Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way. Still no promises if Spader offered me his goods.
Please read first!
AN: I do apologize to any of you who were looking forward to The Caresser (if any of you were, that is lol) I know that Kenneth Rathers was and buddy, I'm sorry. My musings were lost on the story, and I honestly could not come up with any viable dialogue to use humor-wise. Maybe you and I could conversate on tumblr/FB and you could help me out? ;-) I haven't forgotten about it, and I will be going back to it in the near future. And to those of my readers of The Silver Lining and Slip of the Tongue: I HAVE NOT forgotten about these fics! RL plus other projects get in the way, but I am coming back to them asap I promise! This fic will be presented in two parts, with Part Two being posted just a few days after Part One.
As my dear friend hestia-Prytaneum so honestly put it, you cannot force yourself to write something if you either aren't 'into' it. Forceful writing can come out lazy and strained, and it's glaringly obvious. This story would NOT have been possible without her. I MUST dedicate this story to her—hestia and firstmorningdew! They have inspired me, been there for me, we have bounced ideas off one another until we were nearly cross-eyed, and talked for hours on end! I am so thankful for their friendship, their undeniable dedication to our ship, support, and to have them in my life, and I honestly do not know what I would do without them! Two truly uniquely amazing people!
PLOT NOTES: Two-Parter/Lizzington AU/Post 2x10 & 11/ Lizzie DOES NOT find the Fulcrum
Personal Request: If you have NOT listened to Radical Face's Nightclothes OR Snow Patrol's New York, GO IMMEDIATELY TO YOUTUBE as soon as you can. I'm telling you, they are both 100% Lizzington.
Rated M for strong language and sensuality.
Fic title inspired by the song Nightclothes by Radical Face, which also inspired this whole damn story, Part Two in particular! I will NEVER be able to listen to this song again without thinking about the night of the fire!
Part One Title courtesy of Snow Patrol – Daybreak
Song lyrics courtesy of Snow Patrol - New York
ON TO THE STORY! Please review!
You Said the Moon Would be Ours
Part I:
All These Broken Pieces Fit Together
If our hearts are never broken,
Well there's no joy in the mending.
There's so much this hurt can teach us both.
There's distance and there's silence, your words have never left me.
They're the prayer that I say every day.
Come on, come out, come here, come here
The lone neon lights and the ache of the ocean,
And the fire that was starting to spark.
I miss it all, from the love to the lightning,
And the lack of it snaps me in two.
Just give me a sign
There's an end in the beginning
To the quiet chaos driving me back.
The weeks following (what some refer to as) the "Incident" with Luther Braxton, Lizzie had been resolutely fearful of getting too close to Red, apprehensive of him putting on his little "charade" of allocating any sort of feelings for her more voluminous than that of a colleague. The last notion she needed bouncing around in her brain while in such besetting proximity of him, was the veracity of declaring that she genuinely cared, only to discover that same instant he was solely seeking the Fulcrum during those fateful fiery hours of darkness twenty-six years ago, as still is to this very day.
At least, that was what he had allowed her to deduct. He stood by and let her conjure her own presumptions of what had transpired, no matter if the recollections of a scarred four-year old had been unreliable.
She wholly anticipated Red to hover over her as he consistently had since the commencement of their partnership. Only this time, she was determined to make him accept that she did not want his pretenses shoved in her face after the onslaught of horrors she was forced to endure. The knowledge of Red having been present the night her father was killed sent her splintered innermost self into an everlasting skirmish of maintaining dry tear ducts. Lizzie could no longer undergo the feat of being poised within arm's length of him.
He did no such thing.
Red kept a considerate distance from her, withdrawing his previously welcomed intrusions of personal space and consistently tender touches, allowing her to grieve her past traumas without his overwhelming presence lingering in her midst.
There was no scrupulous configuration of words that could possibly illustrate the hurt Lizzie felt slicing through the concealed vestiges of her being. When she had voiced to him that he never once cared for her, Red had left her suspended like someone threw her out of an airplane at thirty-seven thousand feet with only her emergency chute. He had pretended to care so he could use her as a means to an end for the unearthing of the Fulcrum's location. To save his own ass, as it were.
