When Lizzie was a little girl, she hated going to church.
"Can't I stay home, Daddy? Do I have to go?"
Sam Scott looked down at his daughter with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, shaking his head and sighing. "You ask me that every week! You know what the answer is." Lizzie frowned, her lower lip jutting out. She crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head, her face concealed by the long tendrils of her dark brown hair. She sat down on the top step, leaning her face into the crook of her folded arms. "I don't wanna go . . ."
Her plaintive moan, though muffled, grated on Sam's nerve. He sighed again, ascending the staircase until he was at the top. He sat down beside his daughter, patting her hair sympathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that, Butterball. I really am. But you know that doesn't change anything. I'm going to give you 10 minutes to go upstairs and get ready. By that time I want you downstairs, waiting for me by the door to go. Do you understand me, Elizabeth?"
"Yes sir. . ."
"Good. Remember now, 10 minutes. And your time starts . . . now."
Lizzie huffed once before slowly standing up, dragging her feet all the way down the hall to her bedroom. She closed the door gently behind her, knowing that she would be in trouble for slamming it. She stomped over to her closet, the only other sign of rebellion she was permitted to indulge in, and rooted through the hangers for her favorite dress. It was a soft hot pink cotton dress, with a big white bow on the chest.
One of Daddy's friends from work had brought it to her on her birthday. He had stopped by only long enough to drop the package off; when Daddy saw the man walking up the driveway, he ordered Lizzie to go to her room. She did, but she kept the bedroom door open a crack and knelt behind it, eavesdropping.
She wasn't able to make out any of what was said, but she knew from Daddy's low, tense tone that he was not happy to see the man. Minutes later, he was gone, and Daddy brought the box upstairs for her to open. Besides the dress, the man had also given her a light pink headband, complete with a chiffon rose; in addition, the box contained white patent leather shoes, in just the right size.
Lizzie loved it, but she knew from her father's somewhat exasperated reaction that she should not make a big deal of it. So she hadn't; she hung the dress up in the back of her closet, put the shoes in the shoe box and under her bed, and put the headband in a dresser drawer, buried beneath piles of socks. It had been nearly four months, but today she was finally going to wear it! She didn't care anymore how Daddy would react.
Hurriedly, Lizzie changed out of her nightgown, slipped the dress over her head, put on a pair of hose, and reached under the bed for the shoe box. She slid the lid off, staring for a moment at her perfect, unblemished shoes, before putting them on as well. Lastly, she opened her dresser drawer, rummaging through it until she found her headband, lying unscathed on the bottom.
She handled it reverently, as something precious and sacred she had been denied for too long. Of all the things she'd been given that day, she liked it best. As she placed it on her head, she felt like a displaced princess finally being given her rightful diadem.
She quickly ran out of her room and into the bathroom, gazing disbelievingly at her reflection in the mirror. She leaned close, sticking out her tongue, pinching and slapping her face to be sure that it was really her. She slapped herself so hard that tears came to her eyes, but she stifled her sob, forcing herself to smile cheerfully. If Daddy saw that she had been crying, he might assume that she was still upset with him, and then she would be in trouble.
Lizzie removed her headband with some reluctance, and hastily combed out her long brown hair before replacing it. She did not know how much time had passed, but she knew her time was almost up. Now ready, she went out into the hall and quickly went downstairs.
She was relieved to see that the foyer was empty, and stood patiently by the door, her arms pressed down against her side. She waited a few more minutes, and then Sam emerged from the kitchen, fumbling with his tie. He smiled appreciatively at his daughter, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
"You look beautiful, sweetie! Don't you want to go and show off your dress to everyone now?"
"Yeah Daddy, let's go!" Lizzie held his hand, bracing herself for what was sure to be, in spite of her father's enthusiasm, just another boring Sunday morning.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirteen years since my last confession. . ."
Liz paused, wondering for the thousandth time why in God's name she had come. In the same vein of thought, she answered because you had no other choice. She hated to admit it, but she did not, not anymore.
She had received the summons an hour earlier, a brochure from the Cathedral of Saint Matthew the Apostle, enclosed with a small white card with the words Come, I have prepared a place for you; I will not leave you an orphan. . . written in blue ink in a very careful block script.
From that moment, her heart began to race, and she immediately got in the car and drove the 10+ miles from her house to the Cathedral, going at least 10 miles over the speed limit. Miraculously, she had not been pulled over.
