A/N: Hello there! This teeny plot bunny has been floating around my head for a long while so I had to get it out here.
I'm coming at this from a purely experimental standpoint, still curious as to the exact nature of these two characters' relationship. On one hand, while I do not believe that Red is Liz's father - that would be a bit too obvious - I get an almost paternal feel from his interactions with her. On the other hand, sometimes I see this weird tension and think to myself: OMG, WHAT IS GOING ON?! I'm sure some of you can relate. Personally, I find myself hoping for a Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling affiliation, but...I sadly doubt that will happen. Ugh.
Okay I'm done. Please do regard any minor inconsistencies as my mind tends to automatically stray towards the AU territories at times . Stuff in past tense - after the asterisks - indicate a flashback. Read and review please ^_^
Between Sleeping and Waking
She remembers that night - a mere twenty-four hours before she had taken her husband in for questioning and been thrown into a desperate search for a deadly threat.
She remembers the terrors that visited her mind in her sleep - images brought on by a deep paranoia, crippling and ceaseless.
But perhaps most of all, above all else, she remembers what had occurred when she awoke that fateful night.
The nightmares had become almost indistinguishable over the past few weeks, sparked from uncertainty and full of implicit doubts. Every night one of the horrifying dreams would drag her from the clutches of what should have been a serene period of rest; she would awaken in a cold sweat and have to move about to clear her mind. It was the only way she could ever hope to return to sleep in that bed.
Elizabeth Keen did not consider herself a delicate person by any means, but as she swung her legs over the side of the bed for about the tenth time that week, she fought the urge to simply collapse onto the floor and stay there. Careful not to disturb Tom, as always, she stood, slid her feet into a pair of worn, colorful slippers, shut the bedroom door behind her and padded towards the kitchen for a glass of water. She made her way through the dark living room, rubbing one eye with the palm of her hand and automatically scanning the space with the other. It was empty, as was natural at roughly – she glanced at the large wall-clock – two in the morning. She sighed at this.
Switching on the stove light for minimal luminance, she pulled a tall glass from the cupboard and filled it with tap water. A long drink seemed to revive her and she rolled her neck before turning off the light again. She determined to take the water back to her bedroom and keep it on the nightstand until an appropriate time to wake up came around.
She had barely crossed the threshold of the kitchen back into the living room when she saw the silhouette of a person sitting on the couch beyond the doorway. She dropped the glass in her hand.
"Holy – " her curse was cut off as the sound of shattering crystal pierced the silence of her home. Thank goodness Tom is a heavy sleeper…she thought to herself. Water spilled all over the hardwood floor, drenching her feet, but she did not notice, fully awake now, transfixed on the intruder, and ready to defend herself.
"Who's there?" she snapped, forcing down the nervous waver in her tone.
The reply was immediate.
"Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie," drawled the familiar voice, "What are you doing up at such an ungodly hour of the morning? Don't you want your beauty sleep?"
Red.
Dear god almighty...
Unfortunately, his presence wasn't very assuring.
"Why are you here?" she managed through the haze of confusion that had enveloped her. "How did you find this house?"
He scoffed openly, "You're neither stupid nor uninformed. I think you can understand that I have my ways."
The last four words were stated with such matter-of-factness that she would have interpreted them to be condescending if they were coming from another man. Oh yes, she comprehended that bit well, but she was still staggering from the fact that he was just sitting in her living room like he had been present all night. Or maybe he had been...
"How..." her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "How long have you been here?" She walked out of the kitchen to tentatively lower herself down into an armchair next to the couch. There was a light next to her on an end table and she wondered if she ought to turn it on. Nonetheless, she stayed her hand.
"I could ask you the same thing. Or rather, how long will you be here? Clearly your husband is causing you quite some distress."
She gritted her teeth to keep from shouting at him. "This isn't about me, it's about you."
Her attempts at controlling the conversation fell vastly short. She should have known there was no use in trying to hold any sort of power over this man before the words left her mouth. She resolved to blame it on the early hour when it later came back to haunt her.
"Turn on the light if you want," he said nonchalantly, and she did.
The first thing she noticed when her eyes had adjusted was the wine glass in his hand - one of her fancy wine glasses that she and Tom only reserved for company filled with what could only be – as if she expected any less of the man – equally fancy wine. Again, she ground her teeth together in annoyance, not so much at him this time as herself. I should have put that somewhere more secure…she lamented, recalling the price of the bottle that hadn't been opened as of the night before.
