He'd thought she should wake in familiar surroundings, so the bed he tucks her up in is her own. He stands beside it, watching the quiet rise and fall of her body, and gives a silent thanks to whatever powers are out there.
Though she is certain to have difficult questions for him, though she will certainly be angry with him again...she is safe and whole. Safe, where she belongs.
He leaves her to sleep, thinking that she would prefer solitude. Privacy has become a rarity for her, and it is a simple gift for him to give.
He only goes as far as the living room, anyway.
When she wakes, it's with no clear idea where she is, what time it might be, even what day it is. There's a deep relief in looking around and seeing her own things, realizing she is in her own cozy apartment, safe and sound.
She sits up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She's as close to home as she can get, and she is still missing that feeling, that essential feeling of belonging. She remembers returning from family visits as a child, and the pure happiness of being back in the small, messy house she grew up in.
She tries to shake off her maudlin feelings. She should at least get up and decide what day it is. What happened to Alexander Kirk's…remains, and what her obligations might be. What, if anything, Cooper and the task force know about the last few days. Where Red is, and what he has to say for himself.
The thought of it all exhausts her all over again.
She hauls herself to her feet with a sigh, and opens the bedroom door, thinking she'll shower and change after she has something to eat. But in the hallway, it hits her.
She's not alone — her senses flood with it. The spicy aroma of the tea that Dembe prefers, warm on the air. The rumbling sound of soft laughter, quiet voices; the slip-slap of playing cards.
And two men who sit, kibitzing quietly; the two people who care about her the most, who have looked after her for a year — or rather, almost all of her life. As she leans against the doorway into the living room, it's the sight of him, rumpled shirt with the sleeves rolled up, face crinkled in amusement at something Dembe has said.
It hits her, and the simple warm joy of it has her body easing and her eyes tearing.
It's here, after all.
Home.
He doesn't know what makes him look up — not a sound, or a scent. Maybe it's just a change in the air.
She's there in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with a soft, bemused look on her face and shiny damp eyes. A look that makes his heart beat harder; that makes him want to cuddle her close; that makes him feel flush with love. He feels his smile broaden reflexively, and her face brightens in return.
Then, he watches her take a deep breath, as if she is strengthening herself for something, and come the rest of the way into the room. She joins them at the table, sitting without speaking, but taking Dembe's hand when it's offered.
"Elizabeth," Dembe says affectionately. "It's good to see you."
"You too," she says, meaning it. She thinks that his level-headed sensibility would have stood her in good stead over the last few days.
He looks at Red then, and nods slightly in response to Red's expression.
"You have things to talk about — I'll step outside."
"You don't have to," she protests. "It's nothing you don't know already."
Dembe smiles. "Don't worry, Elizabeth," he says quietly, releasing her hand with a pat. "I'll see you soon."
She manages to wait until he's shut the apartment door behind him before she speaks again. All her anger seems to have disappeared, but she still has a terrible need to know.
"You can start," she says, "by telling me about my mother."
He takes a deep breath. "Short version, or long?"
Weariness tugs at her, and she thinks about everything that lies ahead. "Short," she says, "for now."
"You know that Katarina was a KGB agent."
She nods.
"Constantin wasn't entirely wrong," he says, then holds up a hand as her expression trembles. "She was assigned to me, to come into my life — much like Tom came into yours. Instead, we became friends. She was pregnant when my daughter was born, and we bonded over that. Your parents did have a troubled marriage, Lizzie — Constantin was obsessively jealous, and when you were born, his possessiveness just became worse.
"Between that, the unrest in Russia, but most particularly, you, Lizzie, she changed. She wanted you to have a good life, wanted to give you everything. Instead of flipping me, she switched sides herself. At least, she tried to. That night, the night of the fire — that was to be your safe house. Which…I've never failed so grievously before, or since, Lizzie, and there's nothing I can say. I still don't know for certain if Constantin followed you both, or if there was a leak on my side. And…everything just fell apart."
"But my father didn't die. Why did you lie to me, Red?" she asks, and in voicing it, feels an aching sadness at the betrayal. "How could you let me think…"
"Lizzie, no," he says hastily, unable to let her finish. "I didn't lie to you."
This just makes her sadder. "Red, honestly, there's no point in continuing now."
"I mean it," he returns, a little waspish. "I don't lie to you. It happened just as I told you. You shot your father, and we had to leave him behind to save ourselves, to save you. He was left grievously wounded in a burning house, and I heard nothing of him in the years following. I was absolutely positive he was dead."
