10. "Come here."
Red sighs as he collapses on the sofa, kicking off his Italian hand-made shoes like they are cheap sneakers and rubbing his face with both hands.
What an exhausting day.
Lizzie had called around nine, saying they were dead in the water with their current blacklister, and asked for his help. Unable to deny her, and also wanting to have the truly despicable number 45 in custody as soon as possible, he had wracked his brains for ways to help. Unfortunately, the only thing he could come up with was chatting with one of his less pleasant associates. De Marco was the only one Red could imagine would have any intel on this blacklister. Whether he would share it with him was another story completely.
De Marco is an interesting individual, a recluse, a hermit, living by himself in the wilderness of New Jersey, so naturally he is a little unhinged. He can be perfectly pleasant, of course, but if caught on the wrong day, Red knows from experience that he will emerge from his cabin on a rampage, guns blazing. It is nothing Red can't handle with Dembe by his side, of course, but he doesn't want Lizzie anywhere near someone so unpredictable, just in case.
So Red had relayed his plans to Lizzie, for once not holding back anything, wanting her to know the probable danger of this contact. He made a point to stress that she, or anyone else from the task force, should not try to follow him under any circumstances. De Marco is too volatile and they should wait for Red to contact them with anything he learned.
She had agreed reluctantly, in a rather odd tone of voice, but Red had had no time to linger on it. Besides, Lizzie's mood had been anything but consistent lately.
So he and Dembe had set off at once to northern New Jersey to pay a visit to old De Marco. He was rather uncooperative at first – perhaps Red should have called ahead – but after a few knives were thrown his way, Red managed to calm him down and obtain the information the task force needed.
On the long drive home, Red had called Cooper with the time sensitive intel, wary of Lizzie's strange mood and wanting to spare her the usual role of middleman this once.
They just arrived back at their current safe house and Dembe went straight to bed. A day full of driving and dodging bullets from a paranoid maniac tends to take a toll. Red can certainly sympathize.
With a weary glance at his watch, Red sees that it is nearing midnight. He supposes he should head to bed as well, exhausted as he is, but he still feels that strange restlessness that comes from being confined in a car for a long period of time.
Perhaps he'll make some warm milk, that usually makes him sleepy, and it's certainly better for him than scotch, yes, perhaps he'll –
Knock, knock.
Red frowns. Who could that possibly be at quarter to twelve on a Tuesday night? Suddenly wide awake and on alert, he grabs his gun from it lies discarded on the side table and clicks off the safety, padding silently to the door. He takes a quick glance through the peephole and feels a jolt go through him.
Lizzie is standing there.
He quickly flicks the safety back on the gun and places it on the entryway table, unlocking and opening the door at the same time.
"Lizzie, what a pleasant – "
"Where have you been?!"
And before he knows it, Lizzie is pushing her way past him and into his safe house and what is going on?
"I'm sorry?"
"Oh, don't play stupid, Red. You call and tell me all about this dangerous god-awful blacklister and then casually go on your merry way to meet with him and then you don't even call me afterwards? You call Cooper instead? What was I supposed to take from that? That you were injured and didn't want to worry me? Or that you simply didn't care enough to let me know you were okay?"
Lizzie finally stops to take a breath but Red can do nothing but blink stupidly at her, stunned. He had no idea she would be so worried about him. Frankly, he didn't think she would care much at all. She had made it very clear in the past that she cares very little for his safety. Why should this time be different? There are not many people left in this world that care about his well-being and she has the least reason of anyone. He certainly can't blame her.
Red frowns.
He can see tension making Lizzie's shoulders rigid. Her arms, which had been planted on her hips while she was yelling at him, have since drifted to wrap around her waist. He glances up at her face, still frowning, and he sees she is staring at him, waiting to hear what he has to say for himself.
Well.
"Lizzie…" he says slowly. "I'm perfectly all right. I'm sorry if I worried you. That was not my intention."
She must be able to hear the sincerity in his voice but instead of relaxing like he suspected she would, he sees her arms tighten around her middle and, unbelievably, he sees her eyes fill with tears.
Perhaps he had overexaggerated De Marco's eccentricities.
And perhaps Lizzie cares more about him than he originally suspected.
He feels a wonderful warmth flood him from head to toes.
"Well," she mutters, looking strangely vulnerable and small, standing here in his hallway, looking anywhere but at him. "I was still worried."
Oh, Lizzie.
"Come here." He murmurs, reaching for her.
And, unbelievably, she surges forward into his arms without hesitation, one arm wrapping around his back and the other around his waist, her face pressing into his shoulder. He wraps his arms tightly around her in return, wishing irrationally for a moment that he could absorb her into his body and keep her with him always.
Silly.
He feels her take a deep breath in, her torso expanding within his arms, and he breaths with her almost by accident. As they exhale together, Red feels a lovely contentedness settle within him. He makes a silent promise to do his best not to worry her again.