Red had stricken her with an agonizing realization upon reliving the horrendous events of that night, and she wanted him to prove her wrong. She had no other alternative than to feel like something akin to a materialistic conquest, something with no other bearing than the crux to the whereabouts of perhaps one of the most powerful pieces of data known in the existence of humanity.
That is right. Some thing.
A thing.
As if the vibrations of signals emoting from his dagger-like eyes, and the electrifying atmosphere radiating around them as she had stood frozen in place each and every time they were together over the years, were of no relevance or worth.
Then there was Uzbekistan.
Jesus.
Lizzie tolerated Red's continual inebriation so she could get through the weekend without strangling him, because in truth, he seemed a bit more jovial than usual, albeit heartbroken, following the mild murkiness of a few too many. She convinced herself that he was drinking because he duped himself into thinking he was on "vacation", being out of the states and away from the general worries the Post Office thrust upon his turbulent schedule.
It could not possibly be because of her flagrant disparagement for him, or her refusal of granting him the satisfaction of being by her side every second of the assignment.
No.
On the other hand, Red had also behaved like a man bewitched by the woman he loves, shooting her moon eyes every opening that was presented.
She had noticed.
The dinner.
The fucking baklava.
The Milonga.
While listening to the history of the Tango roll from his tongue like the serpent beckoning Eve to taste the Forbidden Fruit, she could barely look in his direction, fearing that her attraction to him would be detected. She was still supposed to be livid with him, after all, regardless of her desire to smother his face with her lips.
\ \ \ \ \ \
Time, that's all she needs is time, he would so contritely presume to himself.
Painfully sluggish months drag by along with the seasons.
Neither of them even consciously acknowledge the shifting weather.
Red honestly believed she would come to him late at night as she had in the past, longing for comfort and guidance since he was the only one in her life outside of Ressler and Samar whom she could confide.
But, she never did.
Many nights he spent sulking in front of a fireplace, gazing into the flickering conflagration that served as a sobering reminder of what he had done for her.
And what he had done to her.
But, look what she had done to him.
She had smothered all of the rejuvenating light that finally had burst its way into the very essence of him, leaving his internal anima cold, despondent, and brooding. Even his innate craving for the opposite sex dwindled, his heart thwarting any stimulation he could potentially feel with another warm body pressed flush up against his.
He consumed his provisions without truly savoring them. In fact, the only grounds for eating was solely for his own survival, and so that Dembe would hold his tongue and not bitch at him every second of every day he spent hunched over a plate of food that was merely half eaten. He would knock back his amber-colored liquid in hours of darkness cringing in the shadows, without relishing in the trickle that used to delightfully singe his gullet along the way.
Life was dull.
Colorless.
Passionless.
Eventually, their strained relationship had begun drifting off into the Land of Bleeding Hearts, evolving into more emotional injury than Red could bear. The cold-shoulder treatment, Red could stomach. But, this? This was certainly the most unpleasant experience since the Incident. She was not expressing loathing tendencies any longer, but rather, heartbreak. It was evident to him that Lizzie was actually pining for him, all the while preventing herself from disclosing anything other than a professional demeanor.
Strictly business.
The sideways smirks Lizzie would shoot Red once she noticed his eyes were affixed on her while standing across from him in the Post Office would virtually stop his heart. She would disregard his repetitive staring most of the time, but at least she had begun acknowledging him when he would pose a satirical question, or when he would tell another one of his illuminating fables from his past that never ceased to leave her spellbound, even if she acted as if her face was made of stone.
In truth, Lizzie had craved not only his company but also, his propinquity. His undeniable scent. The raspy drip in the tenor of his voice. The way he would subtly prop his hand upon her lower back or grasp her arm tenderly with his strong albeit beautiful hands.
She had yearned for everything she knew Red to be, that is when he was willing to dip down the veil ever so gradually. His boldness alone was something she missed seeing on a daily basis. Their late night chats. Going over cases as they ate take-out while she sat in the floor next to him seated in the chair. The transitory glances they would bashfully relay to one another that were never noted verbally, only affectionately cheeky grins were exchanged if one caught the other gawking outright.
On several occasions, Lizzie could attest to Red glaring at her intently, as if he were absorbing every facet of her appearance and character, like he had caught a glimpse into her soul. She never once dared to confront him over his wandering, deliberate eyes.
She had been content then.
Blissful, even.