He regarded her with a sort of open curiosity, one eyebrow ascending. It was upon seeing this reaction that she realized that she must look awfully unkempt in her pajamas with hair only comparable to a bird's nest. Sighing, she forced herself to relax as he commented, "Pardon my bluntness, but you look like hell. Minus those hideous slippers on your feet."
Not so sardonically she replied, "You would know wouldn't you?" Despite herself she kicked off the slippers. They were rather ugly, after all.
He chuckled and took a drink from the wine glass, "Dear, sweet Lizzie, whatever do you mean? I'm a regular saint." He paused a moment to contemplate her again, his voice growing more somber, "Your nightmares are about your husband aren't they? You talk in your sleep, you know - a dangerous habit for a woman who wants to keep a secret."
Her eyes widened when she realized the confession behind his words, then narrowed accusingly, "You have no right to watch me sleep. It's inappropriate." Still, a her inner voice reminded her none too kindly: Well, what did you expect? One, he's a criminal. Two, he's in your house in the middle of the night. Three, has his behavior ever indicated that he cares about what is appropriate and what is not?
Again he laughed derisively and rolled his eyes, tearing her from her reverie, "Why, because you're married? Next you'll be asking me to cover up my ankles and carry a Bible around with me." The moment of amusement bursquely died as he fixed her with a piercing stare, "You have yet to answer my question."
She averted her gaze and let her shoulders slump a bit. "And if they are about what you say?" she inquired at length.
"Then, it would be wise for you to remove yourself from this house."
"And go where exactly?" she all but snapped. Her voice had been at a quiet volume until that point. "This...this is my life. I can't just up and leave everything I have come to know."
He seemed at a loss for words for a long moment, odd for a man of an articulate nature. Ultimately he set the half-empty wine glass on the end table with the light and sited his hand on her knee in somewhat of a reassuring gesture, no matter how out of the ordinary it was. "You can't have it both ways, sweetheart."
Her eyes lingered on the contact a moment before she began to feel uncomfortable. She was perturbed by casual touch in most circumstances - she always had been, and the bizarre situation wasn't helping her case. Seeing the fingers splayed out across her knee made her yearn for a way out, her mind withdrawing to a place that she did not want to be. Shifting away, she stood up and crossed her arms, moving out from the chair. "You have to leave, now," she tried to insist in a confident voice, but fell prey to inadequacy. "I don't need your help with this."
She walked in the direction of the kitchen with the intent of cleaning up the shattered glass before Tom cut his feet on it when he traveled blearily into the kitchen later that morning.
He mirrored her action and stood, a wry and acrid smile spreading across his face as he trailed a distance behind her, "Oh, but you do. You need me for a great deal more than that, I'm afraid. You simply have yet to realize it."
It was her turn to roll her eyes, "Don't flatter yourself, Red. This isn't the workplace."
She shouldn't have opened her mouth, because very quickly he had her arm in a vice grip and she found her back connecting with the nearest wall. The dim light cast malevolent shadows on his face and she swallowed, coming to the harsh awareness that this was a very dangerous man and she had overstepped her boundaries for the time and place. He tsked her slowly, very close, noting her unease and not releasing her arm.
"I let you get away with too much…" he muttered, his tone laced with a venom, present but barely noticeable. "Much too much…" His grip on her forearm lessened then; he canted his head to the side like some inquisitive child and took a lock of her tousled hair in his free hand between his thumb and index finger, sighing. "Go back to bed, Lizzie. I'll see you tomorrow, in better spirits I should hope."
And just like that, he was gone - out the front door like he had never been there.
The glass was disposed of and the wine glass in her living room was emptied, washed, and put back in its designated cupboard.
Everything was as it ought to have been once more, with the sole exception of Elizabeth Keen and her frayed sentiments on various matters.
How could she have known that in a matter of hours she would be voicing condemnation to that very same, strange criminal?
She wonders if it would have changed anything, but the question remains unanswered, suppressed by an indignant and futile will to forget and independently progress in her life and career.
A/N: So, I hope you enjoyed this little thing and the bit of creepy!Red I put in here :D 'Twas great fun!
I was inspired to write this by the song "Alibis" by The Birthday Massacre - such a good and fitting song! Look it up at your leisure if you wish :)