A/N: Set in the future and post-divorce. There are three chapters, and this one is the tamest. *face burns a little* M rating for Chapter 3. After the rating change, if you don't follow this story or take off the rating filters here, you won't be able to see the story.
This is a little bit different perspective on Lizzington, so I am begging for your thoughts. Begging, I say. Thank you so much for reading and commenting!
Disclaimer: As far as "The Blacklist" goes, I own nothing.
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The rain beat down steadily, a gentle rumble that matched the volume of the radio. The windshield wipers slapped heavily against the windshield, but there were skips in their path, a dirt clod from the country road she now bumped along caught under the blade. With each pass of the wipers it bled an opaque line of clay-colored dirt right across her field of vision.
She swore. It had been over two hours since Dembe had called her, and she'd spent an hour getting out of the city and another hour wishing she was back there. Red seemed to have found the only dirt road in the D.C. suburbs, and she was now suffering his predilection for eclectic hideouts and pseudo-homes.
Elizabeth Keen knew about dirt roads; she'd grown up in Nebraska, for God's sake. But knowing about them didn't mean she missed them. Pastoral living just never seemed to suit her; as a teen she'd craved something bigger, more purposeful, and the Academy had afforded her a way out. She'd boarded the first plane out of Nebraska just a few days after graduating high school.
She was failing to the see the purpose in this, however.
The conversation had started out innocently enough. She'd gotten to know Dembe over the last few months. When her divorce had become final, Red had relied more on the brawny man to look after her; Dembe kept his distance but maintained a steady presence.
What she could not understand is why Red didn't look after her himself. Before her marriage crumbled, she'd felt a closeness with him that was hard to describe. Long nights working a case eating beef and broccoli out of the same takeout container. His hand on her back as they entered a room. His hands on her, chaste yet sensual-her elbow, her arm, so soft and fleeting and the contact so brief that it made her wonder if it had been there at all.
And the soulful way he looked at her. These moments-this life with him was the sum of many small things, habitual comforts the total of which she did not quite comprehend. The familiarity, the warmth he made her feel just by his mere presence had been a touchstone for her through some of her darkest times.
When she had needed him the most, though, he was nowhere to be found.
Over the past few months, Red seemed to retreat. She had not spoken to him in weeks, and Dembe had brushed off her persistent inquiries, assuring her that it was business and that he was fine. His apparent purposeful avoidance of her just didn't make sense.
When Dembe had called earlier in the evening, she was tired. She'd been hunched over a computer for most of the afternoon writing a field report for Ressler. He had a date with Audrey and Liz owed him for covering for her with Cooper last week, so when he asked if he could cash in the favor she begrudgingly accepted, the fantasy of a hot bubble bath and a glass of wine in her apartment dematerializing right before eyes.
When the phone rang it had been a glorious reprieve. What she had not expected was what she heard on the other end.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Dembe had grown quiet. She heard the sound of his shoes on the floor as he supposedly made is way from the room and found it curious; he and Red always appeared to maintain a certain level of transparency though she suspected there were things only known to Red. It would always be that way, she suspected. His secrets were probably both a comfort and a torment.
Dembe had lowered his voice, speaking quietly into the phone until he was finally out of earshot.
"Ms. Keen, I'm worried about Raymond. He's not himself. He wants to talk to you, but he won't say."
She remembered narrowing her eyes, not fully convinced that if Red wanted to speak with her that he wouldn't just call. "What happened?"
"Something must have bothered him on his trip...about his family," Dembe said in a hushed voice.
That got her attention.
"I thought his family was dead," she had said skeptically.
Dembe had paused, reluctant to say more. "You will have to talk to him about that," he said finally.
Good luck with that, she'd thought.
Liz had scribbled the address anyway, not entirely convinced that she would go to him. After all, it was getting late and she deserved that bath. Red hadn't so much as asked about her for all she knew. She had tucked the slip of paper under the corner of a file folder, meaning to forget it.
She was halfway to the door of her office when it hit her, that little needling feeling of guilt. What if Red truly needed her? She should go, she'd reasoned. He would do the same (and had done the same) for her.
Damn her sense of loyalty.
Begrudgingly, she'd walked the few half steps back to her desk and retrieved the address.
So that's where she found herself, bumping along a dirt (no, mud) road in the pitch dark in the middle of a rainstorm on the way to see a man who may or may not welcome her.
Liz drove no more than a few miles further when she heard the familiar but sickening fhwop fhwop coming from beneath the car followed quickly by a loss of steering control. She braked instinctively, swearing under breath. The last thing she wanted to do was change a flat in the middle of a downpour on a backwoods country road, but that's exactly what it looked like she might have to do.
