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"You slept with Tom, didn't you."
It isn't a question.
Liz glances over at Red's profile, then away. She knows he can't have seen the bite mark on her neck, so how does he know?
"You smell like him."
Liz clenches her teeth together and concentrates on not crying. She assumed her mistake with Tom would go undiscovered and eventually be forgotten. She and Red are bound for an isolated farmhouse deep in the country. The last thing she wants is to fall apart in front of him.
She's destroyed everything he's been working towards with the FBI for the last two years. The least she can do is spare him yet another hysterical scene.
"Why did you call me, instead of him, after you killed Connelly?"
Now that question, Liz can answer.
"I found the records we stole from Andropov's apartment in the pocket of his shirt." She pauses, thinking back to that shock. "They were in my pocket when we arrived at the boat. He must have taken them during the night."
Red looks over at that, then nods thoughtfully.
"I think he slept with me to keep me there so he could get them. I think he was going to sell them to someone."
She flushes, so embarrassed at the thought of Tom manipulating her once again that she almost misses Red's grimace.
"Lizzie, I certainly didn't hire Tom specifically to obtain it, but I've had a standing reward for that information for quite some time."
"Oh." Liz stares down at her hands, folded in her lap. Was it really just this morning?
She feels unclean, remembering what they did together, but she doesn't have any other clothes to change into, and the fresh water tanks on the boat were almost empty, so she didn't attempt a shower.
When they reach the farmhouse, she's going to scrub and scrub until Red can't smell Tom on her at all.
Liz slants her eyes at him, catches him facing forward again, moving so patiently with the jouncing of the van, as he has for hours on end. His expression is calm, his eyes lidded as if he's thinking.
She turns her eyes forward and tries to concentrate on nothing at all.
***
They arrive shortly before midnight, the van's tires leaving lonely tracks in the crunchy layer of frost that coats the rutted driveway. The farmhouse turns out to be small and cold, the power on but not the gas. Muttering unhappily, Red brings in firewood from the stack outside as Liz drags the twin mattresses from the two identical bedrooms down the hall into the living room, then piles on all the bedding she can find.
With the warmth of the fire, the room is almost cozy. They sit facing each other on their mattresses, cross-legged, wrapped in blankets, to eat the food Red chooses from the kitchen.
Expensive tins of various delicacies, mostly labeled in French, with crackers, bottled water, and a tall bottle of very old Scotch.
She tries a bit of everything, and matches Red drink for drink.
"I'll arrange for the gas tomorrow," he tells her, gesturing with his glass, the bronze liquid bright in the orange firelight. "Then we can shower, and wash our clothes, and prepare for our next ride."
Liz grins at him a little sloppily.
"My clothes are washable," she points out.
Red gives her a reproving look.
"I have things I need to wash, too," he says. "Personal items."
She smiles at him, at the thought that tomorrow she may be treated to the sight of Raymond Reddington doing laundry, and absentmindedly unwinds her scarf and sets it aside.
"Lizzie." He reaches out and his warm fingers find the dark bruise on the right side of her neck.
She tries to keep smiling, but his touch brings it all back.
Tom mocking her as she struggled to pull away, claiming that she must surely want him to mark her. The way she tolerated it, gave in because that's what she always did. Even if she didn't feel submissive at all.
"I don't want to think about it," she tells Red, moving her face away as he touches her jaw, urging her to tilt it back.
He gives her a very serious look, then holds out the bottle. In answer, she lifts her glass, and he refills it before topping up his own.
"Lizzie, I know a way to help you forget." He sounds almost sheepish, and she watches as his hand comes up to scratch lightly at the back of his head, a by now familiar sign that he's somehow uncomfortable.
"Yes?"
"Hair of the dog."
He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes intent as she registers his meaning. What in the world can she say to that?
"Uh, there's just you and me here, Red." She gestures around the small, fire-lit room. "No likely prospects for a convenient one night stand."
He tilts his head, then reaches his fingers very gently to touch the bruise again. It's not sore, but his touch reminds her that her hair probably stinks of salt water and cheap cologne, not the clean scent of her customary shampoo. She and Red have traveled so far together, not just in hiding, but in how well they know each other.
Red is fastidious in all things. She would have expected him to wipe his fingers on his pocket handkerchief by now.
"Just a hair. I know you trust me, Lizzie," he says, looking at her very solemnly. "Trust me in this."
Oh. Liz blinks at him, then leans back into the touch of his fingers, closing her eyes.
Red chuckles.
"This will work much better with your eyes open, Lizzie," he tells her.
She opens her eyes to find his face unexpectedly close. He's examining the bruise on her neck with great intensity.
"Yes?" he asks her, his eyes kind, as he takes hold of her shoulders very gently, the warmth of his hands barely penetrating her layers of blankets and clothing.
"Yes?" Her answer emerges a little uncertain, but it's enough to make him smile. He lets go of her at once, sets his blankets aside, then shrugs out of his jacket and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling his shirt sleeves up almost to his elbows.
Then he reaches out for her shoulders once again.
"Keep your eyes open, Lizzie," he reminds her.
His face is almost stern in the firelight, the orange glow picking out the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the faint hint of stubble along his jaw. Very slowly, he bends forward and presses his lips to the bruise. His mouth touches her again and again, unexpectedly soft. She sits helpless, her hands at her sides beneath the blankets, looking down at the curve of his head, his neatly trimmed hair above his starched white collar and neatly knotted silk tie.
Red smells clean despite his exertions with the firewood, the faintly citrus notes of his cologne mingling with the rich, smoky smell of the crackling fire in the fireplace. The tip of his tongue replaces his lips, exploring her neck in between kisses, and she shivers at the sensation. He draws back, his eyes lidded, his mouth quirked to one side in satisfaction.
