Hello, readers! This is a carbon copy of my work found on the archive. I haven't caught the last few episodes due to work so it's quite possibly AU by now. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, read, and review. I'm uploading one other Blacklist fic from the archive as well and hope to write a few more once I'm all caught up. If you're watching any of my other stories relative to the Hannibal fandom specifically, I promise I'll be getting to updating asap, primarily aiming to complete Devour.
For those who love Lizzington (:
Her features, which somehow managed to appear soft and sharp all at once knotted in confusion. Her thumb and forefinger pressed against the glossy sheen of a Polaroid.
She shouldn't have been snooping. She knew that. But she also knew Red had answers he wasn't willing to give away. He knew things about her past – her father. And so she had begun to do some digging of her own after his death. Discovering things she thought she wanted to know but regretted learning after having dug them up.
Like the black-and-white photograph that shook in her hand, for instance; the faces on it were distorted by the motion but there nonetheless. The floorboards of Red's place in Baltimore creaked, and she turned around before he could say a word, before he could question her trespass – holding out the picture an arm's length in front of her for his view.
"What is this?"
He didn't even look at the photograph, instead holding her eyes. An action that only pissed her off more as she walked the length of the book-covered space to meet him.
"What the hell is this!"
"A photograph, Lizzie," he had answered, maintaining an irritating calmness, "Nothing more."
"No," she breathed, flinging the photograph at him, "It's a picture of my dad and a criminal. You."
The flimsy piece of paper fell to the floor, but neither of them looked after it.
Jaw clenched and a fist at her side, she stood directly in front of him waiting for an explanation that would take away her anger. Justification for a picture that showed two men standing with one another like good friends.
"Were you two partners or something? Is this how you know so much about my life?" she hissed. The idea angered her because it didn't make any sense. She knew her father – knew he wasn't a criminal and knew he wouldn't do anything to hurt another person. He'd taken her in. He'd sacrificed more for her than any other person. He could never have done the things that Red had done in his past.
"Your father wasn't a criminal," Red responded, watching her eyes soften for a moment at the reassuring statement before hardening once more. Her expression narrowed.
Criminals were notorious liars.
"If that's true, then how – " she began, voice lowering but still not far from an irate growl before Reddington cut her off.
"Your father never knew me. I knew him. Any and all associations I had with Sam Scott were undergone with the use of an Alias. He never knew my name."
For a moment, she believed him. Or at least wanted to. But it didn't make sense for him to hide that from her. It was too simple an answer to too simple a question, as he himself had told her not an hour after saving her from a gunshot months beforehand. She couldn't read beneath his veiled features, the ones that lingered maybe a foot before her own, but she knew he was lying.
And when she took a step back from him, he knew she knew he was lying.
"I don't believe you."
"Lizzie…"
She put a hand out, stopping him from taking the minute step he intended towards her. "No. This," she motioned between the two of them, lip curled, "is over. Done."
And with that, she had moved past him towards the exit, flinging open and slamming a door before muttering a scarcely audible "lying son of a bitch".
The criminal hadn't failed to miss it.
It was unfamiliar, cheap and small. The drawn curtains only allowed for a few splashes of sunlight to illuminate the motel room.
Elizabeth Keen set the empty glass bottle down on its side, watching it roll across the table with weary eyes until it met the edge across from where she sat and tipped over. She made no move to stop it, instead choosing to close her eyes tightly – half expecting a shattering sound to split through the air. But the room was carpeted, and the quiet thud of glass upon soft flooring was all that met her ears.
It was followed by the sound of movement. Slow and hesitant but approaching nonetheless. Even behind her closed lids, she knew who it was. He was much like a shadow or a moth to a flame – always there, lingering just shy of her aura but ultimately showing himself whenever she needed him, whether she wanted him to or not.
The twist in her gut kept her from opening her eyes to look at him.
"I really, really," she said quietly, taking a moment to steadily inhale and exhale before going on, "… don't want to talk about it anymore."
He didn't reply. Instead a chair skimmed across the carpet as it was pulled out. She opened her slightly reddened eyes to meet the ones before her own. They were cold, but affected, and she tilted her head and leaned forward in her chair. She spoke in frustration.
"Why are you here? How did you find me?"
The man hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching up as if he were about to say something and had changed his mind. Elizabeth knew he was the sort of man who chose his words carefully. Anyone who could keep a conversation going with him knew that, actually. Often, he ignored questions for the sake of posing his own.
