Disclaimer: I don't own them!
Author's Note: Don't throw things. It's not my fault. The characters do what they want to; I just write it down. Blame them.
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Chapter 9
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When Liz woke up, three hours later, it was to the feeling of a gentle hand pushing strands of hair away from her face. She stayed still, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the soft brush of a thumb across her brow and down her cheek. The room was warm, and through her closed eyelids she could tell the sun was streaming in through the boarded-up windows.
"Mmm... what time is it?" she murmured, stretching while she buried her face in the pillow.
"It's time to go," Reddington's voice answered, soft, but with authority.
Liz opened her eyes and raised up onto her elbows, greeted by the sight of Reddington, standing over her at the bedside, fully dressed, and not smiling. "You're already up," she said redundantly. An unbearable feeling of cheapness swept over her, and she kicked at the sense of rejection as it wrapped a cold hand around her ankle.
"I'll give you some time to get dressed, but we should go. Take what you need from the box; leave the rest." Reddington started toward the door. He was already wearing his shoes, and the ball cap from the day before was already on his head.
Liz choked down the next several savage things that came to her mind, trying not to overreact, and instead asked flatly, "What did you do—wait til I dozed off, and then immediately get back up? Did you even sleep at all?"
"A little," Reddington said, unemotionally, pulling the door closed behind him and refusing to meet her eyes.
Liz pushed herself angrily off the bed and dressed quickly. She closed the door to the bathroom a little too loudly, but couldn't bring herself to care as she shoved a toothbrush in her mouth.
Her reflection in the rusted mirror caught her eye and she paused. The blonde hair wasn't bad... But she didn't look like herself. She looked through the rest of the toiletries and dragged a brush through her hair before pulling it up into a messy ponytail.
She didn't pause to look at Reddington as she strode through the front room, past where he sat at the table. She didn't slow as she reached the door, and continued toward the car without a backward glance.
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Liz was already in the front seat, stubbornly facing forward when Reddington emerged from the small house a few minutes later. He locked the door, and tossed the key into an area of unkempt tall grass and weeds on his way to the car. Rather than heading toward the driver's side, he opened Liz's door and leaned across her to unbuckle her belt. He stepped back immediately, and when she looked up at him in confusion, he reached for the door to the backseat, opening it, too.
Liz swung her legs out of the car, but didn't stand up. After a moment of staring at each other, Reddington said matter-of-factly, "Backseat." Liz raised her eyebrows, unsure how to respond. Reddington continued, "You're in the back one more day. Then, if we can be sure no-one's following us, we can discuss you riding shotgun." Reddington left Liz to make the switch herself, and walked quickly to the other side of the car.
"It's going to be a really miserable road trip if you refuse to talk to me about this," Liz called over the SUV as she slammed the passenger door closed and climbed into the back.
"Misery loves company. Good thing we've got each other, isn't it?" Reddington said stoically, starting the car.
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Liz lay curled on her side across the backseat. They'd ridden in silence for the better part of an hour, and she'd managed to run through multiple fictitious fights, unemotional discussions, and a fair number of scenarios involving grand, romantic apologies in her mind while Reddington drove.
If only reality was as easy to script as a daydream.
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Reddington stared out at the bland, flat, seemingly endless horizon. The highway they were traveling on was long and straight, and he could see a fair distance ahead of them as well as behind them. There were no other cars in sight, and Reddington knew it was a good opportunity for Liz to sit up, stretch, and change position without any possibility of being seen.
But if she sat up, he'd see her face in the rear view mirror. As it was, he could glance up and see nothing in the backseat.
The way she had wrapped herself around him, digging her heels into his thighs to urge him closer...
The way she'd desperately pawed at the rest of his clothes to remove them...
The feel of her inner thigh against his lips as he listened to the sound of her begging from inside the car...
Reddington swallowed and clenched his jaw. He gently loosened his grip on the steering wheel, and flipped a map over on the passenger seat for no reason other than needing to perform some benign action.
It was true, he adored being proven right, and saying 'I told you so' came with a unique kind of thrill that never got old, but the regret that scraped at his chest as he drove stole any happiness from him this time.
He'd been horrifyingly, precisely correct. Allowing himself one night with Elizabeth Keen and having to give her up the next day was a blinding kind of torture, and even as he breathed steadily, his shoulders low and relaxed, and an unemotional expression on his face, his chest pounded with a raw, suffocating persistence.
Reddington, briefly wallowing in over-exaggerated fantasy, hoped the devil was paying attention to every second of this day, because if this scenario wasn't currently being used in hell, it was a damn shame, and those burning down there were getting off easy.
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That night they stayed in a small, two-bedroom house at the end of a long street. The entrance was shielded by trees, and there were boxes of toiletries and various clothes left for them again. The lights worked, and after a long day, cramped and ignored in the back of the SUV, Liz made a beeline for the bathroom, almost as much for privacy as for the comfort of a shower.
By the time she emerged, the lamp in the main room had been turned off, and one of the two bedroom doors was closed, no light peeking out from underneath. Liz knew it was rude, and he'd likely hear the attempt, but she decided to push and confirm her suspicion. She gripped the closed door handle, only to find she was unable to turn it. Locked. As expected.
More angry than sullen, she retreated to her room and closed the door.
She was sleeping soundly at midnight when Reddington emerged into the hallway, having come up with the excuse of hearing a noise outside. He checked the locks on the front and back doors, pulled the curtains in the front room to the side to glance out onto the quiet, empty street, and shook his head. He paused to stare at the cheap carpeting beneath his feet for a moment before heading back toward his bed.
Full of intention to lock himself back in his room again, Reddington instead found himself standing at Liz's door. He was a man who was used to always having the answer, always having an eloquent story with which to teach or distract or charm. He was accustomed to a constantly running train of thought—something that generally contributed heavily to his pathological lack of sleep—but as he stood outside the second bedroom, he found his mind completely blank. There was no plan, there was no argument. Just an all-encompassing need.
Reddington's hand gently gripped the door handle, and turned it, quietly easing the door open an inch.
She hadn't locked her door.
He stood, his hand frozen on the cold metal knob, his head bowed forward, his brow furrowed.
After a long moment, Reddington moved his hand around the edge of the door to the handle on the inside. There was a soft click as the button in the center of the handle was pushed. He pulled the door closed, checked to see it was locked, and returned to his room.
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TBC.
