I'm pregnant.
I assume Tom's the father…
Those words echoed in her head, spiraling out, as she absorbed the impact of them. He didn't think he was. Even after… but why Tom was all she could wrap her head around. Why would he still think… Lizzie could do nothing but shake her head, mute. Red prattled on about difficulties and the changes he had seen in her the past several weeks. Yet all Liz could think about were the changes he should have noticed in her behavior.
Granted, she had relapsed once, running to Tom after she shot Connolly, but after months of being on the lam with Reddington, he was the first person she looked for. And the first person she found. It wasn't Tom who was waiting for her after she exited the jail, wasn't Tom on the dimly lit street, car idling. It wasn't Tom she ran to, wasn't him she hung onto. Tom was gone. He may very well be someone else right now.
"Tom left," Liz said flatly, stopping Red in mid-sentence.
Red simply gaped.
"I didn't tell him," she hedged, because it's not his, she added in her head. "He found a job in Boston, said he wanted to go straight and live a life without all this."
"So I let him," she nodded with finality.
It was Polaris that did it. No guy, no man, had ever told her that she was his light. His way home. She had been feeling something for a while even before that; she had chided herself in the beginning, calling it a form of Stockholm syndrome. Or when she was feeling more benevolent, she reasoned that it was the camaraderie of sharing a foxhole. But in her quiet moments—what few she had alone—usually when Reddington was snoring softly nearby, she understood what it was. He pulled at her even before they were on the run together, way before, when he told her never to save him again, when he told her he would leave if she only said the word, when he flirted with her and ordered her drinks in flawless French, when she caught him watching her coming down the steps to his box. It was there. That night with the moonlight over the cresting waves, she gave in to it.
She leaned up in that stolen moment they had together, placed a hand on his arm and stepped in close when he tilted his face down toward hers. She tipped up, meeting him halfway and pressed her lips to his. The shock opened his lips and she went further, savoring, tasting. When he made to step back, she grasped his upper arms more firmly with both hands.
"No don't," Liz said, tipping her head back and facing his wary gaze. "Not this time, Red. No retreat, no excuses."
That next morning was quiet, comfortable without being awkward, but he never touched her again. But he had caved that once, and she knew how he felt. She would catch his unguarded glances sometimes unaware. She heard him say her name in his sleep. She knew. And though he pulled back into his deflecting stories and guarded focus on their cases, the guard had come down just that once, and that was all she needed. He never spoke of the night they spent together, never made a move toward her in advance or to repeat the experience, but she would sometimes catch his wistful gaze and smile. She did not press for anything further; she knew he needed his defenses and his focus, and now that she knew, she could wait. Until the Blacklisters were gone, until the Cabal had fallen, until…whatever his end game was, she knew they would continue as they were. For now.
Yet a baby on the way brought things sharply into focus. She would have to correct him, she knew. She would have to make him see the error of his thinking. And when he suggested they have dinner at his latest safehouse to discuss yet another Blacklister, she knew it was time. She put on a lovely little black halter dress and took time to curl the ends of her hair, some flipped out, some flipped under to give more movement. She lined her eyes with a kitten wing and glossed her lips to draw attention to them. She slid into the highest heels she could manage and still not wobble, as her center of gravity had already shifted to the little bump growing under the waistline of her dress.
When Dembe finally pulled up to the house, she ogled a bit at the ostentatiousness of it. Large and Italian, ornate arches and scrolled columns. He had outdone himself, she reasoned, and chose this particular place on purpose. She wondered briefly what it was.
He greeted her with a simple, chaste kiss on the cheek, took her hand and spun her once so he could see the swing of her dress. She smiled under his appreciative gaze, watching him worry his tongue with his teeth. He liked that she had dressed up for him. Lizzie slid a hand casually through his arm and let Red guide her into the house.
"Lizzie you look lovely," he purred as he escorted her into the dining room.
"This place is lovely," she replied, still marveling at the architecture and the objets d'art that graced the walls and tables. Reddington swept her into the dining room before an Edwardian table flanked by a large banquette on one side and softly flaming fire in a marble fireplace on the other. Despite its size, the table setting was intimate, with her place setting just to his right. There was a water glass and a glass of orange juice, while his place held a glass of white wine—likely something other than chardonnay.
He took her hand and patted it, before removing his arm from her clasp. Red pulled out her chair and shifted her forward once she sat. When he was seated, he simply tilted his head and smiled at her. "Lovely simply doesn't say it, Lizzie," he said ruefully. "You look exquisite."
"You look wonderful too," she answered smiling, her smile beaming even brighter when she saw he was caught off guard at the compliment. "It's a new vest, isn't it?"
"It is," he said, still disarmed at her attention. "It's simply amazing what Brunello Cucinelli can do for a waistcoat."
Red had taken the liberty of ordering catered service for both of them so they would not be disturbed, yet any time Elizabeth mentioned the Blacklister, Reddington hedged. So she let the subject drop and instead focused on the meal and light conversation, trying to figure out when to best broach the subject of their child.
When the meal was finished and Red suggested they step out onto the balcony for a moment, Lizzie knew that this was her opportunity—and what better moment than one similar to the whole thing? She allowed him to take her hand and lead her out the French doors and toward the balustrade. Knowing how wordy he was, she knew she had best jump on the opportunity before he launched into another story
"Red," she began, catching him off guard again as he had already started to speak, "this is perfect. This whole night is perfect," she smiled, touching his arm again as she had on board the barge carrying their container. "It reminds me of the night you told me about Polaris."
His face visibly blanched in the moonlight. "Lizzie—" he began. They had never spoken of that night, and he was loathe to have her tell him about any regrets. Especially now. Red Reddington, who had walked through fire and weathered a hail of bullets many times in his life, could not face rejection from this woman. Not his Lizzie.
"No," she urged, patting his arm urgently, "listen. Ray. Raymond. Listen to me."
She felt sluggish and slow. It was hard for her to find the words, but she knew she could show him. Her thoughts were getting fuzzy and she felt almost drunk, but she needed to do this thing and then maybe lie down for a bit. "Ray," she said, swaying closer. Reddington looked piteously on and his mouth worked as if trying to form words. She silenced anything he was about to say by once more placing her lips to his. "I love you," she said, swaying again. And then she dipped. He caught her just in time and saw her eyes glassed over. Raymond swept her up in his arms and laid her down on a chaise on the balcony behind them.
"What is this?" she asked, feeling woozy and fully aware now that something was wrong. "The baby?"
"The baby will be fine," Reddington said slowly, "you will be fine. Nick gave us an Ambien to get you nice and sleepy, but it shouldn't harm the child. You have quite a trip ahead of you."
Lizzie's brow furrowed. "Reddington," she swallowed drowsily, "what are you saying? What are you up to? I'm staying right here."
"No Lizzie," Raymond shook his head, "not like this. I need you safe. And your baby." His mouth worked as though he wanted to say more, but those were the last words she heard before she dropped off to sleep.