When she would ready herself for sleep during the wee hours of the morning, she became quite giddy as she fantasized about the visits that would trickle over into her dreams.
Pleasures of all five senses.
Scratch that.
Of all six senses. There was also something spiritual flowing between them. There would be a voltaic current that sifted through her nerve endings, all the way to the bone, and she still could not put a finger on it or categorically label it.
As time drew on without his existence in her personal life, all she could tortuously assume in the shadowy alcoves of her psyche was that perhaps, her worst insidious fears had materialized—maybe Red really had only needed her for the Fulcrum. And maybe, just maybe, he had already obtained it. She deliberated if that was possibly the reasoning for him never being in charge of the effort of approaching her once again. Or maybe he was just fed up with her hurtful accusations and scorn, finished with always having to make the initial step to meet her halfway.
Finished with her.
She experienced thorough disconcertion since her conflictions flourished into jarring revelations of the true nature of her feelings for him. What if he decided to walk away for good if she never approached him? She knew she could not endure being abandoned by a person whom she cares deeply for, especially one of such startling magnitude.
She was terrified.
Too many things have happened, and both of their hearts remained torn into fragments at their feet. The real inquiries that coasted endlessly in and out of Lizzie's mind was: How much agony can one person take before they are deemed truly broken? Irreparable? And how much pain can one person inflict upon another before it is considered unforgiveable? Irredeemable?
\ \ \ \ \
That is where their relationship remained presently, on the downward slope, the other side of their upheaval eight months to the day of their run-in with Braxton. Anger was no longer her emotional priority, but she was growing restless. Suffice it to say, she often spent extensive sleepless nights dejectedly unaccompanied in her crappy motel room, combating the overpowering urge to burst out in tears.
She was sitting in the half-lit room on her bed, cramming down the rest of her cold chicken fingers she ordered three hours prior, when she heard an unexpected knock on her door. Then she heard it again. And again.
Compulsiveness.
Impatience.
Desperation.
He promised himself he would not go to her, swore that the last decisive action he would take would be to show up on her doorstep, desperate for her presence to engulf him as it once had. Depending on the situation, Red understood that certain promises were made to be broken.
You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand?
Red was pondering the hour, realizing Lizzie may very well be sleeping. No matter. He has awoken her on several occasions and she never displayed the slightest hint of irritation, more of curiosity than anything.
He is banging on her door like a mad man with the newest jacket of their next Blacklister clutched in his right hand, the fingers of his left tapping his thigh with uncertainty as he waits for her to come to the door. Red brought the intel as more of a reassurance to her that he was not there to hassle her or spin another one of his dramatic tales that would leave her reeling. He knew telling her everything he had been weathering was a long shot, and a hurdle he may not be able to conquer since the very real trepidation of him chickening out flowed like poison through his veins.
He hammers his knuckles against the door again, louder this time.
"Alright, I'm coming!" Lizzie shouts, and is having second thoughts of the unwarranted fretfulness actually being behind the man who exudes nothing but calm confidence.
She extends herself on her tiptoes to peer through the tiny peephole situated just above her height.
It's him. Shit.
She looks herself over in the squared mirror hanging beside the door to do a self-check of her garb. She had put on short blue-jean shorts and a candy apple-striped tank top after returning from the Post Office, and of course, was sans bra. Those things can be like a death trap in your sleep.
Her own self-effacing judgments advise her that she should at least slip on some pants.
She thinks better of it, and believes she is appropriate enough since the situation held every aspect of urgency.
Unlocking the deadbolt, she holds her breath, oblivious of the night Red has in store for her. Creaking the door ajar, she sees him standing there, clad in one of her favorite suits of his, the dark blue one. And clearly, his signature fedora he never leaves 'home' without. Her lips part and stay parted, jutting agape at the sheer spectacle of the anxiety-addled expression dancing across his face, affirmation in his bloodshot eyes before he removes it once more. Lizzie swallows, attempting to coat her throat in saliva, thwarting the ever-impending dryness that has made its way scratchily down into her trachea.
He is positioned in front of her, his flashing greenish-blue orbs containing a mysterious formula in which she cannot decode. Then, he speaks at last, "Lizzie. . . hi. Is now a bad time?" She catches a glimpse of the black dossier Red is clinging to in his right hand. So it is about work, great. And here I was thinking I was going to get to bed early tonight.