The pain inside her eases a little. Can she believe him? He is so earnest, his eyes dark with intensity, his body curved toward hers over the table as if he can make her believe if he tries hard enough.
"I didn't hear the name Alexander Kirk until…until you were already a fugitive," he continued, his voice slower, reluctant. "It wasn't the time to go into it. Constantin was clearly very careful to keep off my radar over the years. I only gained the full truth of it a short time ago, and I still don't know how he survived that night."
"Were you ever going to tell me?" she asks quietly.
He hesitates, then looks down at the table. "I…I don't know," he admits. "It never seemed to be the right time. You've already lost so much."
"I could have had more time with him," she says. "Had the chance to get to know him, at least a little."
"I'm sorry for that, Lizzie, I really am. But…" He bites his lip and reaches for her hand. She pulls back and watches him intently. "He was always going to ask too much of you."
"It's not for you to decide, though," she points out. "What's too much, and what isn't; what I can handle and what I can't. I'm not a child, Red."
"I know it," he says softly. "But I just wanted to protect you."
"You need to trust me, trust me the way you expect me to trust you."
He looks a bit surprised at that, then nods. "I'll try," he says. "Really."
She lets out a long, shuddering sigh. She moves so she sits beside him, and rests her head on his shoulder. He curls an arm around her, and lets his cheek press gently against the top of her head.
They sit, for a long, quiet moment of communion.
"I'm not angry," she says, letting the familiar warmth of him soak into her, hoping she can hold on to it. "Really; I think I understand. I just…need some time."
He feels a frisson of alarm, and shifts so that she has to lift her head and look him in the eye.
"What do you mean?" he asks, keeping his voice calm, striving not to demand.
She steels herself not to give in. "Some time alone," she says. "I need to work through everything that's happened. And I need to do it on my own. I can't lean on you for everything — I need to find my own way."
He wants to protest, to brush away her determination, but he doesn't. He understands the compulsion — who better than he? How can he not comprehend the desire to take control of one's own life?
"I understand," he says, and relief washes through her. "I just hope that…what happened in Venice…"
She flushes, and looks away. It seems like weeks ago rather than days, but she remembers with perfect clarity the hot anger, the urgent need, the compulsive fear. "I was pretty angry," she agrees. "The thought of being your…I don't know, mistress? In the eyes of the world, even if just a small part of it, it wasn't pleasant. I know we're just playing here, but it never felt cheap. Not until I heard you and that man, laughing over us."
He's immeasurably glad she isn't looking at him, because he isn't playing anymore, and he knows that it shows on his face.
"I sincerely hope that you know that I never intended for you to feel that way," he says, his voice rich with sincerity. "It isn't cheap to me, Elizabeth, it…you mean a great deal to me."
She thinks she'd already known that, knew him well enough for that, but it makes her happier to hear it. "That's why I'm still talking to you," she says lightly. "But it also made me feel vulnerable, and afraid — which made me angrier. It puts both of us at risk, Red," and now she does look at him, beseeching. "How much did you have to put aside to come and take me back from Kirk? And he wasn't even a threat to me."
"Honestly, Lizzie," he says, "that's been a risk since the moment I walked into your life. It may be slightly larger, now, but the difference is negligible. At least, to me."
She takes his hand. She wonders if she should tell him how even though all of what she just said is true, none of it is the real reason she ran from him. That she'd been afraid, not just of what might happen, but of what is happening, of the intensity of what lay between them. In this moment of honesty, it seems like maybe she could.
But before she can speak again, he's squeezing her hand and standing up, pulling on his jacket.
"Let me know," he says quietly. "When you want to see me again."
"Thank you," she says, and smiles. "I promise, I'll call you."
He looks at her upturned face, bends swiftly to kiss her lightly. Before he gives in entirely, and talks her into bed, he turns and leaves.
She watches him stride away from her, and resists the urge to call out and stop him. She knows she's right, that she needs time to come to terms with her new knowledge, with the events of the past few days. Time to examine her relationship with Red, to be sure of herself.
All the same, when the door clicks shut again, she wonders at the way a heart can heal and hurt at the same time.
It's been two weeks, two long, ridiculous weeks. He'd promised to wait, and he has. He's busied himself with work, rebuilding connections, taking meetings, handling a couple of shipments.
None of it distracted him. He was on the point of breaking down and going to her, when he finally got her call the previous night.
Will you come and see me? Tomorrow morning? First thing?
So here he is, the early-morning sun a rosy glow, the air crisp and cool. He strolls up to the low-rise apartment building, entering the quiet lobby and pushing Lizzie's buzzer.
