16. brand new neighbours au
Liz sighs, pushing her hair out of her face and trying not to look as though she's wiping sweat off her forehead at the same time as she exits the elevator, scowling at the cheerful ding that follows her into the lobby.
Liz hates moving.
It has never been fun or exciting for her, not full of new opportunities and fresh starts like some ridiculously optimistic people say. In the blessedly few times she has moved in her thirty-five years, Liz has only ever found it to be difficult, stressful, and exhausting.
This move is no different.
She has no choice, however, in this move. And, difficult though it is, Liz knows it is the best thing for her. This will be her first post-divorce apartment, someplace that isn't permeated with the presence of her cheating ex-husband, a place that is all her own. The brownstone had been Tom's originally (as well as the dog and the happiness) and he wasted no time in kicking her out as soon as the divorce was final.
(She was gone before he came home from work the next day.)
Liz had been lucky in finding this apartment building. It's in a good location, has good amenities, and isn't too far from her work. The rent is a little higher than she'd like but she shouldn't have any trouble paying it with her government psychologist salary. After all, it's just her now. No gourmet dog food or meaningless spousal gifts to buy.
(Money certainly doesn't buy happiness.)
Now, despite her foul mood, as she leaves the friendly lobby of her new building, the automatic doors sliding open to release her back into the sweltering July heat, Liz can't find it in her to regret her decision.
(She has a funny feeling she'll be happy here.)
As soon as she gets this move over with.
Easier said than done.
Liz sighs and crosses the parking lot to her car, taking a moment to retie her hair in a ponytail, sweeping up all the sticky strands that have fallen free and stuck to her neck in her trips from her car to her new apartment. She can't wait to get all her things inside and just take a shower. Feeling clean again before ordering some takeout is her only goal, quickly followed by falling into her new bed, made or not.
(At least it's not the couch in the brownstone.)
At long last, Liz makes it to her car - why the hell did she park on the far side of the lot in this godforsaken heat? - and hits the fob to unlock the door, reaching for the handle without thinking. Before she can get the door open, she is hissing and jerking her hand back, successfully singeing her hand on the hot metal of the door handle.
Perfect.
She starts muttering angrily to herself as she yanks the door open - quicker and with a deep breath in preparation - cursing her stupid ex-husband and her own stupidity in turns. But at least this is the last box of her stuff. She'd left most of the brownstone's contents with Tom, not wanting anything to remind her of him, just taking her own personal items and things that she has a deep emotional connection to. It only amounted to about a dozen boxes of varying sizes, all able to fit into her car in one trip.
Small mercies.
Liz heaves the last box from the back seat with a groan of effort. It's the largest one by far, which is why she left it for last, and it's cumbersome and awkward to carry, full of all her heavy but luckily not fragile items.
She drops it unceremoniously to the asphalt of the parking lot for a moment to lock her car once again before giving a huge sigh and struggling to hoist it back up into her arms, turning to make the long trek back across the lot to the building.
Last trip.
It can't come soon enough.
By the time she makes it back to the sanctuary of the lobby, she is sweating profusely, her arms aching from carrying her luggage. She almost stops to rest in the lobby (and maybe strip off all her clothes and lay down on the cool tile in complete and utter defeat) but she spies an open elevator and, in a sudden flash of determination, makes a beeline for it.
Liz sees a man already occupying the elevator and curses her luck for the umpteenth time that day. She's had empty elevators for the entirety of her move, why can't the last one, when she no doubt smells the worst, be empty, why can't –
But then the elevator doors start to close and her eyes widen. She's only half-way across the lobby, she can't make it in time.
"Hold the elevator!" she calls desperately.
But the stranger in the elevator has luggage of his own. He has multiple bags and boxes, evidently trying to be a hero and make it up to his place in a single trip. He has a bulging backpack on, a heavying-looking messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and a large box to rival Liz's in his arms. He hears her call and looks up in alarm.
"Oh –"
He attempts to jostle his box around in his arms to reach the button on the wall of the elevator but Liz knows he won't hit it in time. She keeps plowing ahead anyway, headstrong as always, and makes it to the doors just in time to see them close in front of the stranger's face. Liz gets a brief glimpse of green eyes behind black framed glasses and hears a desperate "sorry!" before the doors shut in her face.