"Now, close your eyes, Lizzie," he tells her, and she obeys him, feels his mouth on the side of her neck once again.
All she can think of at this point is more kisses on the neglected left side of her neck. She opens her eyes and reaches out from beneath the blankets, laying her hands on either side of Red's neck, then slowly tilting her head.
"Please," she whispers.
His lips trace kisses over her throat, linger beneath her jaw, then move to the other side of her neck, alternating with very gentle, playful bites.
She opens her eyes, savoring the smell and feel of him so close, her gaze lingering on the elegant curve of his ear.
"Lizzie?" he murmurs against her skin.
"Yes, Red?" she responds, hearing her voice come out low with pleasure.
He lifts his fingers to the bruise once again, his lips still moving against the other side of her neck. His breath is warm, smelling of Scotch and something more, something that makes her mouth begin to water.
"Try to think about Tom now."
Liz can't. She's forgotten the bruise, can barely even remember the previous night, not with Red's mouth moving on her.
It's as though his touch is erasing the past.
Her eyes fly open, and he presses a quick kiss to the underside of her chin, then sits back and releases her.
"Better, Lizzie?"
His face is smiling, but there's a tightness to his jaw that tells her Red isn't unaffected by what they've been doing.
She takes a deep breath, trying to still the desire to reach out for him again. Unbutton his collar, remove his tie, and mirror those caresses against his neck.
"So much better," she confirms, pulling her blankets a little closer around her once again. "Hair of the dog, huh?"
He gives an appealing little shrug, the corners of his mouth tipping up.
"Sometimes, just a hair is enough."
A little shocked at her own daring, Liz extends her right hand and touches the rough stubble of his jaw with her fingertips, then brings her fingers to his sensitive lips, emboldened when he doesn't pull away. He kisses her fingertips, just the slightest pucker of those lips, and she brings her hand to her own mouth.
Remembering how Tom's kisses felt so familiar, how she had once again wanted something to be true that was once again a lie.
"More?" she whispers, watching his eyes for any hint of reluctance. Instead, they dilate even further, almost black in the firelight beneath the thick fan of his eyelashes.
"As much as you want."
She holds her breath as he undoes his tie and sets it aside, then unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt and the top button of his vest, allowing her just a glimpse of his bare chest.
Then he leans forward again, this time taking her face between his hands.
"Keep your eyes open," he whispers, as his lips descend to meet hers.
***
Red awakens to cold air on his face and a warm, limp weight pressing down on his torso.
Morning light is slanting into the farmhouse living room, illuminating the dusty furniture and the heap of red plaid blankets piled atop his mattress. Lizzie is sleeping mostly on top of him, and Red instantly decides that the warmth of her bare body against his is the best feeling he's had all year.
Their clothing is scattered all around, mostly on the other mattress, but their guns are carefully positioned near his head. He disentangled himself from her for long enough last night to ensure the doors were locked, and their loaded weapons within easy reach.
Red thinks back over the night's activities with a certain smug satisfaction. He's quite confident that he's managed to banish Tom Keen thoroughly and permanently from her life.
Whether Liz will be interested in accepting him an an ongoing lover is entirely another matter. It might be better for them both to leave this as a night to remember, rather than the start of something new. They should split up soon, to more easily stay concealed while he arranges secure transport abroad. He can use their new closeness to impress on her the need to follow his instructions exactly, before they part.
Liz moves slightly within the circle of his arms, her face still hidden beneath the blankets. Red closes his eyes against the sudden sting of tears.
All he wants is this night, again and again and again.
He doesn't care that she came to him from the arms of Tom Keen. Hell, he'd have pulled the man off her, shot him, then joined his Lizzie in bed, if that had been what was needed, rather than his painstaking dismantling of her unhappy memories.
Red taught Liz some new things about her own body last night, things he would have expected a married woman to have already discovered. Perhaps Tom was as unimaginative as he was deceptive.
But it's a foolishly romantic notion to think that she was waiting for him. Although his own sense that he was born to protect her came out of nowhere to become the touchstone of his life.
Liz stirs again, and this time her tousled dark head pokes out of the covers, allowing the chill of the morning air beneath the blankets.
"Red."
She gazes at him with great fondness, if a little blearily, and he remembers how much they both had to drink. His breath is probably terrible.
She squirms against him to bring her face level with his, a delightful sensation, then presses their lips together briefly.
"You are amazing," she tells him, settling herself atop his chest. He doesn't miss her glance at their weapons, her approving nod.
"You're quite amazing yourself," he tells her, taking the opportunity to run his hands up and down her sides beneath the blankets. Her skin is velvety soft, her ribs and hips in perfect contrast to the soft curves of her toned body. He keeps his touch appreciative, rather than greedy.
Now is the time for her to move away, to collect her clothing, to reestablish some distance.
Instead, she moves suggestively against him, then leans in for another, deeper kiss.
"Are you a morning person, Red?" she asks him. Red shifts his hips slightly, and answers her with the press of his body, absurdly pleased when her eyes widen flatteringly at the sensation.
"Mmm, just what I wanted for breakfast," she tells him, her thighs parting as she positions herself above him. Taking the lead this time, her determined little jaw jutting out as she moves against him. Allowing him to just lie back and feel.
"Kiss me, Lizzie," he tells her, hearing his voice come out raw, but knowing he'll blurt out his love to her if she doesn't keep his mouth occupied, his body coming alive at the exquisite sensations she's creating.
She bends her head and takes possession of his mouth, her hands moving on him with increasing confidence.
Red made Liz forget all about Tom Keen. And now she's returning the favor. With interest.
Perhaps they won't need to split up for a long, long while.