"Josephine Moliere" he whispered quietly, tired and emotionally exhausted from his trip from Paris.
"Is that suppose to mean something to me? Another name on your list? Another person that has something you need?" Lizzie crossed her arms, standing before him in the nearly empty bar, anger radiating off of her as she watched Red take a sip of his scotch. It wasn't that he took her, correction - the FBIs - suspect. Most likely never to be seen again. No, that's not the reason why she barged into the quiet bar, it was because once again she crossed a line for him without knowing the reason why.
She had called Dembe seething with no response until a full day later did he pick up the phone with information on Reds where abouts at 1am in the morning. It didn't matter, she came here for answers, to yell at him, not a story...she should have known better.
"Every time I came back to Paris, I would be almost always exhausted." He began, his voice barely above a whisper as if it would break the fragile memory the story came from, "Travelling on business all over the world, brokering deals, running away from the authorities, trying desperately to survive. But when it all became too much, I would find my way to Paris. To Josephine."
As if in a trance, Lizzie slowly lowered herself across from Reddington in the secluded booth. The low light from the small table lamp made his face impossibly sad - the first time she noticed since walking in. She realize then, this wasn't going to be an ordinary story.
"I would arrive at her doorstep, spent and utterly tired, and every time I walked through her door she would be wearing a beautiful evening gown, as if she was ready for me to pick her up for a night out on the town. I would feel guilty about not being able too, she deserved better than a weary man arriving at her door seeking rest and any measure of comfort." He stopped, took a sip of his scotch, "She would never be disappointed though."
"Instead, she would pull me inside, lead me to her bathroom, where the water was already drawn and still warm and have me bath in it. She would then have me dressed for sleep and under her covers and in her arms shortly after. She would whisper in my ear as I feel asleep that it was her turn to take care of me, but really we would both be taking care of each other."
Lizzie eyes were fixated on Red, never had she her such intimate details about his life, let alone a former lover.
With his eyes lingering anywhere else but her face, he continued, "The days and nights together, were everything to us. Nights of dinners in small secluded towns outside of Paris, tucked away booths in jazz clubs, sensual nights in hotel rooms, long walks along the river way. Being together allowed us a sense of normalcy, an escape, a way to chase away the loneliness we felt when we couldn't be together."
"Why couldn't you?" Lizzie whispered, the snappish tone of her voice replace with tenderness.
Red looked at Lizzie, held her gaze for a moment and replied "She was married."
A beat passed.
"You were having an affair." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. A statement she wasn't sure how she felt about.
"We were seeing each other long before she was engaged and married. It was an arranged marriage, to a man she never met, whom she never loved, who ended up abusing her every day all for the sake of two families to remain profitable and … safe. She begged her father to not let her go through with it, pleaded with him. Eventually telling him about us, how we were seeing each other, begging him to instead use my resources to protect the family." Raymond paused, looked down at his glass bitterly and took the last gulp before saying, "The marriage still went ahead."
"So you still continued having an affair ?" It was an innocent question, but the judgement in her voice made Raymond raise his voice a little louder than a whisper.
"It was never an affair. How could it be if you don't love your husband? If it was all arranged in order to protector your family? Are you suppose to care for the man that beats you? Tend to his every desire, while her skin crawls and her heart slowly dies, as she longs for someone that can make it a bit better?"
Turning their eyes away from each other, "She would never admit to the beatings or the physical or emotional abuse. It was the little things that gave it away, her radiant smile became pained, her eyes grew wet when I gazed at her, she would tremble every time I took her in my arms." He visibly swallowed, memories flooding his mind.
"I eventually bought her a place in Paris, somewhere she would be able to get away, a place where we could meet, and each meeting I would see fresh bruises on her body. She would be so broken hearted, so tired and exhausted, but in this place - our place - she was safe. Until she wasn't. Her husband found out. She called me in tears petrified, he found our place. By the time I got there, he gave me enough time to hold her in my arms and watch the light in her eyes fade away."
"Why didn't you just take her away? Get her away from him?"
The line of questioning was rich coming from her, he nearly smirked ruefully but he held his tongue and opted to naw on his lip before replying, "I asked her to let me, told her I could protect her, but in doing so would in turn cause dire consequences to her family. Her father was right. I couldn't protect all of them. So she stayed. Much to my disdain and worry. They're all dead now, they ripped each other in two, on both sides until no one remained. Except Josephine."
Lizzy cocked her head to one side confused but remained silent.
With a painful smile, "She is in a long term care facility, brain damaged, never to walk again, or even talk. Sometimes there is a flash of recognition when I visit, but it's gone as quickly as it comes."
She unfolds her hands from her lap, and reaches out to gently brush the tips of them along the sides of his, still clutching the empty scotch glass. "I'm sorry." She whispers, trying to grab his gaze.
"I loved her." He says it so quietly as if only to himself, until he turns and locks eyes with Lizzy, noticing how her rough demeanour has suddenly become soft and steady. As if this woman was already his, as if this tail was just about an old lover, telling his new one - the one he longed for before he knew he could - the one that would mourn that lost with him. If only things were different.
If only, she choose different.
If only he...
He cleared his throat, tossing his train of thought aside, looked away for a moment before looking back at her and continued "I loved how she felt in my arms as I made love to her, how she would whisper breathlessly for more, how our ache for each other would never be sedated, how finding small glass animals suddenly became an excuse to cancel a business trip and come see her, rather than a reason to help add to her meager collection. The women I loved, she's gone now and my promise to her is paid in full."
"Alistair…" Lizzie brought a hand to her mouth, realizing she was getting the answer to why he took him. Why this blacklister, the wedding - everything was of interest to him. Part of her knew the reason towards the end, and maybe on instinct she reacted the way she did - for him, cause it was personal, "He was the one that orchestrated the marriage." She whispered.
As if reading her mind, her body language, and even before she sat down and started demanding answers, he responded, "You often attack me, asking what's in it for me. Sometimes that's not the case, other times it's simply about my own survival or yours. Sometimes it's for the good of humanity. This time, it was revenge. Pure and simple." He held her gaze for a moment then rose from the booth, and slipped on his coat.
She looked down trying to comprehend everything she heard, and then as if she had come to a realization she looked up at him with a sorrowful expression. Was it for him and his sad tale, or because he disappointed her? He replied with the latter.
"I'm sorry if I disappointed you Lizzy."
He turns on his heel and begins to walk to the front door. He is nearly there until -
"You love me, don't you?" It was the conclusion that she had quickly and messily came to. This wasn't just about a story about revenge and on why he did what he did, but why he feels the way he does about her & Tom.
He stops. His breathing ragged, as if he was punched in the gut. She was never suppose to say that. Ask that.
It's out there. The notion. An idea. A fantasy. His fantasy. Kept under lock and key. His ache for it only shown hidden in his eyes. That are blind to her. Maybe up until now.
He turns his head slightly. Eyes not seeking hers. Afraid his eyes might be too revealing. Instead he stares at nothing, but the ground.
He doesn't answer her questions. Though by stopping, he may have inadvertently acknowledged it.
He does the only thing he can do.
He walks.