A/N: *squeals* I am so ungodly excited about starting this multi-chapter piece. I received a lot of support from the fan base when I conceived the idea of combining the concept of the The Family Man and Lizzington, but now that I've gotten a decent outline and written the first few chapters, I am literally salivating to have y'all read it. So without further adieu, disclaimed and all, here is the first chapter!
Enjoy, lovelies.
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She forgets.
The paramedic butterflies the cut on her brow from the outline of Braxton's knuckles and Don talks in soothing drawls to her, leads her away in a safety blanket, and there's an in-between where Red tries to make her understand, but all she can do is understand, and she wishes there were mind-numbing drugs for her right up until she comprehends that the mind-altering drugs have made her this way, have made her life split and crack open like the bitter earth for reaping.
Red tries to give her sweet words when all she truly understands is that he's held her time and time again, held her in his arms like he could be a safe place, and she believed he was a safe place. She believed he loved her, she did. She thought all the talks about fish and lines in the sand meant something, meant that he was there for her, that he was the only person in which she could place her trust, but no. No, she was a fool. And now everything hurts, tilts sideways at an odd angle, and Ressler is taking her back to the apartment.
Thank God, thank God: Ressler isn't one for small talk.
But she had forgotten, what with the chaos and the white flashlights blinding her swollen eyes, what with don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me because if you do I might shatter, she had forgotten—
She forgets that the apartment is empty, that the apartment is not a home, that the apartment might as well be a hotel, but the expensive kind that Red would put her up in. Funny, that before, she thought he was being affectionate by paying for her only the best, pampering her like a crush, almost courting her; cluing her in as only a billionaire criminal could, but no. He likely felt obligated, and it's funny that he's her asset, but she has been his true obligation, all along. The golden goose, in the flesh. Well.
Well, it's funny, is all.
She forgets that the apartment is empty, so when Don sees her through the door and gently bids her goodnight, and she is left to surround herself in silence, in the bleakness that can only bely the fact she has nothing but herself to rely, well.
The moment she's alone in her apartment, Lizzie clasps a trembling hand over her mouth and sobs brokenly.
/
The bunny brings back memories of Sam, of five years old. She turns it in her hands, cheeks blotchy and puffed from crying, and remembers the way he'd tuck her in each night, kiss her forehead to tell her it would all be alright. She remembers the way Red did something similar, after she'd realized the truth about Tom, and it sends shivers down her spine that even though Red killed her father, even though Red has done terrible, hurtful things, knowing that Red's love was a figment of her imagination, a fallacy, heavies her heart with grief more than knowing he'd smothered her father in a random hospital room. Twisted, she is. Fucked up.
What's more twisted is finding the small, sewn material of her rabbit. An autopsy of the stuffed animal confirms, and in the dim light of her bathroom cast-off on her bed, she turns the technology in her hand as if it is the answer to every riddle, to every lie.
Lizzie knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the thing in her hand could hurt Red.
This knowledge does not fill her with satisfaction, or a taste for revenge.
Instead, a weight carries in the back of her throat, the hollow of her eyes, the knot of her stomach. A sinking, a knowing. A disgust.
A dreading.
/
The sleep pants cling to her thighs like a second skin, and in the darkness, she lies awake for too long. She knows sleep will not find her easy, not with the ruminating, the turning over of half-memories; she thinks, just before she closes her eyes, that it was only a week ago that she fantasized that Red was beside, holding her. "It's alright, Lizzie. There's nothing wrong with you."
Forehead kisses, the like. It was only a week ago that she thought he might love her.
It was only a week ago that she thought she might love him.
Lizzie thinks about physically turning the short hand on a clock backward, and then she closes her eyes.
/
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A baby is crying.
Sharp, staccato mewls pierce the air, and Lizzie's consciousness drifts in slowly even through the chaos, fractured details:
White, white bed sheets, soft. Blankets. White blankets. Light, yellow light, through curtains, maybe, blinking eyelids. Tired, Lizzie is so tired, and she just fell asleep, didn't she? Why is she already waking up? Why is she—
Little hands probe at her face, and in the moment it takes Lizzie too recognize this, her body goes ramrod still, eyes snapping open and fixing deafeningly fast on whatever is touching, whatever is in her apartment. No.
No, she's not in her apartment.
"Oh my god," Lizzie mouths, but she's caught like a terrified animal, and the words never actually become audible. She's frozen, she's floundering.
"Mommy."
Liz gulps, and if possible, her eyes stretch further open.
Comical.
She probably looks hilarious, but—
A petite child rests her tiny hand on her knees, where she's shifted forward to gauge every response of her mother. Sand colored curls, light eyes, full cheeks—
But no, no.
The child looks like Red. The child look just like Red. This is Red's child, and Lizzie's subconscious tells her this, screams this, and then—
"Mommy," the kid whines, face contorting into utter annoyance.
