AN: Thank you so much for the amazing response to this fic. Here's chapter 2; the final chapter 3 should be posted very soon as well. I would love to hear your thoughts so a review would be great. Enjoy!
She's talking in her sleep. Again.
Well, mumbling rather than talking, but he enjoys listening all the same and in the small motel room he really doesn't have much of a choice either. So he remains close to her, alert and observant, ready to wake her if nightmares threaten to befog her subconscious. It's the least he can do.
The first time they had shared a bed was still very much engraved on his mind. He had been reluctant at first but she wouldn't hear it, of course the bed was big enough for the two of them, him on one side, she on the other, and a substantial gap in between. He had waited patiently until she had fallen asleep, until her breathing seemed slow and steady, and then he had turned around just to get a glimpse, her hair spread out over the pillow, the duvet rising and falling in consistent intervals. He had looked at her for what seemed like an eternity, indulging in the tranquility, the way it relaxed him, the simplicity of it all. Once the sun had risen he had closed his eyes, sleep, yes, finally, or at least the illusion of it, and that was how she had found him, content and seemingly well-rested.
And that's how they continued. Next to each other, if the lack of space ordered them to, wherever they were hiding, with his eyes set on her, his protective gaze enveloping her, god, he could watch her for hours and never tire.
The habit of talking in her sleep, he had noticed that quickly, too. Sometimes they were just sounds, sometimes he could make out full sentences. One time she had called for him, had repeated his name, Red, and he had stopped breathing then, unsure if this was a conscious plea or simply one of her dreams, and he had tried so hard to define her tone, the urge to understand just what she needed from him suddenly overwhelming. He had felt guilty in those moments because it all felt too personal, as if he was eavesdropping on her innermost personal thoughts. But he didn't have the strength to stop.
Looking out for her, whatever the extent, had always come naturally to him. But looking at her, the way he could now in closed quarters, was a different experience, a more intimate one. He wasn't sure she noticed, he supposed she did at times, but seeing her and learning about her was so strikingly appealing to him. He knows now how she sounds after waking up, how her skin glows in the soft light of dawn, what she wears to bed, what she likes for breakfast, what authors she favors, her interest for poetry, her preference for working out late at night; he knows all her peculiar idiosyncrasies and he stores every bit of information carefully.
She caught him once. They had gone into a negotiation ill-prepared and ill-equipped- not necessarily by mistake but because life on the run had limited their options and Chicago simply wasn't the right environment for those kinds of mistakes- and had barely managed to leave before things got out of hand, until he had felt a stinging pain and the unmistakable crimson liquid run down his arm. A bullet, thankfully not on target. Two hours later he had found himself on a chair in the bathroom of his safe house, with Lizzie seated in front of him on the edge of the tub and a first aid kit by her side. It's nothing, he had told her, really, I'm fine, but she had inspected his wound nevertheless, had insisted on tending to his injury, at least bandage it. And while she had done so, carefully and gently and skillfully, he couldn't take his eyes off her, because he had noticed something in her expression that had never been this salient. Concern. Deep and honest concern. They could have killed you, she had said almost absent-mindedly, they could have- and then her voice had trailed off and she surveyed her work, nodded and raised her head, that wasn't too bad, was it?, and then her gaze had met his and something had shifted then in that very moment, how they had stared at each other, those heavy seconds of silence.
He had left the room so quickly, he might have imagined the whole thing. He hadn't even been sure if he had thanked her. He needed to be more careful.
She rarely seems distraught, if anything she seems too accepting of the situation. But he rarely inquires. He figures if the time is right, she will come to him. At least that's what he's hoping for. It's casual now, the way they interact with one another, like colleagues maybe, or friends, or partners, whatever the hell that means. During one of those rare nights they spend apart, both in their own room because the spacious safe house allows it, he can hear her muffled screams and he sits upright in his bed, frozen to the spot, with an almost unbearable ache submerging every fiber of his being. I did this, he thinks, I am responsible for her suffering. He doesn't sleep a wink that night. But he squeezes her shoulder the next morning while she's eating breakfast in the kitchen, that omnipresent craving for physical contact he rarely yields to, especially not with her, and she is almost certain she understands. And she's grateful. More than he can ever know.
