"And these fingertips,
Will never run through your skin,
And those bright blue eyes,
Can only meet mine across the room filled with people,
That are less important than you." – Love Love Love, Of Monsters & Men
Dembe is punctual; the knock on the front door of her apartment in time with the flashing clock on her microwave, ticking over to display that it is exactly nine o'clock in the morning. Liz opens the door without preamble, invites the man inside who offers her a small, and rare, smile. His presence seems to fill up her humble apartment. Unlike Reddington, who seemed to meld into the furniture, help himself to food and coffee and anything within his reach, outlast his welcome, seemingly so at home, Dembe looms. He is so tall, so broad, and even a little bit awkward as he stares at Liz, possibly wondering why they have not made their way down to the car yet.
"I don't mean to be rude, Dembe," she begins, fiddling with her hands as he continues to stare at her, "but why did you have to come so early? Reddington said the gala was tonight."
"Mr Reddington has organised some appointments for you throughout the day," he responds, his voice deep and almost melancholy. She quirks an eyebrow at him, shifts her stance, uncomfortable with whatever Reddington has planned.
"I don't particularly like surprises, Dembe," she says lightly, offering him a smile, even as discomfort worms its way up her spine. Liz has never been fond of the unknown, of not knowing plans. It had rankled her friends and Nick, especially. They had wanted to be spontaneous young adults, to uproot their lives and drive off into the wide world without funds or a plan, to see if there was a place to stay when they got there. The uncertainty made her nervous, and though Liz loves to travel, looks forward to doing more of it in the future, a plan and a backup plan are entirely necessary. She refocusses on Dembe, whose eyes are surprisingly bright, a cheeky grin spreading over his normally stony features.
"Neither do I, but that has never bothered Raymond."
With that he scoops up her handbag, resting as it is on her kitchen bench and passes it to her. They make their way down to the car in silence and as they approach the vehicle, Liz has a brief moment of indecision, not entirely sure if Dembe expects her to seclude herself in the backseat, or to sit with him up the front. Her feet stutter slightly as she decides, hand grasping the passenger side door and yanking it open with too much force. Dembe doesn't seem to notice and smiles as she sits next to him, fiddling for an unnecessarily long time with her seatbelt.
The car hums to life beneath them and Liz, after asking Dembe, adjusts the volume and radio station, music softly filtering through the speakers in the silence. It is not particularly awkward being with Reddington's bodyguard, close friend, confidant; they merely sit comfortably next to each other, neither of them forcing conversation. Occasionally Liz will quietly sing along with one of the songs, and Dembe will quietly hum to others. It is when they pull up and park next to the cafe that Liz had met Reddington at a few days prior that she turns to Dembe to ask,
"So, what's first?"
"Breakfast," He answers as he clambers out of the car, not as graceful as Reddington would, but agile all the same. Liz follows after him into the quaint shop, a table already reserved for them and surprisingly, food already served. A pile of steaming French toast, topped with fresh berries, maple syrup and banana. A coffee sits on a coaster, presumably in Liz's seat, the other beverage being a monstrous hot chocolate that Dembe is eyeing off, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. She huffs a smile as she takes a seat, gathering her cutlery into her hands.
"He is controlling, isn't he?" She remarks, cutting into her meal, watching as the segments of one particular raspberry trapped between knife and fork give way in a spray of red. Dembe laughs, digging into his own meal, simply nodding his head in an exasperated manner.
"We have a strict schedule to stick to," he replies, finishing his mouthful of food, "Raymond insisted that he deal with all the unnecessarily tedious things to save time, beforehand."
Liz smiles, files this titbit away for further analysis, not all that surprised that Reddington is this controlling, but interested all the same and certain that it will irritate and exasperate her in the future. The food, unsurprisingly, and rather annoyingly, is delicious, Reddington's good taste making itself known once more. Her coffee is perfect, as had been the one he had made for her in her apartment the morning before. She still isn't entirely certain how he seemed to know the amount of sugar she took or that she preferred extra milk. She didn't call him out on it, just watched with mild distaste as he drank his own concoction, as black as the abyss of space and as bitter as dark chocolate.
Dembe finishes his meal first, practically inhales it with alarming speed, making Liz wonder how strict Reddington's schedule is. He doesn't, however, hurry her along, just sits in silence as she delicately cuts and bites at her food, savouring the explosion of flavour the berries and syrup supply. Washing her meal down with the last of her coffee she stands and they walk out, without paying. Liz just internally prays that Reddington has paid over the phone when he had so presumptuously ordered for them.
Buckling up her seatbelt once more, Dembe states that he'll be driving Liz to a spa, where she will receive a full-body massage, as well as a manicure and pedicure. She declines immediately, and judging by the way Dembe looks at her, perhaps slightly loudly. As he opens his mouth, brows drawn together, and surely about to protest, Liz cuts him off.
"There is no way I'm going to let that happen, Dembe," she declares, folding her arms across her stomach, "Unless you plan on dragging me in there, I won't be leaving this car."
Sam had always said she was stubborn, almost scary in the way her eyes would blaze and jaw would lock. He'd shuck her under the chin, mulishly raised in the air as is it was, and laugh at her, because she was just as stubborn and strong willed as he was. The streak was ingrained in her, only rearing its head now in dire circumstances, the arguments for ice cream and Barbie dolls long forgotten. Stomping her feet, storming off in a huff, had never been a habit she had made as a child, but glaring, gritting her teeth so hard her dentist would scold her, that she had utilised as much as she possibly could. Liz could tell, at this moment, the face that Dembe is staring at, wide eyed and uncomfortable, is the same face Sam had to deal with in her younger years.
"Shall we go to the dress store instead, Miss Scott?" He asks sheepishly, shifting his grip on the steering wheel as he waits for her reply. A swarm of traffic passes by them, flashing behind him through the tinted window.
