Title: "All for her"
Author: November Glass
Description: What I imagine Raymond's mornings are like...
Fandom: The Blacklist
Rating: K+
Warnings: Mild references to violence
Spoilers: Liz's father's death and her suppressed childhood memories.
Ships: None
Disclaimer: I don't own the Blacklist or any of the characters, actors, etc.
Author's Notes: This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, so feedback is much appreciated.
《●》
He wakes, eyes opening slowly, cautiously. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, letting the pristine white sink into his skin, either dulling or waking his fractured mind, he cannot tell.
Another hotel.
Rarely sleeping in the same place for longer than a few days, this is his life, the life of a fugitive. Or an ex-fugitive? He doesn't know what he is any more.
He runs. Constantly he runs. He knows that, at least, so maybe he is a fugitive after all. He runs from his past, which seems to be just one long string of mistakes. He runs from his fears and the monsters he's created. He runs from his enemies, from the law. But mostly he runs from himself. From his shame, his self-loathing.
Or at least he used to.
Now he has stopped running. Mostly he hides, carrying his regrets and shame with him. Now he furtively meets with well dressed men, divulging secrets and and destroying oaths of silence. He doesn't know exactly why he does this, all he knows is that it has something to do with her. Is he trying to protect her? To know her, to be close to her?
Maybe he'll never know. He hates not knowing. So he tries to focus instead on what he does know, but those things are no comfort to him.
He knows that after a lifetime of crime and death, his life has become monotonous, empty, pointless. Everything in it seems bleak, every action routine and lacking any whisper of passion.
Except for her.
He cares about her. She makes him feel… hopeful? Is that what it is? It's been so long since he's felt pure, innocent hope that the sensation is foreign to him. At the same time, the concept of her giving him hope seems laughable, considering the circumstances - considering his internalized image of her.
He still thinks of her as a scared little girl, surrounded by blood and flames, a gun held loosely in a shaking hand.
Weeping, trembling, screaming, burning.
Heated words. A violent touch. A deafening sound. The thick smell of smoke. The sharp taste of blood. The light of the immense blaze.
He wants to save her, he needs to save her. But he's too late. He is always too late.
He wakes again, this time suddenly and forcefully ripped from burning oblivion. Breathing is difficult and he clutches his chest, willing his lungs to work properly as he fills his breast with deep gulps of oxygen. The sinister memories and the plainness of his surroundings had enticed him back into deep sleep, only to be awoken once more by the bright violence of that dark night.
He should go.
He has a promise to keep and lives to save.
And at the same time he has another promise to break and a man to kill.
A father; her father.
A friend; his friend.
Hence the lie. The lie created just for her. Because it's all for her.