Great.
Liz gives the elevator doors a heartfelt kick with one foot, unable to hold back a frustrated growl.
"Damn it!"
(She tosses a guilty glance towards the welcome desk, thankful there is no one on duty to witness her temper tantrum.)
Liz can't hold the box long enough to wait for the elevator to come back down – the bastard inside was going to her floor, of course – and, too stubborn to put it down now, turns for the stairs. She only lives on the third floor. She can make it.
(What a god-awful decision.)
Liz does make it to her floor alive, but just barely, and not without several close calls, repeatedly tripping up the stairs she can't see because of the huge box, and, at one point, genuinely worried about passing out from exhaustion, falling back down the stairs, and being crushed by her own possessions.
(Oh well. At least then she could sue the building and the asshole who couldn't manage to hold an elevator.)
She finally pushes open the door to the third floor with a desperate nudge of her shoulder and staggers to her apartment (she's never been so happy to see the number 305), only to drop her box to the carpeted hall floor in disbelief, shock, and anger.
It's him.
"Hey, what the hell!"
The stranger from the elevator is currently fiddling with the lock on number 306, squinting through his glasses at his key, standing right across the hall from her apartment.
No way.
He looks up in surprise at her obnoxious yell.
"Oh, hello!"
Liz gapes at him.
"'Oh, hello?' That's all you have to say? I just had to climb three flights of stairs with that thing" – she points viciously to her box – "thanks to you! And all you can say is 'Oh, hello?'"
His blinks at her in surprise and gives up on the lock, stuffing his keys in his pocket and bringing his hands up to gesture placatingly.
"I'm very sorry, I didn't mean for the doors to close on you, I couldn't reach the button in time! I had some luggage of my own to carry." He gestures to his bags and box, now on the floor next to the door of 306.
Liz glares at him. He seems very genuine and polite which, for some reason, irritates Liz even more. How dare he be reasonable when she's had a day like this?
(And it doesn't help that he's extremely attractive.)
"Well," she huffs, mostly for lack of anything else to say. "I'm still mad."
"Rightly so," the handsome stranger agrees easily. "That walk up three flights of stairs must have been exhausting."
"As a matter of fact, it was," Liz snaps at him, annoyed at his easygoing attitude and his apparent habit of stating the obvious. "And that was just the cherry on top of an already awful day."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, his brows creasing in a frown. "What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"
Liz feels a sudden lump in her throat, tears beginning to gather in her eyes at the unexpected show of compassion.
This is ridiculous.
"You know, I do mind, actually," she snaps, turning away to rifle through her pocket for her own key, blink the tears away, and perhaps regain some dignity. "I don't even know you, why should I spill my guts to you? Suffice it to say I moved in today and it was horrible and I just want the day to be over."
"Oh!" the stranger says, sounding strangely upbeat about her troubles.
Liz's nerves prickle.
"What?" she snaps, still digging in her pocket impatiently.
"Well," he says, completely oblivious to the physical danger he's in at the moment. "I was just thinking that you're right, you don't know me now, but that may change in the near future. I just moved in today as well!"
Liz succeeds in yanking her key from her pocket with a furious tug and almost gives a triumphant "aha!" before his words process in her brain. When they finally do, she promptly drops her key to the floor.
"You what?"
"I moved it today too," he repeats patiently, bending down to retrieve her key for her before she can do it herself. "So, nice to meet you, neighbor." He straightens up with her key in hand, offering it to her with a wink.
Liz stares at him for a moment, mouth agape unattractively, eyes glued to his handsome features before she pulls herself together enough to snatch her key from him.
"Y-yeah, well," she stutters, pushing past him to shove the key into her door. "I think I'll be reserving judgement on that point, neighbor." She tries to sound as scathing as she feels but she's really just exhausted and confused and wants to be alone.
Without preamble, she kicks her box along the floor until it's just inside her apartment, feeling him watching her spectacular show of immaturity in silence, no doubt able to hear the box's contents jangling around nosily.
(Childishly, she hopes it annoys him.)
