Brown Leather Shoes

Prompt #16 "Stop that broody look and come over here."

He'd broken protocol. Rules set hard and fast and drilled into every operative trained in St Regis. Once you're in, no contact. That was it. If ifs, ands, or buts. No excuses. The cops were onto you? Deal with it. The mark made you? Fix it. You didn't call him for help and he sure as hell didn't call you. If you made it through initiation, he knew you were up for the job.

That's why it had been so surprising to hear from him. He'd shown up, of course, like a good little soldier and taken the verbal lashing. He'd kept his mouth shut - for the most part - and promised Bud that everything was under control. The contract wasn't at risk. He was a professional. Bud should know. He'd raised him. He had this.

But all the confidence in the world didn't make it true. He knew it every time he looked at her. Jacob Phelps had never had a problem diving too deeply into a role. He wore it like a second skin, but it never penetrated his own. Not until her. He could still remember the way his chest had tightened at the sight of those damned shoes. Brown, leather loafers that had been delivered along with the rest of "his" things. They weren't his. Not really. They had been provided by Bud's source that supplied the physical side of identities that the St Regis operatives created. Jacob had hated them. They were stiff and would have been impossible to run in if shit hit the fan, but they were right in line with Tom Keen's style. The very style that he'd designed in order to stay on the edges of her group of friends. Clearly that had worked out well. Right back to that painful feeling that had caught up to him when he saw the little heart left in the dust of the shoes he had never worn.

He had her.

He had her, and he knew he'd have to walk away from her someday.

He could almost picture it: something between tear-stained and murderous. Probably a bit of both. She'd hate him for who he was and what he'd done. She wouldn't be the first in that respect, but the terrifying realization - the one that crept up on him when he least expected it - was that she was the first mark that he'd cared how they reacted. With Elizabeth Scott, he was finding it harder and harder to keep his eye on the exit with each passing day. .

Oh hell. He was in deep. Way too deep. Shit.

"Hey, you. Stop that brooding look and come over here."

Tom Keen snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of her voice. He glanced over to where she had made herself comfortable on his couch, a glass of wine in her hand and his - strangely full again - waiting on the coffee table in front of the glaringly empty place she wanted him in. He stared at her from behind the round, tortoiseshell rims resting on his nose and her grin slowly faded, worry creeping in to replace it.

"You okay?"

"Just thinking," he managed as he stood, feeling an unexpected twinge in his right leg. The scar from the bullet that had been buried there once had faded to the point that it was easily missed and it rarely bothered him anymore, but the reminder of the life before intimate dates that ended with a beautiful woman on his couch and more wine that he probably should have drunk was stark. It should have served as a reminder, but he found himself hating it. Shoving it down, and as he did, he let the seriousness that had apparently caught her eye slip behind the mask of calm. Of happiness. "About you."

"About me? What about me? " she asked suggestively.

He watched her watching him, feeling a strange warmth settle deep in his chest. Maybe that mask wasn't too far off. This was his reality now, and he was going to lean into it with everything that he had. With that settled, Tom offered her a smile and he moved across to the couch. Her eyes didn't leave him as her own smile broadened and she let him take the glass of wine from her hand as he bent down, pressing his lips against hers. "About how you changed everything," he breathed as they parted, foreheads touching as neither dared to move too far apart. It was honest, even if he knew she didn't know how. It was as close as someone like him could get.

Liz reached up, her hand clasping the back of his neck as she pulled him back in and they both rocked back onto the couch. She let out a playful laugh as he leaned into the kiss, one hand finding her free one as the other instinctively did what it could to keep them from rolling and crashing down to the floor. Her own free hand slid down from his neck to his back and pulled at the edge of his shirt, teasing at skin, and if he let her keep going in the direction she was heading in they were both going to be in a world of pain.

From rolling off the couch, of course. Only that. Because that was the moment that he decided. Mr Deep Pockets that wanted him to protect her? Fine. He'd protect her, and the closer he was the better he could protect her. Lips pressed, fingers intertwined…. Nope. They were off the couch.

Tom caught them as they fell, easing her into his arms and standing. Liz shifted, arms wrapping around his neck and legs around his waist as he carried her back to the bedroom. It was fine. It was going to be fine. It had to be. He wasn't willing to let her go.

Notes:

I've wondered for a long time about the dialogue in 1.19. Liz is yelling at him about every feeling, every memory being a lie and demanding that he say something to his wife who's dying in front of him. Tom's response? "It was the shoes." He then goes into a story in which he explains that he knew she was in at that point, but I do wonder if he was admitting he was too. That was the moment when they were both so entangled that he knew he was in too deep to even want to leave.

It's been a while, but I do miss writing for these two. The prompt was sent in by the fantastic d-evil's-advocate over on Tumblr :)