A/N: This is for the lovely person behind thedailyreddington dot tumblr dot com, who challenged me to write a story about Liz going to Red after the conversation with Tom at the end of "The Cyprus Agency." Thank you for this wonderful prompt, and for what you and your blog do for this fandom. I hope I did not disappoint.
Disclaimer: Not mine; I own nothing.
Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it - as at last I did, thank Heaven! - and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn. -Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
-0-0-0-
The house was empty, silent. Liz lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, willing the shadows to recede against the onslaught of a new day. It gave her no pleasure, thinking of a new day, yet she hoped the daylight could burn away the lingering shadows of doubt that stole her sleep.
She grasped the edge of the blanket and pulled it up to her chin, rolling on her side. Have I done the right thing?
The space beside her was empty, the sheets cool. Tom had not been back. She didn't know where he was or where he had gone when he had left the house hours before, when she had told him that she didn't want their baby. Didn't want him.
She couldn't blame him. She remembered holding his hands; she hadn't practiced what to say. Liz had simply let the words spill forth on the tide of her discontent. Like a corrosive, they had burned away the facade between them, and they had stood there, the truth of their broken marriage in shards at their feet. It had been more than he could bear.
He wasn't mad when he left, he wasn't anything. He was just gone.
Liz flipped back the covers, exposing her legs to the cool air. It was not yet dawn, but she couldn't lie there another moment in that bed. Her marriage, strained though it may be, provided some comfort. She didn't sleep well alone. She never had.
Liz slipped on a pair of jeans and put a jacket on over her t-shirt. She stumbled through the shadows of the house, running into corners and edges even though she had the floorplan memorized. She hit the light switch on the wall and a pale yellow light fought weakly against the gloom.
A baby stroller. Beside it, a carrier. These implements of parenthood stood like lonely monoliths in the near dark-brand new, lifeless, and soon to be returned. She touched the handle of the stroller reverently, feeling a pang of sadness.
It was the baby shower, she thought, when these gifts were received. That's when it dawned on her, when the seeds of doubt begin to break through the dark soil of her domestic fantasy. It was the latent awkwardness and those horrible women, and then Tom. Tom, who should have had her back, who should always have her back. He had stood in a church and said as much. She looked down at her rings.
She'd wanted this so much, to give a child what she had never had. Selfish. Absolutely selfish.
She frowned, grabbed her keys from the countertop, and let the door slip closed behind her as she walked out into the early morning.
She started the car and then sat behind the wheel for several minutes. She listened to the idling engine, the soft strains from the radio. It was somewhat soothing, the white noise. She rubbed the steering wheel nervously. There was nowhere else to go.
The realization sobered her, shocked her even. Tom was gone. Her father dead. Because of her job and her inherently private, sometimes reclusive nature, she had no friends.
But she had Red, and he had no category.
She eased into the street in front of her house and melded seamlessly into the predawn traffic, turning onto the street that would take her to him. She wondered if she'd wake him, or if he was even there at all. And what would he say? He could be a smug bastard at times. "I told you so" was not exactly what she was looking for.
But what was she looking for? Comfort? Companionship? She didn't know.
-0-0-0-
She pulled in front of the Hempstead house, relieved to see a small light on in the study. While he never stayed in the same place more than two nights in a row, she knew he often returned here. He had certain days he would frequent this old house, odd Saturdays, the third Wednesday of every month. There was some business he attended to, she knew, but mostly she felt it was the place he felt most at home.
She drew her light jacket around her and made her way up the small path. She knocked at the door, listened for the steps along the wood floor that would inevitably come.
It was several moments, enough time for her to rue even coming, to question her motivation. She was half turned around on the step when the locks rattled and the door swung slowly open.
"Hello." The woman was middle-aged, with dark hair that hung around her face in soft curls. She had a kindly smile. "Come in," she said sweetly, "Mr. Reddington is in the study."
Liz smoothed her sides nervously. She'd never seen this woman before, but she followed her through the narrow hall that she so well remembered despite having visited only a few times. There were fewer piles of papers, she thought, or maybe they had just been moved around.
