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Raymond Reddington gripped the steering wheel, alternately contracting and relaxing his hands and sometimes smoothing them idly over the dimpled surface in time with the radio. His palms were sticky with sweat.
He sat at a stoplight in a backwater town in Nebraska. It was hot for early summer, and the car's air conditioner had long surrendered to the scorching sun. The weather had turned a few hundred miles back. He had driven to give him time to think.
His left elbow hung out of the window where a dry breeze flowed easily over the flat land, carrying with it a very green and dusty smell, the smell of vibrancy, of things alive. It made him slightly nauseous.
I will see her today, he thought with a sense of exhilaration. I will see her.
Behind him, someone laid on the horn. He looked up to find the light was green, and he gunned the engine of the compact car as it lurched lazily through the intersection and closer to his destination.
A few miles later Raymond Reddington pulled to a stop. He squinted at the torn piece of notebook paper now crinkled and soft from folding and unfolding over the last few days. He had looked at the address so many times; he had studied each of the letters as if to divine an image of his destination, as if his future and past lay hidden within their gentle arcs. But it was just a note, and he was already here. He crumpled the paper and lobbed it onto the seat beside him.
The address had taken him to a squat, dingy little brick building on the outskirts of town with warm windows and a few cars parked out front. There was a sign, a huge monolith he'd seen from the main road with busted out letters that no one had bothered to replace. High above him and glinting in the late afternoon sun it read "_melet_ _ S_o_pe."
He checked his watch. It shouldn't be long now, he thought to himself.
If Sam found out, he began in his mind, but quickly pushed it away. He eyed the overstuffed white envelope on the seat beside him and swallowed hard. This was necessary, he assured himself. Vital. Sam never had to know.
Because if there was one thing that Sam Milhoan had made perfectly clear, it was that Raymond Reddington was not allowed to see her, not in the flesh…not ever. But Sam had consistently refused the money. He had left him no choice.
Almost on cue, he saw a rusted blue pick-up truck pull up to the side of the small diner and shutter to a stop. He held his breath; the truck door squeaked loudly as it groaned against the hinges, and shortly thereafter a young woman climbed out, hitting the ground flatly and kicking up little clouds of dust that settled around her black Converse high-tops.
It was difficult at first for him to reconcile the woman he saw before him with the frightened little girl he had found that night. If he closed his eyes he could still see the tracks of tears on her round, soot-covered face, how they had shone dully in the light of the alleyway a block from the decimated house. He'd been unable to go on; he had left her there, unconscious, and called Sam shortly after. At the time, he was unsure if he would ever see her again, or if he would even live through the night.
But here she was, and here he was, and both of them were very much alive.
He watched as the young woman reached across the truck seat and retrieved something from the passenger side. It was a backpack, and she slung one strap of it across her shoulder and slammed the truck door loudly before heading inside. She wore a uniform, the dress-style waitress ensemble that service workers often wear.
She had a dark brown ponytail that bounced when she walked, but her steps portrayed a surety and ease greater than her years. Raymond Reddington watched as she opened the door to the diner and slipped inside.
The little girl he'd pulled from a burning fire over 14 years ago…the little girl Sam had named Elizabeth. That little girl was a young woman now-a waitress at a diner in a no-name town with her whole life ahead of her.
He waited a few more minutes, counting his breaths. He palmed the white envelope on the seat beside him and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket.
The dark brown leather jacket he wore stuck to his three-button polo like a damp glove. Maybe it would be cooler inside, he thought. He pushed the mirrored aviators he wore higher onto his nose and opened the car door. His hand betrayed a slight tremor.
Three steps from the door of the small diner he wanted to turn around, to walk hurriedly back to that too-small rental and drive back to where he came from. He did not. He found himself standing on the pockmarked pavement and staring at the little bell above the door that would announce his entrance. He removed his sunglasses and pushed inside.
The air within was barely cool, with the greasy steam and frothy cola smell present in all diners. He made his way to a booth by the window in the shadow of the behemoth sign with the rotten-teeth letters. He rubbed his hands nervously over the scarred Formica, mustering the courage to look around.