He peers downward at her apparel, but does not comment on the way the tight shorts hug her curvy hips and upper thighs, or the fact that he is bearing witness to the hardening of her nipples before his eyes. None of that now, he demands to himself, titling his head a fraction so as to empty the thoughts from his brain out of his ears.
He quickly redirects his gaze back up to her eyes, anxiously awaiting her repose. The corners of her mouth upturn into a small smile, then retreat to something in the realm of apathy. "Red . . . um no. No you can come in."
Red shuffles gently inside, careful enough not to brush her as he goes by. He removes his fedora to place on the table, and then hangs his coat on the rack adjacent to the door.
The duo takes a seat at the cheap wooden table, probably only large enough to accommodate two people comfortably. Lizzie's instinctual radar keeps pinging, telling her his whole demeanor is muddled. He has not spoken a word since she let him in the door.
The file in his hands makes its way across the table to her, sliding it toward her folded hands and bumping into her knuckles.
Picking up the folder, she rolls her eyes as if it is nothing of importance. She turns in her chair a few degrees and slings it across the room, landing on the bed behind them, but not before a few pieces of paper go sputtering out of it to scatter here and there.
Red stares at her dubiously as his eyelids flutter open and shut at an alarming rate, unsure of what the hell she is doing.
"Something's wrong. You may think you can hide it from the world, but you can't hide it from me. Not anymore." Unable to lift his eyes to meet hers, he looks down at his entwined hands on the table, then back up to look past Lizzie at the blank nothingness of the television screen situated on the wall. Clenching his teeth fiercely, he knows he is being intentionally evasive, but he made up his mind as soon as he walked through the door that tonight was not the proper time to leap into an expressively exhausting declaration.
Chewing the flesh inside of his lower lip, he tilts his head a bit to redirect his focus on Lizzie. protruding his jaw outward once, then twice, unable to articulate a single noise as he looks into her earnest emerald spheres as he feigns his troubled features.
"Whatever it is, Red, you can tell me."
"Maybe later, Lizzie. At this moment, the only thing that should be disquieting to you or I should be Estavan Gomez. We only have seventy-two hours to go over this and get it right the first time. He is unlike any other Blacklister, Lizzie, in the sense that he was a child prodigy. With that information, along with his methods, it should be of great concern to you and to the Bureau's."
His air appears as it had the day he expressed the same concerns to her about the Mombasa Cartel. She assumes that this is something rather personal, and of great vitality to him, so she gives in unremarkably. She slants her head, giving him a knowing, "This is bullshit, but okay" expression. Lizzie waves her hand in front of her, motioning for him to proceed as she rises to retrieve the scattered remnants of Gomez's file.
She allows Red to drone on about the case, mulling over each grueling detail of the myths and methodology of Gomez. After a few tedious hours of making Lizzie's head swim, Red finally concludes when he notices her trying to stifle a yawn. He decides that he needs to let her rest, or else she will suffer the wrath of Harold in the morning for arriving late.
"I'm sorry for keeping you up so late. You should get some rest. I will see you in the morning, alright?"
Standing from his chair, his knees pop and crack from having sat for an extensive period in the awkwardly rigid piece of furniture. Lizzie plasters a phony grin on her mouth, recognizing that Red has yet to explain what has him so perceptibly distressed.
He retrieves his coat and fedora as Lizzie watches his movements from the chair, her heart pounding, pleading with her not to let him walk out that door.
She nearly launches herself across the room at Red, her feet acting on their own accord.
As were her limbs.
The totality of her damn body was malfunctioning as if she was trying to keep up with an out-of-control treadmill.
As he extends his fingers to grip the doorknob, Lizzie stretches out her extremities, grasping his left bicep, impeding him from exiting the room.
Red twists his head, dropping his line of sight to the hand on his arm. Sucking in a sonorous lungful of oxygen, his chest constricts with the utmost intensity he has experienced in a good while. As he peers deeply into her damp glimmering eyes, his soul aches. Her voice juxtaposes in his heart, tugging at the frayed throbbing while warmly washing over him like a delicate fabric.
"Red, tell me what's wrong."
Nothing.
"Please . . . ?"
Still nothing.
"And if you expect me to get some rest, then you have got to tell me what's eating at you."
