AN: Hello, readers! This fic is a bit different from everything else I've written, so I'm hoping that fortune favors the bold here. Please let me know what you think! If you have any suggestions, I'm all ears (or eyes?). In any event, thank you for reading.
Disclaimer - I own nothing and gain no monetary profit, but I do love to borrow these characters.
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Prologue
From a very early age, Elizabeth Keen has understood that secrets are a universal form of currency, and that none are more valuable than the ones kept safely guarded. She coveted and hoarded secrets, both hers and those of other people, and knew better than to assume that they'd be given up easily. Whenever she met a new person, her first order of business was always to figure out what hid beneath their skin.
It all boiled down to this: What colors their perception? What do they value most? Who do they trust, and how can she emulate them? More simply put, who are they, really?
From there, it was usually easy enough for her to reach down and pluck the secrets from a person's deepest, darkest depths. The harder she had to work to understand someone, the more she liked them. In her mind, there's no insult greater than being labeled 'shallow'.
This strange compulsion first became the foundation of Liz's social development, and later lead to her career as a criminal profiler.
Her father, Sam, wouldn't have described her as a troublemaker, and in most regards, she wasn't. Nonetheless, as a teenager, it was among the misfits and the artists that she tried to carve a niche for herself. She envied their creative joie de vivre and enjoyed surreptitiously picking their brains. While her self-esteem wasn't terribly lacking, she did lament her own lack of creativity.
Fortunately, she had other considerable talents.
Over the years, she mentally stacked the secrets, one by one, into the shape of a pyramid. At the very top sat the most prized and closely-guarded of them all - the only one known by no one else in the world. It wasn't a bad secret. It wasn't dark, illegal, or even embarrassing. No.
It was special, and it was an asset that when combined with her other compulsions, provided an edge over everyone else, especially at work.
Her's is an overwhelmingly-sensuous world. Smell, taste, sound, and sometimes even touch, rather than running parallel to each other, instead intersect on occasion. An immense variety of sounds come accompanied by distinct tastes, scents, and sometimes even temperatures or textures. Street traffic tastes like black licorice. Country music tastes like buttery corn on the cob. "Elizabeth," when spoken by her father, smelled like Marlboro cigarettes and tasted like water from a garden hose.
In the same way that 'normal' people crave their favorite foods, Liz craves certain sounds. Much to her chagrin, most of her cravings were tied to the various sounds made by Raymond Reddington. From his lips, "Lizzie" has the taste and effervescence of cherry cola. "Elizabeth" tastes like white chocolate and has the sticky viscosity of molasses. When she says his name, it tastes of strawberry gelato and has the unexpected texture of coarse seasalt. When he says it, hot cinnamon and the scent of honeysuckle. Even the edge of certain emotions in his voice conjures their own sensuous responses. Red's anger is burnt popcorn sticking to the back of her throat. His low, seductive tone, a knee-weakening clover honey and hot apple cider.
Her secret has both a name and a physiological explanation. Lexical-Gustatory Synesthesia.
The tastes and scents provoked by LGS are limited to things experienced during childhood, while the brain is still rapidly developing. For this reason, they're always immediately recognizable, and often accompanied by a twinge of nostalgia.
All except one, for Liz: An edge of fear in Red's voice. It has no taste or texture - just an ineffable, heady aroma that makes her feel extremely uneasy. As she's come to know him better, her ability to detect his fear has increased, and though it's uncomfortable, it also arouses within her an unimpeachable necessity to fiercely protect him at all costs. It hasn't escaped her that when she does anything to protect him, his fear skyrockets. She can smell it in his voice.
Elizabeth Keen does not love Raymond Reddington, but she wants him (badly), and she tells herself that it's because he's still an enigma - still an unsolved puzzle. As soon as she answers the biggest question of all - Who is he, really? - she's convinced that the coiled heat in her belly will finally cool, and that she'll be able to resume her life without his constant invasion on her consciousness. To that end, she spends most of her waking hours thoroughly enmeshed in the endeavor.
The answers hide in the scent of his fear. She's quite certain of that, but still of little else.
And so, every day, Liz fruitlessly hunts for the scent's unknown source, constantly lifting random items to her nose to take a whiff. With the passing of time, she's become increasingly convinced that the source of the scent is unique to a specific location from her childhood, and therefore can't be found in Washington, DC. When she returned home to Nebraska for Sam's funeral, however, she couldn't find it there, either.
If it came from an earlier time and place, before she was adopted, then she may very well be out of luck. With that avenue of discovery most likely closed, once again, all roads lead to Red. Liz's next tactic of choice wasn't exactly new, but it was certainly unkind.
She moved on to triggering his fear intentionally.
The most efficient way to do that is by asking questions that he's too afraid to answer. There, his promise to never lie can potentially work in her favor, but often doesn't. There's no fear to hear or smell when he recalcitrantly clams up and sends her away, but just before he does, he usually attempts to steer the conversation in a safer direction. In that moment, she can gague the extremity of his fear by the strength of the scent. Mindful of the subjective, unscientific nature of this approach, she rates his reaction to all inquiries between zero (no fear) and ten (practically jumping out of his skin). Later on, when she's alone again, she records her findings in a spiral notebook that never leaves her motel room.
A few short months ago, Liz made a huge leap of progress when she extracted him from The Factory. Red was terrified, but his need to keep her close superceded his usual response to fear. She used the leverage of her proximity and learned several things of which he was very much afraid. By the end of the ordeal, Liz had a new possible suspect for the source - The Fulcrum.
Unfortunately, that wasn't it, but after finding out that Red was there during the fire, she knew that she was getting closer.
