Red gives a heavy sigh, shutting the door to the dingy motel room behind him. He feels exhausted but he knows he won't be able to sleep as he is, haunted by a suitcase full of bones. And lies.
So many lies.
Not technically, of course. He had promised Elizabeth he would never lie to her and he had meant it.
So tonight, when she pushed into his motel room with that piece of paper that said someone had gotten a hold of the blood of the real Raymond Reddington, her father, not him, he said nothing. Absolutely nothing. He couldn't confirm or deny anything without telling her everything. And he couldn't. Not yet. Not ever. So he said nothing. And she took his silence for confirmation.
She thinks he is her father.
He hadn't allowed himself to think of it before, preoccupied with finding the suitcase and, when she was there, not saying too much and not saying enough but then she hugged him and he could smell her perfume and she smiled at him so sweetly and then she was gone and it was all too much. But he's thinking of it now and oh god.
She thinks he's her father.
He suddenly feels ill.
"That's normal in a family," she'd said.
He lunges for the toilet and makes it just in time, throwing up violently. After expelling the contents of his stomach and dry heaving painfully for another minute, Red sits back on the bathroom floor and leans against the counter, breathing heavily.
God. She thinks he is her father. He is anything but. The things he has thought about her, the fantasies he's indulged, the things he wants to do to her. No. He's not her father. Not even close. But he's letting her think that and, god, if there wasn't a place in hell for him before, there sure as fuck is now.
Still feeling vaguely nauseous, Red closes his eyes.
Her father. No. Anything but that, Red thinks desperately. When he opens his eyes again to squint against the dim light of the motel bathroom, he is surprised to feel tears escape and run down his cheeks. How long has it been since he cried? Probably since she had last asked him that question. "Are you my father?" He felt so disgusting. This is a hundred times worse.
His stomach churns again.
Because he should be her father. Raymond Reddington was her father. But Raymond Reddington is dead. And now he is Raymond Reddington. So, logically, Elizabeth is his daughter. He should feel like a father to her. But he doesn't. He hasn't for years. Not since he pulled her small, shivering form out of the closet of a burning house. She grew up when he wasn't looking, grew into a gorgeous, smart, independent woman and he fell hard. He tried to ignore the feelings but he couldn't. It was futile.
He loves her. Not like a father. Not at all. Before he surrendered, before he knew her, really knew her, he consoled himself with the fact that she would never know the difference, she would never meet him, she would never know.
But then circumstances changed and he had to enter her life. So he had tried to squash his feelings, fit all the lust and love and admiration and attraction into a father-shaped box and make them normal but they couldn't be contained.
And for a while he thought it might be okay. He thought maybe his dreams could come true, his second chance, his life, his love may actually love him back. Their time on the run had been... magical. Despite the obviously less than ideal circumstances, it had been wonderful. They had gotten along and she trusted him and deep in his twisted heart he loved the idea that she was reliant on him. He could fall back into his natural state - caring for her.
Red sighs shakily, tears still leaking from his eyes.
He stands up slowly, knees cracking, groaning at the stiffness that has settled in his bones during his short time on the floor. He is old. Too old for her. Much too old for her. He crawls onto the creaky motel bed, exhausted, laying on top of the covers. He won't sleep under them for all the money in the world. He hates staying in motels. He accepts the necessity and appreciates the anonymity they provide but he loathes them. He is a man of refined taste and he misses his 30 thread count sheets and fine scotch.
He places his gun within reach on the nightstand and curls up on his side.
Father.
He turns his face into the flat pillow under his head and keens. Anything but that. He is so tired. Defeated, he turns and grabs the other deflated pillow on the bed and hugs it to his chest, curling into a tighter fetal position. So tired. He hugs the useless thing closer, pretending it is Lizzie, snuggled up with him, close and safe and warm. At the mental image, her words from earlier echo in his ears and he cringes, another bout of nausea threatening to overtake him. He pushes it away.
He can't let her go. She is all he has. And if all he can be to her is a father, so be it. She will never know how he feels. Can never know. She would run the other way and never look back.
He will keep it to himself, like he always has. She comes first, like always. Her health and happiness, always. And if he has to torture himself with impossible delusions of happy endings to make that happen, then it is no less than he deserves. Her whole family is dead because of him, her life is what it is because of him. The last thing he should want from her is love and affection. He will never have that again. He will die, likely gunned down in the street somewhere, alone, with nothing and no none, as he is right now. It's only fair.
But right here, right now, in the dead of night, he can close his tired eyes and pretend that this cheap motel pillow is his warm, soft Lizzie, and she is letting him rest his tired head on her chest and just sleep, knowing she will be there when he wakes up, loving him as he loves her. Not as a father.
Anything but that.