A genuine look of surprise skips across his worn features, wrinkling his forehead as his mouth flies open to remain unfastened for a beat too long, his pupils rippling in width like a rock thrown into a body of water.
Then, as capriciously as it materializes, it vanishes in the blink of an eye. Huffing a sarcastic snigger, Red counters, "Lizzie, the last thing you need to be concerned with is my state of mind, I assure you."
"Maybe so. But, just look at it as if it's solely for my benefit."
She cocks her chin outward as his gaze falters, earnestly seeking answers while screaming internally.
She is unmoving, feet firmly planted in front of him. She is persistent as hell, I'll give her that.
A puff of frustration leaves the opening of his face, affixing his eyes on the small hole in the wall parallel to him. He gingerly plucks off her appendage that has now slid to the crook of his arm, leading it toward his pursed crevice, puckering his balmy lips against the backside of her wavering hand.
Lizzie is glaring at him as if he just grew another head, and it has begun conversing with her.
Stricken.
Surprised.
Aroused.
He smiles from behind her wrist, unbinding her palm gently as he turns on his heels to depart.
"Goodnight, Lizzie."
And just like that, he ambles out the door into the darkness of night.
She shakes her head incessantly, liquid pooling under her lids. No, no he isn't going to do this tonight.
She snatches the weighty door, flinging it backward so firmly it ricochets off the wall. Lizzie sees him strolling toward his Mercedes as Dembe rolls down the passenger side window. She decides she cannot let him walk away, not after her heart and mind have been split like an axe to firewood over these past few torturous months. She steps out into the blustery October air, not even conscious or caring of her attire being less than intelligent for this climate.
"RED!"
He halts his actions, and turns on a dime. He slings his body around almost comically, and begins strolling his way back to her, irresolute of the conditions he will perceive himself to be consumed with next. Red has never been fond of unforeseen plights of duress, especially those which begin and end with Lizzie's disapproval.
He strides over to her, pausing short of her sockless feet with a curious appearance skimming around his crow's feet and forehead. "I need to tell you something." Red stays absolutely motionless, waiting for the worst possible declaration he could conjure up in his twisted mind. Lizzie looks down at his Italian leather shoes, sucking in a few whiffs of his intoxicating aroma.
"Yes?" He is afraid in this moment. A crushing impression of foreboding is starting to settle in his gut like a dreadful malignance.
She is nearing tears now, filling up her eyes so predominantly that there is actually a shimmer to them. A sharp pain in her sternum causes her to draw in a sudden intake of air. She recognizes this all-too-familiar sensation, and she usually couples it with an emotionally harrowing occurrence. Sniffing at her already-running nose, Lizzie knows she must advance with her avowal.
"I . . . had to tell you that, I need you in my life. I want you in my life."
Red does not utter a sound as he looks into Lizzie's insistent sapphire eyes, unable to repress his disturbed expression any longer. Parting his moist lips in an effort to respond, he only snaps them shut once more. The nerve jerking under his left eyelid is becoming more remarkable with each ephemeral breath.
He narrows his eyes in an effort to keep the offending wetness at bay, but to no avail. The unshed tears simply dangle from his sockets.
Lizzie closes her eyelids to taper the rising tide of her seemingly inept emotion.
"I miss you, Red."
He gulps down the vexation.
The despair.
The regret.
The fucking exquisite pain.
Sinking into the hollowed-out trenches of his stomach, he feels as if he may be ill. Grinding his teeth while his mouth is shut, he is disgusted with himself, furious for allowing this to happen to them, for allowing them to transform into these two mutilated . . . things.
"Please tell me what's going on."
The epiphany is nearly too much to endure. He knows he cannot deny her this.
Not anything.
Not anymore.
There was a time where he once could without any reservations. After seeing how severely she is hurting for him, it kills every infinitesimal part of him that ever emoted the cold nature of his refusing to let her preview the man whom was once Raymond Reddington. That man, who could have solely used her as the primary means of his survival in the criminal underworld, and to stay one-step ahead of the feds, was no more.
He nods his head in one quick movement. "Let's get out of the weather, Lizzie. Good Lord, you are practically half-naked."
Enclosing his palm around her elbow, Red leads her back into her room.
Discarding his fedora once more, he holds it between his right forefinger and thumb, wafting it just above his knees.
