"Good evening, ma'am."

Liz acknowledges the usher's greeting with a slight nod of her head and strides confidently into the grand dining room through the ornate double doors.

On the arm of the Concierge of Crime himself.

She watches as guests' heads swivel towards them and she lifts her chin, preening inside. All this attention is not something she would normally revel in, but tonight?

Tonight, she feels beautiful.

Her dress is lovely, Grecian-style, floor-length, and white, with simple straps and a cinch at the waist, gently flowing and very flattering. It pairs beautifully with her elegant updo, dark hair pinned up and barring her neck, silver jewelry sparkling tastefully on her neck and ears, and minimal makeup, just enough smoky eye to tease.

When Red picked her up for this undercover operation, looking equally smart and wonderfully handsome in his tux, the look on his face made her feel truly beautiful for the first time in a long time.

And Red was clearly of the same opinion.

His jaw had fallen slack, his mouth working slightly as he took her in, his gaze sweeping hotly from her coiffed hair to her silver sandals. He had stood there, eyes flitting over her like he couldn't decide what to look at first, until she cleared her throat delicately, the noise finally snapping him back to attention.

(And dragging his gaze up from somewhere that was distinctly below her eye level.)

Liz smiles at the memory.

Red walks away from her now, making a beeline for the nearest waiter, and Liz takes the chance to observe the room as an undercover agent.

It is large and open, with dark wood-paneled walls that, when paired with the sparkling light of the bright chandelier hanging above, create a pleasing amber glow that hovers in the air. All around her, there is the pressing warmth of a large gathering of people and the heady scents of whatever the chefs are preparing at the front of the room. The air carries spices to Liz's nose that make her mouth water while her ears absorb the wordless chattering of guests, underscored by a small string quartet in the corner.

All in all, a delightful location for an undercover operation.

Now, if only she could locate her date.

But before she can even turn to search for him, Red reappears at her side, offering her a glass of champagne with a flourish and a winning smile.

"Thank you," Liz murmurs, accepting the flute with an answering smile and lifting it to her lips for a delicate sip.

Red makes no move to drink from his own glass, simply holding it while his eyes remain trained on her neck, watching intently as she swallows. She flushes lightly at the attention.

"So, do you see your contact anywhere?" Liz prompts, half to distract him and half to distract herself.

"Oh, I'm sure he's around here somewhere," Red says in an off-hand manner, very obviously not taking his eyes off her to examine the other guests.

Liz turns to raise an eyebrow at him.

"Perhaps we should make an effort to locate him, considering that's the reason we're here in the first place," she suggests dryly.

Red laughs.

"I'm sure he'll show up for dinner," he answers with a careless wave of his hand, before surprising her with his next words. "How about a dance in the meantime?"

"A dance?" Liz repeats, confused, but he's already taking her champagne back from her and placing both their glasses on a nearby side table, before taking her hand to pull her out into the middle of the room.

Where absolutely no one is dancing.

"Red," hisses Liz, flustered. "We shouldn't draw attention to ourselves, we're undercover!"

"Nonsense," Red says easily, wrapping one arm around her waist while taking her hand with the other, wasting no time at all as he starts to sway them slowly from side to side.

"You deserve to be seen, Lizzie."

Liz stops short at his words, low and heartfelt, and pulls back slightly to regard him. He gazes back at her, unabashed, the amber light in the room casting a lovely golden glow on his skin, making him look very soft, tan, and warm.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, Lizzie?" he asks then, his voice rich and deep, his thumb stroking softly across her knuckles.

Liz flushes deeper, letting him lead, her feet moving easily with his in small circles across the floor.

"No, you haven't," she mutters, disarmed.

"My apologizes," he says at once, gently tugging her a little closer to him, so she's pressed snuggly against his front. "It should have been the first thing out of my mouth, but I admit I was rendered rather speechless at the sight of you."

