She knew it was him. Before she could see him, hear him, or, hell, even smell him, she knew. She felt him in the room with her before there was any sign of his presence at all.
At least the alcohol hadn't dimmed all of her senses equally. Her sense of touch, sight, smell, taste, hearing—those were all impaired, but her newfound sixth sense, the one she discovered the first day she walked into the Post Office, was as sharp as ever.
He moved so gracefully through the moonlit room, she was sure she would have had trouble hearing him approach even if she had been at her best. He crouched down in front of her and gave her a once-over, silently checking for any injuries. He smiled that weird little twitch of a smile she'd come to expect from him and laid a hand on one of her knees. His thumb rubbed a gentle, distracting pattern there. She watched it move—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—and waited for him to speak.
"Everyone's worried about you, Lizzy. Harold and Donald pulled out all the stops to find you. They were unsuccessful, of course, but it was actually quite heartening to see. Even if they're really only afraid of what you know."
She hadn't used her voice in hours, and even then it was only to scream and cry, so when she finally got her vocal cords to cooperate, she sounded scratchy and hoarse. "You knew where I was right away?"
That earned her a full smile and a bark of laughter. "No. This was the fifth place I checked. I'm not omniscient, no matter how useful it would be to have people think I am." She wanted to laugh, too, but she was afraid if she tried she'd end up crying again instead. Her eyes burned just from the thought of it. His smile faded. "How much of that have you had?" He nodded toward the glass filled with cloudy liquid she clutched to her chest like a lifeline. She shrugged. He pried the glass out of her hand; she clumsily tried to grab it back, but he drained it in one wincing swallow and put the empty glass out of her reach.
"Hey!"
Standing smoothly, he brushed at some imagined dust on his trousers and held his hands out to her. "Come on, Lizzy, up you go." Reluctantly, she let him pull her to her feet. The room spun; she dug her fingers into his vest as she struggled to remain upright and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Cool fingers coaxed her to tilt her head up. When she could bring herself to open her eyes, she found her face just inches away from his. "You all right?" She almost nodded but thought better of it, hoping to avoid triggering another spin. He exhaled sharply when she released her grip on him; she probably left bruises.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and started to guide her through the cluttered rooms. It was slow going in the dark, with tripping hazards at every turn. Even still, the musty scent of old paper and ink that came along with the piles upon piles of books covering nearly every horizontal surface in this strange place made it feel more like a home than her own ever did.
Or ever would again.
"I don't want to leave," she said. "I like it here."
"Do you now?" He sounded somewhere in between amused and pleased. She wasn't surprised. He showed such an obvious fondness for the place the last time he stayed that it was almost contagious. Was contagious, really. He'd been more laid back during those few days than he had ever been in her presence before or since. It was what she was looking for when she ran, why she'd chosen to run here of all places—she hoped some of that peace would rub off on her, too.
Catching her foot on an errant pile of books, she stumbled a bit and he steadied her. She wormed her arm around his waist and, before she had time to think better of it, burrowed her face into his neck and inhaled deeply. His footsteps faltered enough for her to peer up at him to see what was wrong. Bewilderment looked utterly foreign on his face. She'd never seen him so unsure about a situation before. Not even with a pen in his neck.
"What?" she said, sounding petulant and defensive even to her sluggish mind. "It feels comfortable. Safe." She wasn't sure if she was talking about the house anymore and, by the look of him, he wasn't either. He held her gaze for a moment longer, before tightening his arm around her and pressing a lingering kiss against her temple.
"I know what you mean. It was love at first sight for me," he said, his voice low, gruff. He shook himself, probably not quite as figuratively as he would have liked, but they were pressed together from shoulder to hip, so it was hard to miss. "All right. That's enough sentimental nonsense. Come on, let's get you off your feet." He shifted to better support her weight and led her the rest of the way towards the bedroom.
He left her just inside the room to tend to the bed, turning down the covers and fluffing the pillows. He stood back and inspected his work. Shaking his head, he pulled open a drawer in the wardrobe and retrieved another blanket to add to the collection on the bed.
Satisfied, he offered her a hand to help her climb in. He started to pull the blankets up, but she managed to take them from him. No matter how drunk she was, she couldn't imagine allowing Raymond Reddington to tuck her into bed. He let out an amused huff of air, again with the twitchy little half-second smile he favored.
"You'll be fine here for the night. I'll have Dembe keep an eye on the place. You can report back to Harold in the morning." His lips twitched into yet another tiny smile. "He could stand to spend a few more hours thinking he might have been responsible for something terrible happening to you." When she didn't say anything in return, he nodded and broke eye contact. "You'll feel better after you've had some rest."
Her chest tightened as he made for the door. The thought of being alone again terrified her. "Wait!" she called out, perhaps louder than strictly necessary. He was barely half a room away from her, after all. She hoped he couldn't see her blushing in the darkness. "You're not going to stay?"
He tilted his head and regarded her silently for a moment. "Would you like me to?"
"I'd feel safer if you did."
He stood stock-still next to the bed for what felt to her addled brain like hours. Too far gone to analyze the micro-expressions that flitted across his face in the darkness, she just watched him sleepily, wondering what he would do. Slowly, he reached up and loosened the tie around his neck and pulled it from his collar, rolling it carefully and setting it on the nightstand. He unbuttoned his vest and a couple buttons on his dress shirt, toed off his shoes and slid under the covers next to her.
She expected him to move close to her or touch her or, hell, even turn to look at her, but he did none of that. He just stared at the ceiling with his fingers laced together over his chest. She gave a heavy sigh and turned her back to him, settling into the cocoon of blankets. She finally started drifting off to sleep when she felt his light touch against her arm.
"Thank you," he whispered, his lips brushing the hair behind her ear. "I don't think anyone has ever told me I make them feel safe. I didn't think anyone ever would."