Showers, they agreed, should come first — the coffee had gone cold, and it seemed necessary to venture outside the cozy room. Showers, however, quickly became a singular shower (in more ways than one), when she points out the lack of hot water and the opportunity to save some time. They end up washing in cold, anyway. Now that the barriers are down between them, they can't be put back, and neither of them really wants that.
He can't keep his hands off her — a well of hunger has been uncapped within him, and she is the only thing that can fill it. She is endlessly fascinating. The look and feel of her pale, luminous skin and long, strong limbs; the way she wraps herself around him like she wants to become a part of him. The way her probing, questing nature turns itself to learning the shapes and patterns of him — not just his body, but his needs and desires, and all the places the two of them fit together. He loved her before, protectively, fiercely, but always with an undertone of defeat. Now, now he loves her with a terrible and passionate yearning that makes him almost afraid.
For her, it feels new still, this love for him, her passion and its depthless want tempered by a tenderness that disarms her. As much as she wants to touch, taste, mark him as hers, she wants to draw him in close and cradle him to her. To protect and shield him, use her love to build him back into the man he was meant to be. She thought she knew what love was — hers, at least, was always true and real — but this, this ocean feeling has a power that is all new, and she revels in the beauty of it. She had already known she would kill to keep him safe (has killed to keep him safe); now, knowing there's absolutely nothing she wouldn't do, she feels the first tendrils of fear over the capacity they have to destroy each other.
She takes a bit longer in the bathroom, drying her hair, and emerges on shaky legs to dress. "We have got to eat," she says, as she dons bra and panties, climbs into a pair of soft leggings, pulls a worn long-sleeve tee over her head. "Or I'll just collapse here and now."
She turns to him to see if he's ready; sees he's been watching her dress with hooded eyes, an expression she already recognizes growing on his face.
"Oh, no," she laughs, even as her insides shiver in response, "Wipe that look off your face and let's go. Food and caffeine must be next. They must." And she grabs his hand to pull him toward the door.
He lets her drag him out, out of their dark and quiet space and into the daylight, though he knows (better than most) that time is short, so short. Not just because he, too, is both ravenous and spent, but because her happy playfulness is so engaging; it warms him through, makes him feel closer to human than he has in a long time.
They eat in a small coffee shop, not saying much, just sitting together, as if they have carried their safe place along with them. They sit at the counter, side by side, and watch the world go past in its Saturday rush. She recognizes the way everything looks brighter, cleaner, how all the faces she sees look happy. She knows it's her that's different, it's the flush of love in her, and wraps the joy of it around her while she can.
When they get back, even her room looks better — his jacket and hat still piled on her chair, the scent of him still hanging faintly in the air — it feels like home. They sit, a bit reluctantly — him in the miserable chair, her perched at the end of the bed — and heaviness comes into the air.
"It's time now, Ray," she says softly. "No more hiding. Tell me my story — I won't interrupt; I won't yell or argue, I promise you."
He breathes in and out for one more minute, making sure it's all locked safely away in his mind; the touch, taste, smell of her, all his new bits and pieces of Lizzie, his Lizzie. Afraid, but he can't turn back.
"Your mother's name was Katarina Rostova," he says quietly, voice deep and sure. "At least it was when I knew her. She was a KGB agent. You were born in Russia, and your name was Masha."
And he keeps talking for what seems like hours. Spies and covert missions and government secrets; the Fulcrum and lies and betrayal; fire and death and loss; Masha and Elizabeth and Sam; Ray to Reddington to Red. Life on the run and the struggle to stay a step, or two or three, ahead; Fitch and Cooper; Kuwait and Russia and China. The words tumble and pour out of him like a river that can't stop until it reaches the sea, and she sits, frozen and quiet, and lets them wash over and through her.
She has questions, so many questions; there are times she wants to weep, to yell, to pace the room; she wants to rail at him, scream out why, why, why. Why her? But she promised and he's finally giving her everything she always thought she wanted from him (she never imagined how wrong she would be about that).
So she stays quiet and listens, takes it all in and really listens to him, maybe for the first time. When he speaks of his wife and daughter, she takes his hand and then keeps it, supporting him. He ends his story, hoarse and red-eyed, exhausted and pale, on his knees in the atrium of FBI headquarters.
"You know the rest," he finishes wearily, "More or less." He feels aged and wrung out, worse than after he was shot, worse than ever before, because he knows what's coming. He releases her hand and starts to pull away, to lean back, but she doesn't let go and he's surprised enough to meet her eyes.
"Thank you," she says, seeing both the surprise and what might be hope there in his face. "Thank you for trusting me, for giving me my past… and some of yours. Thank you for believing in me enough, and in us… It's a lot to process."
He nods, solemnly. "I'll leave you to decide what you want next," he says. "If it's what you want," he adds, just so she knows he'd rather stay.
She surprises him again when she smiles at him, and squeezes his hand.
"We're a team, aren't we?" she asks, with a quirk of her eyebrow. "I'm with you, now."
He draws in breath sharply. "Lizzie," he starts, hesitant.
"Ray," she interrupts smoothly. "Listen to me, now. I'm not being coy or disingenuous. I'm with you. Outside of personal considerations, with everything that's happened, that might happen now, we're safest together, don't you think?"
"Safest," he repeats, "Yes, I do think so, have thought so for a long while now."
"Good," she says, briskly. "I know you won't want to stay here, and it's certainly no secret this is where I've been living, so just give me a few minutes to get my things together."
His head is swimming; he was so certain the truth would ruin them, would tear her from him. Instead, he's getting everything he could have ever wanted? It doesn't feel real.
"Personal considerations?" he asks, needing more, needing tangible reassurance of her intent.
She leans in and takes his face in her hands. "Ray," she says, almost impatient, but remembering how he sees himself, takes care to let her feelings swell into her voice. "I love you. I'm in love with you, and I love you. With you, now, I'm home, I'm complete in a way I've never been, that I never knew was even possible. I'm with you, I'm yours…" and she falters now, because she can't read his face at all, and then he looks away. "…if you want me…" she finishes, dropping her hands into her lap, fear back in force.
He looks back at her, now, and the fierce blaze of love and joy in his face takes her breath away, along with her fears.
"If I want you," he breathes. "Lizzie, I want you like I want my next breath. I have loved you for far too long, and I know I don't deserve it, no, don't interrupt me, I don't, but I don't care. I'll take your love and thank God it's mine, because I can't let you go. I love you and I'm in love with you, and I need you, I need you with me."
She smiles at him, sublimely happy — the dark is gone, now, and in the light she kisses him.
"We'll face it together, then," she says. "And together, we'll win."
A/N: And that's that, more or less. My first full-fledged fic! You all have been an amazingly supportive group of readers, and I have to thank you so much! Hopefully, inspiration will strike again soon...