Liz stares blindly over his shoulder as he speaks, too close to see his face now, deeply surprised by his flattering words. And intensely pleased. She is very aware of his hand at her lower back and the tone of his voice, viscous and drugging, a lovely compliment to the hazy, golden atmosphere in the room, making her feel a little woozy and light-headed.

"Please, allow me to redeem myself, then," he rumbles. "You look unbelievably gorgeous, Lizzie."

"Thank you, Red," Liz gasps, breathless.

He's not usually so straightforward, he doesn't –

But then he shocks her once again by leaning closer still, inching toward her face, his gaze fixed below her eyeline, and Liz's heart stops because he's going to kiss her –

But Red tilts his head to bypass her lips completely and her breath hitches as his nose skims lightly over the exposed skin of her neck, barred nicely by her updo, eliciting tingles and sparks as he hums low in his chest, making her shiver in his arms.

(Oh.)

His nose glides softly over the shell of her ear and their cheeks touch faintly as he moves forward into her hair. Liz feels him inhale deeply against her, apparently very much enjoying the scent of her shampoo and perfume, and lightly disturbing the downy hairs at her nape. Red exhales leisurely, humming softly again as he does so, his warm, minty breath washing over her neck, and pulls back to brush his lips back and forth across her shoulder.

(Oh.)

When he speaks again, his voice sounds airy, oddly hypnotized, strangely entranced.

"You look like a Greek goddess of old, Lizzie, all swathed in white. The sheer personification of elegance, sophistication, and beauty –"

(And Liz can barely breathe, his admiration almost bowling her over in its intensity, almost as strong as the pleasure soaring through her because he thinks she's pretty –)

Liz struggles to speak through her intense shock and arousal, to string together some sensible words to tell him how overwhelming, how intoxicating his attention can be.

"You know," she says, her voice all air and seduction. "It's getting a little hard to breathe—"

And the speed with which Red pulls back to look at her, such concern in his furrowed brow that she has to chuckle lightly before finishing her sentence –

"—up on this pedestal where you seem determined to keep me," she finishes with a smile, and Red visibly relaxes as he understands, echoing her chuckle with ease.

He doesn't respond at once, instead expertly guiding her away from him into a small twirl, dipping her lightly and holding her there for his next words.

"Well, you would make a stunning marble statue," he murmurs with an appreciative sweeping glance at her body, still slightly reclined in his graceful dip.

(And oh, she feels like a goddess when he looks at her like that.)

He tugs her back up and into his arms, snug and at home against him once more.

"But what would you prefer instead?" he asks, breaking the tension with a playful query. "Persephone, Queen of the Underworld?"

His tone is slightly ironic, accompanied with a teasing smirk, but Liz hums thoughtfully, intrigued, and ponders the symbolism. She is familiar with the myth, certainly, and the many different versions, all with the overarching theme of a young woman taken and trapped against her will, forced to adapt and overcome her new circumstances.

(And there is a certain amount of accuracy in that. Although she wasn't exactly abducted from a field of wildflowers, so much as escorted to a black site in a helicopter.

Ah well. Details.)

"I wouldn't object to that metaphor," Liz agrees loftily, teasing right back with a coy grin. "As long as I'm not the helpless maiden, kidnapped and weak," she amends disdainfully.

"Oh, no," hums Red, smiling softly, his eyes warm and prideful. "Never that, Lizzie."

(And Liz feels flushed not from the physical exertion of the dancing, but from the intensity of Red's gaze as it burns into her, dark and adoring.)

"And who would I be in this scenario, I wonder," Red continues after a long moment, pondering to himself. "Hades, Lord of the Dead?" he asks with a self-deprecating grin.

Liz's heart stutters.

(Because surely, surely Red knows who Hades is to Persephone, her shadowy admirer, her desperate captor, her eventual love.

Her savior.)

It's perfect.

"Well, naturally."