There's still a baby screaming, somewhere.
"Sammy's crying, and you promised you'd make pancakes today."
Lizzie adjusts to situate herself into a sitting position, orienting herself with the silk pajamas, the expensive material. The luxurious room that she doesn't recognize, and oh, oh, oh. Lizzie's mouth is dry, her eyes darting, wild. The little girl is suddenly very quiet, and Lizzie looks over to realize the small child is eyeing her suspiciously—
No, no.
Worriedly.
"Mommy," comes a whisper, sweet and soft.
The baby monitor that Lizzie spots crackles as the baby's cries let up for a few seconds.
"Mommy, did you have a bad dream?"
The concern darkens the tiny orbs, colors them, and her breath is taken away by how much this offspring does resemble the man that's upturned her life. The mannerisms are uncanny, and a wave of something akin to instinct blows through her when she schools her features and attempts to speak as coherently as she can muster.
"No," she answers, and it's, by some grace of God, steady. "I didn't have a bad dream. Just—
She struggles to present a good anything.
"I had a weird dream," she restates, nodding shakily. "I," she laughs, off kilter. "I almost don't remember who I am. Who are you?" she bursts out, trying to paste a smile on her face.
She pokes at the little girl's stomach, and on cue, the girl chokes with giggles.
"I'm Rory!"
Rory falls sideways, her bangs hanging down in her eyes. She grins lopsidedly at her mother.
"You're silly, Momma," Rory squints, and throws her arms around Lizzie's neck.
A sweet peck warms Lizzie's cheek, and Lizzie just—
She was going to be a mother to a baby, once. Motherhood isn't an idea entirely foreign to Lizzie. So, when Lizzie melts at the little girl kissing her cheek, giving affection, it's not entirely unwarranted. Because it's perfect, in some way.
It's perfect, Lizzie realizes.
Rory is perfect, with her happiness, and her beautiful laughter like bells, peeling bells, and her presence of warmth, and oh. Oh, this is a dream, isn't it? She's been aware a dream is a dream before, but in this particular situation Lizzie realizes how sad she is to know it will end soon.
The baby starts crying again.
Sammy.
Rory had said the baby's name was Sammy.
Reluctantly, Liz shifts to stand, taking note of everything situated, scanning for wedding pictures, for anything that could give background. The other side of the bed is undisturbed, but Rory is clearly Raymond Reddington's daughter. Two and two does not add up.
Where's Red, in this dream?
Is he getting ready to stroll through the door, a plate of freshly cooked pancakes in his hands? No. The Concierge of Crime doesn't cook, or at least, Lizzie imagines he'd pay somebody to do that for him. There's a silk robe laying over a chair, and Lizzie throws it on, starts toward the sound of the distressed toddler. Suddenly, the urgency of hearing the little one in such a state makes her nervous, makes her upset.
Everything is furnished well, as if it's been well-lived in, well loved. In this dream, she and Red live large, but the hardwoods in the hallway are warmed beneath her feet, and the scent in the air permeates her nostrils achingly drowning, like sinking toes into sand. This is home.
These hallways are so familiar she could almost close her eyes and walk them, yet when she reaches the nursery at the end of the other, pastel blue and yellow—
Lizzie stares into her son's room, gulps.
She pads the first two or three feet into the area and as soon as he spots her, the baby gurgles, sniffles. His expression morphs into one of recognition. He babbles, and then—
He reaches out for her.
Something like a whimper tears through her lips. Lizzie's chest feels tight when she wanders closer, closer, to rest her hands on the edge of the crib, peer into the hand-crafted sleeper. A rocking chair waits in the corner. She was going to be a mother to a little girl, once, before, with Tom.
The little boy—
Sammy, his name is Sammy.
Sam.
Sam has Red's eyes too, even if she does see herself in the child's features.
Toothless, he smiles, meaty fists grappling for her robe. Lizzie lifts him up into her arms, positions him on her hip. His weight is familiar, but the funny thing about this dream is that Lizzie knows she has never, ever done this before. She couldn't have. But the baby reacts on instinct, laying his ear flat against her heart, cuddling into her, and it's melting again. It's wanting this.
She wants this so bad, and she hadn't even realized it until this moment.
The fact that Red's probably (in her soul, she knows, she knows) their father doesn't seem to matter.
Or maybe it does.
The nightlight in the nursery the only beacon, Lizzie closes her eyes and leans in to inhale his scent; baby powder, lotion. Perfect, again.
Lizzie thinks she's about to wake up.
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She doesn't.
Instead, tiny feet bound across the floor of the hallway, skid to a stop.
"Mommy," Rory's voice comes, impatient.
Lizzie looks up, and the baby, hearing his sister's voice, looks up too.
"Pancakes."
/
tbc.