"Well, I guess I'll see you around then?" he happily calls after her as she follows her now tattered box into her apartment.
(Guess not.)
"Well, I guess it's unavoidable, now, isn't it?" she snaps, whirling around to see he has moved to stand right in front of her door, feet just outside of her door frame.
Anger sparks through her.
"And from now on? You can take the stairs."
And she shuts the door in his face.
After a cleansing shower, a filling meal of Chinese takeout, and a long sleep, Liz wakes up the next morning feeling sufficiently guilty about the way she acted towards her new neighbor.
(Or, "Mr. Handsome", as she's dubbed him in her head. Probably not a smart idea.)
She…well, she could have been nicer. Which is a bit of an understatement.
Liz sits now on the tall stool in front of her kitchen island, leaning her elbows on the counter and resting her head dejectedly in her hands.
She was downright rude to a man whose only crime was accidentally not holding the elevator for a grouchy woman he didn't even know. And then she harassed him outside her apartment door. Well, their apartments doors, actually. And he was unfailingly polite in the face of her poor manners. In fact, he's probably the most patient man she's ever met.
(Tom would never allow her to talk to him like that.)
So, in order to save some face and make it up to him, Liz is resolved to apologize to Mr. Handsome. Somehow. Which is why she's currently moping in her kitchen. How exactly do you say, "Sorry for being a giant asshole the first second I met you because I was having a bad day?" Is there a Hallmark card for that? No, probably not.
But there should be, Liz thinks grumpily, tapping her fingers on the counter. Maybe she should make him something. Like food.
A vision of flaming toaster waffles screams to mind.
Hmm, maybe not. Liz can't cook to save her life, or anyone else's, as Tom had frequently reminded her. She has no food in her kitchen anyway. Just a lone box of Chinese leftovers from last night. She can't very well offer that to Mr. Handsome and expect to garner any favor.
Liz sighs, pushing herself up from the counter. Well, she has to go to the store anyway. Maybe she can pick up something sweet to half-heartedly offer him. Even though she has no idea what he likes. Or if he even likes sweets.
Ugh, this is impossible.
Liz groans in frustration, snatching her purse from the new hall table, resolving to wander around the store until she is struck with brilliant inspiration. And if it takes all day, so be it. She owes Mr. Handsome that much.
She trudges to the door and wretches it open, only to be met with a very familiar sight.
Mr. Handsome himself is right across the hall, once again fiddling with the lock on number 306.
(And, oh, she was too angry yesterday to notice just what a wonderful sight it is.)
"You know, maybe you should call a locksmith or something," she quips, pulling her door shut and leaning against the door jamb just in time to watch him turn in surprise.
"Hello, there!" His smile is bright and genuine and Liz thinks she feels it in her whole body. Interesting. "How are you today?" The tactful question and obvious implication make her smile ruefully and glance down at her shoes self-consciously.
"Uh, I'm much better, thank you," she smiles at him shyly. "And, listen, I'm sorry about yesterday. I was rude to you for no good reason. I really started us off on the wrong foot. I hope you can forgive me."
Mr. Handsome shrugs good-naturedly, his eyes wide and honest. "There's nothing to be sorry for as far as I'm concerned."
Liz blinks in surprise. "No, really, I don't –"
"Everyone has bad days sometimes."
They look at each other for a long moment, his eyes warm and her face pink.
(Mr. Handsome is kind too.)
Eventually, she nods.
"Thank you."
He simply smiles at her.
"So, where are you headed?"
"To the store, actually. I have to eat something other than Chinese take-out."
"Well, then, please allow me to escort you to the elevator."
"Certainly," she grins at him as they both turn and start to walk down the hall. "And will you be accompanying me downstairs?"
"Only if it's acceptable to you. I have to go to the office. I do need a new key, as it happens. This one they gave me barely fits."
They stop in front of the elevator doors and he pushes the call button, turning to look at her as the bell dings.
"Well, by all means, you should share an elevator with me," Liz invites brightly, flirting a little.
(Or a lot.)
"Are you sure?" he raises an eyebrow teasingly. "I seem to recall certain instructions to 'take the stairs'."
