Raymond Reddington stood before a tall window, gazing out into the starry night, mind in overdrive. Twenty odd years in this playground taught him a few key instincts, and they were telling him this whole Berlin affair was made up of "nothing right". He had a niggling sensation that this grand design he found himself waltzing in was too big, too elaborate and too well built for a man who supposedly spent a fair few number of years in a Siberian prison to achieve single-handedly, despite the dedication. He felt a trap had been loaded, and there was nowhere to go but through it. He knew he was being cornered, had been for some time. But the idea of being herded, and successfully at that, had never occurred to him.
His lips pursed at that thought.
He wasn't rich enough to afford such mistakes. As such he's made it a point not to drink like he used to. And he's steered clear of his penchant for illegal mind numbing substances after his desert streaking misadventure three years ago. Especially now that he had her.
He turned away from the window to look at the figure sleeping on his borrowed couch. She was curled up on her side facing him, her arm tucked under her head, hair falling across her face, gently stirring with each deep exhale.
Careful not to make a sound, he lowered himself in the arm chair by the window, picking up his wine glass as he did so. He took a small sip, savoring the taste just as he savored the sight of her.
She looked so peaceful, relaxed. Finally content in her bone deep weary sleep. Yet he watched her with a pained expression. The war they've been fighting side by side was nothing compared to the one that went on inside of him. Unfortunately, the outcome of the latter dictated the success of the former.
Lizzie shifted in her sleep, lying on her back instead of her side. One arm hanging off the couch, the other resting on her torso, hair pooling to one side as she turned her face away, exposing her neck. Long, slender, smooth, elegant and creamy. He could see her pulse beat, could make out the slight quiver the muscles made with each breath. It entranced and soothed him.
A lullaby of his own.
His lips twitched from the effort to hold back a snarl as he set the wine glass down. He was becoming lackadaisical in his... dealings with Lizzie. An inherently fine balance as is. He knew going into this that some emotional bond was bound to happen. Only natural. But the nature of it's form coupled with the amount of times his little slip ups had almost become natural disasters in their own right was getting uncomfortable. Dangerously so. In all of his preparations, he had underestimated her the most. Or perhaps he overestimated himself. Either way, he had to be more diligent, which will have it's own consequences in and of itself. But they would be better than any alternatives he (or others) could think of.
He suppressed a shudder. She didn't need the target on her back to grow exponentially. Being an agent for the FBI, working on the task force, her obscure association with him. No, she was already in enough danger, already out in the open. He couldn't, wouldn't, add Greek fire to the mix. Not after all that he's done, endured and lost to keep her safe. He already failed with the whole Tom affair, he won't allow himself to add more to his list.
He massaged his forehead as a tick twitched his eye and an ache crept through his head. He slouched in the armchair, head resting back though his gaze never left her.
She sighed suddenly, her foot twitching, before a soft snore escaped her lips. His face lit up in amusement as he struggled to keep a chuckle at bay. He felt his body hum in fondness as she became still again, her chest rising and falling in an even rhythm once again. Her contentment begetting his own.
His gaze traveled to her hand that lay over her chest. The very hand that carried the physical reminder of his, their, past. Before he knew it his thoughts beckoned him like a siren, dragging him away from the calm atmosphere that stubbornly hugged him before it could weigh him further into the depths of the smooth ocean he found himself drifting in. Pure survival instincts.
He lifted his head with effort, a heavy sigh escaping him as his thoughts went back in time.
They had been doing their job: himself, 'Naomi' and 'Stanley'. All were blind in their own ways. Orders were orders for Naomi and simplicity was the name of the game, at least that's what she kept telling them and herself. Stanley believed they were crafting perfection. Only he was the one that came to question and subsequently refuse orders.
What was once supposed to be a simple mission to gather intel quickly became one of infiltration until something more insidious had quickly escalated far beyond their capabilities to comprehend, let alone cope. Rifts caused by his hero complex, Naomi's willful blindness and Stanely's ever increasing disturbed pathology degrading an already precarious situation to near nuclear levels until either they snapped or it finally and violently disintegrated.
He couldn't quite recall which happened first, only the absolute and all consuming chaos that quickly followed.
When the dust settled, ultimatum's were given: comply, keep quiet and get a clean slate or be burned. Naomi and Stanley took up on the generous offers. Unlike him, they didn't mind, not having families of their own to leave behind, or vocal consciences. Therefore only he, the naïve, hopeful, righteous and idealistic one of the group, so much like her, refused.
To keep her safe.
Only he hadn't known the full consequences when he chose her. Hadn't comprehended just what 'burnt' meant. Now she was all he had.
And no matter how much he wanted to tell her, to explain himself and dispel her doubts and make her understand. To see her softer, light, side. No matter how easier it would make things, or how much she begged, threatened and pleaded. Above all else, he couldn't tell her the truth. Because once he began with his truth, it would invariably lead to her truth, and once she learned that, well...
His neck thrummed from phantom pain. At best she'd end up an emotional wreck with the very real possibility that he'd end up with a matching scar on the other side of his neck. At worst, a bullet or three and America's worse nightmare. It really all came down to her father's commitment to the union, her mother's devotion to her only surviving daughter, Sam's influence and Lizzie herself.
Lizzie, your father was a high ranking official in the Soviet Union and a war criminal, a madman genius responsible for crafting the best and most notorious spies in the Cold War. Most of which have never been recovered. And let's not forget your mother who committed suicide because couldn't handle the fact that out of all her children, she could only save one, you.
Oh yes, that would go over swimmingly.
He picked up his wine glass and downed the rest. No, rather her to hate him than to... Lizzie murmured in her sleep as her hanging arm came up above her head, her face turning to him once again.
He swallowed, best to avoid as much heartache as possible.
AN: I'm in a drought, this is what came of it. Not happy with it, but I can't stand to look at it anymore. Disclaimer: I own nothing but my thoughts. P.S. I have no beta and grammar is not my strong suit. I apologize.