the first time I made coffee for just myself (I made too much of it)
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Liz' life comes apart like the beginning of an avalanche: Quietly, softly, almost gently and then all at once. And only the inevitable silence of endings remains.
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She had bought the hippo on a whim, really. It was a habit she had picked up during Tom's first year as a teacher, when she would buy the most ridiculous things for him and laugh at his incredulous look when she asked him to put them into his classroom. She would never actually make him take the things to school, though, and they ended up inhabiting various corners of their first shared flat. A select few, a monkey with glasses, a purple and yellow giraffe and a turtle that had I'm coming! printed onto its back, even survived the move to DC.
The giraffe is staring at Liz condescendingly from its place between the sofa cushions, just like the stupid blue hippo is looking at her from where it has been stuffed into a paper bag.
She bought the hippo on a whim, really. Now she wishes she hadn't. Because once you know the truth, it's impossible to go back to the not-knowing and sometimes an imagined reality is the preferable option to one that hurts like hell.
And right now Liz hurts like she hurt when her father died; when she realized she couldn't go through with the adoption; when she thought her husband was having an affair. Although that seems to be a moot point, now, considering that her husband isn't even really himself.
Liz hurts like the one person she thought was telling the truth, the only person she wanted to be telling the truth, turned out to be the biggest liar of them all.
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And she turns to another liar for comfort. At least with Red she knows that he is a liar; he has told her. She doesn't expect anything from him. Although that doesn't keep her from hoping that he will be honest with her, that she will be an exception and as special as he said she is. But maybe that, too, was just a lie. It's hard, these days, for Liz to know lie from truth.
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He gets out the music box and turns it on and she should know she has been lied to, again. Because he's not supposed to know about this, about her fears and how to comfort her. She doesn't care that he knows about her highlights or when she's wearing her olive blouse. But he's not supposed to be inside.
She lets the music lull her in, anyway, and leans against him, because this, at least, is solid and won't disappear. She lets herself be held and tries to believe him when he tells her that she is going to be ok.
It's hard for her to know lie from truth.
There's a bone-deep tiredness seeping through every part of her and she closes her eyes.
'Tell me a beautiful lie, Red,' she asks. 'Tell me a story.'
There's a hand on her shoulder and a soft, gentle pressure on her head. And then Red tells her a story, about a kindhearted girl who catches stars.
For a moment, just before she falls into a fitful sleep, she wishes she could put this fragile feeling of safety and home into a jar and then go crawl in and live there forever.
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Raymond Reddington's blacklist consists of an array of very different people: arms dealers, assassins, hackers, bankers, drug dealers, freedom fighters, dictators, politicians; there's even a florist on there. Some of them believe they're doing the right thing and some don't care about such categories at all. But all of these people are just pretty packaging, little snippets of information, tiny victories Red gives to the FBI to keep them happy and to buy himself time. Because there are only two names on the list that exists only in his head that matter.
Well, three names, now, since he just added Tom Keen.
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She wakes in the morning and doesn't think Maybe it was just a dream. Real nightmares never are. They stay and stick to you.
There's a blanket over her shoulders that turns out to be Red's jacket. It smells like leather, soap and whiskey that would burn her throat, just like Red sometimes does. It's also warm and Liz allows herself a minute of simply breathing in the smell and pretending that she's nine again, allowed to stay home from school because she has the flu.
The illusion is shattered by Red entering the room, a cup in his hand which he wordlessly hands to her.
'Thank you,' she rasps, clears her throat and tries again. 'Thank you.' They both know it's not just for the coffee.
She takes a sip and hums in appreciation. Some things are certain, like the small miracle that is coffee in the morning. As Liz sits up, the jacket almost slides off the couch, but Red's hand is there to put it back around her shoulder.
There's silence between them while Liz drinks her coffee, but eventually even miracles end. She puts the mug down on the small table next to the couch and finally looks at Red. He has been still as a statue and she isn't sure why. Was he trying not to scare her off or was he trying to keep himself from running?
'Why didn't you just tell me?' she finally asks. The shadows around his eyes are deep. Liz wonders if he would have slept on the couch if she hadn't occupied it.
'I did tell you.'
