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At first she thinks it’s because of the stress of her job, the constant too and fro of her life, crowded by the darkened interior of the Post Office for hours on end before spilling forth into the real word with an aching body and a cluttered mind to return back to the miserable confines of her apartment.
She thinks that she is simply misplacing things, a scarf, her favourite mug, a throw pillow, a woollen blanket, all swept up in the hurricane that has whipped through her home. There are forgotten dishes on the coffee table, a basket of laundry shoved in the corner, paper work strewn across the dining table, cans of tomatoes and beans left on the bench waiting to ascend to the polished white kitchen cupboards.
It makes perfect sense; a cluttered mind leads to a cluttered home. Eventually the objects will be rediscovered, when she manages a day off, some time to herself where she can clean, tidy, unearth the floor of her bedroom. For now, it is summer so she doesn’t need her scarf, she’ll drink out of her other mugs, steal the pillow from her bed when she wants to lounge on the couch, and survive without the blanket. They’ll turn up, they always do.
There is no point in wondering about it when there are Blacklisters to catch and a devilish Concierge of Crime to handle.
Except that when she visits one of Reddington’s safe houses she glimpses what suspiciously looks like her throw pillow propped up on the sofa in the living room as Red ushers her by. And another day he’s hurriedly wiping at a mug before stashing it in one of the cupboards. Not to mention when Liz had agreed to stay the night, or the rest of the morning, and she’d seen her favourite blanket folded amongst the rest of the linen as he made her bed, having insisted that he do so.
After that, she has no qualms confronting him about it.
“My mug, pillow, blanket, scarf,” she demands, standing before him with her arms crossed, ignoring the way his features are split apart by his grin, how bright his eyes burn, “I want them back, Red.”
Of course, he denies having them, as sharp witted and evasive as ever. So Liz lets him run off on his tangent, watches him as he smiles wider, chokes down the laughter in his throat as he gazes back at her exasperated expression. And when he chews on his bottom lip, she knows she’s got him.
That night she is triumphant and goes home with most of her belongings, though unfortunately she’d forgotten the scarf as Red had eccentrically carted her objects off to the sedan, Dembe in tow looking more amused than ever. She’d followed after him to make sure nothing went missing, falling for the diversion so spectacularly.
Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t stop him, nor dissuade him, now that she knows that he is blatantly stealing from her. Drink bottles disappear, books, CD’s, they all manage to wind up in Raymond Reddington’s possession until she is once again before him and demanding them back. It’s a game for him, a source of amusement and it’s driving her to the brink of insanity.
Some nights, when he’s stolen her pillow, the only pillow she really prefers to sleep on, she’ll drive to his accommodation during the latest of hours to retrieve it and he’ll convince her to stay the night. He never has to try very hard because she knows in the morning a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs will be awaiting her.
The seasons crawl on and Red’s habit continues until there is snow crusting along sidewalks and the chill of the wind bites at the exposed skin of Liz’s neck. That is when she finally remembers that so many months ago he’d snatched her favourite scarf, smuggled it off somewhere to send her mad.
But driving to see him, to get the article of clothing back, it’s not a chore, and her cheeks hurt from smiling the entire journey.
“I’m starting to think that you keep doing this as an excuse to see me,” she teases him as she sits at the kitchen bench, a warm mug of hot chocolate cradled in her hands.
He is standing across from her, ankles crossed, hip hitched up on the counter, regarding her softly. Fingers drumming a pattern on his thigh, he smiles at her, a sweet smile that makes her chest twinge with affection. Silence stretches between them for a while, a contemplative silence as he rolls a response across his tongue like he would a fine scotch.
“I was expecting that you’d pick up on my ulterior motives much sooner, Lizzie.”
Blushing isn’t something Liz usually experiences, heat crawling up her neck until her cheeks burn red, but his words make her glance away, her hair falling before her features like a curtain. A soft chuckle filters around her, and she jumps, not having realised he has moved to stand before her.
She shouldn’t be surprised by his stealth.
He reaches out and brushes her hair away from her face, gently tucks it behind her ear, as he leans closer. Liz can feel his breath puffing against her lips now, can see the gold glint in his eyes, the delicate brush of his eyelashes against his cheeks as his eyes slip shut.
It’s a soft kiss, soft and sweet, and Liz can feel herself smiling against him, her hand coming to rest above his heart. His fingers are tangled in the hair at the nape of neck and when he draws back they both fall still, breathing each other’s air, foreheads pressed together.
That is until Liz is whispering,
“So where is my scarf?”
And he is replying, murmuring against her lips,
“In my bedroom.”
He’s pulling her closer now, tucking her into his embrace as her legs slowly circle his waist. She laughs against him, pulls back breathlessly and smiles, eyes glittering with mischief.
“And why would it be in your bedroom, Mr Reddington?”
That smirk, that notorious smirk that drives her mad, pulls at his lips and she feels his grip tighten before he effortlessly lifts her from where she is perched.
“Oh, I’ve been dreaming of ways to utilize that piece of material for months, Lizzie.”
Her laughter filters through the house until he is kicking the bedroom door shut.