AN: This fic is a secret santa gift for Morgan. She wanted a story with an alternate ending for The Stewmaker. As such, you won't find much of a new story for the first part, but I've reframed it to fit the direction the fic will be taking in an upcoming chapter. Merry Christmas, Morgan!
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
-...-...-...
After quickly peeking through the cabin's dusty window, Red was relieved beyond measure to see his Lizzie alive and breathing, slumped over in a wheelchair. He slipped through the door unseen by Stanley, but she saw him, and had the presence of mind to address her would-be killer, distracting him as Red approached.
"You know, I was wrong about you..." She gazed upwards with surprisingly-clear eyes, knowing that he was hanging onto her every word. Lizzie had given him quite a scare, but Stanley the stewmaker was confident that he was well on his way to becoming a successful murderer. He was evolving, as all things do. "You're not perfect."
Faster than a desperate gasp for breath, Red launched a furious fist at the stewmaker's jaw with a sickening crack, and he dropped to the floor like a broken marionette. Sneering, Red stood over his target for a moment, working his jaw as if he had taken the blow himself.
With a shrug, Red tossed a raw steak to Stanley's dog, who strangely wasn't nonplussed by either his presence or his fallen master. The dog grunted with delight, securing the meat between his front paws as he gnawed away. Red made a mental note to check up on the dog later. If Stanley's wife didn't want to keep him, he'd have no trouble finding someone who would.
Dogs do, after all, make some lives whole.
Liz rolled her eyes at the scene, remembering how only minutes ago, Stanley had ushered his dog aside, so the pup wouldn't be traumatized by witnessing her grusome death. Ladies and gentlemen, she thought to herself, meet Stanley Kornish: Dentist, Caring Father, Dog Lover, Mémoire Morte Enthusiast, Corporeal Disposal Service, Budding Serial Killer... but most impressively, Expert Compartmentalist.
Red approached Lizzie and kneeled in front of her, disengaging the wheelchair's brakes. He then gently lifted her dangling feet to put them on the footrests. She could have done it herself, but she didn't protest. He tilted his head and flashed a crooked, happy smile. "Hello Lizzie. The effects will dissipate soon. You're gonna be fine."
She briefly wondered how he already knew what Stanley had given her, but still, she didn't doubt that he was right. Even when asked, Red seldom explained such things. He wheeled her around to face the door, and briefly put his hand on her head. Her eyes slipped closed at the warm contact.
Liz listened to the sound of Red rumaging around in a drawer, followed by a faint gasp. What the hell is he doing now? More rustling sounds behind her, accompanied by labored breathing, and she realized that Red was dragging Stanley's limp form and propping him up somewhere, out of the way. He took a few steps backwards and lifted his chin.
"Okay. Should we get started?"
Get started on what? Liz listened quietly while Red launched into a short story that she presumed was supposed to be about Stanley.
"A farmer comes home one day to find that everything that gives meaning to his life is gone. Crops are burned, animals slaughtered, bodies and broken pieces of his life strewn about. Everything that he loved taken from him - his children. One can only imagine the pit of despair, the hours of Job-like lamentations, the burden of existence. He makes a promise to himself in those dark hours. A life's work erupts from his knotted mind. Years go by. His suffering becomes complicated. One day he stops - the farmer who is no longer a farmer - sees the wreckage he's left in his wake. It is now he who burns, he who slaughters, and he knows in his heart he must pay."
By the time he finished the tale, her cheeks were tear-stained. She actually felt sorry for her would-be killer. For such an awful, cruel bastard, Red was a rather unassuming troubador. She sniffled and brushed a tear from her eye, thankful that Red couldn't see it from where she was sitting.
He wrapped up the story with a question. "Doesn't he, Stanley?"
Oh. So yes, she had been right. It really was about Stanley. Liz took a deep breath and found her voice, taking a feeble stand for the man, scratchy and weak. "No, Red. He couldn't help it."
Still outside of her line of sight, Red swallowed and nodded, pretending to consider her words while her mistaken assumption sank in. He should have seen that coming. "Maybe you're right... Maybe he can change. Maybe he's not damaged beyond repair. Maybe he could make amends to all those he's hurt so terribly... Or maybe not."