Before he has the opportunity to shed his wool coat, Lizzie closes the distance between them, invading his personal space as he once had before the Incident occurred, interceding his lone position beside the table.
She is losing her footing in a suffocating, thickening pit of quick sand, and she knows it.
With mingling breaths, Red stiffens and does not dare move. She shifts her head, gazing into his stormy green eyes, not vocalizing a word, but her heart earnestly insistent with him all the same.
"You're right, Lizzie."
"Red, I—" Without warning, Red covers her mouth with the width of his fingers, holding them there as his sockets overflow, liquid sifting down his reddened cheeks and nose.
He has never gambled to touch her mouth, or show this type of intimate treatment that she can recall. Her posture solidifies, going stock-still, as their gazes never once waver. Lizzie's pupils widen with astonishment, and a sentiment she cannot quite pinpoint.
"Shhh. Listen to me, Lizzie."
Removing his hand, he runs it over his weary face, sensing the inevitable overdrive of anguish that he will yield to no matter how hard he fights it.
Lizzie grabs both of his arms at the bend, "Look at me."
He cannot.
"Red. . . "
He is tentative, but does as she asks. His gorgeously long blonde eyelashes flittering sporadically the more effort he exudes to smother the inferno that has ignited inside his chest.
Swirling.
Disorienting.
"I can't do this anymore, Lizzie. Not like this. Not in this way."
This is unprecedented, because this is the first and only time she as witnessed Red actually allowing the salty wetness cascade from his eyes.
He begins to shake. His innards trembling, from his toes all the way to the crown of his head.
"I need . . . "
Enunciating his words is excruciating. The sobbing has yet to leave his mouth, but it is no use, because he knows they will come at an alarming rate out of nowhere.
"I need you to know. . . I need you to know that I'm sorry, Lizzie."
Eyes wide, she shakes her head, not really comprehending what he is trying to convey in the details of his apology.
Then, it hits her with such force it nearly knocks her to the carpeted floor of the motel room.
"I tried to save him. I tried."
Rivulets gush from her bloodshot spheres. She can hear it in his voice.
Love.
She knows he is referring to her father, that night, the night that changed the course of both their histories. Then she accepts it, she knows, he is not only expressing love for her, but for her father. Red cared for him, very much.
He does love her. He does care. Always has. Always will.
Lizzie gently cups the surface of his unshaven face, caressing his cheeks ever so gradually. He leans into her silkily smooth palm, lifting his hand to brace hers flush against his jowl.
"Don't . . . don't cry. Please . . . Red. Don't cry. I can't stand to see you this way. It's crushing me."
He is visibly quaking, forcing Lizzie's heart to shatter like a million shards of broken glass upon seeing him in such a heart-wrenching form. He is quite literally falling to pieces before her eyes.
His pitifully fraught moans of misery begin unhurriedly, like a piece of paper floating and swaying in mid air, then catapulting to the ground near the end. Red lowers his head in defeat as he mumbles incoherently, putting his hand over his distorted maw.
Finally, between half-sobs, he begs for her to understand, "Lizzie, the last thing I ever wanted since I walked into your life . . . was for you to believe I never once cared for you. Cared about you."
The culpability overrides his need to grieve, too ashamed to look up into her eyes as he glares down at her bare feet faintly positioned over the top of his shoes.
Too ashamed for what he has done.
The hell he has wrought.
The destruction that haunts every corner of his restless mind while he lies in bed at night, feigning sleep.
Swimming in immeasurable grief.
"None of this, none of it, the Fulcrum, the money, the list, the notoriety, even my survival, none of it matters. Because if I don't have you? I am left with nothing. I am . . . nothing. Just a lonely, angry, old man."
Yes, maybe he is oversimplifying matters, but Lizzie receives the message loud and clear. She scrunches and twists up her face in agony, trying her damnedest to hold back the latency that threatens to escape her tight gullet, the knot forming there becoming intolerable.
He juts his lower jaw outward, settling for biting the inside of his lip as he resumes, "I had to tell you that . . . I am guilty of so much, Lizzie. So many unthinkable atrocities. The culmination of all the terrible events in nearly three decades has left my heart overflowing with detestation, and has for many years. But, your father?"
Lizzie holds her breath. She had believed, after all this time, all these months that passed them, he had not only killed Sam, but was responsible for her biological father's demise as well.
