Author's Note: Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).
I.
He was so focused on getting her out of that suffocating van and taking her to safety that he almost missed the genuine surprise that had invaded the features of her face. The shock had caused for her ordinarily swift reactions to betray her and give away her newly-found timidity. Her jaw was slack, refusing to fulfill its duties, and her brows were raised as high as they could go. Her poor eyes seemed alarmed; wide and worried.
He wanted for her to change into a police uniform and he seemed resolved to do the same. They had to be quick about it, too. It was an endeavor that was going to take place in the van that could, in no way, accommodate modesty. It could only provide enough room for the two of them, her head on his shoulder, and for the embarrassment that was taking over her, making her professional experience in the field redundant.
She reminded herself that she should know better. That she was a trained agent and tentativeness in moments of grave danger was not a luxury she could indulge in. She was a hair too late and a hair too slow. He had already sensed her reluctance to take the clothing from his extended hand. He was onto her, like he always was.
"Lizzie, put this on now, please. We need to leave. Now," he instructed firmly, trying to inject urgency in his deceptively calm voice; anything to get her survival instincts back on track. He didn't venture into asking her what was on her mind. It made her wonder if he'd figured her out. It wouldn't be unlike him. Did he know she was struggling to undress in front of him? It took her less than five seconds to decide she was not going to confirm his suspicions by risking her life and his. She snatched the uniform from him and tried her hardest to be swift and sure. For her sake and his.
II.
She was buttoning her shirt up, annoyed at the cheap cotton and those tiny buttons that appeared to be too fragile to bear the weight of the fabric.
And she looked, naturally. She looked at him as he divested himself of his Armani pants and prayed he wouldn't notice. He did, naturally.
But she noticed things, too. Unexpected things. His thighs were muscular and it caught her off guard when it shouldn't have. The hairs on them looked soft and were light in color. His boxers looked expensive too. It took her five glances to obtain that intimate knowledge. He'd caught her staring all five times, without a single miss.
III.
He said nothing of her lack of decorum. He didn't scold her for how inadequate she'd acted in the van. She was grateful for his inborn tact. She knew he could abandon diplomacy when the need for force would arise. His kindness was her only silver lining and her sole reason for not abandoning her allegiance with sanity.
IV.
He utilized the filthy cot and made the most of it anyway. He sighed upon stretching his legs and the sound did not escape her. He had granted her an hour of peaceful slumber. She knew her comfort had cost him some of his. It was his fondness for their unsightly surroundings that proved her comfort had cost him all of his.
She'd felt that something was brewing inside her confused mind; something powerful. Her tender feelings for Reddington were transforming into something she refused to name or ponder on. Instead, she afforded another look at him, choosing to relish in those sweet sensations despite the nagging pull to analyze them.
His shirttails had escaped his pants. And she noticed. Naturally.
"You're making a habit out of staring at my lower half, Lizzie," he grumbled. She was quick to focus her gaze on his face. His voice didn't give her enough cues. She had to know whether he was being mercifully light-hearted.
He was. His smile was lazy and easy-going. Her juvenile ways were forgiven.
"Come lay here, Lizzie. You need to rest. I'll go investigate the alcohol supply in the bar," he suggested somewhat playfully and was seconds away from pushing himself from the cot.
"No. Stay," she told him quickly. "We'll rest together," she said, because she was foolish enough. But he nodded and she decided to make the most of the second silver lining of the day.
V.
Her head was resting on his right breast. Her left wrist had found a sanctuary on his stomach. Much like the van, the sorry little cot provided room for the two of them only. There was no space for thoughts of her job and lost dignity. There was very little space for musings on Tom and his boat.
Oddly, she felt guilt lurking in the corners of her temporary content. Reddington's fingers were toying with her and he was dropping occasional kisses on her forehead, but she had yet to wash off the remains of Tom's semen. It made her feel worthy of the filthy cot she was lying on.
She was unclean.
VI.
He'd fallen asleep with his lips on her forehead. His strong heart was consoling her confused mind. It was encouraging her to believe in clean slates and purity, even after Tom.
The hand that had been stroking her hair fell onto her left breast.
She did nothing to move it.
