AN: I didn't know how to continue this fic for the longest time but finally came up with a plan. If you guys are still interested, I can add a few more chapters to this. So please enjoy and let me know your thoughts! Reviews keep me going.
It's late.
She can't remember the last time she has spent the better portion of the day in bed, it's well in the afternoon now and the room is filled with sunlight and he's still asleep next to her and she doesn't intend on waking him, either. She can only guess how sleep deprived his body has to be, his mind, all of it. She was tired, too, had been battling exhaustion for months but now she feels rested and strong and alive, every part of her beaming with something joyful, something intriguing. Something promising.
She sits up carefully and leans against the headboard and her wandering eyes spot his dress shirt abandoned on the floor and reach for it and its softness is better than any blanket, this will do just fine, she thinks, and puts it on. It smells like him, of course it does, unique and enticing, all charm and wit and skill. A piece of his armor covering her skin. Sweet symbolism.
She hears him stir and looks over and finds him staring at her, his eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness, his gaze affectionate and loving. It's all she knows now, that particular expression, and she doesn't want to remember anything else.
"You should wear my clothes more often." A low rumble in the quiet of the room, another thing to memorize, the sound of his voice, every raspy cadence.
"I might just have to given how comfortable this is." He simply smiles at her in response because he can't do much else. The way his shirt frames her body, all delicate lines and contours, he marvels at it. She's stunning, a ravishing sight for his sore eyes, and he adores her in a dress but this is so much better. Waking up to this is everything.
"What time is it?" he asks even though he doesn't want to know. This will have to end eventually, he's aware of that, he's too aware of that, and yet he craves more time with her, another hour, another day, another lifetime. He's clinging to every confession her lips had revealed in the morning. Red. Every intimate sigh and reaction, every tremble. I didn't have to pretend either.
"Past three," she responds quietly and for a moment he is convinced there's wistfulness there, disappointment even. His hand finds hers under the covers and he tugs gently to get her attention, needs her to look down at him, his head still resting on the pillow. She has questions, he can see it, and forthrightness has never been their strong suit but he needs her to talk to him, openly, honestly.
"Lizzie?"
She turns towards him then, something in her expression he doesn't quite recognize, can't quite define.
"What are we going to do, Red?"
The one question that hurts the most because he doesn't have an answer. He moves to sit up because if they're having this conversation it needs to be eye to eye and he's already bracing himself for grief and heartbreak, he'll endure it, he'll persevere and this isn't about him anyway, not really, it's about her and her happiness and that's still his main concern, too. And he understands, he does, because no matter what she's told him earlier, the reality of it all would be a constant struggle and she doesn't deserve that. She deserves everything good in the world, he has told her so before, and he, well, he is haunted by darkness and sin.
He's still holding on to her hand, not yet willing to let go, and mulls over his choice of words a little too long until he offers her something simple, something reminiscent of their time together.
"I'll follow your lead," he tells her, defeat echoing in his tone, and it's something she doesn't miss but it's something she can't accept either.
"Red, look at me. I'm not willing to let this go and just forget about it. That was by no means where I was going with my question. I meant every word I said earlier. And we will figure this out, okay? But I need you with me. I need you to understand that you're deserving of this. I need you to understand that this between us is something good, something extraordinary. You're not a monster, Red. Please believe that. This is not just about me, it's about the two of us."
He's speechless.
He is completely and utterly speechless and he doesn't know what to do next or where to start. Every part of him floods with relief, he is happy, he realizes, truly and overwhelmingly happy and those somber thoughts, they still persist, but it doesn't matter. The only response he can come up with is the one thing he is most sure of- I love you, Lizzie- and of course it's no longer a secret to her and yet she's only now beginning to fully grasp the scope of it all, his anecdotes and metaphors, a ray of light.
When he asks her what she would like to do with the remains of the day, she answers quickly.
"Let's stay. Let's stay just a bit longer."
His smile confirms her request before he can utter a single word and yes, this is how she wants him.
"Lizzie, I think that's a brilliant idea. You're brilliant."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Reddingt-" but he silences her instantly, gently guides her back down, hovers above her. He is good, she thinks, he is so damn good and she'll indulge him gladly, wants him to continue his seduction, the kisses on her neck, his hands tracing her sides. There's such intensity to every single one of his touches, every contact of their skin a new discovery, a story patiently unfolding.
She wants to know every part of him. She wants to get to know him away from the task force, from missions and assignments and criminal empires, no list, no charade.
"We could have dinner at my house later," she remarks suddenly and he stops his caresses to look at her.
He's quite certain he'll wake up from this any second now. Reality is never this generous.
Another kiss, full and tender.
"Like I said, Lizzie. Brilliant."