Without further ceremony, he gave Stanley a push, and the drugged man flipped backwards into the tub with a ghoulish splash. Liz recoiled in horror, panting over the bubbling sound of the stewmaker's final disposal- himself.
That very moment, the front door opened, and Red put his hands behind his head, expecting to be frisked.
"Where's Kornish?" Ressler abruptly asked.
Red narrowed his eyes at Captain America's first priority. Oh, nevermind Agent Keen. She's just sitting in that wheelchair because it's so comfortable. He kept the thoughts to himself, and instead replied congenially, "We've had a little incident. Agent Keen needs medical attention."
Ressler huffed but took the hint and leaned over Liz, grabbing her chin and looking into her eyes.
Malick addressed Red suspiciously, "How'd you get here?"
"That's a pretty blouse," he replied in his habitual manner of dismissive redirection. Lucky for him, Malick was wise enough to appreciate the fact that he'd single-handedly saved his Lizzie's life, so she didn't press him. If not for him, she'd be the corpse dissolving in the tub.
Apparently agreeing with Red's assessment, Ressler piped up, "Get a medic in here now." Then he addressed Liz more calmly, "It's all over now. It's okay."
Satisfied that Lizzie would have the help she needed, Red turned towards a bookshelf that held Stanley's trophies. He had at least one hundred tiny glass jars, each containing a single tooth and a label on the bottom. His brow furrowed in both distaste and disgust. Red himself had probably killed at least as many people, but he hated having to do it. Never in a million years would he want to keep a souvenir.
His eyes scanned over the shelf, searching for the one thing that he needed: the photo album. He flipped through it, sighing at the sight of the bodies, page after page of innocent lives prematurely stolen. He closed his eyes for a couple seconds when he found Her picture, and after glancing up to make sure that no one was watching, he slid the photo from its cellophane sleeve, and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Looking up, he spied Ressler leading Lizzie outside by her elbow. She shouldn't be walking! Red followed them closely enough to catch her if she fell. Sure enough, shortly after stepping onto the uneven gravel driveway, she stumbled and collapsed sideways, reflexively throwing her arms around Ressler for support. He pulled her upright and untangled himself from her arms, a pinched mixture of shock and annoyance playing over his face.
No. Fuck this, Red thought. He dropped the photo album and cut in between Liz and Ressler, bending sideways to lift her up wedding-style, with one arm looped under her knees, and the other supporting her back. She looked up at him with a scowl, shaking her head in a manner of defiance that probably would have been endearing under different circumstances. He carried her to the ambulance and set her down gently on the ledge of its open back door, turning back to retrieve the photo album.
Red returned to find Lizzie rearranging the scratchy grey shock blanket over her shoulders. With a nod, he offered the album. "Here. It's horrifying, but at least you can give peace of mind to some of the families."
She took the book with a scowl, and then turned to climb inside of the ambulance, collapsing on its black vinyl bench. Always a shameless gutter dweller, Red gave in to the urge to check out her butt as she climbed in. What was he supposed to do? It was right at his eye level, and so close, he could have reached out to grab it. Oh, he wanted to, but he wasn't entirely without self-control.
As if she could read his mind, Liz snarled, "You're no better than him."
He narrowed his eyes and redirected his thoughts, although his words came out sounding as if he had not. "You gonna tell on me Lizzie? Tell Harold how bad I've been?"
Either she didn't notice, or she pretended not to. "You're a monster."
"Yes," Red replied, understanding that he himself must pay.
She looked up at him incredulously, and her eyes were so blue that he nearly felt lost inside of her gaze. "How can you live with that?"
"By saving your life."
She rolled her eyes, not really understanding- not that Red expected her to. "You didn't have to kill him."
Okay, fine. He could understand why she would be angry with him for showing up in her life in the first place. That was expected, but this!? "You're awfully sympathetic of the man who nearly killed you, and curiously ungrateful towards the man that saved your life."
"You're the only reason I was kidnapped in the first place." She crossed her arms over her chest.
