Despite the fact that life was looking up for him for the first time in quite a while, Raymond Reddington was still miserable.
Lizzy was back, safe and as sound as could be expected after being kidnapped by a madman who claimed to be her long-dead father that she believed she killed. Agnes, too, was safe and sound at long last. Even Tom Keen was gone, left to work for Susan Hargrave after a spectacular falling out with Lizzy that gave the term 'irreconcilable differences' new meaning. (Red still wasn't entirely sure about all of the details surrounding the break up, a fact that both vexed and intrigued him.)
Now that everything had finally settled down, Red tried to give Lizzy some time and space, tried his damnedest to guard his wounded heart and keep his distance, but he couldn't stay away for very long. Tonight in particular he needed nothing more than to be near her.
He felt more separated from Lizzy lately than he ever had, except when he believed she was dead. Maybe more separated than that, even—she'd been with him then in the shadows he saw out of the corner of his eye, in the whispers of the wind in his ear, in the brush of fabric against his skin. She'd been with him in his dreams and when he woke, in the memories of the pressure and warmth of her head resting on his shoulder.
If she sent him away tonight, so be it. At least he could sit for a few minutes in the quiet of his car, closer to her than he was here. Physically, if in no other way.
And so he donned his jacket and his hat and headed for the door. Dembe dutifully followed him, although Red was sure his friend disapproved of his decision to visit Lizzy, especially unannounced. He didn't even have a convenient cover story in the form of a blacklister at the ready. He could be there to visit Agnes. That was as good a reason as any other, wasn't it?
Oh, well. He would deal with the fallout if and when it came.
Red straightened his back, strengthened his resolve, and pulled open his front door; to his surprise, there stood Lizzy on the stoop, fist raised in mid-knock, with a sleeping Agnes snug in a baby sling across her body.
"Lizzy," he breathed.
She dropped her arm slowly, awkwardly, but her lips quirked up slightly. He called her Lizzy, he realized. More often than not, he'd been calling her Elizabeth lately.
"Were you going out?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, because it was the truth. Not the whole truth, of course. But still the truth.
"If it's a bad time—"
"No." Red shook his head, emphatic. "I was…" He trailed off with a halfhearted shrug, unable to say anything more without incriminating himself.
"Where were you headed?"
"Uh…" He stepped out of the way, waved her in. "It doesn't matter now. Come in."
Lizzy eyed him strangely as she walked past him, kept stealing suspicious glances while she handed Agnes off to Dembe, as if she could read his silences just as clearly as his words. Perhaps she could. It wouldn't be the first time she was able to see right through him. When she wasn't half-terrified and stubborn in her willful denial, she could make him feel more vulnerable and transparent than just about anyone else.
He led her to the study, quickly distracting himself with the liquor cabinet.
"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, pulling two glasses down from the shelf over the wet bar before she had a chance to answer.
"Brandy would be nice, if you have it."
Red's hand froze over the modest collection of bottles. He hadn't had brandy since the night in the shipping container. She couldn't know that. She couldn't purposely be trying to call up those memories. And if she was, was it for his benefit or hers? His detriment or hers?
Clearly, he was overthinking things. Lizzy liked brandy. She liked it that night, why wouldn't she still like it now? After all, she hadn't suddenly sworn off red wine just because they also enjoyed a bottle of it together that night.
She had enjoyed quite a few things that night, if he remembered correctly.
(He did remember correctly.)
Red shook himself mentally and poured a generous serving into each of their glasses, trying to ignore how much the glass stopper rattled in the decanter as he re-stoppered it.
Relax. Breathe. It wasn't as if history was in any position to repeat itself.
He turned around to find Lizzy sitting on the couch, slightly to the left of center—leaving room enough for him to join her if he chose, but not enough to preserve the stilted distance they'd been keeping.
If it was a challenge, he failed it. He set her drink on the coffee table and sat in the armchair facing her.
She waited until he lifted his glass to his lips before she spoke. "You were coming to see me, weren't you?"
He swallowed, liquor burning its way down his throat. "Yeah," he offered, rough, shy, and sheepish.
"Why? Haven't we… haven't I hurt you enough?"
"Why did you come?" he asked instead of answering; she flinched as if it was an accusation. And it wasn't. He only meant to draw a parallel—perhaps she came to see him for the same reason he was planning to go to her. She couldn't stay away. She didn't want to. Maybe she wanted to want to. Maybe she thought she should. But she didn't. Couldn't. That's how he felt sometimes. Most of the time. "Never mind. How are you? How is Agnes?"
Lizzy's face brightened a bit, and Red couldn't help the slight smile that curved his lips at the thought of the baby girl. "Agnes is fine," she said. "A little fussy, though, lately. I think she's having growing pains."
"Ah. Yeah, I, uh… I remember those days."
A thick, uneasy quiet settled over the two of them. Red flicked at a minuscule piece of lint on his trousers. Lizzy hunched forward, holding her glass between both hands with her elbows braced against her knees.
"How are you?" he repeated, when the silence stretched too long and taut.
She swirled the liquor in her glass for a long moment, studying it, weighing her answer carefully.
"Lonely," she said.
The word fell like a stone, a heavy thump bouncing off the hastily built wall between them. His hand twitched in his lap, itching with the instinct to reach for her. She wouldn't mind, probably. They'd touched since she died. He held her hand. She hugged him.
"Is there anything that I can—"
"Don't." She shook her head and set her half-empty glass down hard on the coffee table with a dull thud. "I can't keep doing this dance we've been doing," she said, in a rush.
His brows furrowed in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
She stared at him in wild-eyed shock for a moment, as if she was surprised by what she had begun to say. But she shook herself visibly and continued anyway, rubbing at the scar on her wrist all the while. "We have a child together, Red. We have a little girl."