"I don't need a new dress, Dembe," she sighs in exasperation, even as she nods her head, ignoring the way he seems to sigh in relief. She hopes that were Reddington in danger, he would be much more resilient, unbending, than to crumple as he did in the face of her obstinate nature. He pulls out into the traffic, the car falling into line seamlessly. They're both quiet for the trip, Liz only feeling slightly guilty at the uncomfortable position she has seemed to put Dembe in.
Liz works hard for everything she has; a lesson that her father had taught her from a young age, perhaps the very night of the fire. Throughout high school, she would work part time at a cafe; at first washing dishes and then as she became older, as a waitress. Her income, as well as the small amount of pocket money Sam would indulge her with, flowed straight into her bank account, into her savings. New shoes, new clothes, were luxuries that Liz never spoiled herself with, never wanted. Saving for a dog had been her first endeavour, but Sam had point blank refused, one of the only things he had never made a compromise for. After that, saving had become almost an obsession and Liz found that she was hesitant to touch the money tucked away, safe and undiminished. Her little fingers would slide under the flap of the envelope containing her bank statement each month, eyes widening as she assessed the figures, never noticing Sam standing over her shoulder, an amused expression gracing his haggard features. When Liz began college, some of the money, as is likely to occur during this specific time in a young adult's life, was spent on alcohol, and the occasional article of clothing to wear to the parties and outings. Still, they were rewards that Liz had worked for, earned. The fact that Reddington, though exceedingly wealthy, is willing to shower Liz with gifts and presents she doesn't need is disconcerting and not entirely appreciated. Gritting her teeth in determination she turns to Dembe.
"And if I refuse to choose a dress?"
He takes his eyes off the road for a moment, to grace her with a smirk, before turning back.
"Then I'll be forced to choose it for you," he responds, tone thick with amusement, "And I do not have the taste or love for clothing, like Raymond does."
She rolls her eyes, but settles back into her seat, spending the remainder of their trip plotting how she will avoid having Reddington make this purchase for her. Her fingers rub along her scar, and thankfully Dembe doesn't seem to notice, or simply decides not to comment on it. A strand of dread, anxiousness, works its way through her body at the thought of choosing a dress for this gala, knowing the standard at which Reddington holds his attire. She could imagine him now, swanning into a crowded room, dressed in some magnificent tuxedo, adorned with the most expensive of accessories. Liz knows that next to him, she will look dull and bland, just a young girl in over her head. Mentally shrugging her shoulders, she settles on the fact that she will choose whatever she desires and what is most comfortable, Reddington and the rest of the guests be damned.
When Dembe rolls the car to a stop, beside a boutique store just shy of the central business district, he doesn't immediately get out the car, instead turning in his seat to face her. His expression is nothing to be alarmed about, Liz feels, even though it is seems extremely determined.
"Elizabeth, Raymond will insist that he pays for this dress and that you keep it," he informs her seriously, until a small, fond smile tugs at his lips, "Accept his gifts. He is a stubborn man and will give you no other choice."
Liz nods her head slowly, still vaguely uncomfortable with the idea, but noticing how sincere, how genuine Dembe is being, she does not have the heart to refuse. Later tonight she can discuss with Reddington the boundaries he is clearly overstepping, clearly destroying. Sliding out of the car the autumn breeze, creeping each day closer to winter, lashes across her face. It causes her eyes to sting, and her ears to ache slightly, an unfortunate injury she had acquired when she was fifteen, jetty jumping. Sam had told her not to jump from such far heights, young and reckless sh had not listened and after landing awkwardly, had done damage to her eardrum and to this day it still causes her trouble. Sam had scolded her as he drove her, very carefully so as not to causes drastic pressure changes, to the hospital. From that day on, she had taken his advice a lot more seriously. With a sigh, she and Dembe hurry inside the store, their clothes getting tugged and tangled in the wind.
The woman that greets them is short, tiny, compared to Dembe's bulking mass. She is robust, with flaxen curls falling around her shoulders and bright green eyes that immediately alight on Elizabeth. Her hands, strong and scarred, gently grab Liz's forearm, and with a smile as bright as the sun, the woman unceremoniously drags Liz around the store, pulling out all sorts of frocks and gowns of various colours. Dembe has stepped away, is not seeing the bewildered looks Liz is sending his way, eyes glued to the screen of his phone. For a moment, an extremely brief moment, Liz wonders if he is making contact with his employer, before another dressed is pressed up against her and the woman, who she has discovered is named Lyndy, is excitedly jabbering on about silk, stitching and sequins.
Liz finds herself hustled into a changing room, hands full of coat hangers, the material of the dresses tangling around her legs as she stumbles in. Lyndy tears the curtain of the change room closed with excitement, the silver rings slithering along the bar. Not having had a moment to decide whether she actually likes any of the garments that have been thrust in to her hands, she takes notice now, hanging them individually on the abundance of hooks that line the impressively large room. There are sequined dresses, and lace dresses, dresses with slits up the sides and backless dresses, all in a variety of blues and greens, mostly winter colours, but the red dress, vibrant and bright, causes Liz to smile. She doubts that Lyndy alone decided on that particular garment. As she begins the torturous process of wriggling into numerous amounts of clothing, she can hear the deep rumble of Dembe's voice and Lyndy chattering with him, about suits and fedoras and when Reddington will be in next to see her.
Dress after dress she steps out to be assessed by the shop assistant, twirled in front of a mirror, walked up and down the store, all the while Dembe watches on in silence, only giving a nod of approval when Liz meets his gaze. When he doesn't particularly like what she is dressed in, he tends to tilt his head to the side, much like Reddington. Zippers get caught in material, bodices underneath bunch around her waist, every now and then the dreaded sound of stitches ripping pairs with the puffing that Liz emits and she falls still, moving much more cautiously, acutely aware of the price tags dangling on the clothing, all hand written. Finally she tugs on the last dress, the red dress, and predictably, it is stunning. The fit is perfect, accenting every curve, flowing down her body as smooth as water. Lace stretches across her chest, makes the long sleeves that run down to the middle of her forearm. A slit reveals her upper thigh, dangerously high, teasing. The train, pooling around her feet like blood, still allows her to move with grace, with ease.