'No, you gave me half-cryptic warnings!' It comes out harsher and louder than intended and she sees the hurt on his face for one fleeting moment. She hates that it makes her feel bad. Her knuckles crack when she clenches her fist. It used to creep out her friends in high school, but she hasn't done it on purpose in years.
'I didn't have enough proof, Lizzy,' he says, almost apologetically. It's the first time since he has opened the door for her that he has called her Lizzy. The first time he did it, it felt like a slap. Now she couldn't imagine him calling her anything else.
'There are things, few and far between as they may be, that I don't know or at least cannot prove.' There's a tiny bit of smugness in the way he lifts his eyebrow.
'Back when I told you to be careful,' he continues, 'I only knew that before 2009 Tom Keen didn't exist. That year, a birth certificate suddenly turned up and a diploma for the Ohio State University, even though he never signed up for any classes there. Would you have believed me, if I had come to you with this?'
'Of course not.'
'I know.'
Liz nods and looks down at the floor. It's polished cherry wood and it reflects the light almost as beautifully as her wedding ring.
'You might not believe me, Lizzy, but I never wanted this for you,' Red says softly.
There's a part of her that wants to blame him for everything. It would be unfair, but there's a voice whispering in her ear that if he hadn't come into her life and demanded to speak with her, she could have happily lived in her perfect illusion of a perfect life.
It's not true, of course. She doesn't prefer the lie, but she wishes she did.
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Despite popular belief, Raymond Reddington doesn't like to be right. Well, he likes to be right when he knows he's right, but he wanted to be wrong about Tom Keen. He wanted him to be a boring school teacher, with stupid glasses and a fondness for sappy declarations of love.
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He joins her on the couch. They end up in much the same pose as last night. It's like he can feel that she doesn't know how to make this decision on her own, that she is dreading even thinking about what to do next.
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He gives her time, because if there's one thing Red knows, it's that some things need more than a few hasty minutes of what ifs and maybes.
Some decisions have to be carefully laid out and planned, rethought and perfected. He knows, because twenty years ago, he had been where Liz was now: wondering how to go on and what to do and most of all where to go from here.
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Liz knows that there are different ways to play this: She can go home and kiss Tom when he comes home from work, tell him there was a work emergency and watch the latest episode of the Real Housewives with him. She could pretend that everything is alright, even though nothing is. She could play him, like he has played her.
But lately her life has felt much like a badly scripted sitcom; like her movements weren't her own and her words weren't hers, either. Like there was always someone just around the corner waiting to laugh at her.
She doesn't want to try to get enough evidence to be able to get Tom Keen into jail. Instead, she throws the heavy and impractical wedding band that she had still loved, because it caught the light and reflected it beautifully, out of the window and waits for the tiny sound of metal hitting the street. To her ears, it sounds like a gigantic gong is being struck.
She sits down again, next to Red, who has watched her quietly. She gets out her phone and dials, her free hand holding on to his sleeve.
When Tom answers, she says: 'I know. I don't know everything, but I know enough. I don't care who you were or are or pretend to be, because by tomorrow you will be gone. I will never see you again.'
There's silence on the other end, apart from the sound of rhythmical breathing.
'Liz, I'm sor - '
Liz ends the call. He got the message.
'Me, too,' she says to the floor. It's more of a reflex, though, because there's just no room anymore for regret in a place that's already occupied by anger and hate and fear and incredible sadness.
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Red doesn't know or understand why she came to him. Why she accepts his presence now. He knows he doesn't deserve it. He is a liar, too, and there are things about him that he doesn't want her to ever find out, like a pillow on her father's face, or why he chose to waltz into her life like a tornado.
He wished for her rage earlier, because he knows that's something he deserves.
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She asks him to tell her everything he knows about Tom.
'Because you said back then,' she points out and misses the proud smile on his face. 'Which means you know more, now.'
She absentmindedly rubs the pale stripe of skin where her ring used to sit just a minute ago. Her hands feels lighter, but also empty, which is pretty much how Liz is feeling. She almost laughs at herself, because thinking in stupid metaphors in your head can't be a sign of mental health.
'Are you sure you want to talk about this now?' he asks and this time Liz sees the concern on his face. She doesn't know where it comes from or why it's there. She doesn't even know whether she wants him to be concerned about her or not. But it's there and for now that's enough.
