AN: This has been rattling around in my head ever since Krillov told Liz that her memories had been tampered with again just two years ago. Following the prologue, it'll consist of brief chapters with canon dialogue and character thoughts in support of agnesgate. Call it a headcanon, or maybe a what-could-have-happened, Lizzington-dreamworld fic. Thank you for reading, and if you have any thoughts about it, I'd also be very grateful to read them.
Disclaimer: I have no financial claim or ownership on The Blacklist or any of its characters.
Prologue
Raymond Reddington was dead.
Or dying, maybe.
In her manic state, Liz had accidentally shot him in that diner. All of the passion and peace they'd found on the ocean was nothing more than a final desperate firing of his neurons, the synapses rallying for a long-awaited breath of pure joy before the end.
Or maybe he really was alive. He'd never felt more alive... and that's exactly why it didn't seem real. They'd gone for two rounds before crashing, but he could have sworn that he would have been up for ten, were she not so exhausted.
Yet, if he were dead, then he shouldn't have fallen asleep and reawakened beside her.
He pondered all of this while gazing at her sculpted, nude form, miraculous and still sound asleep beside him. Now, if reality had indeed deigned to bestow this gift upon him, he had to face the possibility that the stirrings of wakefulness would color her face with regret.
Which would be fine, right?
Well, no. It would be excruciating, but appropriate.
When at last (at last?) she awakened, he was so lost in thought that he almost didn't even notice.
She screwed her eyes more tightly shut and groaned, her face pinched into a scowl. "I can feel you looking at me."
He stifled a chuckle and delicately freed a stray hair that was trapped in her eyelashes. "Is that so? I'm sorry, sweetheart. Shhh, just go back to sleep."
She blindly reached for his hand and gave it a tight, brief squeeze for emphasis. "That'll be much easier if you stop staring."
Easier for her, maybe. By his estimation, he'd slept for three hours. She, four. He'd been living mostly on catnaps for decades, taking them whenever he could. Sadly, she'd have to adjust herself to the same pretty soon, but not yet. He couldn't say when or even if they'd find themselves in another place this safe. By his estimation, this container was paradise.
Still, he could at least close his eyes, for now.
For her.
When she sensed that he had complied, she rolled her body to face away from him, tugging the hand that she still held until he was spooned tightly against her back. She pressed his hand against her sternum until she felt confident that he'd keep it there, and then let her own drop away as she relaxed.
In this moment, he knew two things. Number one: cuddling is never on the agenda of a woman suffering from post-coital regret. Number two: he needed to get his head in a more serious place, think about their next move- for many reasons, not the least of which was yet another a stiffening erection, threatening to make itself known.
What he didn't know, what he couldn't have known, was that she'd happily gratify the next one, and then countless more during their time together on the run. It wouldn't matter how the day had gone. They'd find both victory and solace in each other's arms, and it would have consequences for which they were wholly unprepared.
Red already believed that he understood sacrifice. He'd made so many of them over the years. Too soon however, it would find him in its purest, most unthinkably heartbreaking form.