"You were in danger. He needed my help."
Red stops, squeezing his lids shut so tightly that it hurts. Bringing the butt of his hand to his brow, he grinds his teeth with underlying rage and compunction.
"I tried. God knows I tried, Lizzie."
Her palms still remaining on his flushed skin, she glides her thumbs back and forth to remove the hot droplets that thoroughly manifest themselves, descending until her hands are sopping wet. Lizzie sniffles, her nasal cavity beginning to congest, foreseeing a migraine making its way into the temples of her skull but it matters not. The only matter of interest or concern to her in this very moment is that Red is a battle-worn ship that has run aground, no longer thirsting for that taste of the sea.
She realizes that she is the only woman who can repair his mangled heart, his busted emotional reservoir.
She is his second chance at life and love. At hope, and perseverance. At truth, and change.
The cries exiting his twisted maw come naturally now, as if he has done this many times. He is practically bent over, weeping like a child that someone has inflicted tremendous injury upon.
Truth be told, the only night he has ever felt his soul cave was Christmas Eve 1990.
After all of these years since that day, Red has imparted nothing but raw strength and intimidation with his set predatory scowl and ferocious tonality, that could wallop fright into the hearts of anyone who dare question or cross him.
He could talk the Devil into doing his bidding without a fair trade.
Never once flouting under pressure.
Never once granting himself the luxury of grieving, or allowing the healing light to overtake him once he would have been spent from the sheer exhaustion.
No.
But, tonight, the only thing he wants, is to weep in his Lizzie's arms.
It is too much for Lizzie to endure.
Lizzie pulls him to her tightly, stroking the back of his narrowly shaved head as he muffles his bleats of torment in the dip of her collarbone. Hands thrown around her waist, he clings to her as if she could disappear into thin air, and this had all been just a simple conjuring of his own fractured mentality.
She shuffles backward, dragging him with her as she goes. The backs of her knees bump against the firm mattress, hauling him up onto the bed and into her side.
Red encases his arms around her midriff as she longingly drags her fingernails ever so sweetly across the backside of his head in a circular motion. He nestles his nose and cheek into her stomach, attempting to settle the tidal wave that has swallowed him whole.
"Shhhh . . . it's okay. It's okay. I'm here, Ray. I'm not going anywhere. Do you hear me? Never again. I promise."
He inhales deeply at the sound of his given name spouting from her lips, nearly drawing her tank top into his nostrils, and lets out a relieving gust of air. He is calming now, striving to decompress the crushing weight that he has succumbed to for the time being.
Lizzie persists with her ministrations, her lulling Red serving its purpose as she feels more than hears the rise and fall of his lungs leveling out, affording his sobs to reduce to mere whimpers and catches.
He shifts a bit, nuzzling his face back and forth over her midsection, causing the hem of Lizzie's top to hike up a few inches, revealing her ivory flesh. He turns his head, pressing a subtle kiss with his succulent lips on her stomach next to her belly button, causing her to quiver in response. She feels him admonish a smile against her skin as he gets comfortable, snaking his other arm under her back to hold onto her properly.
"Why don't you stay the night? I will go tell Dembe to go back to the safe house, and to bring you some clothes in the morning."
Red hesitates a beat before answering, his voice cracking through the rasp of affliction as he mumbles, "Lizzie, do you think that is a wise suggestion?"
"I just . . . I just don't want you to leave. Not after this. Tonight. And I don't want you or me . . . to be alone tonight."
Without removing himself from her waist, Red drives air from his nose and hums an accommodating and resounding, "Alright then." before extracting the burner cell from his pocket to dial Dembe. Lizzie sweeps over his arm, her firm globular breasts skimming inadvertently up against him as she stretches her hand to seize the phone from him.
Just as her unmistakably plump morsels glide over him ever so freely, they are gone again, leaving him gratuitously and incontrovertibly prone and unmoving. So iniquitous, how in the world am I going to sleep next to this enchanting creature whilst holding back arousal? There is no way in hell that I will be able to combat her irresistibility.
"I will tell him, don't worry." she acquiesces, casting him a sheepish grin as she pops the phone open with a snap.