(But Liz can't help but think privately to herself that Red is a little more like Cerberus, that fierce canine guardian of the underground that appears deathly terrifying to all others but simply rolls over under Persephone's capable hands –)

And Liz watches his eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise and his mouth opens to say something in return, and Liz can't wait to hear what it will be –

But he's interrupted by the bang of a gong announcing the start of the meal.

The resulting silence stretches long between them.

"…We should take our seats," Liz finally says, breaking the tension with a regretful sigh.

Red regards her for another long moment, like he's considering ignoring the meal altogether.

(And Liz half wishes he would.)

"…Yes, I suppose we should," he relents finally, releasing her hand and removing his arm from around her waist.

(Liz feels oddly cold without his hands on her.)

She follows him to their designated seats, thanking him quietly when he pulls out her chair for her. He settles next to her and, once all the other guests are seated, they all turn their attention to the host of the evening.

The man is a chef, of sorts, with a passion for food, and he begins to wax poetic about the extravagance of the meal he has planned, the meal which turns suddenly into a "culinary experience", which somehow then includes an endangered owl and eating in the dark, and well, things have gone sideways rather quickly.

(And would it be an undercover operation of theirs if it didn't?)

The moment the lights go out, Liz closes her eyes, her FBI training giving her the quick adaptive instincts needed in such unpredictable circumstances. Without straining her eyes to see in the pitch blackness, she can focus her energies instead on her hearing, which has suddenly become her most valuable sense. With her eyes closed, she listens hard, her whole body tingling with the intensity of her focus.

(And the awareness of Red's warmth only inches to her left.)

She hears the surprised muttering of the other guests seated around the table, the tinkling of the chef's silverware at the front of the room, the rustling of the owl's feathers from within her cage.

The clicking of a safety next to her.

Red.

Without another thought, Liz's hand darts to her left to land high on Red's thigh, squeezing firmly. She can hear his sharp intake of breath and feel his muscles tense under her hand.

(And she has to ignore the swoop in her stomach at the sensation.)

But he seems to understand her message, her warning that it's not safe to shoot in the dark, that there's nothing intrinsically threatening about the situation – yet – and that they can handle this together without any violence.

(After all, they do make a great team.)

After a moment, Liz hears him click the safety back on his gun, feels him shift slightly in this seat as he replaces it in the holster she knows sits at the small of his back. She feels him relax in his chair next to her, her body singing with relief as he places his hand over hers and squeezes it in reassurance, making no move to shift it from his upper thigh.

(And, in the privacy of her own mind, Liz marvels at her ability to calm him, to persuade the Concierge of Crime, the Hades to her Persephone, the Lord of Death and Darkness himself to pause and stay his hand. She marvels, breathless, at the power she holds.

The privilege.)

So, Liz sits tense in her chair, calm but coiled, and she can practically feel him thinking beside her, puzzling, planning, and she's knows he's weighing their options, figuring out a way to get them out of this safely.

And she trusts him.

Soon enough, Liz can sense him come to a decision. She hears him take a deep breath and is hyper aware as he moves her hand carefully back to her own lap, giving it a final squeeze before releasing it.

And then he disappears.

Liz stays in her seat, waiting, knowing that if he wanted her to come, then he wouldn't have let go of her hand. She listens to the chef continuing to tout the ingenuity of his ridiculous culinary experiment, waiting in the dark for Red to make his move.

He doesn't delay.

All of a sudden, the lights are flashing on in full force, the chandelier sparkling almost painfully above them. The other guests are gasping and covering their eyes, unprepared, while Liz opens her eyes gradually, blinking unhurriedly to let her pupils adjust, and begins to search the room for Red the second she can see clearly. But it's not hard to find him.

He's already making a scene.

Red is walking leisurely over to the chef's table from the side of the room where he's just flipped the breaker on, his gun out once again, a causal threat as he gestures wildly with his hands, already talking loudly, commanding the attention of the room.

