Flashbacks

A/N: A lot of you have requested a continuation of my one-shot "Flashes" that I wrote on the shooting from Lizzie's pov. In my thanks to all you wonderful people out here and your support, here you go. It's not so much a continuation but a companion piece presenting the events from Red's pov but I think you'll like it even though he's unconscious through most of it;)

This story can be read as a separate whole but I suggest you read "Flashes" as well (if you haven't) to get the full picture.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Blacklist, but I do own this Red/Lizzie moment.

Her hands.

The pain is excruciating. It throbs through his body and explodes in his brain in searing fiery bursts, keeping pace with his heart. It's as if someone was reaching in and trying to pull his lungs out of his chest with bare hands. Black mist swirls at the edges of his mind drawing him into oblivion but the steady grip of her hands keeps him just above the surface. In the scattered moments of consciousness his failing body is allowing him all he can think about is her white scarf splattered with crimson, the look in her eyes when he fell to the ground, and her hands, pressing so desperately on his chest to stop the life flowing out of him.

He still feels them clutching his own as they speed in the car but they are gentler now, offering comfort and warmth. This seems like one close call too many and if this is to be his last moment, he wants her to know how sorry he is. He may not have the time to explain her past or their connection but there is one thing he has to do before the pain, already so debilitating, swallows him up completely. He cannot leave things between them like this. He won't allow his last memory of her to be of her eyes filled with anger and disappointment as she turned away from him for good.

"Lizzie-" he rasps out and she tells him not to speak but he has to, even though pain is licking up his throat like scorching fire. This is the most important thing in his entire life right now. He lived through enough darkness and filth to last several lifetimes but he wants to die in the light.

So with one final effort he clutches her hand just a little tighter. "I'm sorry. So sorry." Those four short words seem like the longest and certainly the most painful diatribe he's ever delivered but he also knows it's his finest.

He feels more blood welling in his mouth and damn, the bullet must have hit a lung because every breath feels like he's being stabbed in the chest over and over. But then the fire seems to subside a fraction as he feels coolness on his cheek. With surprise, he realizes she's crying and wants to ask why. Her tears are like summer rain to the scorching agony that is overwhelming him.

"I know. It's OK." Her words are more than he ever could have hoped for. More than he deserves. But he takes them because they might be the last he ever hears her say and then he knows no more.

Her scent.

In his years of travels he has found that smell is a potent wizard that can transport you a thousand miles and all the years you have lived. Lizzie doesn't usually wear perfume. Her scent is delicate and sweet, a mixture of her shampoo and shower gel. To him, it's the soft scent of dewy grass on a spring morning, of freshly baked croissants enjoyed on a Paris boulevard as the sun rises over the Seine, of ripening fields and summers far gone.

It's home.

As they cart him to the OR, her scent lingers on him more than any perfume ever could, just like she does on his heart. His lips crease in a small smile despite the pain. He can die now.

Her voice.

It's the first thing he hears as he slowly regains consciousness.

"-do you hear me?"

There is frustration in her tone but he can sense an undercurrent of something deeper. Concern. Worry. Affection. It tears at some deeply-buried chords inside and has nothing to do with the hole in his chest the bullet tore.

In the last twenty years he hasn't had people care about him. It's a luxury he can't afford. His walls are built high and impenetrable to keep the darkness at bay. And yet she always manages to crumble his defenses with a simple gesture or warmer word. She draws out the man he used to be. A person long forgotten, buried deep beneath years of loss, pain and violence. It's so effortless for her to get through it should scare him. A year and a half ago it would but now he welcomes it. And that scares him.

"You know I didn't mean any of it. You always know."

He actually doesn't. With her, he doesn't want to take anything for granted. He has to work for her cooperation, every kind word, every smile. He wants it this way. It should never be easy or he will forget himself and beyond that is a line he dares not cross.

And then she crosses the line for him with three simple, heart-felt words.

"I love you."

His breath catches a little and he hopes she hasn't noticed. He feels he's shutting down, rendered helpless, and he grasps at the only coherent explanation echoing faintly from the swirling mess in his head. It's just fatigue and adrenaline speaking through her. It has to be because the alternative is unthinkable. He won't allow it. These feelings have to remain contained only within him. While curiosity can trigger a certain amount of recklessness, love is much, much worse, he knows. That can't be how she feels about him, he convinces himself. It just can't. It's both agony and comfort.

When she falls asleep, her head is propped against his side and her hand is tightly clutching his. Only after he hears her breathing steady and her grip loosen, does he finally allow himself to open his eyes. Caringly, his gaze rests on her hunched form. The first thing he does, he scans her body for any injuries and when it seems there aren't any, he breathes in relief. It's short-lived, though, as he takes a more careful look at her features. Her face, half hidden by her hair, is pale and drawn. A network of barely visible worry lines frames her mouth. He frowns, hating it's he who put them there.

He never wanted her to care about him. He wouldn't confirm it when she had called him out on it but indeed he doesn't deserve help or concern. Especially not from her. He is a criminal and a murderer. He is not a good man and she deserves so much better. He has no right to depend on her in any way, she isn't allowed to sacrifice anything for him, and he wouldn't take anything in return that she might be willing to give. But the one thing he can't change, is wherever their journey might take them, in all the darkness he lives in, she already has become that ray of light for him. Just by being in his life, by being who she is.

It costs him incredible effort and some truly excruciating pain but he manages to get himself up enough to place a gentle kiss to her hair. Black spots start to dance in front of his eyes and he falls back on his pillows but then she suddenly opens her eyes. His breath catches. He knows his face is open and vulnerable and he feels like a deer in the headlights. He's afraid that it will scare her and repulse her to see all his feelings for her so clearly on his face. He knows it will and he's waiting for her to get up, turn away from him and never come back.

But then she surprises him yet again. She straightens up and there is the sweetest, most gentle smile blooming on her lips. Stunned and helpless, he can only watch her in awe as she reaches out her hand and touches it gently to his cheek. His gaze is searching as he looks into her tear-rimmed eyes. The silent promise he finds there renders him breathless.

She is his ray of light. His last connection to humanity and as selfish as it may be, he can't bring himself to let her go.

He puts his hand over hers.

For this moment, they are frozen in time. The harsh light of the day does not touch them. They are not the number four on the FBI Most Wanted list and an FBI agent. Not an informant and his handler. Not a damaged man with no future and a hurt woman with no past. They are just Ray and Lizzie.

I hope you liked this. If you did, please leave a review – they make rainbows and unicorns ;)