And when she steps out, when Lyndy finally stops talking, jaw clicking shut and Dembe is smiling brightly at her, she knows that this will be the dress she takes home, even if it fuels Reddington's narcissistic behaviour. With a slight huff, she spins around in a circle, her bare feet cool on the wooden floorboards. She is aware that her face is as red as the dress, the frustrating amount of energy that goes into trying on clothes, leaving her tacky with sweat. When Lyndy approaches her with a pair of black heels, she smothers a groan and plonks down onto the nearest seat, ignoring Dembe's huff of laughter. The dress gathers around her, the material silky smooth, cool against her skin.
Thankfully, the first pair of heels fit and suit the gown and before long Liz is back in her knit jumper and jeans. She stands by the counter, shifting on her feet and desperately trying to ignore the figure displayed on the cash register as Dembe pays for Liz's newest article of clothing. He carries her gear out to the car, the dress bagged and safe as he lays it gently across the backseat, placing the shoebox in the foot-well. Liz is already sitting the car when he makes his way to the driver's side, feeling awkward and uncomfortable with the unnecessary service, but he doesn't seem to notice, turning to her with a soft smile on his face.
"I take it you would not be pleased if I were to say that you now have a hair and makeup appointment?"
Liz shakes her head with a soft laugh, thankful that he has recognised her discomfort; she thinks that if he had been Reddington, the Concierge of Crime would have dragged her off either way, despite how she felt about the whole thing.
"Shall we go back to the hotel and see Raymond then?"
That, she nods to, thinking that perhaps at the hotel she will be able to sneak off and get some lunch, her stomach quietly grumbling in agreement. And thankfully, as she grows more fidgety in her seat, hunger relentlessly clawing at her insides, the hotel is only a few blocks away, deeper into the city. The Intercontinental is a great towering building, magnificent stone pillars supporting the enormous structure. A line of taxis queue before the grand entrance, as do copious other flashy cars and sedans like the one Dembe and Liz are currently in. Even from within the vehicle, Liz can see that the reception area is extravagant, all marble floors, artful bouquets of flowers, soft lighting and beautiful antique furniture. A doorman, an older man with a kind smile, opens the door for her, grabs her hand to guide her out and onto the pavement, spotless and most likely brushed every morning. With a nod of thanks and what Liz see's to be a generous tip, Dembe leads her into the hotel.
The glimpse from outside did not do the reception justice. Chandeliers hang above them, golden and glowing, the crystals that adorn them glinting and sparkling. Rugs, some the size of Liz's apartment, blanket the floors, the deepest of colours and the most intricate of patterns. The pillars, marble, reach up to the roof and Liz has to crane her neck to see the juncture where ceiling and stone meet. Art decorates the walls, tapestries and painting, portraits. Guests of the hotel mill around the room, all dressed in the most expensive of clothing, all so obviously sophisticated and wealthy. She tugs self-consciously on her clothing, hoping that Dembe will not let them linger, will take them straight to the relative safety of Reddington's suite. Liz knows that he will be dressed similar, doesn't dismiss the possibility that he sleeps in a suit.
Dembe leads them straight to the elevator, and it is then that Liz notices a young teenager trailing after them, her dress carefully draped over his arm. He does not make eye contact with her, his face a mask, as if he is trying to appear invisible. She wonders how many of the guests ignore his presence entirely, whether in the future this blatant dismissal of his existence will have an effect on him. Tearing her eyes away from him, she steps into the elevator, heart rate stumbling as she realises that she is going to once again be in close quarters with Reddington. She hopes that she will soon get used to the idea. The silence in the lift is suffocating and with chagrin Liz realises that the ride is so quiet because the elevator does not rattle and bump as like the one at home. The quiet ding when they reach their floor isn't crackling through the speakers either.
The boy follows them diligently down the corridor, only stopping when they reach the suite's door, passing the dress to Dembe and receiving a generous tip with a small smile and a grateful nod of his head. Liz watches as he darts back down towards the lift, thinking that he is most likely the wealthiest child at his high school. Shaking her head, she steps into the room, as extravagant and outrageously lavish as the rest of the hotel. With all the paintings, the rugs, the gleaming silver and crystal vases, the polished marble floors and dark mahogany furniture, there lacks any kind of personal artefact, nothing that makes the room a home. Until Reddington steps out from one of the adjacent rooms, filling the space with his presence, capable of settling anywhere comfortably, smile bright and eyes warm as they rest on her.
He glances down at his watch, an eyebrow quirking as he checks the time. His jacket is missing, but if he had been wearing it, it would have been a deep blue, to match his vest and slacks. The crisp white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, tie discarded and the top buttons undone to reveal the tanned skin of his chest, a sprinkling of chest hair. Typically, a glass is cradled in his hand, amber liquid shining from within and Liz wonders if there is a time he isn't drinking. Dembe has disappeared off into the suite, with the dress and shoes and Liz is grateful that Reddington won't get the chance just yet to gloat about the colour.
"Don't you have a makeup and hair appointment to be at?" He rumbles in amusement, tilting his head to observe the way she frowns at him, obviously exasperated.
"I am perfectly capable of doing my own hair and makeup, thank you," she replies sharply, not willing to back down under his unwavering gaze. Dembe steps back into the room and Liz watches as Reddington's gaze slowly shifts to the other man. When he looks back at Liz, his expression has softened, he's smiling at her.
"Of course you are, Lizzie," he says quietly, and Liz briefly wonders if he is testing her, before he continues, "However, I myself do enjoy a manicure, and you are most welcome to join me."
A knock sounds behind her and Dembe instantly moves, hand casually hanging by his hip where his gun must be holstered, as he opens the door. Stepping through the threshold, somewhat nervously, is a petite woman, pretty on the eyes, with dark brown hair curling down past her shoulder blades. Her smile is nervous, but her teeth are straight, eyes darting around them room taking each of them in, when they alight on Reddington, she gives him a polite nod.
