AN: This has been a WIP for the better part of a year, and is (somehow, miraculously) mostly complete in terms of planning and writing. I'm thinking I'll upload the remaining chapters as I get them out of editing boot camp-which, in the spirit of honesty (knowing my snail's pace editing process), might take a month or so yet. But I'm working on it, I promise! As always, thanks in advance for reading!
P.S. I still don't own anything related to The Blacklist.
"Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round."
- W.B. Yeats
1
Elizabeth woke up alone in her bed. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she rose to look at the clock. 7:05—she'd beaten the alarm again, but a nagging thought, that she hadn't been quick enough, crept into her mind. She didn't hear the shower in the master bath, either…not near quick enough. Lips pursed, she stood and shuffled toward the closet. Maybe we need another vacation, she thought, remembering the spiced heat of Morocco, before sighing and opening the closet door.
Sky-blue sweater and slacks in hand, she made her way to the bathroom, setting the outfit on the countertop and pulling her sleep shirt over her head. The clean starchiness of it felt luxurious beneath her fingertips. She'd thought it would be a newlywed habit, one worn away within their first year—and yet, here she was, their sixth anniversary approaching and his old shirts still felt better on her skin than the most expensive lace.
After waiting a moment for the water to warm, she stepped into the shower and immediately went to work with the shampoo. Weaving her fingers into the lather, she followed the auburn strands down to where they ended, an inch or two above her shoulders, and gave a small nod of approval. How had she lived with long hair before? Oh, she knew—that was back when she still had time, when she could take an hour to work through her mane with a curling iron. Not so much these days. Her smile stood at the intersection of wistfulness and contentment.
A quick calculation put the time at 7:15. Hands halfway to the faucet, she paused, deciding to take the extra minute and use the cinnamon bun body wash he'd given her as a birthday present. It was more than worth it, she thought as she watched the bubbles shine on her arms and chest. Of course, he'd known it would be perfect for her, had known how much she loved the scent. That particular quality of his had ceased to disconcert her years ago, when she realized how very much it could work to her advantage.
Feeling as warm and soft and cinnamony as she reasoned she could on a Tuesday morning, Elizabeth stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her torso. A familiar voice in her head admonished it was bad hair care to brush while wet, but she chalked it up to another immutable habit and reached for the comb.
A few minutes later (7:30, just as she'd thought), she was heading down the stairs and into the kitchen. A small boy sat at the table, engrossed in his breakfast. She stood still a moment, smiling at the way the embroidered apples on the tablecloth—her late father's favorite—fell around his knees.
"Someone decided to be an early riser. What smells so good?" she asked as she came to sit next to him, kissing the soft, red-gold waves on his forehead.
"Dad made a monster omelet!" the boy replied, shoving a forkful into his mouth. "And," he tried to explain through the egg, "it has shallots in it. Not onions; they're different."
"Very interesting." She nodded sagely. "Although, I seem to recall a discussion about speaking with our mouths full."
The boy groaned as he swallowed. "Mo-om…"
"Lu-uke…"
He tried to roll his eyes, a motion he hadn't quite mastered at the age of three and a half, and she quirked an eyebrow, taking a second to appreciate the cherubic symmetry of his face, the dimple in his left cheek, the sea green eyes she could swear were smiling at her.
A warm hand found her waist from behind, and she stifled a squeak as she watched a plate descend in front of her. A light, warm kiss met the apple of her cheek.
"I think there's something far more delicious-smelling than omelet in here," hummed a voiced in her ear.
She smiled, leaning into the sound. "Is that so, Lord of Shallot?"
"Way too early for gushy stuff," the boy grumbled, wrinkling his nose.
Elizabeth laughed, and felt the breath of a chuckle next to her. Turning in her seat, she found Raymond Reddington's face not an inch from her own. He was smiling, and she was smiling, and it all felt so wonderful—
Her breath caught in her throat. Something was wrong. She blinked and shook her head, and suddenly she was falling through the wooden floor, through the cement foundation. She reached out desperately, but the kitchen was gone. It was dark and she was choking and falling and all she could do was think of her son, of the eyes that were his father's eyes.
And then she woke up.
All the mornings Liz wished they'd had more time, wished her phone had broken and his school declared a snow day, remembering what she'd have given for half an hour more—and now, as they're sitting across from each other at the small table with their bowls of cereal, she finds it overwhelmingly awkward. He tries to talk about a new student; she clips in that her Aunt June wants them over for Thanksgiving. After a few minutes, they mutually and wordlessly concede there's no rhythm between them, and settle for the quiet clinks of spoons against bowls.
Tom finishes his breakfast first and sighs—she tries to tell herself she's imagining relief in the sound. She swallows her antibiotic with some orange juice, cursing the name Streptococcus pyogenes, a gift from her schoolteacher husband. A second later and she's joining him, the two of them putting on jackets and grabbing essentials.
"Be safe," he mutters, giving her a peck on the cheek.
"Always," she lies.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Ressler accosts her as soon as she's out of the elevator, shoving a thick folder into her hands.
"Reddington says he's got another name for us. Some laundromat owner from Baltimore, whatever that means."
"It means, Donald, that a laundromat owner is never just a laundromat owner. Honestly, you'd think all those years of experience would've taught you something."
Raymond Reddington jaunts up to them, offering the customary obtuse smile. Liz is careful to avoid his eyes, despite a nagging little voice insisting she do otherwise. How green are they, really? She studies a piece of detritus on her shoe before opening the file on their target. Then his gaze falls on her—she can feel the exact moment it happens—and she clears her throat, glancing up to look around the main room.
"Then what is he?"
"That, Lizzie, is a most interesting question. Mr. Carafelli is a part-time business owner, part time brandy enthusiast, and part-time buyer and killer of 12-year-old boys. Always twelve. Why? Hell if I know."
"So, what?" Her partner itches for a plan of action. "We bring him in, problem solved?"
"If only it were that simple. For a 300-pound man, he's surprisingly slippery; this is his seventh squeaky-clean business in a decade. He possesses what can only be described as a sixth sense when it comes to closing up shop—no doubt he's packing hastily as we speak. And let me just say, the aroma he gathers after a few moments of strenuous activity is…singular."
Ressler looks as though he might bite back. He's been known to snap at their snarky and cavalier—what is Reddington to them, to her? Colleague? Informant? Enemy? It takes her a second to decide there isn't a term for him, that he'd never allow himself to be labeled in a single word. She's also surprised by Ressler's commendable behavior; the younger man only sets his jaw determinedly. When he speaks, he's the image—or, at least the reasonable facsimile—of government-sanctioned professionalism.
"Then we should get going."
Liz reaches the victim photos in her report, looking over dozens of faces. Turning the pages, her fingers stop on an image. The boy's eyes are closed and his hair falls in loose waves to his neck. She brushes a thumb over his lips and shivers: he could've been Luke. The shape of his face, his brow…she tears her gaze away to find Ressler halfway to the elevator and Red directly in front of her.
He glances down at the photo. "Something wrong, Lizzie?"
She can hear the gears turning in his mind, puzzling over her connection to the boy. She shrugs.
"It's nothing. I gotta go." Turning to follow Ressler, she freezes at the gentle pressure of his hand over her wrist.
He hums quietly, fingers grazing her scar, and she's struck by the sudden urge to feel his hand at her waist, his voice in her ear, his breath in her hair. But he only fixes her with a curious look, releasing her wrist as quickly as he'd taken it.
"Be safe," he speaks, his voice low.
She can't bring herself to pretend for him, managing something between a nod and a smile before making her way to the elevator door.