Red sat on the couch opposite the spot near the big picture window he liked so much, the one with the view of the trees outside. He had a book open on his lap, and a small lamp softened his features, cast the papers and books around him into nondescript and ill-defined patterns and lines, visual background noise.
"Lizzie," he said without looking up. "You're out early."
"You're up early," she countered. Her voice was hoarse, had a foreign ring, and he turned to look at her. She stood in the doorway, her arms hung loosely at her sides, her face blank. He worked his mouth.
"Come sit down, then. I'll get Maria to make us some tea. Isn't she lovely?" His voice took on that excitable lilt he often assumed when enthused. "She's helping me get this place in order," he said as he indicated the spread of the room. "She's a talented organizer and makes one hell of an apple pie."
Liz passed the couch in favor of a chair directly opposite him. It was the closest to the fire which smoldered, only embers now, in the low recessed fireplace in the small study. A few black leaves, the remnants of papers, stirred faintly in the ambient heat.
He called Maria into the study. He smiled softly at her, speaking in low, soothing tones. He patted her arm gently before she left, and she smiled broadly. Raymond Reddington even charmed the hired help, she thought.
Liz looked around. "Where's Dembe?"
Red crossed his legs, his hand still in his book, holding his place. "Asleep. He does that sometimes." He smiled.
She nodded thoughtfully. "What about you?"
He cocked his head ever so slightly. "What about me."
She closed her eyes, not in the mood for his word play. "I couldn't sleep," she said, answering his inquiry from earlier. She fingered the brocade of the overstuffed chair to have something to do with her hands.
He met her gaze, and for the first time since she sat down, she saw warmth there.
"Neither could I." He exhaled, a short little huff. "But sleep is such a waste. There are a lot more useful things to do with one's time than to waste it in inactivity. Don't you agree?"
She frowned, wondering why she had come. "No," she said softly. She wished she could sleep; sleep made you forget, if only for a while.
He was looking at her in that curious way of his, in that way that she didn't understand. It no longer made her uncomfortable.
She glanced at the coffeetable between them, at the stack of yellow papers scattered over its surface. Some were crumpled, some rolled into tight twists as if for kindling.
"More of Frederick's work?"
Red followed her eyes to the stack. "Oh God no. Martin Lewis was a literary nemesis of Frederick's, and one of his harshest critics. A bombastic ass of a man...short, barrel-chested with a ruddy Irish face. Frederick hated him. Tried to ruin him...professionally, personally. Nothing stuck. Frederick died hating him."
He paused, indicating the spread of papers on the low table. "I found these while Maria and I were going through some boxes. Original manuscripts. First edition drafts. Poems, satire. Lewis was quite the essayist."
She fingered the edge of one paper and picked it up to read it. A poem, written in longhand, stretched halfway across the page.
"This one's quite nice," she said.
Red nodded. "They're all quite nice. Part of the reason Frederick hated him so much." He held out his hand for the paper, and she gave it to him. He wadded it up and tossed it into the fire. His face was impassive as the embers flamed and lapped up the small offering.
He made it look so easy, she thought. So neat. Toss it onto the fire and let the ill-feelings burn away.
Maria arrived with a tray of tea and sat it down on top of Lewis's papers. Red poured Liz a cup, then he served himself. There was no milk or sugar, only the tea, and it was rich and slightly floral with a hint of spice. It wasn't Earl Grey; it might've been Darjeeling, she thought. She sipped it carefully against its heat.
"Why are you here Lizzie."
The first blush of sunrise was breaking the sky, and it cast the room in a softer hue than the previous early shadows. The new light felt exposing. She looked down at her tea.
"You were right." She looked up at him and her eyes were impossibly sad. "I did have doubts about him. I do."
He looked at her, saying nothing, but his eyes mirrored her sadness. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but never moved to.
"Sometimes it's like we're roommates," she said. "We fight. We don't seem to understand each other any more, if we ever did."
Red worked his mouth. The usual faint lines around his eyes were smooth, giving him a placid expression. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She put her tea down on the table and stood. She crossed to the window, folded her arms protectively across her body though the room was warm. She stared through the window at those trees Red loved so much. They were devoid of leaves, having shed them against the season, and their naked branches shivered against the cold wind. She wondered if the sunset still looked the same through them.