'What you're going to tell me isn't going to change with time and it's not going to hurt less,' Liz says. 'Just tell me, Red. I'm done with the half-truths.'
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He tells her about her husband, eventually. It's easier, but only just, leaning against him with his arm around her shoulders, to hear the truth about Tom Keen. Who doesn't use his hands to grade papers, but to assassinate a man while she is waiting for him in their hotel room. About Tom Keen, who doesn't use his hands to comfort her, but to strangle Jolene and shoot a cowboy.
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It's easier, but only just and she throws up in a bathroom with a golden faucet and initials on the towels that aren't Red's. She throws up everything she didn't eat and then wishes she could disappear down the drain, too.
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Red hands her a glass of water when she comes out of the bathroom and she wants to say Thank you again, because Sam taught her that's what you do when someone's nice to you, but she can't get the words out. There's a knot of mixed emotions stuck in her throat.
He guides her back to the couch.
'I like this couch,' Liz says and he chuckles.
'I would offer to steal it for you, but I have the distinct feeling you wouldn't approve of that kind of gift.'
Liz pulls up her legs, hugging them to her chest and rests her chin on her knees.
'I stole a lipstick, when I was thirteen,' she admits, looking up at Red. 'I don't remember why. I only know that Sam found out and made me take it back and apologize. I think that healed me of all criminal ambitions I might have had.'
He keeps looking at her, without speaking.
'There are still things you're not telling me, aren't there?' Liz finally dares to ask. 'Not about Tom, about you, about all of this.'
'Yes,' he admits.
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The truth is that a lot of stories about Raymond Reddington are lies. There are lies about crimes he has committed and places he has been and people he has betrayed. Some things almost happened as the story goes, but were blown out of proportion. A lot of those stories are simply fairy tales. He never bothers to correct anyone.
He chose to be a criminal and he didn't do it for righteous reasons or a good cause, so if people think he's something he's not, he doesn't mind, because that, at least, is the truth.
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'Yes,' he admits. He clenches his teeth. Some truths are heavier than others.
'If I were to ask you, would you tell me?'
'No,' he says. 'There are some things I might tell you, in time, but there are others which would put you in danger if you knew about them. Some you would hate me for and I don't want either of that.'
She thinks it over for a moment, while she absentmindedly toys with his cufflinks. Usually she'd be playing with her ring, but, well, that's gone now.
'Did you ever lie to me?'
It's a hard question and Liz doesn't know if the answer is going to be any easier, but today doesn't seem to be a day for simple things.
'No,' he gives back, faster than she would have expected. 'Whenever I do not want to tell you something, I choose not to answer.'
She looks at him and Red looks back.
'Ok,' Liz says and settles back against his side.
Sooner or later, Liz knows, she going to ask him again. And she's going to hate some of the answers she might or might not get.
And sooner or later she will have to figure out why she feels safe in a stranger's house, next to the #4 on the FBI's most wanted list and why she believes Raymond Reddington as he whispers into her hair: 'You're going to be ok'.
'Do you think Mr Kaplan would look through my house to make sure his things are gone if I asked her?' she asks against his shoulder, closing her eyes. 'I'm not very good at cleaning.'
'I'm sure something can be arranged, Lizzy,' Red says.
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When she first sets foot into the house that's suddenly hers alone and sees how empty it seems, Liz feels like she's coming apart at the seams and at some places the stuffing is already looking out, like the tips of white clouds, about to spill over.
She sits on her couch and cries for everything that she has lost, because there was a bit of her in everything that's gone now.
She cries herself to sleep on the couch that smells faintly like disinfectant and wakes up with a headache and sofa cushion imprints on her cheek. It takes a few seconds for her to figure out what woke her up, when there's another knock on the door.
She walks over on unsteady feet, hoping it's not one of her colleagues. She can't deal with people right now.
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But as she opens the door, she is almost thrown on her back by Hudson, who weaves around her legs happily. She gets on her knees to hug him and he immediately starts licking her face. She looks past his ears, up at Red and mouths Thank you, because that's what you do when someone's being nice to you.
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Liz buries her head in the thick fur at Hudson's neck and thinks that maybe she can manage to keep the stuffing in for a little longer.