Chapter 1:
Helplessness is not an emotion with which Red is intimately acquainted.
He is familiar with foresight and planning, accustomed to being three steps ahead of everyone else, armed with layer upon layer of contingencies, cloaked in expertly designed exit strategies, and outfitted with an arsenal of influence. Being helpless is not a feeling he recognizes well.
And yet, after replaying the day's events in his mind, he can not, for the life of him, pinpoint where they had gone so very wrong. His contact had been unimpeachable, the location secure, the most current Blacklister unaware of Red's deception; nevertheless, here they are, confined to a concrete cell in the lower recesses of an early 18th century dungeon and neither his team nor the FBI task force would be able to track them.
His ribs hurt, he realizes, rubbing his hand absently across his right side. Bruised, he thinks, possibly broken. His chest is aching, but not from the injury; his heart is heavy with failure. He couldn't protect her and he can't save her now.
A shuffling sound from across the room alerts him to Elizabeth waking, recovered from the blow she had sustained when they had been tossed unceremoniously into the cell. He hears her groan into the blackness.
Lizzie sits up and looks around her, apprising her surroundings. They are in a large, open cell, surrounded on three sides by dark stone, the last wall comprised of thick iron bars. A small, barred window is recessed high up on the exterior wall, filtering moonlight through the grate, too far away for them to reach, even working together.
Her eyes find Red across the space, sitting with his back against the opposite wall, one black-clad knee bent, the other leg stretched out in front of him. His tailored black vest is torn, pressed, white shirt grimy with dirt and sweat and blood. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to just below the elbows, collar open at the neck. There is blood staining his temple, drying on his neck.
"Are you alright?" she asks.
"I'm fine, Lizzie, how are you feeling?" concern winning out over despair in his voice.
"My head hurts," she responds, cringing, hand going to her left temple.
"I'm not surprised," he informs her. "You'll likely have a lump; that incompetent guard knocked your head into the bars when he dumped you inside. Probably not a concussion, luckily"
She is trying to remember something. He waits, the tightness in his chest growing.
They were supposed to meet someone......the Blacklister. They had been waiting at the drop site when the shooting started and everything had gone sideways.
Dismay dawns on her face. "Your contact?" she asks.
"Dead."
"And Dembe?"
"Still in Egypt," Far too far away to be of any use to them now, and unreachable in any case. They hadn't been in contact for the past 72 hours; he was scuttled away on another assignment. Dembe wouldn't even know where they had gone until it was too late.
Lizzie peers at Red in the darkness; she wants to be closer to him but he is being uncharacteristically tight-lipped and hasn't made any move to bring himself to her side. She finds that she can move and she is grateful; at least they aren't chained.
"You told your people we were coming here," she continues, remembering.
He nods in the darkness.
"They're all dead."
Again, that faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, confirming her words.
"We lied to the task force. They think we're in Spain," she reasons it out, her mind working through the steps to ensure there is nothing she has missed.
She comes to the same awareness that he has already, and far more quickly. She pauses, unwilling to give voice to desperation, "There is no way we're getting out of this alive."
Her words are a blade, twisting in his gut. She knows, then, he thinks.
She is so calm and he is grateful for it. He half expected her to scream, to rail at him for his failure and he would have welcomed it, but all the same, he is thankful for her cool.
They are quiet for a moment, the gloom of the cell settling over them like a fog. What else, really, is there to say?
"Did you know that this particular style of dungeon was built to...." he begins thoughtfully, desperate to distract her from their melancholy circumstances.
"I don't want a story," she interrupts.
Red stops, the silence passing between them. The night becomes a breathing thing, the quiet a friend in the dark. Suddenly, she can't bear the distance between them anymore.
She crawls towards him and settles, inches away. They are so close together now, facing one another, and he is waiting for the her to speak first, to make the first move because he knows what he wants, but he is unsure of her intention. Her hand reaches out to touch his face, craving contact with him. She wipes her fingers over the smudge of dirt on his cheek. She is sure, quiet, she needs no words for this. She slides closer, hooking her legs over his, straddling him, pulling herself into his lap.
Her hands are smoothing over his chest, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, coaxing him towards her.
"Lizzie," his whisper is a warning.
"I'm not wasting any more time," she breaths, and closes her lips over his.
And he gives in, kissing her back, passionately. Because he wants to, he has wanted to for so long. Because he has failed her and he cannot bear to fail her again and pushing her away would only be another failure of her. Because they are doomed and hopeless. Because there is no longer a reason not to.
He tears his mouth from hers, breathless.
"I thought we'd have more time..." his words are pained, regretful, a tear in his eye.
"Shhhhh, it doesn't matter" she calms him, kissing the corner of his mouth, "It was never going to be long enough."
"Lizzie," his voice is a deep merlot washing over her, intoxicating, "Lizzie, I'm sorry." He needs to tell her, he needs to make sure she knows.
"I'm not," she tells him simply. "No apologies now, Raymond; no regrets. Just this, just us. Please."
And he can no longer deny her. He crushes her to his chest, arms tightening around her back, his lips opening on hers, allowing her to feel all the things he has kept from her for so long. There will be no secrets between them after this, nothing concealed; only a desperate longing for more time.
He is desperate for her, but Lizzie is all slow touches in the darkness, caressing his skin with her fingers, her lips, her own soft flesh. He is transported out of this dingy cell and they are lying on Guatemalan beaches stroked by warm tropical breezes, they are nestled in a vast sleigh bed in a mountain-top chalet swathed in moonlight, they are floating on his catamaran lulled by seabirds and the gentle wash of the waves. They are everywhere he wanted to take her. With her in his arms, they are everything.
Her kiss is searing, a direct contrast to her supple body arching into his chest. Red runs his hands down the satin skin of her arms, left bare by her black tank top. Her skin is flushed and scorching to his touch. He wants to savor this. He buries his face in her neck, breathing in the exquisite fragrance of her skin. He runs his tongue along her pulse point slowly, gently biting down until he hears her answering sigh. He brings his hands up, tangling in her hair, angling her head so he can capture her lips with his again.
Lizzie presses herself closer to him, her hands slowly dragging his shirt from his pants, unbuttoning his vest with care, her mouth sweeping over him endlessly, kissing him like he is her oxygen. She closes her eyes, letting her head fall back, her dark hair cascading down her spine, offering herself up to his touch.
Red's hands find her, brushing against the sides of her breasts beneath her top, pushing the cloth slowly up her body, leaning forward to capture her satin flesh with his mouth. She moans softly in the dark and he sinks his teeth slightly into her nipple.
Lizzie reaches down to his lap, tugging at his zipper, freeing him from the constraints of cloth. She lifts her hips, allowing Red to drag her black tights down her legs. He cups her tenderly, stroking deeply with his fingers; she is already wet and ready for him. She wraps her hand around him, positioning him under her and sinks down onto his shaft, tortuously slow, until he is buried to the hilt inside her heat.
All at once, time slows down for them both. He is holding her against him and she is gazing into his eyes and suddenly, there is nothing in the world that matters more than them, than this. He is inside her, moving gently, slowly thrusting and she matches his pace. He is more than Lizzie had dreamed he could be; he is everything.
Red is overcome by her; not even in his wildest imaginings had she responded so lovingly, with such passion. He desperately wants to memorize every feature of this moment.
She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, unhurried in the pursuit of her pleasure, mindful of his bruised ribs as she moves against him, seeking relief from the ache in her loins and the ache in her heart.
They move together easily, thrusting and withdrawing, her body rising up over his, his face upturned to her kiss, lips pursing in concentration, all his reverence for her gleaming in his eyes.
