Title: the things we do for each other
Rating: G
Summary: He'll save her. He always saves her. But now, she'll save him too. In a heartbeat. Again and again.
A/N: This didn't turn out at all like I expected, which seems to be a pattern for whenever I write of late. Anyway, would love to hear your thoughts.
Because when you love someone, the barriers between what you would do and wouldn't do come crashing down. When all you want is to help their dreams come true – to be a source of joy, encouragement, strength, and love in their lives – their insane requests become a little less, well, insane. – the Youngrens
Red is no stranger to testing Liz's boundaries, whether it be her patience or her personal space. At first, he'd been subtle; fingertips at her elbow, a casual implicative remark concerning Tom.
Liz learns to ignore it.
The warmth on her arm, the prickle of curiosity in the back of her mind.
Time goes on and Red continues to defy the rules she attempts to impose on their interactions. She the agent, he the criminal. Purely business; solely professional.
It fails.
So when his touches turn less innocuous; firmer brushes on the small of her back, his thumb skirting the top of her scar she can feel it burn for days, yes I hired Tom Keen to enter your life.
These are harder to ignore.
And Liz isn't quite sure who she hates more; Red for refusing to stay within the familiar confines of the label she'd assigned him –
(You're an asset I'm charged with protecting.)
– or herself for not caring as much as she should that the FBI's fourth most wanted has become something of a touchstone in her ever-turbulent world.
(I risked my life for you because I care about you. Deal with that.)
In the rare occasions she allows herself moments of introspection and she succumbs to the innate compulsion to profile herself in the context of where she stands with Red, Liz is always quick to dismiss 'daddy issues' and its ilk.
She had a father. Sam. She'd loved him – and still does – regardless of the fact that different blood coursed through their veins. Liz gives 'father figure' – in the context of herself and Red – little thought; gives even less thought to the wicked voice that reminds her of how much her imagination doesn't view him as a father under the dark cloak of the night.
Liz initially writes him off as 'a man with a weird obsession', which doesn't sound all that impressive from someone with a degree in psychology, but when she's constantly being shot at while chasing down notorious criminals and Red – morally-flexible man that he is – promptly proves that he will do whatever it takes to protect her, the implications of his actions are as inexplicable as they are troubling.
What drives a person to sacrifice just about everything for another?
And God help her, every time Red is prepared to give something up – his freedom, his life – she's utterly enthralled by how readily, without a shred of hesitation he's willing to do so.
If it means her safety.
If it means her life.
To witness such a powerful man bring himself to his knees – entirely of his own volition if the alternative would endanger her – is staggering. For a man who claims to be so tainted by his deeds, hideous in the face of all he has done, Liz is constantly overwhelmed by the lengths Red would go to to protect her. It's never done with the notion of reciprocity; he'd chastised her when she'd come back for him in the King mansion.
(You are so damaged.)
He utters few words that night –
(Don't ever do that again.)
– and it isn't so much his lack of gratitude towards what she'd done for him that churns away at the pit of her stomach; it isn't even how his face had been fraught with silent indignation, his eyes a storm of anger and fury – not at her, no, never that – at the notion that he was worthy of being saved. It was that he'd come so close to death tonight, his hands bound behind him, him kneeling on the dirt-caked floor with a gun to his head and the last word that he would have said was her name.
A whisper. A prayer.
(Lizzie.)
The name he calls her – the name only he could call her – teemed with so much emotion Liz feels dizzy. And then—
(Don't ever do that again.)
Red would face multiple armed men, possible incarceration, his own death without blinking for her, but if she—
Liz is unable to stem the tears that fall.
How excruciatingly isolating it must be to believe that no one could – or would want to of their own accord – help him. How many times had people hurt him for him to so staunchly believe that he didn't deserve it? That if anyone offered him any aid it came with a corresponding price.
And Liz is so thrown by the realization that maybe she doesn't know him as well as she thinks she does, that in spite of his willingness to sacrifice anything and everything to protect her he doesn't trust her enough to help him when it matters most. She looks over at him a mere seat away, jaw rigid, fists clenched; Liz feels like there's an ocean between them and she's drowning.
She wants to cross the chasm, to reach out to him, not to save herself, but to save him.
(It's OK. You don't have to be alone. I can help you. I will help you. We'll help each other.)
Her fingers twitch, but he won't look at her, refuses to acknowledge her and she's taken aback by how furious he is that she'd endangered herself for him. Liz is accustomed to his arrogance – charming in a way only he could pull off – but this, this self-loathing is unfamiliar.
Yet remarkably human.
In that moment, Red is not the Concierge of Crime, he is not her self-appointed protector, he is something infinitely more.
A man.
An exhausted man who'd sooner bear the weight of the world than have her carry it for even a second.
Liz still doesn't know the reason and Red won't divulge why.
How she could mean so much to someone she knows so little about?
