The sun baked the sand she lay upon, the warmth seeping into skin that would normally be hidden beneath professional suits. Fingernails traced through the sand as her eyes flickered open, the flames that danced across her eyelids disappearing into the blue sky above her. Her lips parted as she sighed, her chest aching as she closed her eyes once more and Tom Connolly materialized before her, blood blossoming from his chest, before he morphed into her father.
A month.
It had been only a month. A month since she found out she was a murder. A month since she committed another atrocity. A month since she fled America in terror, adrenaline constantly surging through her veins. Fear was her default emotion and survival her only agenda. Weeks of flying and running and hiding, phone calls to dodgy contacts and sleeping in areas that were surely not habitable. Desperate and terrified, Liz is aware that she would have been caught in a matter of days had it not been for him. Reddington.
They had been in each other's company constantly, never straying too far from one another. Red made certain that their suites were always adjacent, that she was armed and safe. She was sure he never slept. It could be the darkest hours of the night and she could hear his movements in the next room, the clinking of glass, the muted rumble of his voice, and the soothing hum of the soft music he listens to. It was easy to be aware of his presence when sleep is a luxury that does not come easily to Liz any longer.
She felt as if she was a shell. Empty. Her movements mechanical, conversation forced. Her limbs were lead, mind sluggish. Murderer. She knew that Red had noticed, of course he had noticed. It made him uncomfortable. She could see his uneasiness in the way he moved, his hand straying to hers before clenching at his side, eyes drawn to the lock of loose hair that fell in her own. They rarely spoke and if they did, it was pointless chatter. They did not mention her father and Liz wasn't sure if she avoided the topic for her sake, or his.
The soft breeze whispered over her skin and she smiled, looking out at the expanse of water before her. It was beautiful, serene. Silent compared to her old life. The stretch of beach their villa was built along was private. Liz would go days without seeing anyone but Reddington. She would rise early in the morning, from a restless and unsatisfying sleep, to run. It was the only constant in her life now and Liz smiled grimly at the irony. She was running for her life, her freedom and her sanity.
She wondered how Ressler was coping with the pressure, she worried for Cooper, and she missed Aram and the security she felt with Samar. Anxiety constantly roiled within her, unsettling her. She wished she could believe that Red would mention their movements to her if a significant event took place, but she simply couldn't. Riddles and secrets and omitted truths, Raymond Reddington revelled in them. Liz is unaware of the Task Force's movements, but their intentions were clear. Liz was a murderer and they were coming for her.
The soft sound of sand under, what she assumes are, extremely expensive leather shoes attracts her attention. Red is moving towards her, fedora in place and sunglasses on. He is dressed impeccably, blue suit pants and vest with a white shirt. She can't believe him, he must be cooking. His smile is soft, but forced, head tilted to the side as he watches her. She waits.
"I have some news, Lizzie," he rumbles, and her eyes fall to the phone in his hand. "It's about Harold Cooper."
A/N ; Thank you for reading! Next chapter will be up in a few days.
Disclaimer; I do not own the Blacklist or any of it's characters