"How could I have been so selfish, Red."
It pained him, her penchant for blaming herself. He swallowed, looking at her where she stood at the window. "You're probably the most unselfish person I know, Lizzie."
She turned, looked at him, a curious expression on her face. "Don't you know mostly criminals Red?" A small, self-deprecating smile played at the corners of her mouth, but the light never reached her eyes.
He huffed lightly, then looked at her. "There are a lot of self-sacrificing criminals."
Of course. She took a breath. Anslo Garrick. She closed her eyes against it. His face, the way he'd looked at her when he'd finally gotten the code out of Ressler. Would she have done the same?
"I wanted this so badly. To be a mother."
Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she found herself slowly walking toward him. He still held his tea and was looking at her intently, an inscrutable emotion at play on his face. She stopped at the edge of the couch and sank down into his favorite spot.
He set the tea under the lamp beside him and looked at her. "You would be a wonderful mother, Lizzie."
He heard her exhale, and she closed her eyes, not looking at him. "I'm no better than Michael Shaw," she said quietly, "wanting to fix my screwed up childhood with a baby."
He said nothing. He noticed the absent way she rubbed her scar where her hands rested in her lap. He swallowed.
"I went into government service because I wanted to make a difference," he began. "Because it was the right thing, the honorable thing." He spoke to her profile, his voice low and measured.
"But that's not who I am. Apparently my notion of honor is somewhat incompatible with that of our military, of our government. My intentions were good, meaningful, even if it was the wrong choice."
She looked at him, understanding. As verbose as he could be sometimes, some of his most cogent statements were plainly and briefly described.
"You'll be a mother Lizzie, if that's what you want. When you're ready. When things are... right again." His mouth twitched slightly, his eyes warm.
She nodded. It comforted her somewhat. And then she remembered. She looked at her hands.
"Things with Tom..." she began, then shook her head in frustration. "I don't know what they are." She worried her bottom lip and turned on the couch to face him. "And I don't know what I should do."
He pursed his lips. "You must do what it takes to make you happy," he said simply. "Whatever that is." He looked at her meaningfully, his head angled slightly. "Are you happy Lizzie?"
She looked into his eyes, steadied by the comfort and familiarity of his presence, and wanted to say yes. "Sometimes," she breathed.
His eyes never left hers, but his expression softened, pushing back a shadow that had settled over both of them. "That's not enough," he said.
"I know," she breathed. She nodded, her eyes slipping closed. The sun was up in earnest now, and it dimmed the fire with its warm light, painted the room in warm strokes of buttercream and apricot. She looked down at the book still in his lap.
"What are you reading?"
He cleared his throat. "David Copperfield." He registered her unfamiliarity, and smiled.
"What's it about?"
He paused, considering. "It's about a man."
She looked at him curiously, waiting, but he gave no further explanation. He indicated the book. "May I?"
She smothered a yawn, felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. "Please."
He sat up a little straighter, opened the book and propped it against his legs, still crossed. He stole a glance at her.
"Where should I begin?"
She smiled. "At the beginning."
He quirked his mouth. "Of course." She scooted across the couch, closer to him, and looked over his arm at the words on the page.
He cleared his throat and began to read, his voice slow and measured, the syllables succinct, melodic.
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously."
He felt the soft weight of her head fall against his shoulder, but she wasn't asleep. He absorbed her warmth, the gentle scent of her hair. He regretted the circumstances that had brought her to him, the pain it had caused, but he could never regret this, the way she made him feel.
"How will you write your story, Red?" Her voice was quiet, imploring, and impossibly soft.
"I don't know," he said gently. "I'll let you know when I'm done." He gave a small smile. "What about you?"
She took a breath, then blew it out slowly. "I'll let you know when I start," she said tiredly.
He said nothing. He let the book close on his lap and reached for her hand. His was warm, and she threaded her fingers through his and gave them a little squeeze. She closed her eyes.
It was a new day.
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