She stormed through the church doors, panting as if she had run a long distance. When she entered, she attracted the attention of the half dozen parishioners kneeling in the pews: a few disapproving frowns from the elderly, and looks of bored indifference from the two adolescents― who'd been forced to come along by their more devout grandparents, no doubt. Liz nodded empathetically, ducking her head as she traversed the center aisle, making her way to the confessional booth in the front, to the far left of the stage and altar.
Before entering, she made the sign of the Cross, touching first her forehead, chest, left and right shoulders with her pointer and middle fingers. She said a small prayer for courage, and parted the curtain to enter. Once inside, she saw that the small window screen had been slid open, and she was able to make out the blurred image of a man in white priestly vestments.
"Bless me, Father," she began again, "for I have sinned . . ."
"Come now, Lizzie, must you repeat yourself? Do you think I am that hard of hearing?"
"Oh my God, it is you!"
"I'm sorry dear, would you mind lowering your voice? Did I not just specify that my hearing is perfectly fine?"
"Y – Yes, I'm sorry." She lowered her voice to a murmur. "How did you know about this place?"
"I've already told you, I know practically everything about you. Did you think that should exclude your prior place of worship?"
"When you put it that way, I guess not." Liz's voice shook, and she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She hated feeling this way, like she was losing control. The truth was, she was so relieved she thought she would weep. She held herself in check, using every ounce of restraint she could muster. She said nothing, waiting for him to speak.
A long, companionable silence stretched between them, perhaps a few minutes, before he finally spoke:
"How are you, Lizzie? Have you been heeding my advice?"
"If you mean about Tom, yes. I keep my distance."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning exactly what I said. We sleep together, we get up, we go to work, we come home, we eat, we do it all over again." Liz felt her face flush divulging this information, but that seemed absurd. Like he said, Red already knew 'practically everything' about her, and certainly he knew that she would not become a celibate, just because she no longer trusted her husband.
She could not suddenly stop being with him. That would only raise his suspicions and perhaps invite his anger and irritation, especially after the events of the past few months. She continued, "We don't talk about much of anything, besides the usual pleasantries."
"Has he acted out of the ordinary? Is he treating you decently?"
"Yes, I told you: I mean, I guess I'd have to say everything's fine, since he hasn't yelled at me or beat me or anything."
"Do not be so snide with me, Lizzie. I only ask you out of genuine concern. You know that." His tone was even, but his words conveyed hurt and disappointment.
"Yes," she conceded, hating the twinge of guilt that came over her. "I know. I'm sorry." Her own tone was meek and sheepish, obviously tremulous. "I know. . ."
"So," Red interrupted, eager to move past the uncomfortable tension, "you were about to confess your sins?"
"What do you mean? I don't have to confess anything to you!"
"Actually, I think that would be the most prudent thing for you to do. We have been here for about five minutes, hardly enough time for a proper confession. Wouldn't it look suspicious to the others if you were to walk out and leave so abruptly, without even doing your penance?"
"I don't know. I didn't really think —"
"That's exactly the point, darling, you didn't think. And if you have any reservations about making confession to me, you should know that I for all intents and purposes have all the qualifications necessary of being a priest."
Hearing her shocked gasp, he quickly elaborated: "Except for the whole bit about being celibate. I couldn't quite manage that. But I was naïve when I was 20, and thought that I was fully ready to handle all of the restrictions that would come with the priestly vestments. I went through seminary, but I only lasted about a year before giving in to my baser nature."
Red chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down Liz's spine. She was momentarily stunned, not sure how she should process this newfound information. This was the most Red had ever talked about himself; she found that she was even a little disappointed that a small piece of the enigma that was Raymond Reddington had been shattered. She wondered how she should respond, and ultimately settled with giving in to his suggestion.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I accuse myself of the following sins:
I have been guilty of wrath. I do not feel secure in my home, and I take out my pent up frustrations on my coworkers. I shout, lose my temper, etc. I have entertained thoughts of walking out on my marriage, again due to my fear and insecurity. I have entertained lustful thoughts . . ." here she paused, swallowing the growing lump in her throat before continuing: "Lustful thoughts which did not concern my husband. In essence, I am guilty of the sin of adultery under Scripture. These are my recent sins, to the best of my knowledge."