Liz chuckles with him and nods, glancing back down at her feet again guiltily. "Yes, I'm quite sure I can manage to be in the same elevator with you for three floors."
"Wonderful," he says in happy assent, turning away from her as the elevator doors open with another ding. Mr. Handsome politely places his arm in front of the doors to hold them for her, ushering her in ahead of him. He places a gentle, warm hand on her lower back as he follows her into the elevator.
(Liz feels tingles spread from where he touches her and she has to smother a smile.)
"So, going to the store for anything in particular? Other than more socially acceptable dinner food, of course," he asks easily, apparently a fan of elevator chatter. Liz doesn't mind.
"Yes, actually," she says, turning to smile at him. "I was going to try and find something to thank you with."
"Well, that's very kind of you," he says earnestly. "But, as we've already covered, there's nothing to forgive. Ergo, no edible thank-you necessary."
"So you've said," Liz agrees, nodding sagely. "But I still feel bad."
The elevator doors slide open and they step out into the lobby together, strolling leisurely towards the main desk across the polished tile floor, taking their time.
"In that case, I propose a trade."
"Oh yes?"
"Yes," he nods seriously. "Seeing as we're both brand new tenants and moving in is a difficult and time-consuming process, as evidenced by yesterday, how about we help each other?"
Liz hums thoughtfully. "And how do you propose we do that?"
Mr. Handsome thinks for a moment, looking at her idly. "I could do some heavy lifting for you, help you move anything cumbersome."
"Cumbersome, you say?" Liz smirks at him, enjoying the playful sparkle in his green eyes, accented so nicely by his black-framed glasses. "I suppose I could offer you some decorating tips, help you with the aesthetic feel of your place, something like that."
"Well, I have to say, that sounds fair."
Liz pretends to think for a moment. "I agree."
"Well, then," Mr. Handsome says cheerfully. "I think we have a deal. There's just one unresolved issue."
"Oh? What's that?"
"I still don't know your name."
Oh, Mr. Handsome.
"Yes, that's true, you don't," Liz smiles teasingly, enjoying this more than she probably should.
He waits a moment, eyebrows raised hopefully.
"Shall I start then?" he prods. "I'm Raymond."
(Raymond. It fits him. Old-fashioned and intelligent.
She loves it.)
"Hmm," Liz hums. She can't resist looking him up and down with renewed interest before she simply nods and does an about face, heading for the automatic doors.
"Or you can call me Red, if you like, it's an old nickname," he says to her back, evidently assuming that his name is not to her liking. He's wrong. "And should I just keep calling you 'beautiful new neighbor'?"
(Something flutters in Liz's heart. He thinks she's beautiful.)
"Oh, it's Liz," she calls carelessly over her shoulder. "I'll see you around, Red!"
"It's nice to meet you, Lizzie!" she hears just as the automatic doors swoosh open for her, leaving him behind in the cool lobby.
She can't wait to see him again.
She doesn't have to wait long.
But it's not quite as she expects.
It's Red who is at her door later that evening, rousing her from her Doctor Who marathon with a quiet knock and a sheepish smile, asking for help carrying some new furniture up to his apartment.
"It's only two kitchen chairs and a floor lamp but they're quite bulky and the delivery men didn't even offer to help, honestly, Lizzie, they couldn't have been more rude."
She grins and easily assents, looking forward to the adventure of transporting new furniture up three floors with him.
(And she genuinely wants to spend more time with him.)
They have plenty of fun, Red insisting he carries the chairs, the heavier items, while delegating the lamp to Liz, and taking a separate elevator trip for each, even though he could have easily fit all three things in one elevator and excluded her from the process completely.
(She's glad he didn't.)
They talk on the way, asking questions about their respective jobs. He's very curious about her job as a psychologist ("Tell me about your job - the profiling - I'm fascinated!") so she regales him with tales of her various cases and patients (while of course protecting doctor-patient confidentiality).
After his curiosity is satisfied, which takes the first two elevator trips, he reveals that he is a lawyer at a nearby firm.
(She has to bite her lip when he tells her that. A handsome lawyer. The only thing better than a handsome doctor. And certainly a league ahead of a cheating schoolteacher.)
