The left sleeve and torso go over his head easily enough, Liz running her hands up his skin as the hem rises. The other sleeve takes a little more work -- it's a tight shirt, and Red's right hand isn't what you might call small -- but the pair of them are practiced at this, by now, and quickly, Liz is pulling Red's shirt down over stone fingers. She drops it on the floor.

She cups one side of his face in one hand, smiling; leans up to press her lips to his in a brief, closed-mouthed kiss, her thumb sweeping across his cheek, and then she pulls her own long-sleeved shirt off over her head. Just as quick, she tugs off the black tank top that was underneath and tosses that, too, leaving her in pants, a black bra, and the small cross that she always wears under her shirt.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, looking up at him, and crooks a finger. Everything about the gesture and her expression says, Get down here, you big ape.