You," she repeats, calmer now, nodding to herself, seeming to appreciate the reminder of her outburst. Red has to smother a smile at how cute she is. "It's your fault." She states matter-of-factly.
Any urge to smile wilts up and dies inside of him. He's not sure exactly what she's blaming him for tonight but he has no doubt that she's right.
His fault? Yes, most things are.
But he's curious.
"What is, Lizzie?"
"Hmm?" she's become distracted by the pattern on his tie, her finger tracing the purple swirls woven into the fabric there.
Drunk Lizzie is very tactile.
"What is my fault?" he repeats patiently.
"Oh," she murmurs, once again back on track. "Everything." She says simply, blinking at him, blatant as only alcohol can make someone. Her blue eyes are rimmed in slightly smudged eye-liner. The smoky effect makes her eyes even more piercing.
"Oh." He mutters. "Yes, that's probably true."
She nods solemnly, eyes drifting back to his tie. "Everything," she repeats. "Even this."
Red frowns at her, about to ask her what she means, when she leans in quickly, too quickly for him to stop her. Before he knows it, her warm lips are touching his and his heart has stopped, surely he's dead. But no, he can feel her hand tugging on his tie to bring him closer and her lips are moving sloppily against his and oh she tastes like whiskey.
(Oh, his naughty Lizzie likes whiskey.)
And any other time this would be a dream come true but Lizzie is drunk, Lizzie doesn't know what she's doing, Lizzie doesn't want him. And he would never take advantage of her like this. Never.
So, reluctant and regretful but determined, he gently pushes her away by the shoulders. She makes an adorable whining noise and pushes against him, trying to chase his lips, which is almost enough to have him tugging her back to him but he manages to hold her firmly at arm's length. It's lucky really.
He has a lot of practice doing what is best for Lizzie.
"Lizzie…" he murmurs, his voice significantly deeper than it was before.
"What?" she mumbles, finally seeming to accept that she won't get any more kisses from him tonight and resigns herself to tucking her head under his chin, snuggling against him.
Drunk Lizzie is cuddly.
"Lizzie, it's three in the morning." He won't kiss her again but for the life of him he can't find anything wrong with wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly to his chest. "And you've been drinking."
She smothers a drunken giggle in his vest. "Is it that obvious?"
Red can't help but grin at her sudden silliness. "Just a little. How about we get you settled on the couch and you can sleep it off here?"
"Kay." She mumbles, the mention of sleep making her yawn into his shoulder, her moods shifting quickly with the alcohol coursing through her system.
"Okay." Red keeps his arms around her but begins to walk forward slowly, steering her sleepy form to the couch, where he deposits her with more than a little difficulty. Her hands have somehow snuck under his vest and latched onto his dress shirt. She doesn't seem to want to let him go.
She is testing him tonight.
"All right, I'm going to get you a blanket and pillow. Stay here."
"Mhm…" she's already having trouble keeping her eyes open.
Red hurries off and grabs a spare pillow and blanket off his bed, ruthlessly squashing all the fluttery feelings that try to rise to the surface of him. There's no use for those.
By the time he gets back to the front room, Lizzie has tipped over and curled up on her side, once again looking very small in the middle of the big couch, her strappy heels carelessly discarded under the coffee table, his book on top.
He can't help but like the sight.
"Here…" he manages to coax her head up just enough to tuck the fluffy pillow beneath it and then he carefully covers her up with the blanket, making sure it's pulled up to her neck and over her toes.
He doesn't want her to get cold.
"Thank you, Red…" she whispers sleepily. Red smiles at her even though her eyes are closed.
"You're welcome, Lizzie." He's about to turn away and leave her to rest when he hears another whisper from her blanket-covered form.
"And s'okay, I forgive you…"
Red freezes.
"For what, Lizzie?" he asks urgently. For some reason, despite the fact that he knows it's all drunken rambling, he desperately needs to know.
He has a feeling that drunk Lizzie is honest.
But she's already asleep, breathing deeply through her mouth, carefree and peaceful.
Red sighs. He's supposes that it's right. Her, asleep and at peace, and him, awake and not. But he also supposes that it doesn't matter because she won't remember any of this in the morning. Not the accusation, not the kiss, not the forgiveness.
But him? He won't forget.