He tells her about his more ridiculous cases (while of course protecting attorney-client privilege) and soon has her clutching a stitch in her side from laughing so hard.
(If there's one thing she loves about him so far, and there's definitely more than one thing, it's that he can tell a story.)
Even when all the furniture is sitting outside his apartment door, successfully moved upstairs, Liz doesn't want to say good night to him. But she knows she must. He insists on seeing her to her door ("Just because it's one foot away from my own doesn't mean I shouldn't be a gentleman, Lizzie.") and wishing her a good night with a warm smile.
Liz closes her door and quickly turns around to lean her back against it with a gleeful grin, feeling like a teenager just getting back from her first date. Liz scoffs at herself. She's a thirty-five-year-old divorcee who helped her new neighbor move some furniture, that's all.
And it was one of the best nights she's had in months.
(She misses him already.)
Luckily, it's not long before she sees him again. Living in the same building, on the same floor, and across the hall from one another tends to make that an inevitability. Luckily.
She finds him, this time, making a point to knock on his door and ask for help carrying in her groceries.
(That fact that she could have managed by herself, albeit with several trips out into the July heat, is irrelevant.)
Red takes to the task with gusto, valiantly taking all the heavy bags, loading seven on each hand, leaving only the lightest bag of bread for Liz to carry. She protests, secretly wanting more elevator rides with him, but he puts up a good fight.
"Carrying everything in with one trip, against all odds, is so much more satisfying than being sensible and spacing things out."
That is how she met him, after all. Carrying too many bags to hold the elevator door for her.
(She can't help but be grateful for this habit of his.)
But he doesn't need to know that.
"You think so?"
"I think doing the more difficult thing and succeeding is always more satisfying than taking the easy way out."
"Even at the cost of blood circulation in your hands?"
"... Perhaps that's debatable."
But Red seems no more eager to leave her than she is to leave him, taking his time sauntering down the hall with her towards their apartment doors, even though the plastic bag handles must be cutting into his hands, apparently under the impression that she'll take the bags from him in the doorway and leave him outside.
As if.
Instead, Liz unlocks the door and ushers him inside towards the kitchen, telling him to just put the bags down anywhere.
"I'll put them away later."
"Nonsense, Lizzie. I never leave tasks undone if I can get them done quickly and efficiently."
And so, he starts to put away her groceries. He stores her refrigerated items quickly, grouping them by size and separating them throughout the shelves, unlike Liz does.
(She just stuffs things anywhere and spends fifteen minutes looking for snacks later.)
Once he's finished with the fridge, he slows down, putting her other items away and organizing her cabinets at the same time.
He talks to her constantly, keeping up a conversation as he works. She gives brief one or two-word answers, enough to keep him talking, much more interested in watching him. She perches on her kitchen stool, fascinated, observing his organizational system, how he groups cereals and chips together but boxes and containers on another shelf. She has to admit, it makes sense.
(Most things about him do.)
He is almost finished, down to the last two grocery bags, when a thought occurs to him. They are discussing the merits of French cuisine (inspired by the loaf of French bread Liz had carried up, now laying on her countertop) when he suddenly turns around to face her, a bag of butter snap pretzels in one hand and a container of freeze dried fruit in the other.
"You don't mind me doing this, do you, Lizzie?"
Liz just blinks at him, her chin perched on her hand. "I mean, it's a little late to ask, isn't it?"
She lets him panic for a moment, hands fluttering wildly, before she gives in and laughs out loud.
"No, of course I don't mind! I must admit, you're doing a fabulous job. I've never thought of categorizing my food before."
He looks relieved before smiling teasingly at her. "No? How on Earth do you find things then?"
"Maybe I like the challenge of searching for them."
He nods thoughtfully, turning back to her cabinets. "That's a good point. Rather time consuming though, isn't it?"
"You're all about speed with things, aren't you?"
And he turns around with a wicked glint in his eyes that she's never seen before. "Only with certain things."
(And, oh, she's very interested in that look.)
Once he's finished organizing her kitchen and giving her heart palpitations, he makes his way back to her front door. Liz follows him, idly admiring the view and watching him looking around.
(And will she ever get tired of the view?)
