He stares at himself in the mirror. Not so bad, he thinks, and I think I made my point. He hadn't missed the way she'd looked at him in the kitchen that morning, and he was sure that she'd felt something besides anger during and after their match. He'd worried a little, after he'd brushed it all off, that he'd taken it too far, that his unplanned kiss had told her too much.
But when she'd emerged from the storage room, she'd been quiet and calm, had spoken to him normally. She'd heated soup for their lunch, eaten with him, been friendly. When they were cleaning up, she'd asked, still quietly, if he felt like he could talk to her about the Cabal.
It seemed reasonable to him — that secret was already out in the open — and it was a relief to give her something after months of refusals. They spent most of the afternoon talking about it — the information on the Fulcrum, what else he has gathered over the years, about Alan Fitch and the Director. He even shared some of his expectations for what might happen next, contingent, of course, on the media storm he has attempted to start. She took copious notes; unearthed a map from somewhere in his library that she marked up with events and people.
When they were talked out, they had an early dinner and played several rounds of companionable gin rummy before she pled exhaustion and went off to bed. He's not sure if she's plotting a new angle of attack, or has just decided that, in their enforced close quarters, friendly is better for them both, but he's pleased. And she didn't poke at him once, all afternoon.
He finishes up in the washroom; goes back to his room to strip out of his clothes and pull on the soft cotton pajama pants he's conceded to wearing, down here. But sleep is elusive, although he's been sleeping better lately, with Lizzie safe and secure in the next room.
He can't get the images of her out of his head. Her long, supple limbs battling his; the furrow of concentration on her forehead as she works over her map; her damp, flushed skin as they grappled together; the look in her eyes when he kissed her, however fleeting; the feel of her, God, the feel of her pinned on the floor underneath him…
He lets out a strangled moan — he's tried not to think of her this way since they came down here, to save his sanity; he hasn't touched himself in days, but he's aching and impossibly hard, and he can't stand it. He pushes his pants back down over his hips; covers his face with one hand as he grasps himself firmly with the other and starts to stroke, wishing.
She wakes in a cold sweat, fading images of her shadowy father lingering like a cloud over her mind. Looking at the clock by her bed, she sees it's not even midnight — that's what comes of going to sleep before 9, she thinks ruefully.
She turns over, restless and unsettled. She'd been so pleased with herself that afternoon — she thinks her calm and friendly behavior worked on him as intended. He shared a great deal with her, and has again shown himself to be a thoughtful and insightful partner. She enjoys when they can work that way — in tandem, bouncing thoughts off one another, clearing a path through the bewildering mass of information.
She wonders, tossing, why it can't always be that way between them. Is it her, with her volatility and temper and mistrust? Is it him, with his patronizing arrogance and secrecy? Or is it the both of them, so busy battling on one hand and hiding on the other that they are incapable of meeting in the middle?
She lets out a gusty sigh, frustrated. She gets out of bed, unable to lie still any longer. Decides to head to the kitchen for a glass of water.
As she passes Red's door, she thinks she hears something — a groan? Maybe he's sick, she thinks, or maybe I'm not the only one with nightmares. She turns, then hesitates, but she can see his door isn't shut to, so she pushes it open a touch further, just to make sure he's all right.
They're in the habit of leaving the bathroom light on in case one of them needs to get up in the night. Underground, there's no ambient light at all, otherwise. The light is just a dim glow, but her eyes are adjusted and she can see him well enough.
He's lying on his bed, bare-chested, one large hand over his eyes, pants rucked below his hips and… oh no, she thinks, he's not sick at all…
She thinks she should be running for her room, red-faced and embarrassed, but… But the sight of him is so compelling, stretched out long on top of his blankets, so all his firm muscle is clearly visible beneath his softer flesh. The tendons in his arm are standing out as he works his cock, long and hard. Instead of embarrassment, she's wondering what colour he is right now, what he feels like in his hand.
He's breathing harshly and the only other sound in the room the slap of his sac against his thighs as he moves his hand. An all-too-familiar heat is uncurling deep inside her, and she thinks that she's been kidding herself all day, since she first saw him that morning, maybe since…
"Lizzie…" she hears him, low and rough.
Shit, she thinks, closing her eyes, and now, now it comes, the rush of humiliation, caught out, but she can't move, why can't she move? But he doesn't say anything else, for long enough that she dares raise her eyes to look at him again.
He hasn't seen her — his hand is still covering his face, it hasn't moved at all. But his other hand is moving much faster now, and as she stands there, thoughts whirling, he moans again and comes, hard, semen jetting onto his stomach, his back arching a little, legs stiff.
As he stills, breathing hard, she finds herself able to move again. Shaking, she slides silently back, pulling the door back almost shut as she goes.
Water utterly forgotten, she pads silently back to her room and drops onto her bed; lets her breath out and stares at the ceiling blankly. She thought he saw her as a child, someone to teach, to care for, yes, but as a protector, a guide. She never imagined that he saw her as a woman, as desirable, sexual. What surprises her even more is that this thought, along with the picture of him now burned into her brain, doesn't spur anger or disgust, but a thick, answering desire she can finally admit she recognizes.
God, she thinks, what am I going to do?