Breathe in, he tells himself, breathe out. She wants you to react, just like always…
"Red? Did you want me to make you a cup of cocoa before bed?"
Her face is serious enough, but her eyes, oh, her eyes, are alive and sparkling with mischief. He loves to see it, to see her filling back up with life, even as his ire responds to her teasing.
"No, thank you, Lizzie," he replies drily. "But have a good sleep." And watches her disappear into her bedroom, thinking furiously. Wait a minute, here — she's calling me OLD! That little… Well, I believe I can do something about that…"
She lies in bed, torn between anger and amusement. He has steadily refused to answer any of her questions — despite everything, he's still treating me like a child. But on the other hand, he has just as steadily taken her campaign of teasing harassment with friendly equanimity. Oh, he answers back as often as not, but always good-naturedly, and hasn't once raised his voice (now she wishes that she could claim the same). Red being Red, though, he often includes a taunting sexuality that she's not sure what to do with.
"Don't disdain the classics, Lizzie. But if you must, I think Kate might have a left a Nora Roberts in the bathroom — she's got a weakness. Check behind the toilet."
"I've got nothing against modern music, but I just can't dance to it. Maybe you'd like to teach me?"
"Sweatpants, Lizzie? Not even while hospitalized, I assure you. Now, when I fantasize about you, I prefer to dress you a little more elegantly… or not at all."
Always with that gentlemanly little smirk and a raised eyebrow, like he's thinking something other than what he's saying. She's got to admit, no matter how frustrated she is with her lack of results; she admires his ability to always have an clever answer ready.
She punches at her pillow; rolls over for the tenth, maybe eleventh time. Tomorrow, she thinks, she is going to need a new tactic.
She's been setting her alarm — otherwise, she finds it difficult to tell when it's really morning. Regardless, she never seems to be able to get up before him, but always emerges from her room to the aroma of coffee and the sound of Red in the kitchen, making them breakfast. Sometimes, she thinks, padding to the bathroom, yawning, he makes it very difficult to be angry at him.
She decides to wait to shower until after she eats — there's no point worrying about modesty in particular, and the sleep shorts she's wearing aren't particularly short. She does wonder if he did the clothes shopping himself, or if one of his many minions did it for him. After she eats, she'll decide on the next move in her campaign against Mr. Inscrutable.
But when she hits the door to the kitchen, she stops and… just stops.
As has become usual, he's already at the stove, humming vaguely while he putters. But, unusually, he's not wearing his neatly pressed slacks and button-down. Today, today he's wearing a fitted dark grey t-shirt (and his arms are more muscled than she would have guessed) and an extremely well-fitting pair of jeans, once-dark but worn in all the right places, fraying at the pockets and cuffs, and… and his feet are bare, and he's… hot, just look at that a…
Wait, what? She catches herself, Wait, am I checking out Reddington's ass?!
She feels her cheeks redden in mortification. At least he doesn't know I'm looking…
"Good morning, Lizzie," his cheerful voice steals the rest of her dignity with three little words. "Something wrong?"
"No," she says immediately, and then wants to just disappear when it comes out all hoarse and croaky. "Just… didn't sleep that well." She goes to pour herself coffee, so she doesn't have to face him.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, and she can tell he's smiling. "Something to eat should help perk you up."
When she thinks she can turn around without making a complete idiot of herself, he's already sitting at the table, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, the picture of relaxed comfort.
He's even trimmed his hair… And how did I notice that?
Just how closely, she wonders, has she been watching him without realizing it?
She further notes, sitting down hastily, that his jeans (jeans!) leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
"Eat up," he says brightly. "If you're up to it, I thought we could try a little hand-to-hand later — we need to keep active and keep those skills sharp."
She chokes on her swallow of coffee. "You want to… to spar with me? Seriously?" Maybe she's losing her mind down here. Or maybe she's just dreaming…
"Why not?" he asks. "You might be a tad younger than me, but I'm certainly stronger. And we both know that the FBI training's for shit, anyway."
Well, she thinks, all too willing to channel her… embarrassment into being pissed off, instead. If that's the way he wants to play it.
"You're on," she says fiercely. But he notices with smug satisfaction that she still can't meet his eyes.
He suggests giving it an hour or so, to let breakfast settle. She flees as soon as she decently can and spends the time in her room, trying to figure exactly where and when she went wrong.
And trying (unsuccessfully) to stop thinking about those jeans.
When she enters the exercise room, in a support tank and fitness capris that she dug out of a drawer (and he's just maddeningly prepared for absolutely everything), he's already in there, stretching on the floor. She thinks he's wearing the same shirt, but he's changed into a pair of loose cotton pants that, somehow, how she can't explain, are even worse than the jeans.
She gives herself a stern mental shake. You, she tells herself, are being ridiculous.
"Ready?" she says, because I sure am.
He gives her a wicked grin, and hops to his feet. "Let's go, sweetheart."
He's moved the treadmill to one side and put mats down. She thinks he might, after all, be stronger than her — But, she thinks, I've got to be quicker.
They face each other, shifting their weight, eyeing one another. She feints, then takes a quick jab, testing, which he blocks, lightning fast, with apparent ease.
Huh. Okay, he's quick, too.
She starts to move, a tiny bit more wary now, and they circle each other carefully. He is still grinning at her, even though she knows, knows, he's just doing it to piss her off, distract her, she can't help it — she's pissed off.
She goes in fast and lands a hit to his solar plexus; whips her leg around for a kick. He catches her leg, again with apparent ease (dammit), yanks hard, and she goes down. She rolls, gets back on her feet.
"Pretty spry, Red," she teases. Keep it light, Liz.
He laughs. "I told you, Lizzie —FBI training is for shit." Then he punches her in the ribs, not that hard, but still leaving her gasping.
"Cheap shot," she manages.
"Criminals," he says, with appalling cheer, "Rarely follow polite rules." And he brings his leg around, hooks a foot around her ankle and yanks.
She's going down again (DAMMIT), but she manages to grab the hem of his t-shirt, and he's coming down with her (HA!) — unfortunately, he lands right on top of her.
The breath whooshes out of her; she reflexively tries to bring up a knee. Before she can much more than twitch, he pins both her legs down with one of his, grabs her wrists in his hands and flattens them to the floor on either side of her head.
Most of his body is flush against hers — he's firm with muscle, much more than she expected, and she realizes, shocked, that she can feel him hard against her hip. His face is just millimetres from her own, his breath hot and surprisingly sweet, his eyes looking, laughing, into her own.
"Gotcha!" he says, and he sounds happier than she's ever heard him, than she thought he was capable of being. "That was fun — but I can see we've got a lot of work to do. Same time tomorrow?"
And before she can say a word, he drops his head and touches her lips in a quick, hard kiss before levering himself up and sauntering out of the room. She is left flat on the floor, gasping, with a belly full of heat and her head swimming.
What, she thinks, lost in confusion, what the actual fuck just happened?