"But only if you want it, Lizzie. It's up to you."
He's watching her, waiting, an indecipherable look on his face behind his slight smile. She's not sure what to do. She takes another sip of her drink and looks away, so she can think more clearly.
She can still feel the warmth of his hands on her cheeks, her skin faintly tingling. Her mind is a whirl of confused thoughts and feelings. Is it really possible that something she had denied, had put out of her mind for so long, had convinced herself she didn't need or want, could actually be within her reach?
Did she want it enough to embrace the terrible risks?
She looks at Red, at his handsome, charismatic face; at his strong, capable hands. She thinks of the things that have happened since he swept into her life; the things that he has done for her, the talks they have had, the way he seems to understand the turmoil inside her.
She thinks of the way that his lips felt against hers, of the rush of warmth and eagerness he'd brought out of her body. Just the memory of it warms her a little. Surely it can't be wrong to want something for herself?
She turns back to him, putting her jar back on the table, reaching out for his hand and gripping it hard to give herself strength.
"I think," she says softly, "That I would like that very much."
He squeezes her hand tightly. "I'm glad to hear that," he replies, and a rising heat begins to mingle with hers.
He puts a hand on her cheek, and gently rubs his thumb along her lips in a mirror of her own earlier gesture.
"So soft," he murmurs, "You have such a lovely mouth."
And then he leans in and kisses her, just a gentle press of lips.
"It's so simple," he says, "It's just you and me. Think about how it feels, and what you like. Just feel, and don't worry about anything else."
He kisses her again, a little more intense, a little more focused. His hand slides from her cheek into her hair to hold her close, his other hand still clasping hers.
She feels terribly alive, as if she's standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if she'll fall.
She throws herself into the feeling, sighing into him, letting him slide his tongue along hers. Her free hand curls into his vest, clutching for stability. She can feel his heart beating, quick and hard and matching hers; her breath is coming short and fast. In a haze of hot desire, her fingers start to twitch in his hand and against his chest — he pulls gently away, and she feels his particular soothing calm fill her, quiet her.
He rests his forehead against her; for a long moment, they just breathe together.
"See," he says. "Easy as breathing."
She lets out a choked little laugh, struggling for control — now that she's paying attention, she can feel her veins twisting with lazy sparks.
"Right," she gasps, "Easy."
"Well," he concedes. "Maybe not. Worth a little effort, though, don't you think?"
She laughs again, more naturally this time. "Oh, I suppose," she replies, putting light teasing into her tone.
"You suppose, do you?" His voice is a low growl that sends shivers down her spine. "Perhaps you need a little more convincing."
And he yanks her back into him, kissing her fiercely. Her thoughts fall into dust and she gives herself over to sensation — his mouth, searing with demands; his hands, hard on her arms; his rich, simmering desire spiraling through her.
It's overwhelming, it's dangerous, she should be terrified… and yet, she can also feel his smooth assertiveness coating her, shielding her, keeping the flame at bay.
He breaks the kiss only when this calm starts to flicker, starts to trade places with a spark, then two, three. He takes a deep breath, and she realizes (with some gratification) that he, too, needs to steady himself.
"Convinced?" he asks, rubbing her arms gently as if to ease them both. "Or have you changed your mind?"
His tone is half-teasing, half-challenging, as if he is daring her to try and deny their connection. But she wouldn't, she can't, and it isn't a thing to joke about anymore.
She has never wanted anything so much, so viscerally as she wants to travel this road with him; everything inside her has changed, has turned on end and twisted around, and she's desperately trying to keep up.
"I know what I want," she says, quietly serious. "I want this, you and me, together. I want everything you can teach me, Red."
He smiles at her — a slow, real smile — and tucks her hair behind her ear.
"Then we both have something to look forward to," he says softly. "Now, how about dinner?"
Despite their closeness, despite her swirling emotions, the draining physical effort of the day, followed by the emotional overload of the evening, has left her ravenous. She shakes out her hands to settle herself, and agrees.
After everything, she's not sure how she will possibly sleep, but the moment her head hits the pillow, she tumbles into slumber and doesn't even twitch until morning.
When she wakes, coiled in a warm bed in the mysterious writer's house, she feels flush with wellbeing, filled with possibilities, and more herself than she has since her father's death.
She prepares for the day with a dreamy smile on her face, remembering. His touch, cool on her skin; his mouth, soft and supple and generous; the taste of him, like spices and mint and smoke.
He'd left her at her bedroom door last night with a kiss on the forehead, a stroke of her hair, and a smile more genuine than she'd seen on him before. She thinks he might be as filled with happy expectation as she is.
She trots down the stairs, following the scent of coffee to the kitchen, trying to temper her eagerness before he senses it. She feels as if she can't wait to see him again, to be with him, her system already jumping in anticipation.