She slowed considerably, driving on the rim until she found a solid piece of shoulder. If the ground was too soft, she'd get stuck she knew, so she took her time pulling over. She finally settled as safely off the road as she could and killed the engine.
Liz looked at her cell phone. No service. She tossed it onto the seat next to her. Defeated, she put her head against the wheel of the now-silent car and bumped it a few times, enjoying the little pricks of pain exploding against her skull. Worst. night. ever.
Wearily she popped the trunk and trudged into the freezing rain, not bothering to hurry. There was no need. If she had an umbrella, there was no one there to hold it for her as she changed the tire. There'd never been anyone, she realized.
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The rain had finally stopped when she arrived at the door of the old farmhouse an hour later, soaking wet and thoroughly pissed off. Pissed that she'd wasted an entire night chasing a man that hadn't even bothered to call her over the past few weeks. Who probably didn't care to see her now.
Liz stood amid the chipped white paint and the weathered boards of the wide porch and contemplated knocking. She bumped her leg on something angular and felt it move in the dark. A rocking chair.
The last place Liz ever expected to find Raymond Reddington was a farmhouse.
She knocked soundly several times, waiting for the familiar footfalls to manifest themselves in one way or the other. Regardless of the surfaced they strode upon, the steps were always quick, heavy, and purposeful. She rapped again, her patience already wearing thin.
The door swung open suddenly against the last knock. Her fist still hovered in midair, waiting to make contact with a surface that was no longer there. She looked up at Dembe and took in his slightly relaxed appearance. He wore a tight-fitting grey t-shirt and faded jeans, but his expression was worried.
"Agent Keen." The worry in his face seemed to ease some when he said her name, but quickly returned when he noted her miserable appearance.
She ignored his inquisitive looks but unconsciously bristled at the use of her fraudulent former name. She hadn't decided if she would keep it or not. Tom hadn't really been a Keen, after all, so the moniker meant nothing.
Liz brushed passed Dembe, stepping into the short corridor and looking down it as far as she could see. The farmhouse looked empty and lonely.
"Where is he," she inquired softly. Her original concern for him slowly began to defuse some of her previous ire.
Dembe pointed down the hall to a large opening on the right. A living room she, assumed. She made her way there without preamble.
From what little she'd seen of it, the farmhouse was modestly apportioned, somewhat rustic and old fashioned. A scarlet runner stretched along the short corridor, covering a scarred wood floor that was heavily lacquered. Wall sconces illuminated the short hall, spilling warm light against garish wallpaper in large blue filigree designs. Despite its closeness, the hall felt drafty.
She rounded the corner as the corridor emptied into a homey living room. A couch and an overstuffed chair sat facing each other over a squat coffee table. Small cherry end tables with hurricane lamps emitted a warm glow over the colorful woven rug covering most of the floor. Red was standing by the fireplace, but there was no fire. The absence of it seemed to draw life from the room, and she shivered in her wet clothes.
Red had his back to her and one hand on the mantel. He was studying his feet, the hearth, nothing in particular, seemingly lost in thought.
He wore a light grey suit, rather pieces of it. He still wore his vest, but it was open and hung slack on either side of him. His loose tie hung against a pristine white dress shirt rolled up at the elbows; it was still tucked into the tailored pants that seemed to accentuate one of his best physical features. With the absence of a suitcoat, she had a clear view.
Liz cleared her throat and she saw him straighten and freeze. He still had one hand on the mantel, but he drew it behind him as he turned slowly to face her. His other hand held a tumbler of amber-colored liquid.
"What are you doing here?"
His voice was cracked and hoarse from lack of use. Instead of the familiar warm tones he reserved just for her, his diction was clipped and cold.
Red took in her ragged appearance. She still wore her work clothes and she was soaking wet. The jacket she wore over her white blouse was ruined with rain, the hem already misshapen and puckered. Her pants were in slightly better shape, but they still hugged her body with a cling that is standard for damp material, and the cuffs were muddy. She stood looking at him a little bewilderedly, her arms at her sides.
"Dembe called me," she said truthfully. She'd learned a long time ago the futility of lying to him. Her voice was hard and betrayed no emotion.
He worked his mouth and took another swig of the amber liquid. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're bleeding," he said nonchalantly.