"Lizzie, this is my dear manicurist, Rose Heredia," he introduces, striding forwards, offering an arm to the woman who is smiling now at Liz in greeting. Her hands are laden with bags, all sorts of equipment piled within. "How was your flight?"
Liz has to turn away, her eyes meeting with Dembe's amused ones. She feels as if she should be surprised that Raymond Reddington would fly a specific woman in, from God knows where, to perform a manicure, of all things, but she isn't. Reddington has led Rosa over to the couch, where she is tying back her hair, before laying out her equipment. Reddington is chatting to her excitedly, in her foreign tongue, fluent and fluid, so totally at home with the words and dialect rolling of his tongue. Everything he does seems so effortless, so natural, his movements, his language, actions, nothing sapping his energy or becoming a struggle. Rosa seems to relax, her smile coming far more easily, her movements not as calculated. She indicates for her employer to sit, and he does so, delicately placing his hand on the cloth she has provided, as if this is a process he goes through frequently.
When Reddington turns to her expectantly, shifting his position on the couch, smile still in place, she makes her way over to stand before him, fidgeting awkwardly on her feet as she waits. His hand, the one not currently grasped in Rosa's, moves towards her on the cushion before stilling. The movement is telling. So Liz sits beside him, and without falter he launches in to anecdote after anecdote, occasionally murmuring to Rosa in a foreign tongue, needling at Liz's patience. He tells her stories about the man Rosa is currently dating; a man who is employed as a bullfighter, a man who lost a finger though not due to his profession, but instead when he was fishing. A man with such fast reflexes, who can run from and evade bulls, but is not quite fast enough getting his fingers away from a shark he caught off the coast of Mexico. It is interesting to watch him converse, drawing both she and Rosa in with his enthusiasm, his stifled hand gestures as Rosa files his nails. Dembe brings drinks, sits opposite them in silence, offering Reddington a smile or two when he glances over to him. He is at ease in this hotel, with Dembe, obviously, and apparently with Rosa, and with her, the fledgling FBI agent he has so quickly and without thought, brought under his wing.
"Rosa was trained at the Latin American School of Medicine," he says during a rare lull in conversation.
"You went to medical school?" Liz asks Rosa with vaguely concealed surprise.
"Oh yes," she replies, voice heavily accented, "I was studying to be a trauma surgeon."
"Dropped out in the last year," Reddington whispers, and Liz snaps her head back to meet his gaze. She feels her lips pull into a thin line, quirks a brow at him. He immediately looks amused, as if he knows he has been caught out, is impressed by her intuition. She toys with her words, wonders if she should give him the satisfaction.
"Dropped out or paid to leave? A trauma surgeon, official or not would be handy to have nearby for someone like you."
Neither of them replies, Reddington merely grins at her, eyes sparking as if he is proud, and a pink blush creeps over Rosa's cheeks, her eyes entirely avoiding Liz's. She thinks that perhaps it was discourteous of her to approach the topic with Reddington while Rosa was in the room, impolite. Swallowing down her guilt, she offers Rosa a wobbly smile, which the other woman nods her head at, focussing back onto Reddington's digits. His fingers are elegant, nails now polished and cleaned, sculptured. Tanned skin is dusted with golden hairs on each of his knuckles, no sign of the lives he has taken, no blood blemishing the smooth skin. The veins that run through them are like cords, some softly tinged with blue, just tucked away under the surface, so vulnerable. They twitch every now and then, with the rising of his deep voice; they fidget with the rising excitement of his story. A man that is so in control of his features, giving telltale signs with his body, no matter how he suppresses them under his suits and dulls them with his cigars and drink. He is human and it is as intriguing as it is horrifying.
"Thank you, Rosa," Reddington says kindly, expecting his expertly polished and filed nails, "Lizzie, would you like a turn?"
Rosa turns to her expectantly, eyes smiling even if her mouth is hidden behind her blue mask. Liz nods her head, conceding with reluctance, and shifts seats with Reddington, feeling the warmth from his body seeping into her. She rests her hand down on the cloth, ignoring the feeling of her cuticles being pushed back, the gritty feeling of the nail file wearing away at her nails, the rough metal occasionally brushing against her fingertips. Reddington looks all too pleased with himself, so Liz closes her eyes, relaxes into the soft cushions as Rosa does her work, ignoring him entirely. Eventually she feels him stand, and after cracking an eyelid open, watches him make his way to the kitchen, briefly patting Dembe on the shoulder. Her eyes slips shut once more
With a tap on her shoulder and Rosa murmuring softly, Liz wakes to find that her nails have been well taken care of, thankfully not painted bright red, but polished and shining. She smiles and says her thanks, eyes flickering over the room for either Dembe or Reddington. Neither of them is to be seen and she looks at Rosa uncertainly as she gathers her gear. Liz glances around for Reddington's jacket, not too fussed about rifling through his pockets and finding his wallet if it meant she could pay Rosa.
"Has Reddington paid you?" She asks with an uncomfortable smile, hoping that one of the men would soon return and deal with the transaction. No one emerges from the adjoining rooms as Rosa stands, nodding her head at Liz.
"Oh yes, Mr Reddington has already organised it."
With a sigh of relief, Liz bids Rosa goodbye, guiding her out of the hotel suite and watching her wander down the corridor. Such a seemingly innocent woman, nothing of significant note, entangled with one of the most elusive and dangerous criminals, tending to hands that have shot, stabbed, and throttled their way into forming and sculpting an empire, a kingdom of ill intent. Liz closes the door quietly behind her, turning and looking into the empty suite. Tentatively, she wanders deeper into the room, peering down corridors, listening for the deep rumble of their voices. She can hear them, murmuring, and moving further down the hallway, peers around the corner and into the study.
They are hunched over a document, talking in hushed tones, falling silent when Reddington looks over to the doorway, his expression serious. Liz takes a timid step into the room, waiting for him to smile at her, for his face to light up as it tends to do when he looks upon her. It doesn't, but he does approach her, manila folder in hand. Stopping just in front of her, the tips of his leather shoes touching those of her boots, coming perilously close to invading her personal space, he says,
"Ah, Lizzie, how did it all go?" He grasps her hand gently, raises it to his eye level and scrutinises her nails. Nodding his head firmly in satisfaction, he releases her. "I suggest that we both begin to get ready for our night ahead. Dembe will bring us something to eat before we go."