But when she does see him, sitting at the kitchen table in vest and shirtsleeves, reading the paper with his legs stretched out, she freezes, suddenly at a complete loss.
But of course he know that she's there; he looks up at her, smiling so broadly it's like a ray of sunshine. He's up and in front of her in a flash of movement, his hands on her upper arms, his pleased affection washing over her.
"Good morning, Lizzie," he says warmly, kissing her cheek. "Did you sleep well?"
"Amazingly so," she admits, thrilling inwardly at his touch. "It's been ages since I slept that well."
"It was a long and challenging day yesterday — it's not really surprising. What would you —"
The harsh buzz of her cell interrupts him. It's Ressler, so she answers it with an apologetic shrug, guessing unhappily that this first step, this little bubble of time, is over now.
"Milhoan." Sharp and harsh; Ressler always sounds angry at something. "Turn on the TV."
"Which channel," she asks, moving toward the small screen in the corner of the room.
"Any channel," comes Ressler's grim reply.
And that simply, her world reverts to the whirlwind of noise and movement and horrors, all sharp corners and hard edges and fear.
Nearly forty dead, it's a tragedy that doesn't seem quite real — what could possibly be the reason? In the dark recesses of the Post Office, Aram picks out the perpetrator so easily that she has to wonder if this villain is even trying to hide, has to wonder what he is really doing. If he may not be the heedless killer that he seems, thirsty for destruction, but a man driven by a different need.
Now, before the scramble to ID this new killer can even really begin, Red's on the phone.
"I can identify the man you're looking for, Lizzie."
"You're kidding," she answers, but then thinks better of it. "Of course, you're not. Who is he?"
"Phones are so impersonal. Why don't we meet for show and tell in thirty minutes? Dembe will forward you a location."
With Red's tale of the suddenly mad scientist Frederick Barnes, her day really takes off. The hospital, the CDC, the horrifyingly changed faces of the dead. A clue — a radioactive isotope — and Red is off, gone to Cuba, hopefully to lead them to Barnes' location. As he leaves, he gives her hand a fierce squeeze, pressing a key into her palm with a raise of an eyebrow and a nudge of importance.
She and Ressler drive off to meet Barnes' ex-partner, sorrowful and worried; then there's the boy, with his tell-tale illness, unlocking a huge part of the case in a burst of clarity. Then it's a race, a race to find a killer, to prevent further deaths.
And so, somehow, she finds herself on the steps of the courthouse, facing off with a man whose calm and quiet demeanor belies the gun in his hand. The gun that is firmly pressed into the neck of an aging and frightened security guard.
"I'm only gonna say this once," she says, trying to sound strong and assertive. "Drop the gun."
"You first," Barnes replies coolly. "I'm gonna count to three. If that gun is not on the ground, I will shoot this man."
"And you will be dead one second after."
He ignores her completely. "One…two…three!"
"You don't have to do this!" She shouts over the sound of his count, but he is utterly unreachable, and on "three", he cocks the hammer.
"All right!" she yells, frustrated and angry. She takes her own finger off the trigger of her service revolver and puts up her hands in a show of non-aggression. "All right."
"Drop the gun," he insists, "And kick it away."
She hesitates, training nagging at the back of her mind.
"Drop the gun! NOW!"
She can't watch Barnes shoot a man right in front of her. She crouches and places her gun on the step; stands and kicks it away.
"Let him go."
Barnes looks grim; he fires several shots into the windows above the courthouse doors, only afterward shoving the guard away. In the ensuing shrieking chaos, he evades her easily.
She wonders how Red is getting along.
Back at the Post Office, talking the case out with Ressler and Malik, it all starts to take shape, to make a twisted kind of sense. She could almost feel sorry for Barnes.
But then, then she's in Cooper's office, like a troublesome kid at the mercy of the school principal.
"You're on duty, correct?" he asks abruptly. She nods, a little confused. "Are you carrying your badge?"
"Of course," she answers.
"Why?"
"Because it's protocol."
"Then would you care to explain why you would surrender your firearm to a suspect in the middle of a hostage situation?"
Ressler. That… dammit.
"It was a judgment call," she replied earnestly. "Barnes was going to kill that officer."
"I realize you're new at this, Agent Milhoan, but some rules don't have exceptions. And giving up your weapon, that happens to be top of the list."
"I am fully aware of our field regulations." She's stiff and awkward now — she can't help it.
"And since you willfully ignored them," Cooper continues, "Your actions will be subject to a formal review."
Closer scrutiny was not something she wanted; possibly something she wouldn't survive.
"What does that mean?" She tries to keep the flash of panic out of her voice.
"It means an administrative panel will decide whether or not you'll be sanctioned. And we'll see where we go from there."
And just like that, she is neatly and politely dismissed. She heads straight for Ressler, the anger roiling within.
"You mind telling me what the hell that was?" she hisses at him, barely maintaining control.
"If you're asking whether or not I reported you," he says calmly, "The answer is yes."