She looked at him incredulously, at his cool, expressionless face, and then followed his eyes down to her feet. There on the hardwood floor was a modest sprinkling of little dot-sized splashes, water and blood intermingling. She held her hand out in front of her, looking at the jagged scrape in disbelief. The tire iron slipped, she thought absently. When Liz looked up he was staring at her from his place by the fireplace, and she found herself wishing it was warm and glowing instead of the grey recess it was now. Involuntarily, she shivered.
"And you're dripping all over my floor."
His expression had not changed, and the calm demeanor and his slightly acerbic tone began to stoke the embers of her previous anger. The usual ease he put her in just by his presence was nowhere to be found, and she suddenly hated him for it. For ignoring her the past months when she'd done nothing wrong. For being an arrogant ass.
"Oh I'm sorry," she said acidly, her eyes flashing as she began removing her jacket. She held the soaking garment out in front of her.
She pinned him with a hard gaze. "Is this better?"
She let the jacket fall with a wet slap where it immediately began ruining the rug.
Red had taken two steps toward her, but she hadn't seen him move. The tumbler was back on the mantel and he held his body tensely. She swallowed. There was a curious expression on his face, dangerous and familiar. She had seen him like this once or twice, but never with her. Never while they were alone in the middle of nowhere.
The air crackled between them. He reached out quickly and before Liz could even flinch he grabbed the injured hand, holding it roughly.
She gave it a little tug in protest, her mouth pursed stubbornly, but he held it firm. He turned it over slowly to examine it in the light, and she looked at him defiantly.
"It's just a scratch," he said quietly, and a muscle in his jaw clinched. A jagged line cut across her hand right above her scar, but it was superficial and wouldn't require stitches. He locked eyes with her over the ruined hand, his eyes softening a moment.
Ashamedly, Liz was glad when he released her and slipped out of the room. There was an uneasiness about him tonight that was unsettling, even more so than his usual intensity. She had seen Red angry and she had seen him pensive, but this was something completely different. This hit somewhere in the middle.
By the time she had finished taking in the soft, welcoming furnishings, the couch with the hand-carved wood scroll detail along the back and arms, he had returned with a small first aid kit.
He motioned for her to sit, herding her towards a straight-back chair near the doorway beside a small decorative table. He put the first aid kit on the table and knelt in front of her.
Red reached for her hand; it was balled in her lap and away from him, and he covered it with his. The warmth was so welcome, but his touch after so many weeks felt foreign and unfriendly.
Reluctantly she unfolded her palm like a spider retracting its legs, revealing the raw, oozing wound that was smeared bright red. He began to dab at the little hurt with a cotton swab, looking thoughtful and quiet.
She watched him work. His smooth skin was a half-shade darker, giving him a warm, tan glow and chasing away some of the shadows that usually resided under his eyes. Wherever he had been there was sun, she thought. It was a beautiful tone on him, accentuated even more by the brightness, the crispness of his dress shirt.
He remained oblivious to her study. He held his mouth, intent on the task, and said nothing.
The skin of her palm began to sting, and he felt her tense beneath his hands, felt her twitch away from him in reflex. Red paused and reached into the kit, withdrawing an aerosol. He began to spray the cooling liquid on her palm as his free hand went up to steady her over her scar. He placed his thumb flat against the raised flesh and felt her relax.
Liz quirked her mouth in a half-smile. This was the only way their relationship had changed since Tom's arrest...touching her scar. When he was around she found that he touched it or sought to touch it more than she did. Sometimes Liz thought it was to comfort himself as much as her.
"Are you going to tell me what happened Red."
She saw him swallow reflexively although he tried to hide it. His breathing changed minutely and he would not look at her face. Instead, Red studied the raw flesh of her hand, his own ministrations.
"What do you want to know," he said.
She paused, unsure of how to approach it, then decided to dive in head first. No games.
"Your trip. Dembe said it was about your family."
He paused. His fingers were warm over her scar, his thumb a solid, immovable presence. He made one pass over it, a smooth sweep that set fire to her nerve-endings. He looked up at her for the first time since working on her hand, and she felt his tighten snugly around her wrist.
"I don't have a family, Lizzie."
She said nothing, but the brief glimpse of anguish behind the stolid mask was enough for her to catch her breath. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, and the smooth, placid mask slipped back into place. Like nothing had happened, Red reached for a roll of gauze and began dressing her hand.
When her hand was finished he stood without speaking, closing the little kit but leaving it on the table. He turned away from her, retreating to from whence he came.
Liz examined his handiwork. The bandage was neat and precise, a textbook application. She thought briefly of how he had saved Ressler's life. If she'd been in that box with Ressler instead of Red he would've certainly died. She looked at Red with mild intrigue. There was still so much she didn't know about him.