He leads her out of the study, leaving Dembe behind to order them room service, and down the corridor to a bedroom. Cracking open the door, the room is just as splendid as the rest of the suite, the pristine white sheets of the bed stark in the dark colours. The splash of red splayed over it, blaring against the bleached white, draws both sets of eyes immediately. Surprisingly, Reddington stays quiet in regards to Liz's attire, merely stating that there are an assortment of toiletries and make-ups in the ensuite, that everything has been organised, which Liz frowns at, contemplating how he knew she would refuse to go to the make-up appointment. She thanks him, and smiles as the door clicks shut, before pulling off her clothing and padding her way into the shower.
Small tubes, a great assortment of them, are positioned by the sink, varying types of shampoos with different brands, different scents, conditioners, soaps and body gels. There are moisturisers and natural oils, make-ups, and even varying toothpastes. Every possibly taste, preference, is catered for and Liz can't help but make her way through all the bottles, flicking off the lids and inhaling, taking care to decide on her favourites. With them in hand, almost spiling from her grasp, she places them all on the floor of the shower, the sheer size of it overwhelming; almost the size of Liz's entire bathroom. The showerheads, wide gleaming pieces of metal, the size of dinner plates, douse her naked body in warm water when she flicks on the taps. She takes her time washing, using all the products at her disposal, exfoliating, shaving, lathering her hair, pampering herself.
When she steps out the shower, she grabs a towel from the rack. They are thick, the gentle softness of Egyptian cotton under her water-wrinkled fingers. She wraps herself in their embrace, making her way through the steam of the bathroom and out into the bedroom, snagging a bottle of moisturiser on her way out. Her legs are smooth, not as tanned as she would like, the sun not having kissed them as the season creeps into the chill of winter. As she towels at her hair, wraps it up and balances it on her head, there is a knock at the door and she freezes, stark naked.
"Lizzie," Reddington's voice says, muffled through the door, "The food has arrived, take your time, we'll save you some."
And with that she can hear his footsteps retreat down the corridor and she feels as if she can breathe again. Hurriedly, she tugs on her underwear, just simple cotton and not well suited to her dress at all. Glancing around the room, she recalls that Reddington had said that everything had been catered for. Making her way over to a set of draws, she opens one to discover quite a variety of underwear. She looks at the garments; all with their tags still attached, and she swallows back the feeling of discomfort it brings her, quickly discovering that boundaries with Reddington do not exist. The black lace underwear and matching bra she chooses are practical, and comfortable.
Deciding to forgo dinner, past the state of hunger, assuming that there will be some at the gala, she begins her hair. Twisting it up into a bun, artfully messy, she sticks countless pins into it, to insure it remains in place. Loose locks caress her cheeks, framing her face, adding a softness to her sharper than usual features. Her appetite has still not fully returned; her pronounced cheekbones like pillars of grief for Sam. Glancing at the mirror, she begins her make-up. Smokey eyes and red lipstick, is what she settles on, staring at her underwear clad body in the mirror, the dress resting behind her like a blazing beacon. Turning, she picks up the garment, feels the silk and lace under her fingers and breathes deeply. She is nervous, her stomach twisting into knots as she slips the material over her head. It fits as it did in the store, wholly, flawlessly. The zipper, she had learnt, was impossible to do by herself. So with great trepidation, after she has tugged on her heels, she makes her way out into the lounge, greeted by the site of the two men picking at a tray of tapas.
Reddington has his back to her and is dressed in a tuxedo, as she had predicted. Dembe looks as if he will be staying home, dressed as casually as he is, and Liz frowns at the thought; Reddington would look bizarre without his looming shadow, his steadfast companion. When Dembe stops eating, stares over his shoulder with a small smile, Reddington turns in his seat, stopping sharply when his eyes come to rest on Liz. The dip on the flatbread he is holding, drops with a splat down on the table; a few centimetres more and it would have landed on his trousers. It seems that only Dembe and Liz notice the near miss.
"Lizzie," he murmurs her name, not dissimilar to the way he first spoke to her in the warehouse, the first time she had laid eyes upon him. It's breathless, stunned, and in awe. The tone of his voice is rough, like steel rasping over stone, almost erotic. His tongue rolls over his teeth, pink between his parted lips, briefly running over them as well. She finds herself smiling at him, releasing a shaky breath and feeling heat tinge her cheeks and neck under his watchful gaze.
He looks at her like she is art; hours spent forging herself into something beautiful, inspiring, something worth looking at. He looks at her like she is art; afraid to touch, sure that his fingers are impure, will smudge her delicate features. He looks at her like she is art; a landscape, a roaring sea, a dark forest, a sunset, a portrait, a memory. He stares and he stares, eyes drifting over every inch of her skin, heat trailing in their wake. He looks at her like she is everything.
When she realises he won't speak, that he possibly can't, she smirks at him and takes a step forward, eyes drawn to his bowtie, not even slightly crooked. He manages to smile back at her, clears his throat once, and as he goes to speak, Liz cuts him off.
"You look very smart," she compliments, meeting his gaze. He tilts his head at her, a frown creasing his brows before smoothing. Huffing out a laugh he thanks her, and noticing that her dress is still undone at the back, he moves around her, fingertips brushing along her spine, shivers trailing in their wake. He then offers her food, drink, both of which she declines. So, with one last bite of his meal, he decides that they may as well head to the event early, get in before everyone else does. He seems slightly flustered and it makes Liz's cheeks ache from her grin, even as she takes his arm and is led down to the car. Eyes track them through the foyer; the women's drawn to Reddington and the men's drawn to Liz. She feels him tug her closer and she obliges. The length of her body, the slit in her dress, is pressed up against him until they split, sliding into the car and secluding themselves from the leering outside world.