"Was I? You mean that I'm responsible for you being taken after you tried to prevent Lorca from fleeing, after tipping you off that something bad was going to happen with a case that you took on years before you even met me? You think that you were kidnapped because you'd just found out about the stewmaker? It would be wise for you to consider that if you hadn't found out about him first, no one would have even known where to look for you. It could have been decades before this album was found, with your picture in it. He's gotten away with it for a long time, Lizzie."
"You still didn't have to kill him," she spat, not acknowledging that he'd just told her the truth.
"No, I didn't. That was a self-gratifying act of vengeance, but sadly, if it makes you feel any better, I didn't actually enjoy it. Think about how much time elapsed between my arrival and the feds'. After you were taken, if I had played by the FBI's rules, you'd be dead. And Mr. Cornish? He'd find himself on death row anyway. One could argue that immediate death was more humane."
"You don't know that," she weakly argued, tugging at the corners of her blanket.
"The world is seldom black and white enough to settle things perfectly within the law. I promise that if you can't see it now, someday you will. Oh... That day will come much sooner than you think."
Ressler approached from behind and tapped Red's shoulder. "We need to discuss Lorca."
He gave Liz a dismissive nod and followed the agent into the woods.
-...-...-
Back at home, Liz sat on the edge of her porcelain clawfoot bathtub, reflecting on all manner of things. With such a busy work week, she hadn't gotten much of a chance to ponder the heavily-redacted file about the match to the gun that she had found under the floorboards. There must be some other way to acquire the information, but she would need time to figure it out. In the meantime, she had to maintain her normal affect towards Tom. Ugh, Liz hated it already. She hated herself for not implicitly trusting him. Innocent until proven guilty, right? If she could give that to any random "unsub", it shouldn't be so hard to do it for her own husband.
Ever since she found the box, her mind had been filled with nothing but doubt. She viewed every single one of Tom's actions from behind a veil of suspicion, always questioning his true motives. Liz tried to tell herself that she was really looking for proof of Tom's innocence, and nothing more.
At every corner of her search, Tom always seemed to pop in with something to disprove her suspicion du jour. Recently, while she was using her laptop, he caught sight of the date she had written down, the date on the dedacted file. Her body strung as tight as a bowstring, terrified that Tom would recognize it and make the connection that she was onto him. There it was, implicit fear again, rather than trust.
Tom just squeezed her shoulder, offering only support, totally oblivious to her fear. The number was only a date, but not just any date. It was when they went to Boston. He opened the file with photographs of the happy couple on vacation. If Tom was with her that day, then he couldn't have been involved with the mysterious Angel Station incident. Tom was innocent! He assumed that Liz, of course, needed the reminder about the good things in life. With all of the horror she had seen at work, he couldn't blame her.
Liz masked her relief by playing along with the next little line he dropped, about knowing all of her tells. She's an open book, he said, and he loved that about her. Nervous and on edge, his monumental misunderstanding of her mental state drove a fresh but completely different spike of fear into her heart. Clearly, Tom didn't know her as well as he thought. The possibility of that being a two-way street didn't seem like a giant leap. How well does she know him? How well does she know anyone?
Tom's sudden appearance in the bathroom startled her from her musing.
"I know that things have been a little weird between us lately. I think what we were talking about earlier, getting out of town for a few days, I think we could really use it."
Liz looked up at him curiously as he held up a brochure. "So, I booked it," he added.
Tom walked over and sat down beside her. "It's just three nights, back at that place we loved, The Dickenson Inn, and we can eat at that restaurant you liked. It's gonna be fun."
Liz grinned and lifted her head, turning to kiss him.
"You're gonna get through this, I promise," he whispered.
Liz redirected her focus to the brochure while Tom busied himself kissing her neck. There it was, just a tiny little photo- The Angel Station Hotel. She sucked in a deep breath and bit her tongue, working her way through a fresh stabbing of fear.
In that moment, Liz made a silent vow to herself. She'd use the trip as an opportunity to investigate whatever happened in Boston. The reassurance calmed her somewhat. She'd either clear the man or condemn him, but either outcome would grant a form of relief. She wouldn't be burdened by suspicion for much longer.
Much like the families of the stewmaker's victims, she'd soon know the truth.