No answer. Not the second time, either.
He pushes down the instinctive panic and checks his watch — it's still early enough that she might be out for a run. He knows she picked the habit up after her time as a fugitive. The freedom to be out and about when she chooses seems to be just as valuable to her as the exercise and release of tension. He thinks he'll wander through the woody little park across the street, remembering that she has mentioned using its winding paths before.
It's sunny but still cool, especially with the shade of the trees, and it's shaping up to be a lovely morning. He starts to plan as he wanders.
Maybe she'd like a day out. Some time together to talk it all out. I could take her to…
His thoughts stop abruptly, as do his steps; mind wiped clean and clear as glass. Heading toward him along the dirt path is Elizabeth, moving at a fair clip but somehow still exuding happy relaxation. She's wearing some sort of tights that end halfway up her thighs, and a slim pale tank that's dark with perspiration and clinging to her lovely slight curves. Just the first glimpse of her, healthy and bright and safe, makes everything loosen inside him.
Oh, he has missed her.
As she comes closer, her ponytail flying cheerfully behind her, he can see the glow of exertion dewy across her collarbone, at her temples where escaping tendrils of hair curl damply. Her breasts shift enticingly with the movements of her body in a gentle bounce; he can hear her panting breaths as she comes closer, slowing her pace and offering him a smile.
It's the most painfully exquisite picture of everything he never knew he wanted, and he aches with it.
His body responds with alacrity; he's hard in an instant, cock pushing against his zipper painfully, walking to meet her with a newly purposeful step. He can't think straight, mind fogging over — doesn't need to think as he reaches out to take her by the shoulders.
Her greeting is cut off before it really gets started, as he crushes his mouth to hers with the ferocity of the starving. She makes a small noise of surprise, but then her arms wind around his neck, one hand coming up to scratch through the short hairs at the nape. She's kissing him back eagerly, thank god, thank god, pressing herself against him and murmuring soft sounds of welcome into his mouth.
Lost to need, to the strident demands of his body, he starts walking her backwards, not letting go of her mouth, arms holding her fiercely close. Off the path, they need to be off the path — he winds them through the trees as long as he can stand it, then circles around so they are blocked from any potential view.
He needs to breathe; he breaks their kiss to lick along her jawline and nuzzle at her neck, the salt of her sweat clean against his tongue. Her hand presses against the back of his head as she gasps her own breath back.
"Red," she manages. "What–"
"I'm sorry," he manages, "I just…I need…" He's aching and desperate and needs to be inside her with a violence that almost frightens him.
"It's okay," she whispers against his cheek. "I want you, too."
"Up," he orders, voice hoarse and low; he can't manage any more words.
And she does understand — when he slips his hands down under her and lifts, she tightens her arms and winds her legs around his hips with a quick hop and a shimmy; pushes herself against his cock with a flirtatious laugh.
He takes her mouth again with a growl, walking forward a few steps to brace her against the nearest tree trunk. She presses back against the bark to support herself; he bends his head into the little space between them to put his mouth on her breast, soaking through her shirt. He licks and suckles and shapes; absorbing her taste and feel, the small, gasping sounds of pleasure she makes.
She missed him, missed this, this, this consuming touch-taste fever of feeling. His greedy hunger is intoxicating; it feeds her own and makes her want desperately in return. She forgets everything, everything, but the immediacy of him against her. Did she have things to say? Are they outside? She couldn't care less.
She urges his head back up and their lips meet with a near-painful crush; then they simply devour one another, all tongues and teeth, heat and need. He pushes forward, pressing his body into hers; her arms slide down around his back and pull him close, closer. His only thought is to be inside her; he moves his hands between them to yank at the waistband of her shorts.
But there's no room, and he can't possibly move away from her. Her hands are wound tightly in the back of his jacket; her tongue is twining wickedly with his and she tastes like apples. Drowning in lust, he shoves his fingers into the center seam, fists his hands into the fabric on either side, and tears, ripping the soft material right down the middle.
He fumbles with his slacks, freeing himself with a heavy groan at the touch of his own hand. His other hand busies itself at her center; she's bare beneath her tights and she's drenched and hot and pulsing. She rides his fingers for a minute, two, moaning into him, trembling with urgency, then breaks their kiss to plead.
"Now, Red, now."
He has to bend his knees a bit to get the angle right; then he thrusts into her with enough force to push her upward against the tree. She cries out, pleasure and pain meeting in need. He presses his forehead into her shoulder, just for a moment, to collect himself, leaning his weight on his hands on either side of her. But she can't wait — she bends her head to trace a hot line of kisses up the side of his neck; bites his earlobe just as she flexes her hips to take him further in.