Dembe moves the sedan into the night and they are on the road once more, white and red lights gliding past them like hovering jewels, diamonds and rubies. Liz isn't entirely sure where they are even going, thinks that there couldn't possibly be a more magnificent building than the one they just exited. Reddington sits silently beside her, fiddling with his cufflinks, tugging at his sleeves. The lights paint over his features, highlight his golden lashes, jade eyes, silvering sideburns. He looks handsome, even with his expression so blank, as it is at this moment. The cupid bow of his lips cradles a shadow, as does the dip in his chin. She wonders if this man, this enigma, is carrying a weapon, has it tucked away beneath his suit, hidden from the outside world until he feels it is fit to release it. He is dangerous, ridiculously so, but Liz cannot seem to tear herself away from him, finds herself drawn to him, as if in orbit. It is terrifying, intoxicating.
They roll to a stop, not far from where they began, and the building towers up into the sky. Warm and inviting light spills onto the road, onto the gleaming bitumen, a sprinkling of rain having begun to fall from the cloudy sky. From the car they step onto a carpet, not red, but black, leading to the stair case, once again made of white marble, damp now. A man comes to greet them, obviously a member of staff, dressed all in black. He greets Reddington with a bow of the head, eyes lingering a little too long on Liz. They climb their way up the stairs, queuing behind the other guests making their way through security. She finds that she is eyeing Reddington nervously; worried he will be detected, apprehended, taken away. He looks completely at ease, however, and when he catches her staring, he smiles encouragingly, leading her the last few steps where a man gently scans them both with a metal detector, before admitting them in.
The room opens out before them, glamorous and alluring. Positioned as they are, above the ballroom, there are great stone staircases that coil down, allowing access to the guests that mill about the room, so sophistically dressed, murmuring amongst themselves, embracing old friends and business partners. Music lulls around them, soft violins and cellos, a band tucked away in the corner, couples swaying before them. There are towering bouquets of flowers, colourful and fragrant, tables laden with glasses of champagne. Waiters and waitresses dart through the room unnoticed until they so politely offer drinks and food. Once more, hanging from the ceiling, high above them, are golden and illuminated chandeliers. The filigree is intricate and gleaming as it runs along where wall and ceiling meet, sparkling in the low light. Tables are lit with candles, the wax slowly dripping onto blindingly white cloths. The beauty of the place is overwhelming, and Liz takes a moment to stare, hand still gripping Reddington's arm.
"Shall we join the crowd?" Reddington murmurs in her ear, lips brushing against skin, causing her to jump slightly, before nodding her head, watching as his eyes scan the throng of dignitaries. They descend the stairs at a slow pace; Liz bunching her dress so the train does not tangle in her heels. She finds that she is still pressed to Reddington's side, can smell his cologne, refreshing, like the sea, tinged with lemongrass.
It is if as soon as he steps onto the floor, they become the centre of attention, bodies turning fully to look at them, magnetised. Women track Reddington with lust filled gazes, eyes clouded with desire. Men head to the back of the room, where a bar stretches from end to end, to buy drinks, to buy the best scotch they can afford, neat, like Reddington prefers it. The room seems to convert into a hive, hurried movements, but silent, eerily so, as if they hope he does not notice their obvious actions, tactics. Liz feels as if it is the calm before the storm, and rightly so. Reddington smiles to someone in the crowd and then it becomes a race, to see which associates, business partners, allies, can approach the Concierge of Crime first.
They are swarmed, and Liz feels wildly overwhelmed. He introduces her to couple after couple, man after man, woman after woman, embracing each and all of them with a smile on his face and joy in his tone. Some of them look upon her with barely concealed disdain, judge her age, her gender. Her importance is nothing compared to Reddington, but when he turns to her, when he looks at her and his eyes seem that tiny bit brighter, smile seemingly more genuine, she smiles back. She greets these strangers even as they glare, give limp handshakes, those that come across cold and hostile towards her, but still so polite to Reddington. And those that dismiss her are quickly dismissed themselves by Reddington, expertly so, leaving them wondering about his concealed insults and quick departure. And there are many that are kind to her, welcome her, include her in their conversations, even as she notices Reddington steering the discussion in whatever direction he desires, away from the more dubious of his dealings. They offer her champagne and ask how she met Raymond, Red, Reddington, the old dog, and while she sputters for a reply the man himself cuts in, offering a story, silky smooth and without falter.
When she finally escapes, her cheeks hurting from smiling, both authentic and fake, and finds herself sitting at the bar, desperately seeking solitude, she discovers that her eyes are always drawn back to him. He is mesmerising to watch, the way he converses with others with such ease, holds the attention of all. Out of those that flock around him, it is easy to see who is there out of duty, out of pure fear, Liz can see it in their eyes, in the way they fiddle with their hands, their drinks. Others are there for love, for respect, some that simply adore Reddington, no matter the atrocities he has committed. She sees politicians speaking with him in hushed tones, the corruption of the American Government so blatantly obvious before her eyes. And others speak close to his ear when they believe no one to be looking, organising shady dealings that Liz wants no part of. A twinge in her gut, alerts her to the fact that she should be disgusted by his behaviour, furious that he would so willingly break the law, and blatantly in front of her. Instead she only feels forfeit, is even slightly amused by it. He is magnificent, charismatic, electric, addictive. Liz can't seem to tear her eyes away, and he catches her staring, his eyes returning to her as frequently as she looks for him. He'll offer her a smile, a nod, and return to his companions, understanding that she needs time alone, is overwhelmed.
He drinks and drinks, scotch and champagne, the only visual affect is the red tinge creeping up his ears. Liz knows that he is well acquainted with the effects of alcohol, is able to keep his body under complete control, drinking as much and as habitually as he does. Solicitously he accepts every drink offered, and Liz wonders how a man such as him can trust these people, criminals, what makes him feel safe. Every now and then, when he looks back to check on her, he'll raise a drink in her direction, as if in a silent toast.
