Liz is winning the battle of the pants. (She had a head start, and the use of two hands.)

Glancing up and seeing the look on his face, she swats his arm. "Jesus, you're smug," she says (maybe amused, but only the tilt of her head and the corner of her mouth telegraph it), and she shoves his pants down his hips and then uses the new space between the two of them to pull herself out from under him, scooting farther into the bed.

Sitting up on her feet, Liz reaches back and unclasps her necklace -- the metal already starting to take on a white-hot glow -- and sets it on the bedside table. "Haven't even done anything yet," she tells him, and she's grinning to herself a little now as she wriggles out of (unfastened; Red does good work one-handed) black jeans and drops them over the side of the bed.