"Why would you do that?" she cries, unaccountably hurt as well as angry.
"Look, Milhoan. I like you. I respect you. But that moment back there with Barnes showed me that you aren't qualified to be in the field."
"You would have taken the shot?" she snaps in disbelief. "Is that it? It's easy to make the tough call after the fact, isn't it?"
"It's what any trained field agent would have done, which is precisely the point."
"And that hostage would be dead."
"Then I guess that's just what happens," he answers, shrugging.
"That's a man's life you're talking about!" She can't quite get a grip on herself; her fingers are starting to twitch and she's breathing fast.
"Yes," he answers simply, sighing. "One man's, which you traded for hundreds, possibly thousands, by letting Barnes get away. And if you can't understand why that's a bad call, you don't belong in a tactical unit."
And he walks away, leaving her seething, twitching, and alone.
She finds the address Red had texted her, digging the key he'd slipped her out of her bag and slamming into the apartment.
Of course, it's an apartment today, she thought snippily, kicking the leg of the couch in frustration. She wanted to scream — and couldn't. Wanted to throw things — and couldn't.
She knew she was at a dangerous point, her anger surging, limbs trembling and twitching, and so close to being out of control. She dropped her bag and jacket and sat down on the floor right there in the living room, her eyes closed, trying to breathe evenly.
She could hear her father's voice in her head, smooth and reassuring. You've got to focus, channel your feelings. Don't let the fire win; don't let it beat you, Butterball.
Breathing, in and out, forcing her muscles to ease, thinking of Sam — it helps her claw back enough control that she is no longer shaking; no longer in immediate danger of burning the building down, at least.
She knows it won't last long.
She misses Red with a fierce, visceral ache that astonishes her; his warm affection, his blanketing calm, the way he always seems to know exactly what she needs even when she does not. But his texts confirmed that he won't be back until at least midday tomorrow, and she will never make it through the night like this.
She needs to be out of this confining little apartment, to be gone; needs the streets, a fight, a release. He has repeatedly cautioned her against it — too dangerous, he says, with Russian spies hunting her, with her new position in the FBI. There are too many variables for her to be safe.
But she knows how to be sly and swift and secret, and she has virtually disappeared from her former life. And if it's a choice between remote risk and burning down Red's safe house…
She's out the door in a rush, out into the night.
She runs instead of walking, taking joy in the cool air on her face. She's unnoticeable in the shadows of the alleyways that she prefers. She doesn't have to go far to find good hunting.
She's not generally a violent person (she's not, she's not), but at these times, there's something brutally satisfying about the impact of her fists on flesh, in the sweeping movements of her limbs, of the use of all her strength. It all fulfills some dark corner of her psyche that she doesn't like to think about, a desire that she can't explain.
Time passes in a blur of kicks and punches, chain-link fences and dumpsters and wet asphalt; humanity at its ugly worst. It's very late — or early — when, already bruised and her rage on the wane, she comes across a mugging. Two unpleasantly thick and hairy thugs are menacing a very young-looking man clutching a night-deposit bag.
She doesn't hesitate, using the element of surprise, knocking down one thug with a hard heel to the back of the knee and ramming her elbow into the other one's sternum. The knee crumples, howling, while the sternum makes a shocked, garbled choking noise, his arms flailing. She takes the opportunity to drive her fist into his gut.
Leaving Thug #2 retching painfully in a huddle, she turns back to Thug #1, who is still struggling to get up, and kicks him in the face as hard as she can. His nose breaks, maybe even a cheekbone — he deflates into the ground, out for the count.
Then, she miscalculates. She bends over to secure Thug #1's hands with a flex cuff, and that's when Thug #2, apparently at least partially recovered, hits her from behind, his arms wrapping around her legs as her knocks her down with a tackle.
Thug #1 breaks most of her fall, but she feels the skin on her jaw tear and scrape. Thug #2's face presses into her lower back, his arms scrabbling to hold her thrashing legs. He's much stronger than she is; with him on top of her, she has no chance.
Fear gives her system a boost, and she thinks of Red, of the work they did together, of the things that he said she was capable of. She stops struggling, turns inward, and focuses, hard.
Just as Thug #2 clambers up her prone body and grabs her hair, yanking her head back, her body flashes hot. Her skin is scalding, burning, but she is managing to hold back the flame. Her assailant recoils with a shriek and rolls off of her to writhe on the ground, his hands, arms, face all dark red and starting to blister.
She wrestles the heat down, hopping to her feet, giving #2 a couple of swift parting kicks to release the rest of her adrenaline. She shakes out her hands, rolling her head to stretch out her neck. She did it. She feels amazing, and utterly proud of herself.
Tidily cuffing the two muggers, she takes off for the apartment without ever speaking a word, leaving the suddenly fortunate young man gaping after her fleet form as she dissolves into the night.