Looking at down at him, she feels a rush of the tenderness and care that she tries so hard to hide. She gives his bowed head a gentle rub, marveling a little at the unexpected softness of its stubbly texture, loving the feel of him under her hand. Then she moves away a bit, replaces his hat.
He feels the loss of her warmth like a blow to the gut, but she doesn't leave the room, berate or argue, or even speak. She just reaches out to the low dresser beside her bed to grab something, an oversized tee, that she pulls over her head, then drops the towel from underneath. She sits on the end of the bed facing him, rubbing absently at her wet hair, waiting for him to speak, move, recover himself — giving him space.
The casual intimacy of the situation strikes him hard, and he wants to smile, sigh, weep, all at once. He settles for continuing to breathe, in and out, the faint, clean smells of soap and lemons and Lizzie, and tucks the moment away in his heart.
"Would you mind," he ventures, "If I stay a while? We don't have to talk, you don't have to do anything. I just… value your company."
She tilts her head and looks at him, trying to read him, although her eyes haven't completely adjusted to the dim dark of the room. It's the simplest truth, she thinks, no one really wants to feel like they're always alone.
"All right," she answers, gently, "Stay as long as you want." She shifts her weight a little on the bed, tries on a smile.
"Thank you," he says, barely aloud, "For being here."
Her smile fades a little, frustration eking into her tone, "It's what people do, Red, when they care for each other."
He looks up at her, then, surprised all over again, red-rimmed eyes and shaky hands, and swallows convulsively. "Lizzie," he starts.
"Don't," she says, not quite sharp. "You might not value yourself, you might want to control me, the FBI, your infernal list, but you cannot, cannot, tell me how I should, how I will feel. You came to me, you made yourself a part of my life, the centre of my life — well, these are the consequences. You're not alone anymore, Red, I'm here, now. I'm here to stay."
He looks at her, her shape still haloed by the bathroom light, fierce with determination, and can only be thankful that tonight, when he's shaken, broken, she can see the man, and not the monster.
"The selfish part of me is glad of it, treasures it," he says, all honesty for once. "But, Lizzie — don't get too comfortable here."
She sighs a little, looks at him with a wry twist to her mouth. "You can't do it, can you?" she asks, a little angry now, a little sad. " Just accept it, as offered, a hand — my hand?"
Then she stands, her bare legs long in front of him, reaches out. "Take it," she urges, "What are you afraid of?"
He hesitates, mouth dry, empty of the right words; takes off his hat and toys with it. He gives himself an inner shake, marshals his strength to meet her eyes, breathes in.
"I couldn't take it," he blurts, raw, open, devoid of his usual panache. "If I let myself feel, let you in, let you care for me, and something happened to you because of it… or just, when I lost you… I think it would finally destroy me."
She takes a moment to absorb the depths of his need, his loathing, his loneliness, before she replies. "Always looking for the worst in everything, aren't you?" she says, as drily as she can make it. "There aren't any guarantees — I've certainly learned that lesson since you came barging into my life."
"Lizzie," he tries again.
"Red," she interrupts, not willing to listen to more of his deprecations, self-doubts. "The point is — it's worth the risks. It has to be. I still believe that, after everything; you can believe it, too. But I can't deal with the balancing act that you demand anymore. You came at me like a battering ram, taking me apart piece by piece. You demand my focus, my presence, my attention — everything I have — but then deny my friendship, honesty, affection. It's too much." She pauses, takes a breath, reaches out again. "We're in this together. We're a team — or we're not. If there's absolutely nothing but business here, if you truly care nothing for me in return, then you need to leave."
And she waits, hand outstretched, strong and beautiful.
He wants to look away, turn away, can't. He wants to walk out of her room, her life, and never look back; keep her safe, apart from it all, can't. Can't do anything else but stay, because tonight, his need is overwhelming, and more than all of these things, he wants to know her, be with her, be real again, just Red (or even Ray).
He can't do anything else but take her hand.