But when she looks at him, her desire to know him – not the persona he dons for the world – but the man that shines through the cracks if he lowers his defenses enough, is one she is so desperate to uncover.
For now, even if she longs to touch him – if only to reaffirm that she hasn't lost him – she understands that it won't be welcome, that any contact would likely be rebuffed. Red's stare remains resolutely forward while her fingers twist and twine with one another, her eyes darting intermittently towards him. The lines on his face are more pronounced and Liz is suddenly struck with the desire to put him to bed and watch over him as he rests, to ensure he has even just a moment of peace.
It's instances such as these – when her impulses override her better judgement, when what she needs to do prevail over what she knows she should, when she chooses Raymond Reddington above all else – that Liz makes a distinct effort not to dwell on whatever it is that exists between them.
It had been unsettling at first, the intensity of his attention, how he'd known details about her that no other did.
(You changed your hair.)
It had been disconcerting, how easily Red would dispose of anything that threatened her.
(If you want her, you're going to have to kill me.)
And the way Red managed to make her feel like it was only ever the two of them in the world even if there were surrounded by people? That had been the most perturbing of all.
And to her dismay, the most thrilling.
Liz had been helpless in the face of someone whose focus was directed so raptly at her, at how effortless it was for him to cast everything else aside for her.
She'd grown to tolerate him, then accept him.
Now she can't imagine a world without him in it.
Red is her port in the storm, he's color amidst the various shades of grey her life has become.
He is everything she wishes she didn't need.
A part of her is too afraid to delve into why they gravitate so easily to one another, how – in such a short span of time – she's grown to feel so much for this man she barely knows. She still isn't entirely sure what she feels for Red; she'd still been married when the first glimpses of 'mine' began flashing in the back of her mind, when his sheer presence provided more comfort than her husband's arms, but if there is one thing she knows for certain, it's that he is hers.
To protect. To care for.
Even if he doesn't want it. Especially if he doesn't want it.
So when they arrive at her motel, before she gets out of the car Liz reaches across and deliberately grazes her pinkie finger over his knuckles. Her eyes are downcast, her whisper soft and reverent and as she slowly draws her hand back she hopes that he understands:
"Raymond."
Red's head pivots towards her, his mouth slightly ajar in shock. His face is no longer cold and stoic, the anger has faded from his eyes to be replaced with an emotion she rarely envisages on him.
She would feel empowered if he hadn't looked so frightened.
But Liz doesn't want his fear. She wants to him to know and understand that she doesn't regret going back for him, that he can't begrudge her for doing exactly what he would have done, that she would make the same choice again if she had to.
She isn't being driven by a warped sense of gratitude.
Liz knows this and she needs him to believe it.
Because she can't be just like everyone else to him. She refuses to be a pawn used to advance whatever endgame Red has planned. She can't be disposable, not when he'd gone to such great extents to keep her safe. She's his vulnerability, the crack in his armor. And if she'd taken advantage of it before, she refuses to do it again now that she's aware – even subliminally – of how dearly she needs him.
Liz thinks maybe that's what fills his eyes with a frenzied worry she can't quite associate with him.
Red's face has softened, his gaze still this side of frantic, and his body is somehow both taut and loose. He hasn't pushed her away (yet), which she's profoundly grateful for; there's so much between them that needs to be said.
But sometimes there simply aren't any words to express what they feel, sometimes the message lies in what they don't say. Sometimes it's in a look, a smile.
Sometimes it's calloused fingers reaching across the seat to trace the skin between her fingers.
(I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.)
Liz turns her palm up, lets the sensations of his caresses wash over her like a wave gently breaking on the shore. She smiles at him tentatively.
(It's OK. It's OK. We're OK.)
They both understand.
And Liz is so relieved that they do. Rarely is she the recipient of his ire; his frustration perhaps, but never his wrath. He may not believe that he's worth helping – at least not without the allure of a reward – but she can hardly fault him for it. The mere recollection of Red declaring so adamantly that she never save him at her own expense causes a sharp, acute pain in her chest.
There may still be secrets to be uncovered, questions to be answered but they have each other and in this moment, it's enough.
With one last swipe of her finger, Liz moves to exit the vehicle, but she's then thwarted by the feel of his fingers looping gently around her wrist. When she looks back at him, his gaze is characteristically warm and apologetic and filled with so much awe Liz almost has to look away.
His thumb hovers over her scar, a pleasant hum resonating at the contact. Liz takes a chance and entwines their fingers together. She's far more pleased than she should be by his startled gasp, but then their eyes lock once more and she feels like she's drowning again.
But this time, he's there.
He'll save her. He always saves her.
But now, she'll save him too.
In a heartbeat.
Again and again.
After a long moment, Red finally speaks, "Tomorrow?"
Liz smiles softly, tightening her hold just a fraction, "Tomorrow."
FIN (for now)