She bites her tongue when she falls.
There's a bloody gash where she'd inadvertently bitten down, one that practically guarantees that she'll be eating cold mush for the next month, but it's nothing serious. She spits out more blood as it congeals in the back of her throat, drawing her forearm across her mouth. She straightens in time to watch the body lose its fight against gravity as it sinks to the bottom of the wall, listing sideways.
She turns away as the temple thuds dully, emptily against the frame of the door, blue eyes, as colourful and unfocused as a new-born's, staring lifelessly. Coughing, she gathers her feet under her, standing tremulously on shaking legs. Come on, Lizzie, she says to herself as she slots her gun into the holster tied to her belt, her other hand reaching up to run trembling fingers across her neck, you should be used to this by now.
But she isn't. Taking a life, no matter how violent or cruel it is, doesn't get easier with practice. Liz won't allow it to.
She stumbles past the body, through the door into the hallway and pauses at the railing to catch her breath. The door to the nursery is ajar and Liz can see the faint outline of yellow ducks painted on the walls, orange flippers angled in a parody of motion. The stinging of her tongue is really the only thing keeping her from laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it. The contrast is startling to her; the violence of the life she's taken versus the one it had created.
Squeezing the wooden banister beneath her hands, she levers herself against it and pushes herself towards the door. Her feet feel heavy as she approaches, weighed down by guilt and dread and something that feels sickeningly like jealousy. She presses her fingers to the grain and eases it open, peering around the corner.
There's a crib nestled next to the window with a single white bear smiling at her as she peers into the room, one paw raised in greeting. A blanket, hand stitched and wonderfully soft, has been kicked aside, bundled into a lump against the bars.
The little feet responsible are still kicking in the air, missing one white booty, while the baby squirms in frustration, gurgling its discontent. Liz wipes her hands on the front of her jeans to make sure there's no blood on them.
Setting her hand on the railing, she peers over it to find the baby blinking its wide eyes at her, struggling to see her but pleased just the same at the attention. It gurgles some more and, taking a breath to steady herself, Liz reaches into the crib to push the large headphones, too heavy for the baby to move by itself, off of its ears. She can faintly make out the lull of violins as they reach a crescendo. Liz thinks it might be Mozart.
"Hi," she finally manages to smile, running her fingers through soft, downy hair. The baby coos some more, kicking tiny, plump legs with more fervour. "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."
Though Liz isn't entirely sure how.
"Lizzie."
She startles, pulling her hand away, and turns to find Red standing in the door. He raises his hands and Liz half expects him to lace his fingers behind his head.
"We – we were too late," she says in lieu of a greeting, trying for a watery smile and failing miserably. She shrugs a shoulder as if it's just one of those things. "We were too late."
Magnanimous as ever, Red says nothing.
He just keeps looking at her, his mouth pursed, and steps cautiously into the room. He reaches a hand out towards her, to beckon her to him, but Liz turns away to peer down into the crib. The baby has started to chew on its own fist, drool dribbling down its chin, content to watch the shapes moving above it. She can feel Red standing over her shoulder like a shadow, cold, heavy and dark.
She reaches back into the crib and lets wet, sticky fingers wrap tightly around her own, the nails sharp and surprisingly well-formed. She rubs her thumb across them, imagines herself painting them one day. She would have picked blue, she thinks.
I'm so sorry.
"The FBI will be here soon." His voice breathes quietly past her ear, more a vibration than a sound. "We should go."
"I'm not going anywhere." She stays where she is, leaning against the frame of the crib but not daring to reach in and lift the baby out. This, this is everything she could have had with Tom. Everything that was taken from her. She won't leave until she has to.
Next to her, Red sighs and steps closer to join her, his shoulder brushing against hers.
He leans his forearms against the frame, fingers laced tightly together, so in control that, for just a moment, Liz hates him. Until she looks at his face.
His eyes are brighter than she's used to, pinched at the edges with a tension he's always so careful to hide from her. His mouth is turned down at the corners and Liz restrains herself from pressing a hand to his shoulder to ask him what's wrong.
She retracts her hand altogether and the baby burbles at her as she draws away.
She's only a little surprised when Red leans over instead and slides a hand beneath the baby's head, his thumb caressing that soft spot behind its ear for just a second, while he slips the other beneath its legs. He lifts it out of the crib as though he's done it a hundred times before, allowing the baby to flop easily against his shoulder, content to snuggle into the crook of his neck.
He readjusts his hold and settles a hand against its back, rubbing in warm, soothing circles against the fabric of its baby grow. His palm, Liz notes as she blinks at him, is as large as the baby's torso, and Liz finds herself reaching for it.
She presses her fingers against the back of his to get his attention.
"And everybody says I'm baby crazy," she tries to laugh but the sound constricts in her throat. Red only smirks at her in response, nuzzling his nose against those fine, blond wisps.
"That smell," he sighs, his eyes fluttering closed. "It's a wonder they don't bottle it."
Here in this place with a baby cradled against his chest, happily gumming on the collar of his much too expensive suit, it's easy to forget who Red is. Liz can't help but think that he was never supposed to have been a criminal. He should have been so much more than that.
Her hand trails upwards to twist the longer curls nestled against the baby's neck around her fingers.
Red looks so content, as though he was always supposed to be a father and it makes something cold and guilty twist in Liz's gut. Why hadn't she seen that in him before now?