Equally important however, was another observation that she made while at The Factory, and she berated herself for this because it wasn't anything she hadn't seen before. It just took her that long to pinpoint the significance. When Red neared the end of his story about the Mexican cave fish, the stench of fear in his voice momentarily dissipated. Liz herself is the light that he had referenced, and while she's somehow linked to most of the things that make him tremble in fear, she finally understood that she's also the balm that soothes him.
It was with that in mind that she revamped their little tango once again, but it hasn't been easy. In fact, it took several weeks for her to even work up the courage to give it a try. Rather than advancing upon him and then retreating in frustrated anger, she now pulls his trigger while throwing herself in front of the gun.
Burn, then soothe.
Burn, then soothe.
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Chapter One
In the backseat of his car, while Dembe drove her home from the King's auction, she reached out to Red and took his hand in hers. By that time, most of his fear had already vanished, but he was very, very angry, and he recoiled from her hand as if she'd somehow burned him.
"Never do that again." The taste of burnt popcorn made her mouth dry.
Never do what? Touch him? She heaved a sigh and shook her head, incredulous. "You're welcome."
He lunged forward, closing the very small gap between them and firmly grabbed her wrist. "I'm serious. You can never, ever do that again. Promise me."
Her gaze hardened before she could rein it in. "No. We took down dozens of wanted criminals, recovered millions of dollars in stolen property, and saved innocent lives." In the darkness of the car, she could still make out the flare of his nostrils.
He tightened his grip on her wrist. "I'm not talking about that."
She looked away, uncertain of how to proceed. Would she make that promise? No. Hell no.
"You... You're talking about you. Wow... You are so damaged..." She twisted her arm, freeing her wrist from his grasp, awaiting a verbal response that never came.
Burn and soothe.
Burn and soothe.
She went on, "You can't accept help from anyone. Has anyone ever helped you? Is that why you are the way you are? Because you don't feel deserving of it?"
But nothing, still.
"Is that the reason you won't allow yourself to be vulnerable for even a second?" She turned back towards him and lifted her eyes to softly meet his, both begging and daring him to speak at once.
"Among others."
And ah, there it was. Fear. He doesn't like to be analyzed, but she already knew that, of course.
"You know, when someone does something nice, you're supposed to say, 'Thank you.' I did save your life, after all."
Red sighed, his eyes flitting back and forth between her face and the window behind her. She found it unsettling that he had to battle with himself about making such a simple concession. "Thank you."
Less burnt popcorn, but still with the wind-sucking stench of fear. She rapidly blinked, trying to dam the threatening deluge of tears. But why was she crying? The stench of his frightened voice alone was enough to make her eyes water, but it was much more than that. The gap between Red's problems and her own seemed to continuously draw nearer.
Boldly, she outstretched her hand, but then hesitated when he reflexively drew in a deep breath, bracing himself for contact. "You're welcome."
He closed his eyes and bowed his head, obviously trying to collect himself. When he lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, his were narrowed, and just as wet as hers. "But never again."
This time, no more popcorn. Only the ineffable combined with cigar smoke - sadness.
Now or never, Keen.
Do or die.
She grabbed his hand and laced their fingers so tightly that Red would've struggled if he really wanted to free himself - something that his sense of dignity would never allow. Instead, his hand went limp and pitifully died in her's.
"Red, I - I risked my life for you because I care about you."
His entire body made a sudden little movement for which Liz lacked an appropriate description. A shudder? A shiver? A rolling spasm? His breath hitched as he croaked out a reply. "I wish you wouldn't."
"And I wish I couldn't." She loosened her grip on his hand, hoping that he wouldn't pull away. A charged silence fell between them, but he seemed to be relaxing, if only a little.
After several minutes of quietly holding hands, Liz swooped in again. "May I ask you a question?"
His chin lifted to better facilitate a thick swallow. "You say that as if I have a choice."
Not quite strong enough for her to label it as 'fear', but something close. Trepidation, maybe. She'd give it a 'one' in her notebook.
"If the tables were turned, and I asked you to never risk your life for me, would you make that promise?"
Red silently worked his jaw in the way that always makes her wonder if he too is a synesthete. "No, I wouldn't." Still a 'one'.
"Then you understand why I can't make that promise to you." She gently squeezed his hand, trying to reassure him that she could handle his response.
"I do, yes. I do understand, but I'm afraid that you don't." True to his word alone, the scent wafted over, carried by the sound waves of his voice. A 'three'.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I need a little more than that. I won't make an empty promise. In fact, I can't."
"Lizzie, I -"
"No, it's okay. I'm sure the only reason that I don't understand is that you simply don't want me to. You're not ready yet, and that - that I understand very well."
"Lizzie, it's not that simple." Another 'three'.
"My point is that its not even a choice. If I agreed to never do that again, it would be a lie, because I care about you. I'm sorry. But you, Red, you do have a choice. You can either explain why your life isn't worth saving, or you can accept that whenever I deem it necessary, I'll keep on saving it."
"Please, Lizzie." At a 'four', she had to turn away to brush a tear from her eye, but Red saw it. He responded by pulling her hand into his lap so that he could continue holding onto it while lightly tracing her scar with the fingers of his other hand.
"After spending the last few years unwittingly making a fool of myself - making a fake life with a fake man, I couldn't even leave him to die. I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't help saving his life."
Red swallowed and slowly shook his head, no doubt tracing along the parallel that she'd drawn much further than she'd intended. Neither were anywhere near ready to go there. She didn't just throw herself in front of his gun.
Shit. Shit. Shit. She jumped it.
