Pieces that don't fit anywhere else.

Lizzington. AU where Red just randomly appears and there's no moral dilemma to be seen just shut up and appreciate it okay


He has done many things with his lovers.

Things he remembered, and things he forgot. He'd woken up in tired Malaysian hotel rooms, looking for his shirt and finding it under two layers of dresses. Those kinds of things, when he was young.

Now, he is not young. Now, he struggles to remember what being young was like. Not ever carefree, but careless. There was a difference. Restraint settled in his voice and face. There was a constant ache that came with learning how to buckle down or buckle up, a package deal. No longer young, but smart. Smarter. He took what he wanted, discarding the rest. Set a plan and worked towards it.

He functioned until he did not.

Her.

The woman. A name made up of syllables and vowels and soft things he had to stop himself from saying.

He hadn't functioned in some time, suddenly faulty, suddenly broken and he was royally screwed over.


When the metal box gaped open and he was allowed to meet her, it was like a second shot at life. He was still chained to a chair, puked out by an unbreakable shoebox in a barren industrial garage, and he was grateful. Thankful for another chance in life. With this one, he wants to get it right. No second chances. She's willful and tenacious, and he always asks her kindly. He doesn't bark out orders, or hangs a threat over her head.

He asks, which is almost the same as a plea in his book.

She grimaces at the big screen in the briefing room, and he wonders if she likes red wine or white. He asks for her opinion and waits for her reply, which is more than anyone else gets.

He leaves her alone, despite that it feels like having the rug out from underneath him. He lets her leave with the untrustworthy bookworm, the man's eyes blank behind the glasses. Shivers of unease which he ignores.

When he's not busy, he ends up in an armchair somewhere, staring at the phone. As far as it goes, it is not a graceful way to live. Hardly efficient. Pining after a phone call like a cactus in the desert, praying for a drop of rain in a constant shouting match with whatever powers are up above.

Raymond Reddington keeps busy, but the woman intervenes. She always stages her naive coups when he is far away, gambling with her life as if it was ever on the table. Time and time again he is yanked up, making excuses to leave a meeting early after Dembe's quick tap on his shoulder. He curses the distance, the earth, the other cars, and he curses her. It's not just her own life she ventures, but his as well.


She points with the entirety of her hand, rebuking him for all the world to see.

"Go."


"The birds," she breathed, twisting next to him.

"Birds?" he asked, half asleep after a bout of invigorating... whatever that was.

Her hair got stuck to her sleep-sweat scrunched-up frowning face, and he stroked some off the stray hairs away from her eyes. Slowly, as if to not chase away the delectable drowsiness that lingered in his muscles.

"The birds are chirping right outside," she muttered. "I've been pissed at them all evening."

He stroked her nose, followed the cheek, her left temple, her face fell.

"It's really difficult to stay mad," she said, piecing it together, word by word. Her breathing evened out.

He moved in, placed a kiss on her head, plopped his head down on the pillow beside hers. Slinging an arm over her waist. Their bodies stuck together, glued by sweat that was drying, cooling but still warm.