It is later into the night, after she has turned down several persistent men that she realises that they came to this gala for a reason, for a Blacklister. Reddington hasn't mentioned anything to her, and she, caught up in the events of the day, in Reddington's constant chatter, hadn't thought to ask earlier in the evening. She glances around the room now, sceptically, wondering if her eyes have roamed over their target unknowingly. There is no hope in telling, in even knowing if there actually is a target, unless she braves the crowds to find Reddington, which she currently does not feel like attempting. The thought crosses her mind that Reddington purely brought her here for her company, that there is no Blacklister, no target, just a night out, something to get her out of the house.
"Hello," a voice greets from behind her and startled Liz turns on her chair to meet chocolate brown eyes staring back at her. The stranger smiles brightly, his curly hair tied back into a ponytail and his eyes are inviting. "I'm Jordan."
She greets him, shakes his offered hand and indulges in general small talk, even accepts the drink he so kindly orders for her. Still, her eyes graze over the room, searching for Reddington, whom she cannot see. Jordan is nice, has just joined an extremely successful law firm, and is absolutely in awe by the guests at this particular event. Liz simply smiles at him, agrees, even though she realises he has not the slightest clue about the men and women that surround him. After another drink, one that this time she said she did not need, but that he ordered anyway, Liz is beginning to tire of his incessant chattering. She isn't particularly interested in what college he attended, where he has travelled, the famous public figures he has met through his work. He is trying to be kind, that she can recognise, but it is quickly growing tiresome. When he asks her to dance, persisting when she declines, Liz finds herself unwillingly dragged out onto the dance floor, pulled uncomfortably close to his chest, his hands dangerously low on her hips.
Sam had always taught Liz to be independent, strong and assertive with men. As a young girl, he had raised her to stand up for herself, taught her that she was an equal, worthy of everyone's respect. And Liz had believed him, had tried desperately to make him proud and in the process put many boys and men in their place during both school and college. Until she had met Nick, Liz believed that she would never fall vulnerable to the harmful words that could be uttered by the opposite sex. He had been scathing, but she had forgiven him, she had loved him, and as he whispered and yelled and flippantly belittled her, the confidence she had built, all those years ago under the watchful eye of Sam, had crumbled.
That is why she finds herself dancing with this stranger, her rhythm awkward and entirely uncomfortable. She feels herself tripping over her feet, his feet, and when his brows draw into an irritated frown, she gathers her courage around her, prepares herself to thank him for the dance and disappear in to the crowd, to dismiss his advances. As she opens her mouth, Jordan rocks to a stop, eyes looking quizzically over her shoulder.
"Would you mind if I have this next dance?" Reddington's voice rumbles behind her, so deep, so soothing. She pulls away from Jordan, is smiling before she turns, relieved to have found him. He places his palm delicately on her hip, enclosing her small hand in his own, dry and warm. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, encouraging.
Of course he leads, without falter, as fluent a dancer as he is in everything else in life. Liz follows, without stumbling, without stepping on his toes, her eyes glued to his. They flow around the room, her dress fanning out around her legs as he spins her. She laughs with him as he guides her, murmuring advice, commenting when she gets too close to his toes. Other couples dance around them, gossiping about Raymond Reddington and the young girl on his arm. Neither of them notice, Reddington used to being a spectacle to the masses, and Liz entirely enraptured in their dance, focussing on not tripping, on the smile he is bestowing upon her. When she steps closer, his grip tightening around her waist, possessive in nature, all she can feel is his warmth, all she can see is the flecks of gold in his eyes, and smell the sea.
"What about our Blacklister?" she merely has to whisper, pressed as close to his chest as she is. He is looking down at her so fondly, endearingly, as if the potential of some assassin, terrorist, child slaver, lurking around them is of no matter, that she shouldn't worry herself.
"They didn't show," he replies, "I'm not entirely sure, nor interested, as to why. I've found another target, another organisation, but I will need to gather further information before I am able to indulge the details."
She frowns at him, and as he laughs at her, releasing her hand, warm now, smoothing a thumb across her brow, wiping the crinkling lines soft. The action stuns her, and for a moment all she can do is look at him, his eyes focussing more on his fingertips as they brush back tendrils of her hair. When he glances back down, tongue running along his lips, she lets out a breath and the music softens around them, drifting off until it is nothing. They remain, Reddington with his hand on her hips and hers on his shoulders, on the dance floor long after the song has finished. It is Reddington that steps away first, leading her away and back into the crowds by the hand. She finds that she doesn't let go, is unwilling to do so, as is Reddington.
He says his goodbyes as the throngs of people begin to thin, the night crawling to morning and drowsiness weighing down Liz's limbs. She knows that he will take her back to his hotel, will expect her to stay the night, and she will do so, feels safe with he and Dembe, as disconcerting as it seems when she thinks on it too long. To the men and women that were kind to her, made her feel welcome, she bids them farewell as well, specifically searches through the crowds to do so.
And then they are stepping out into the street, the drizzling rain still settled above the city. Dembe is waiting for them, and Reddington opens the door and ushers her inside hurriedly, out of the rain. They're on their way almost instantaneously, and through the trip Liz has to battle the fatigue that plagues her, deepens her breathing, tugs at her eyelids. She thinks that Reddington has noticed, hearing him smother a huff of laughter as her head sags to her chest. Liz is exceedingly grateful when they arrive at Reddington's latest hotel, dragging her weary body out the car and through the foyer as if on autopilot. She can feel his hand on her elbow, see him smiling at the staff they pass, until they are safely enclosed in the elevator. Liz lets her head thud against the cool steel walls, blinking heavily. They snap open with the ding of the doors.
Dembe is the first through the door of their suite, and even through the haze of her thickening exhaustion, Liz can see his hand hovering over his weapon. As soon as they are through the door, both of the men, after Reddington deposits Liz on the couch, head to the fridge. They crack open the right hand side of the double-door steel monster, to reveal the freezer, tubs of sorbet. Dembe gets three bowls out and Reddington serves, Liz watching from her place on the couch, the cushions enveloping her form. She flicks off her shoes as Dembe brings her a bowl, the two scoops bright red, raspberry sorbet. In the peripheral of her vision, she can see Reddington fossicking around in a draw, before revealing a chessboard. Sucking on a spoonful of her frozen treat, the sweet and sour tastes exploding on her tongue, a harmony of flavours, she watches as Reddington prepares the board.