Sitting aloft, he dispenses of his dark gunmetal-blue suit coat as Lizzie consults with Dembe about Red needing rest, and to bring him his attire in the morning. He abandons his matching vest and chestnut Italian shoes, storing them underneath the bed, folding the former on the foot of the mattress, then sticking his raven-tinted socks in the tops of his shoes. He disrobes from his pique fabric button-up entirely, revealing the chalky white undershirt beneath.
At this moment, he acknowledges that he must tread lightly.
He cannot permit her to seize even a fleeting glimpse of the mauled etchings of scar tissue that reside on his back.
Not yet.
He must be absolutely positive that his shirt stays on tonight, despite any impulsive scenarios that could occur in the form of ritualistic sexscapades or the art of tantric sensuality.
Pulling at his belt fastener, his eyes bounce up to Lizzie for her permission, "Is it alright if I—I mean I surely don't want to sleep in my pants. They become quite restricting and uncomfortable while I'm sleeping. Plus, they don't allow for much . . . room."
She simply smirks at him, staring with half-hooded eyelids, and tips her chin just enough for him to read her approval.
Lizzie sits there gawking as his strong, capable hands go to work while the phone is pressed against her ear. She listens to the clanking of his belt buckle hit the floor as he relinquishes his slacks, pulling them over his bare feet. Red is not even paying attention to her on the opposing end of the bed, while she burns holes into his entire body, her jaw sinking further than she thought possible. When he lifts his chin up at last, he is met with the most piercing azure-colored spheres he has ever seen, pupils vast with desire and want. Lizzie averts her wandering line of sight down to her hands situated in the dip of her blanket where her legs part, battling the fierce redness creeping up her torso and neck.
He may be getting "comfortable" enough to sleep in the same bed as Lizzie, but he is by all means still a gentleman, and refuses to take advantage of the otherwise tempting state of affairs.
He does not trust himself with her, nor does she with him.
Yet, this night, they are both willing to dance along uncrossed lines, bearing in mind all of the sorrow that nearly drown them in this very room.
After Lizzie hangs up with Dembe, she folds a pillow in half to place behind her head and back so she can comfort Red efficiently. Returning to his previous pose across her lap, Red pulls her to him securely, his lower half grazing her thigh. Nearly jumping at the contact, she attempts to bury her current fantasy of what is just on the other side of those wispy Egyptian cotton boxer briefs in the depths of her inquisitive mind, but to no avail.
They do not speak a word for long minutes; instead, Lizzie proceeds with running her fingers from the base of his neck, then over his fuzzy blonde bristles on his head. He exhales a syrupy purr that sends a jolt of arousal straight to the middle of her.
"I have to admit, I thought you were going to get naked there for a minute." Lizzie states playfully, chuckling half-heartedly at the mere thought of Raymond Reddington lying exposed in her bed. With her.
His giggling reverberates against her stomach, tickling her in the most sacred of places. If he only knew, she ruminates.
"I would oblige you Lizzie, but I didn't want to scare you half to death while you were on the phone with Dembe. He would have thought someone had broken in and began sodomizing you."
His retort sends her into a fit of chortles, shaking them both violently.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Let's just go to sleep."
"Sweetheart, you can laugh all you like, because it is the most pleasant combinations of sounds I have ever had the pleasure of hearing. It's like sex for my ears. Very gratifying." he mutters drowsily.
"I will keep that in mind." she snorts, covering her mouth to prevent any further absurd outbursts. She decides to finally keep quiet, realizing the poor man is physically and emotionally fatigued. Their night had nearly brought them both to their knees, and it was an event forever to be engrained in Lizzie's memories for the rest of her days here on Earth.
Before she takes the initiative to bid him goodnight, Lizzie hears Red snoring adorably. He is exhausted, my God. I have never seen a man so fragile. A knowing grin flicks the corners of her lips upward as she looks at him adoringly there in her lap. It hits her that she has never seen him this still before, and certainly never this serene. He appears so boyish and youthful with his features unperturbed, and she surrenders to the urge to lean down a place a loving smooch on his temple.
Lizzie's final weary deliberations as the Sandman sprinkles his sleeping dust over her are that of Raymond Reddington's vulnerability and frailty, and her ultimate yearning to bottle this moment in a Mason jar as she would a firefly under a star-filled sky in the dead heat of summer.
P.S. Please review, thank you! Part 2 will be posted by or on Sunday ;-)