The other guests murmur in concern upon seeing the weapon, but Liz can easily tell from her seat that Red's trigger finger is loose, with no intention of firing and, most importantly, the safety is still on.

(He listened to her.)

"How can you even think of hurting this animal?" he's demanding of the bewildered chef, pointing at the disinterested owl with his gun. "They're endangered!"

And Liz watches, enraptured, as Red does what he does best.

Misdirect.

He's weaving a wildly accusatory tale, just loud and shrill enough to hold everyone's attention, confuse them into silence, distract them all with so much irrelevant detail that they won't be able to recall a single accurate fact about him later.

It's one of his many talents.

"Eating in complete darkness is one thing," he's crying out, eyes wide and indignant. "Although personally, I much prefer being able to see my dining companion—"

(Liz smothers a gleeful grin because he's taking about her –)

"—but, regardless of your lighting preferences – an owl? How could you? They're proud and dignified and beautiful!"

He gestures again at the owl in question as he speaks, who is currently busy cleaning her wing, completely ignoring all the drama unfolding outside her cage.

(And the gallantry with which Red is protesting for this innocent owl would make Athena herself proud, because he's a brilliant mind, a strategist, a warrior.

A god.)

"You disgust me," Red is saying, pompous and offended, speaking loudly enough to distract from his subtle movement back to the breaker. "And, just for your appalling intentions this evening, my companion and I will be taking this gorgeous creature with us and leaving you awful people exactly the way we found you."

He reaches out and grabs ahold of the breaker.

"In the dark."

And Liz is out of her seat before anyone can cry out at the renewed blackness, hurrying blindly towards where she last saw Red, the slight rattling of the owl cage guiding her way, before she somehow finds his hand in the dark and lets him tug her away.

(She'll follow him anywhere.)

By the time the lights come back on, they've travelled down stairs and through hallways, finding themselves below ground in what must be the basement bowels of the building.

Liz knows exactly where they are.

"Two lefts and a right and we'll come out the east door," Liz says breathlessly, tugging on his hand to ask him to slow a little.

Red relents at once, slowing to a stop and turning to frown at her.

"You know where we are?"

Liz frowns back, breathing heavily.

"I studied the building blueprints before we came," she says, as if it were obvious.

She doesn't miss the slow transformation of his adorable confusion into a fond smile.

"Of course you did," he murmurs.

(And there's that pedestal again.)

Liz directs her smile down at the caged owl he's holding by his side, the poor creature now looking very indignant, her feathers ruffled over the jarring and unexpected trip down from the dining room.

"Are you going to keep the owl?" she asks him skeptically.

"Oh, god, no," Red says quickly, shaking his head fervently. "I'm terrified of the thing. Her eyes…hypnotizing."

And he gives an exaggerated shudder so ridiculously comical and completely adorable that she just can't stand it anymore.

(Because she couldn't possibly, possibly be more in love with him.)

So, she lunges forward while he's still in the middle of a sentence about what he might do with the creature, cutting off his speech easily with the urgent press of her lips against his.

"Perhaps Dembe will want a—oomph—"

His surprised grunt as his back hits the wall absolutely delights her and she kisses him urgently, with all the passion of Aphrodite herself, her lips working, tongue sliding, teeth nipping until, without any warning at all, he lets out a whining moan that has her sucking on his bottom lip and slipping her hands under his vest –

(– and the sound reminds her so strongly of a dog that she decides in that moment that he is Hades for all but her. For her? He is Cerberus, protective, loyal, needy, loving –)

She pulls back reluctantly, ripping her mouth from his with difficulty to find him staring at her, wide-eyed and awestruck, like she's just descended from highs of Olympus itself, and she speaks two words to him, low and bewitching.

"Let's go."

And she takes his hand, pulling him through the dark underground labyrinth they find themselves in and up, upwards towards the light of home, because no.

They're no Greek tragedy.

They're going to be a legend.