He sits across from Dembe, white pieces moving first. Liz follows the match through bleary eyes, wondering if this is how Reddington finishes his evenings after a night socialising; a bowl of ice cream and a game of chess. Of course there is scotch, a crystal tumbler by his elbow. He sips at it after each move, his eyes darting over the board, sparing a glance for nothing but the game. A skilled tactician, it is the only way to describe him, as he moves piece after piece, in a pattern and strategy that only he knows. It makes sense as to why he rose to power so easily, constructed his powerful empire, all while evading the ever watchful eye of Governments and secret services. He is brilliant, intelligent, his mind a whirling mass of tactics, plans, a million solutions to every possible problem that may arise. Dembe holds his own, a grim expression on his face as he sacrifices one of his pieces. Liz can see that Reddington has tutored the younger man, his own strategies similar to that of the Concierge of Crime's, just not as potently lethal.
She tries to stay awake, tucked into the corner of the couch, tries to watch the men finish their game. Her bowl, empty now, rests on the carpeted floor, spoon a strip of silver inside it. Eyes focussed on the glinting metal, she doesn't realise when they slide shut, doesn't notice the blackness creeping into her vision, her limbs twitching as she falls into slumber. The men sitting across from her, however, do. Reddington is looking upon her with a soft smile, daring to drag his eyes away from the board. Their quiet murmuring does bring her back to reality, rouses her from sleep, eyes remaining stubbornly closed.
"Would you like me to move her?" She can hear Dembe ask, his voice and accent so distinctive, seemingly more so now that she cannot see him. There is a shifting of material, closer.
"No," Reddington whispers from above, "I'll handle it."
She feels his fingertips, feather-light, drag away the tendrils of hair that have fallen into her face; she feels them run over her scalp. Goosebumps rise over her skin in their wake, a shiver running through her body. Opening bleary eyes, she looks at him, smiling softly, sleepily, before murmuring and burying her head into the back of the couch. Reddington's soft, amused, laughter peels through the room, and then he says her name, tells her to go to bed. She doesn't respond, only buries her face deeper, blocking out the light and hoping the darkness will welcome her into a dreamless sleep. The firm hands, sliding under her knees, around her back, the assault on her senses, startle her. The lemongrass, the scent of him, envelops her as he lifts her into his arms, pulling her to his chest as he did when they danced earlier in the night. Feeling secure, his gait steady as they move through the room, she curls her fingers into his shirt, nuzzles into the warmth of his body, certain the cool sheets of her bed will be a shock to her system once she slides under them.
Thankfully, the door to her room is already open and he is able to walk in without having to jostle her around to free a hand. She cracks open her eyes as he approaches the bed, but instead of lying her upon it, he puts her down on her feet, giving her no option but to stand, her dress falling around her. He spins her in a slow circle, and Liz is aware of the growing tension, the growing intimacy of the moment, as his hands glide up the small of her back, over shoulder blades to rest at the base of her neck, fiddling with the zip. The sound of the metal sliding on metal is like an earthquake in the silence, a slow steady rumble as the ridges give way to reveal soft pale skin. Reddington's warm breath brushes over her neck, her skin, he is standing so close.
And then he is not, stepping away from her and turning his back, giving her a moment of privacy to change, to pull on a cotton tee and pyjama shorts. She studies his profile, his shoulders and back, notices that they are broad, strong, even hidden as they are beneath the inky black jacket of his tuxedo. Running a hand through her hair, thinking of the peaceful night, the enjoyable night she has had, she gathers her courage around her, cracks her lips apart and murmurs,
"Thank you for tonight," she gestures to the dress, draped delicately over a coat hanger and hanging in the wardrobe, when he turns back to her, "Thank you for everything."
"It was my pleasure, Lizzie," he murmurs, smiling at her. Nodding his head once, he spins on his heel, making his way out of her room, to retire for the evening. He freezes when she calls him back, hand gripping the handle of her door. His eyes are steady, serious when he looks back at her, never seeming so green before. She takes a breath, not entirely sure what she wants, what she is feeling.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" Her voice is so quiet, so unsteady and the longer the silence drags on as he stares at her, the faster she feels the heat burning up her neck, the tremble in her fingers growing to a shake. And then he is stepping back into her room, deftly unknotting his bowtie, before shedding his jacket, his watch and placing it all delicately on the chest of drawers.
Liz has slid under the covers by the time he is ready. He looks nervous, uncertain, the twitch under his left eye jumping as he meets her gaze. She nods his head at him, giving her consent in silence, just as he asked for it. Pulling back the soft quilt he scoots across the mattress, body an arm's length away from her. Leaning over, still clothed in his dress shirt, he flicks off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. With the flood of shadow that fills the empty spaces, comes Liz's courage, her boldness. She wriggles across until she can press her hand against his chest, rising with every breath he takes, even the sharp inhale when she first makes contact. An arm snakes over her waist, pulls her closer and she finds her legs entangling with his, fingertips trace up and down her spine in a steady rhythm. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, lips lingering as he whispers against her skin,
"Goodnight, Lizzie. Sleep well."
And she does, falling asleep well before her companion, warm and swathed in his scent, in his protection. It is when she wakes early in the morning, before the sun has leaked over the horizon, that she finds that he has held her tightly throughout the night, pressed closer to him than in the beginning. She snuggles nearer, ignoring her full bladder, his breath over her skin lulling her back to sleep.
A/N; I told you it was going to be big and then I got to 5000 words and they hadn't even made it to the gala and I knew it was going to be a whole new level of huge. This song, and chapter to be honest, is what inspired this entire fic, so I really really hope I did it justice and you enjoyed it!