As it turned out, 'next time' was only a short while later, in the wee hours of the morning.
Liz and Red had put the kitchen back to rights after their escapades, scrubbing down the counters and splashing each other with soapy water in equal parts, laughing together all the while. They'd eaten leftovers out of the fridge because they didn't have the energy to try to cook once they were finished, and disturbing Dembe for takeout seemed inconsiderate after they'd trapped him in his room with their amorous exploits in the kitchen. By the time they'd fallen into bed, they had been exhausted
Liz had awoken after a few hours from a dream—a nightmare, really—to find Red's concerned eyes searching her face in the moonlight. Her nightmare hadn't come true yet, it seemed—he was still alive, still with her, still close enough to hold, to touch, to kiss.
Which she did.
Perhaps her urgency had given him insight into the content of her dream, or perhaps she'd woken him with unconscious words that gave it away, but regardless he seemed to understand what she needed very quickly when she began to tug at him to cover her body with his, to push his boxers down, to shove her own underwear off and wrap her legs around his hips.
Red kept pace with her, meeting her every move in a magnificent counterpoint, every sigh and moan with one of his own. When he lost rhythm and started to spend himself, she held him to her so very tightly. She never wanted to let him go.
He kissed her then, deeply enough to help her lose herself in the moment as he trailed his hand down her body and, with skillful fingers, brought her to completion, too. Her release—and relief—was profound, her entire body relaxing so thoroughly that she drifted off again without a single conscious thought in her mind. They slept peacefully from that point on, with no more nightmares disturbing their slumber.
When Liz woke for the second time that morning, it was to the sound of the shower running and Red's muffled voice singing Dean Martin—horribly off-key but incredibly endearing all the same. It was a sound she could imagine herself waking up to for years to come, if only fate would allow it.
That was perhaps the hardest part of this whole ordeal to come to terms with. Red didn't seem sick—not at all. He still seemed so vibrant, so full of life, and his stamina, well… There was definitely nothing lacking in that department, no siree.
Since he'd come into her life, he'd been a constant, the one person she could count on to always be there, through the bad and the good. The idea that he might soon be gone forever was mind-boggling. She'd only just gotten over the last time she nearly lost him, and even then she hadn't quite let herself believe his death would actually come to pass.
Now, she wasn't sure that her stubbornness and refusal to accept his imminent mortality had done her any favors. It certainly did nothing to help her prepare to lose him this time.
What a cruel thing that their time together would be so limited, and not only by the years between them, which would be more of an inevitability than a tragedy.
Liz blinked back tears and shook herself. No. No more crying. Today would be a happy day, a hopeful day. She would have to focus on how much it warmed her heart to see Red acting light and cheerful again at long last, and especially to have had a hand in it, since she certainly had a hand in his unhappiness lately. They could worry about the future later.
Once she was composed enough that she didn't think Red would be able to sense her previous mood, Liz wandered into the bathroom. She poked her head behind the shower curtain with a smile on her face that Red instantly mirrored, and all at once, it didn't seem like it would be so hard to be in good spirits today.
"Morning, sunshine," she said.
"Elizabeth," he said, his voice a jaunty rumble. He leaned in for a kiss and, with a warm, lingering look, he returned to the task at hand.
"Sorry about the morning breath."
"Don't worry about it," he said. "There are fresh toothbrushes under the sink if you want one, though."
"Thanks." Liz rifled around in the cabinet until she found what she needed.
It wasn't long before Red turned off the shower and stepped out onto the fluffy rug, reaching for his towel. When Liz raised her head after spitting into the sink, she caught sight of him in the mirror drying himself off behind her and she hummed her appreciation of the view.
But then Red turned his back to hang the towel again once he was through and it was as if Liz was suddenly plunged under water—everything slowed to a crawl, sounds muffled, and she was hyper aware of a surreal doubling of time and location.
Burn scars covered Red's back, massive burn scars across the breadth of his broad shoulders and most of the way down to his waist. Liz knew the texture of those scars even before she reached out and touched them, but when she did, the present began to distort and fade, warping and shifting and melding with foreign memories of another time.
The disconnected, foggy sensation was shockingly familiar—it had happened to her before, multiple times. When Luther Braxton kidnapped her and started digging around in her head. When she shot Tom Connolly and the recoil of the gun echoed the night she had shot her father. When… When she tried to marry Tom and Red interrupted the ceremony to help fight off Solomon's people…?
(What could that possibly mean? That day, the experience hadn't ended with any revelations, as if something was missing, holding her back. How odd…)
Whenever Liz's manipulated mind struggled to reconnect severed pathways, to piece together shattered and hidden memories, this was what it felt like. It made her stomach reel and her head swim, her body flushing hot and cold as long lost parts of herself were stitched back together.
It was as terrifying as it was liberating, because she could never guess whether the parts of herself returning were going to be positive or traumatic. It was a wild journey, one she never quite got used to no matter how many times she experienced it, and her only choice was to hold on tight and ride it out until it ended.
Today, her memories featured echoes of a man unconscious on the floor with his back in flames… but those echoes weren't the focus of these memories. No, they were nothing but shadows. It was almost as if she was remembering a time when she remembered the unconscious man—when she remembered trying to rouse him, remembered burning her own wrist when she shook his shoulders, which, while not actively aflame by the time she touched him, were still hot enough to singe her skin.
Soon enough, the stronger, clearer memories began to take precedence in the forefront of her mind. Warm, romantic lighting, upbeat music to put her at ease, good alcohol to dull the existential dread, delicious pie she only ever tasted from a familiar pair of lips, intoxicating heat and pleasure engulfing her body…
With a sound like wind whipping across corrugated steel, she was mentally transported to another time…