He stops a few feet away from the door in the short entrance hall, catching sight of the three paint swatches she's got taped to the wall. He eyes them curiously.
"Conflicted?"
"A little."
(She's never been more sure of anything.)
He considers for a moment. "I like this one," he points to the middle swatch, a cool gray color. "What's it called?"
"'Chicago Skyline'," Liz answers immediately.
(It's her favorite too.)
He nods thoughtfully. "Nice."
"You like it?"
"Very much. I think it sets off the black leather furniture."
Liz pretends to think about it. "Hmm, all right. I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."
(She's already decided.)
She sees him back to his door ("It's only fair I return the favor, Red. Besides, it's a dangerous world out there. Who knows who you might run into on the way." "So, you'll protect me from criminals?" "Obviously. I'm a government worker, it's my civic duty. Plus, you can represent my case in court." "Deal.") and she has to fight the urge to kiss him goodbye.
(Oh, boy.)
The next week finds her in his apartment for the first time, surprisingly bare of furniture despite having been lived in for a full two weeks.
She can't resist teasing him about it.
"Indecisive?"
"Not at all."
(He's not talking about furniture any more than she was talking about paint.)
"I'm just waiting to get a feel for the space. Decorating takes time, Lizzie."
"You haven't felt up your space yet? That sounds like a personal problem."
(She loves the dark twinkle in his eye, matching it with a flirtatious grin of her own.)
"Are you criticizing my decorating techniques?"
"Possibly."
"That's unwise."
"Why particularly?"
"Exhibit A: your kitchen."
"Point taken."
(She loves when his lawyering side comes out to play.)
He'd invited her over to show her his kitchen, in fact, shiny pots and pans hanging delicately over countertops, everything immaculately clean and in its correct place, the "only way to organize a kitchen, Lizzie, you see why I had to show you".
(A thin excuse if she's ever heard one. She loves it.)
She pretends to be very impressed (actually, there wasn't too much pretending involved, the man can obviously cook), and he spends so much time playfully arguing the values of a labeled spice cabinet to a giggling Liz (lawyer, indeed) that it gets too late to cook and they decide to order take-out instead.
Which is why they end up sitting on the carpet of his living room next to the floor lamp she'd carried up to his apartment last week, eating happily out of take-out containers, both feeling rather as though they're on a date.
(They may not be wrong.)
"How long have we lived here?" he asks out of the blue after a comfortable silence filled with mouthfuls of pork lo mein.
(Liz loves the way he says 'we'.)
"Uh," Liz chews thoughtfully for a minute before swallowing. "About two weeks?"
"Huh," he says, more to himself than to her.
"Why do you ask?" prods Liz curiously.
Red looks up, his eyes strangely tentative. "I was just thinking that it seems like much longer than that."
"Really?" smirks Liz. "Can't have been that long, you don't even have a couch yet."
"The only real furniture you need is a bed, Lizzie, surely you know that," he teases her, his voice low and his eyes dark. He listens to her giggle before the air lightens between them and his smile goes back to thoughtful and hesitant.
"No, I just mean that... Well, it feels like I've known you for much longer."
Liz blinks in surprise.
(Oh, thank god, she's not the only one.)
She puts down her container of pot stickers and turns to face him, realizing just how close to each other they are sitting on the floor.
She doesn't move away.
"Honestly, I've been thinking the same thing."
She watches as Red's smile changes first to one of wonder and then of relief.
(Oh, Red.)
"Well, I can think of a few things we can do about that, neighbor."
(Oh, Red.)
Liz grins, noticing him start to lean in fractionally. Her heart leaps.
(Red.)
"Oh, yes?"
"Mhmm."
When his lips finally touch hers, it's with a wonderful warmth that spreads through her whole body. She smiles into their kiss and edges closer to him. His hand comes up to bury itself in her soft, dark hair and she sighs contentedly into his mouth.
(It's perfect.)
It isn't long before she's casually throwing a leg over his, his hands settling happily on her waist, neither of them noticing the container of noodles she upends in the process. She can only think of him and his lips and his hands.
Oh, and one other thing.
Liz doesn't think they'll be neighbors much longer.
She's hoping for roommates.