He cooks. No, he doesn't merely cook, not like she does anyway, precooked comfort food with no nutritional value. Instead he chops and tastes and seasons with skill and alacrity and ease, traits that only come with years of experience, and she's fascinated by it, how he moves from cabinet to cabinet, how he navigates. He must have spent a lot of time in this safe house they're currently staying at, or at least that's what she assumes by watching him, because he never pauses, doesn't have to search. She's leaning against the door frame with a cup of tea in her hands, somehow clinging to this fantasy of a normal life, and if he's heard her come in he doesn't show it. He's wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and there's absolutely no reason for it, not in this familiar setting, they've spent all day at home planning their next moves, but of course he looks impeccable and of course she couldn't possibly compete with that in her dark jeans and comfortable knit sweater. She has no idea what he is preparing but it smells incredible and she realizes she has yet to find something he is truly bad at, except for maybe his complicated relationship with modern technology, triangulation, satellites, crypto-whatever, as he called it once, in another lifetime when things were much easier. When she wasn't a fugitive. And yet, somehow, despite all logic, she feels safer now. She feels cared for.
"Can you teach me?"
He turns around somewhat startled, surprised to see her standing in the doorway.
"To cook?"
"Well, to chop the ingredients the way you do. Let's start with that maybe, okay?"
"Okay."
He wonders how long she has been watching him, if at all. He wonders if this is a good idea.
Liz places the mug on the table and walks towards him, the old hardwood flooring creaking beneath her bare feet, and she stops in front of the counter, inspects the different components spread out on the cutting boards, the large pot on the stove.
"What are we making?"
"Minestrone soup. Unfortunately all that's left to prepare now is the basil and oregano I got yesterday, but we might as well start with something easy."
He steps aside to give her some space and picks a handful of leaves from the pots on the windowsill before spreading them out on the cutting board, evenly divided, then pulls two large knives out of one of the drawers to his right, puts one down in front of her and holds on to the other. She picks it up rather hesitantly, careful not to come into contact with the razor-sharp blade, and he steps closer to stand next to her, shoulders brushing, ready to instruct.
"Now, the easiest way to chop herbs shaped like this is by creating little stacks. Put the leaves on top of one another," he watches as she mirrors his actions, "yes, exactly, and now simply watch my movements for a bit. Try to see how I hold my knife, Lizzie. The key to efficient and even chopping is how comfortable you are with the knife."
He cuts in swift motions, makes it look sophisticated, if there's such a thing, and she watches the blade glide effortlessly through the green leaves without ever leaving the wooden surface and it's done so quickly that she thinks she's missed half of it. She's still staring at his hand when it stills, the knife resting now. It's her turn.
Somewhat awkwardly she tries to imitate his grip and begins cutting, but she can't seem to get it quite right, until she suddenly feels warm and notices him standing behind her.
May I, he asks, and she just nods, and he extends his arm and places his hand over hers, arranges her fingers so she can hold on to the knife more comfortably, her thumb guiding the blade, her cutting motions circular and smooth. She can't really concentrate on any of this because her focus is completely and utterly on his steady breath on her neck, he's virtually looking over her shoulder and if she would turn her head the slightest bit at this very moment, just a little bit to the right, then her lips would…
And then he steps away, without warning and all too sudden, and her hand feels cold.
"I'll set the table. Seems like you learn very quickly, Lizzie."
But his voice sounds strained and not much like himself and as she watches him move through the kitchen, tasting and seasoning the soup, retrieving plates, his earlier placidity seems to have vanished. He doesn't speak another word.
If it were anyone else, this would feel an awful lot like rejection.
And yet she suspects it's the exact opposite.