"You've been drinking."
He glanced down at the bottle on the floor, taking a moment to pick it up and set it upright on the table between them. Her eyes flickered with annoyance.
"I'm fine. I don't need you watching over me like a child."
His brows rose and he cocked his head to the side, "I'm only concerned about you, Lizzie. And despite what you think about me you should be around someone."
Loose curls spilled over her shoulder as she turned her head to the side, "I want to be alone. And I want you to leave."
"Well, I'm not leaving you alone," his statement matter-of-factly phrased before he paused, shrugging his suited shoulders, "so you needn't waste anymore time attempting to convince me otherwise."
She stood, abruptly, feeling a sickening combination of unease from the alcohol and anger at his being there. Red noticed the unnatural sway her body carried and how she attempted to steady herself by gripping her hand upon the high-backed chair.
"I don't have to convince you. I want you to… to get the hell out before I make you leave!"
"Sweetheart, in your condition I'm doubting you could even reach the door – let alone push me through it," there was worry laced between his words, but the actual smugness of the reply was all Red Reddington – and it went unappreciated by Elizabeth. He was more than a little surprised when he felt her hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket, forcing him up and pushing him back.
"Lizzie, wait –"
"Get out!"
He adopted an apologetic look and held up his hands in an attempt to shield her from pushing him away. He wasn't going to leave her like this, especially when it was his fault. But she persisted, pushed, and shouted.
"You're a liar! Leave!"
When she flung her arms at him a third time, he caught them and held them close to his chest – unsteady on her feet, she unsuccessfully attempted to pull back from him before being drawn back in, all but collapsing against his frame.
They were both quiet for a passing moment. She listened to the sound of his heartbeat and he stroked the scarred wrist cradled in his hand.
Shaking her head, exhausted and irate, she didn't bother looking up at him and instead spoke against his chest. "You told me I could trust you."
"You can trust me."
"Then tell me… tell me the truth."
She felt the sigh escape him before she heard it, the vibrations of his exhale warming her. Somehow, she knew she was never going to get the truth. A broad hand slipped from one of her wrists and she felt herself encircled by it – more warmth; the kindness of a hug offered in substitute for an honest answer. He spoke in a whisper, lips lightly brushing against her hair. She felt a sense of calm wash over her at the sensation.
"You can trust me, Lizzie. You can trust that you will always remain safe and protected while you are with me. You can trust that there isn't a more definite truth than that."
Placing her palms flat against his chest, she glanced up at him – the tip of her nose not an inch away from his.
"You're not lying," she pointed out, rather than questioned.
He quirked a brow, and gave a small smile in response, "Not about this."
For the first time since meeting Red, she blushed. Hard. Something to do with that miniscule smirk, the heat of his breath against her nose, their intimate proximity… and the fact that despite all the lies, Red Reddington had never truly hurt her, and she believed he never would.
Red watched the subtle glow of color quickly wash over her features. He admired it; traced it with his fingertips along the contour of a heightened cheekbone, and pressed his lips against the scarlet flesh before speaking softly against it.
"I do fear leaving you alone, Lizzie. Won't you come with me?"
"Where…" she questioned, thoughtlessly, feeling lightheaded, blissful – euphoric as the blush crept down the length of her neck and his lips followed suit. His chuckle was light in response, and she felt the corner of her mouth turn upwards as the sound swept over her.
"Anywhere you'd like, sweetheart. But first, I suggest you sleep off the wine in Baltimore."
Blinking, she trailed a hand up his chest until she found his jaw, held him in her line of sight and maintained his softened gaze. "Baltimore," she repeated softly, processing, drawing her lower lip in and then out, again. "With you. I can't… stay there."
"Yes, you can, Lizzie. There isn't a place on this earth I'd otherwise prefer you."
He looked at her in a way nobody else had ever looked at her. Tom had never looked at her like that. He was looking beneath the surface, looking at something Tom or anyone else could never see, because they didn't know it was there.
He saw her. She nodded.
"Alright," her resolve in place as her lips found his, chaste but tender before she pulled back, watching his expression with eyes that grew heavy with tire.
"Thank you," she sighed, feeling the ground disappear from beneath her and the strength of the arms that held her close – held her together. Kept her safe.
Red let her slip into a peaceful state of unconscious before speaking into the phone receiver.
"Dembe? Please, set up a guest room for Agent Keen. She'll be staying with me, from now on."