She flexed her fingers experimentally, studying her hand. He must have applied a numbing agent because it no longer stung.
"You never called me."
His lip twitched and she could see his body stiffen almost imperceptibly. He turned to face her. He looked at her where she stood by her ruined jacket on the floor. Her hair fell in messy tendrils along her neck and shoulders, matted by the rain. Her face was dewy, and the tailored white dress shirt she wore clung tightly to her, thoroughly soaked. She must be cold, he thought, but he never saw her shiver.
He set his mouth. "No," he said.
She took a step or two toward him, her boot heels resounding loudly on the wood floor and the drenched clothes bunching awkwardly. "Why?"
He retreated a half step, his hands in his pockets, but his eyes never left her face. The give did not escape her. "I don't have to explain myself," he said darkly. "To you. To anyone."
The defensiveness surprised her, but she was careful not to show it. She advanced another step, and as Red turned to the mantel to retrieve his drink she boldly pushed his hand away.
He turned back to her, his mouth a hard line. He breathed slowly through his nose, steadying himself, and his eyes were dark.
Liz seemed unaffected by his little show. "Why do you think that," she asked, her voice intensifying. "Why do you get to be the only one who cares, Red?"
She'd moved slowly but steadily toward him until he was now backed into the fireplace where she first found him. She could feel the tension in his body, the hesitance, and felt empowered. She looked down at his mouth briefly before seeking his eyes.
"Or do you care?"
He said nothing. He moistened his lips and looked back at her with the same bland, inflectionless expression.
"That's it, isn't it," she said with some revelation. She huffed a bleak laugh. "You don't care. Why else would you completely ignore me when I needed you the most? Why would you leave me alone, Red, when I needed you?"
She observed him passively, no small measure of disgust on her face. "You don't feel anything at all."
Her words seemed to injure him and he looked stricken. When he appeared unable to muster a response, she turned away from him.
He caught her arm roughly, his fingers pressing into the tender flesh of her forearm with force. "You don't know what I feel, Lizzie."
She looked at him, her throat constricting. Red's eyes were narrowed, and as roughly as he was treating her the pain on his face far exceeded what he was doing with his hands.
He seemed to realize he was hurting her and softened his grip until finally releasing it.
"They're all dead," he said flatly. "That's what I found out Lizzie." His eyes were two cold flecks of jade, his voice steel. "I've looked for them all these years and they're dead. My daughter. My wife."
Liz trembled under the weight of his words. So Red had come to the end of his journey and found death.
She ducked her head, feeling guilty for having been so selfish. When she finally met his eyes and saw a venerability there that was not standard for him. Liz longed to touch him, but she didn't know how.
"You could've come to me, Red. I could've helped you. We could've helped each other."
He looked away from her. "You can't help me Lizzie." His voice was cold and as distant as if he had never returned.
Liz set her mouth. "You don't want my help," she muttered. It angered her how he consistently pushed her away. She moved a step closer to him, purposefully invading his space, and cocked her head slightly. "Or do you find it too unbelievable that someone would care," she inquired softly.
He swallowed. She smelled like the rain, like a spring night, and every exposed patch of skin was covered in gooseflesh from the cold. Her skin had a cool whiteness that glowed faintly, and he longed to touch it.
Red's eyes flicked to her chest. He'd never allowed himself to truly appreciate her breasts, at least not where she could see him, but he did so now unabashedly. The wet shirt betrayed the bra beneath, and its lace shone a ghostly pale blue through the material like skin over veins. Both of her nipples were hard as they strained against the tortured fabric. He licked his lips.
"You should leave," he said tightly, his voice low and rough.
Liz met his eyes, already warmed by his new attention to her, the way it made her feel. Their mutual attraction had gone mostly ignored by both of them, and when it was entertained it certainly wasn't this overt.
"I don't want to," she said simply. She moved even closer to him.
He reached out and touched the edge of her wet sleeve, rubbing it between his fingers. He never touched her skin. His eyes lit on her breasts again, the hollow of her throat, her mouth, and finally her eyes.
"You need to."
She put her arms out and on either side of him against the mantel, pinning her body against his. The cold from her blouse began to leach into the front of his shirt beyond his open vest. He could feel her nipples tight against him.
"You don't know what I need," she said.
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Chapter 2 is forthcoming. I do hope you hang around despite the rating, and please don't leave without dropping comment! This took a while to write and I never really know how something is going to work until it goes public. Thank you again :).