Liz hoped that would be sufficient. She had not attended confession since she was 17 but, as Red often reminded her, he knew her. He knew her in every way it seemed, except the biblical sense. She did not doubt that in some way, he knew the ins and outs of her spiritual life over the years, the severity of sins she had committed, and her steadily growing lack of faith.
With his associates probably keeping an eye on her every move in his absence, she even wondered if she needed to confess what she had. Surely he already knew the particulars of her sins of the past few weeks, just by hearing secondhand accounts of her actions. He seemed to be as omniscient as God himself.
She waited with bated breath for his reply. The silence could not have been more than half a minute, but for her it seemed like an hour.
"Dear child, I hereby absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I assign as penance that you recite 10 Our Fathers, and that you take time each day to examine your thoughts and your sins, in word and deed. Go now in peace and the grace of God. Amen."
. . . . .
When she had made her 'confession,' Liz exited the confessional and sat down in the back pew to the side of the church, closing her eyes and folding her hands in prayer to do her penance. She ran through the Our Fathers, the words ingrained in her mind by rote from years of reciting the prayer as a child.
Soon she felt the cushioned space beside her sink under new weight, and she leaned her head instinctively against Red's shoulder, felt him envelop her in his arms. Liz sniffled, grateful her eyes were clenched shut and that her tears could not flow. She hated the thought of crying in front of Red ― again. Much as that may be, she still gave in, letting her tears fall when she felt Red press cool, dry lips to her forehead.
"I know you are scared," he murmured gently, his breath tickling her. "But did I not tell you that I be there should you need me, whatever the case?"
"Yes. . ."
"Well then; you do not need to feel ashamed to show your emotion in front of me. It is far healthier that you let loose your fear and anxiety than that you should allow it to build up inside you. You know this much from your general psychology class in high school."
Red's voice was low and soothing, a balm to Liz's frazzled mind. That he could so freely and gently tease her made almost made her want to cry even more. It was damned unfair that a psychopathic criminal should be the one to act as her closest confidante.
She knew that she should hate this man with every fiber of her being, but much as she wanted to, as angry as she was at him for keeping her in the dark, she couldn't help but admire and respect him. And yet, she was afraid of him. In one swift movement, he could incapacitate her, be done with her and leave her for dead. She would be one less reason to worry him. She had seen how casually he had disposed of Kornish. If he were to turn against her for whatever reason, what would stop him from disposing of her?
She had called him a monster, then, and when asked how he could justify being so brutal he'd simply said 'To protect you.' Shit! Liz wasn't sure she wanted to hold that level of responsibility. She could not fathom why she was so special, why she should be his raison d'être. That was what it seemed like. When she'd told him he had no life, he'd looked at her point blank and rebutted 'I have you.' Six words that had been spoken on two different occasions, and now they were ingrained into her psyche.
She could not think of the man at all without hearing those words, could not hope to maintain a professional indifference toward him anymore. What was worse, now that she finally realized she could not get along well without him, he was Public Enemy #1. She was risking a lot by being there.
She turned to face him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. "It's alright," he said softly, voice just above a whisper. "We're the only ones left in the church. You can let it all out." He twined his fingers through her hair, gently pulling, sending tiny pinpricks of pain in her scalp that was both brutal and sweet. If his idea was to make it easier to start crying, he succeeded.
Liz gasped and whimpered at the pain, grabbing fistfuls of Red's floor-length white robes. Her nails scratched the likeness of Jesus' face stitched onto his chest, struggling. "Let me go!" she pleaded and pounded on his chest, openly weeping now. Red did not speak, but loosened his grip on her hair, moving his hand instead to rest against the base of her neck. He applied pressure to her skin, kneading and massaging the muscle.
Gradually, Liz calmed down, her crying reduced to a series of sniffles and hiccups.
Red held her, long after her crying ceased. He felt her body slacken, and knew she had fallen asleep. He gave a cursory glance out over the sanctuary, making sure there was no one else there.
Satisfied, seeing only an elderly woman with her face buried in her hands, quietly praying, Red gingerly stood up, cradling Liz's soft dense weight in his arms as he stealthily exited the Cathedral through the side fire exit.
Author's Note: This was intended to be a long one-shot, but will likely turn into a short (5 chapters or less) Christmas interlude between them. I apologize if they seem OOC, I am still trying to get a hold on Liz's mannerisms, and figure anything definitively about the rather enigmatic Reddington . . . I love a good mystery, and The Blacklist is my favorite. There are so many layers to the characters, I hope I can do them justice!