The tenuous threads of his control snap, and he drives into her like a man possessed. Lizzie, he whispers into her mouth, over and over, Lizzie, Lizzie. She's shuddering beneath him as her body thuds rhythmically with the force of his thrusts; she tears her mouth free his to draw in deep lungfuls of air. Her hands are under his jacket now, tangled in his shirt, fingertips digging into his back, struggling for grip.
She's noisy, though he can tell she's trying not to be, gasping out little choked back cries and disjointed words, harder and faster and more and don't stop, don't stop. He feels the orgasm start in a hot flash at the base of his spine, then it spears through him like lightning. He lets go in long, agonizingly pleasurable pulses that darken his vision; with one last cry, she tumbles over with him, her core throbbing around him, tight and wet.
They stay pressed together for long moments, breathing harsh in the cool morning air. Her arms loop limp around him; his layers of clothing feel heavy and overdone.
"Good lord," he finally manages, words damp against her skin. "Lizzie…words fail me."
She laughs, shifting to rub her cheek affectionately against his. "That'll be the day," she says.
He laughs too, because she's right, because he feels ridiculously good, because she's so warm and soft and real against him. He moves his arms and steps back, enough so she has room to breathe, to drop her legs and stand, if she wants. His cock slips out of her wetly, and she makes a little sound; buries her face in his neck to suck her mark back into his scar.
Together, they get her unwound and on her feet. She's more than a little unsteady, and she supports herself with a hand on his chest, grinning at him. There appear to be bits of fabric left behind on the tree trunk, with a couple of dark, damp marks…god, he thinks, is that blood?
"Lizzie," he says worriedly. "Are you hurt?"
"Oh," she says, surprised. She takes a minute to roll her shoulders and flex the muscles in her back. Then she shrugs. "Feels like a few scratches, that's all — I'm a little more worried about the state of my shorts."
She looks down at herself, then back at him with a raised eyebrow. He looks down, and sees the front of her tights gaping wide, dangling loosely from the intact elastic, everything from waist to her neat thatch of curls clearly visible in the sun.
"At least they were old ones," she says wryly.
"Sorry about that," he says awkwardly. (He isn't, really.) "Here."
He reaches out and pulls the two pieces of fabric together with a stretch, managing to twist and tie the edges into a neat knot.
"Seriously?" she asks him, laughing. "There will be people in the lobby, the elevator. Do you call that dressed?"
He has to admit, he doesn't, and his cock twitches again in response.
"Do you want my jacket?" he offers dubiously.
She just looks at him.
He sighs, and glances around quickly. He peels off his jacket and hands it to her.
"Red, I really–"
"Just wait a minute," he says, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head. "Hold this too, would you?"
He unbuttons and removes his vest, then his dress shirt, handing everything to her to drape neatly over her arm. She watches him in some bemusement, then smiles when he's down to just his clean white undershirt. He tugs it over his head and gives it to her.
"This might suit you better," he says cheerfully.
She's looking at his bare chest, damp and darkened with perspiration, like she wants to take a few more bites out of him.
"And here's me with my hands full," she says regretfully, and winks.
He laughs, and snatches back his dress shirt.
"Hands to yourself, woman," he retorts teasingly. "Have you no sense of decency?"
That sets her off, and she stands there laughing helplessly while he gets himself redressed and more or less acceptable. She collects herself while he's putting on his jacket, enough to pull his shirt on and brush off the back of her tights briskly. He thinks it doesn't help at all; that her flushed face, the marks he left on her neck, and the oversized shirt are a perfect picture of debauchery.
He wants her all over again, and feels ridiculous. And he thinks he's missing something…
"Hmm," he says thoughtfully. "Where's my hat?"
"Um…somewhere back there," she says, flushing a little as she waves a hand toward the path. "I…might have knocked it off."
"Under the circumstances," he says dryly, "I can't say that I mind."
She rolls her eyes. "We'll find it," she says, and starts walking.
It isn't far — what seemed like miles on the way in was really only a matter of feet, and he thinks they are lucky that no one happened by. She bends to pick his fedora off the ground, brushing it off gently before she turns and places it neatly on his head, adjusting the brim with a smile.
"There," she says softly. "Good as new."
As they walk back to her building through the trees, she takes his hand absentmindedly. And they stroll along, chatting amicably, holding hands like lovers. If he feels a little twinge of longing around his heart, it doesn't need to affect anyone but him.