The red vinyl decor was accented with faded turquoise, which, like brushed metal, shone mutely in the waning sun of late afternoon. The diner was cozy without being claustrophobic. A bar ran along the left side of the seating area and framing the kitchen.
And that's when he saw her. She was leaning over the counter, one leg balancing on the ball of her foot. Her backpack was tucked under one of the barstools, and she had a pencil in her hair.
Can't, he thought in a wild panic, can't do this, but even as the words bloomed on the field of his consciousness, he knew it was too late to turn back. When he had entered those doors, it had been too late.
Hell, he thought miserably, when I rented the car.
The heavyset woman behind the counter sauntered over to the young woman, a bar towel over her shoulder. She appraised her with a scowl that was not unfriendly. "You've got a customer," she said brusquely, jerking her head in the direction of the large window and the booth that sat in the shadow of the sign. "A real looker." The woman smiled then, all previous annoyance gone, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Elizabeth Scott turned, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum just enough to remind her she was at work. Secretly, she smiled. Marge had been right; this one was a looker. Tan skin, sandy-blonde hair, a strong jaw, and built as far as she could tell beneath that ridiculous bomber jacket. She grabbed her notepad from the waistband of her apron and made her way over to him.
She stepped into the sun slanting around the giant sign out front, and Raymond Reddington could see a light dusting of freckles across her nose that miraculously trimmed no years from her age. She was 18 now, he surmised, and resembled little of the frightened girl he had pulled from the flames that night. Try as he might, he found it difficult not to stare.
"Hi," she said casually. "Can I get you something?"
His throat convulsed rapidly, trying to conjure a word. "Uhm…what do you suggest?" He could scarcely listen for a reply over the thundering of his heart.
She smiled, eyes sparkling, and tucked a stubborn wisp of hair behind her ear. "Well, I made a pie yesterday." She folded her arms across her middle, one hip jutting out. She seemed incredibly proud of the pie.
He returned the smile, relaxing a little. "I'll have that then. And coffee. Black."
She scribbled a short note or two on the thick order pad and left him by the window.
He was glad when she was gone; it gave him a moment to think. Wildly, he thought of leaving. I've seen her, isn't that enough?
But he knew it wasn't; he was just unsure why.
He looked up from his hands to find her standing there, the coffee and pie in hand. He noticed for the first time the mud-brown uniform dress, heavily starched, with white cuffs and collar. It struck her just above her knee and, despite the horrendous color, did nothing to detract from the natural and seamless beauty that was already evident in the bloom of youth.
She's too young for you, he inwardly warned, glancing briefly out the window to distract himself. Too young for you. The sun was sinking lower into the horizon, and he felt the full brunt of its rays. He shed the jacket.
She set the coffee down in front of him, accompanied by the slice of pie, and turned to leave. A surge of panic seized him. Say something say something, although he didn't know what. What more did he want? What more was there?
"Excuse me."
He cleared his throat nervously, and she turned around. "I'm from out of town," he began haltingly. She put one hand on her hip, a "no shit" expression on her face, and waited.
"And I was wondering if you could help me." Her cunning eyes never left his face, but her momentary annoyance seemed to recede a bit. He gestured to the empty space across from him. "Won't you sit down?"
She screwed up her face, a soft chuff escaping her lips. "I'm working, remember?" One eyebrow shot skyward.
He did. Of course. He licked his lips nervously. She was tough, he thought, and wary of others. Both good things.
"Sorry," she said noncommittally. She rubbed her arms in the absent way people do when they're waiting to be released from social obligation. "I hope you find your way, though."
She smiled at him then, a winning, beautiful smile with just a little bite, and turned away from him.
"Do you know where Arthur Carter High School is?" he asked too loudly. A few other patrons eyed him coolly, but he paid them no mind.
He saw her turn. "Yeah," she said cautiously. "Why do you want to know?"
He thrilled inwardly at the little victory, a few more moments of her time. He laughed, shocked at how relaxed he sounded despite the turmoil of emotions that roiled just below the surface. "I should've introduced myself before," he said casually. "Kenneth Rathers." He proffered his hand, and she reluctantly took it. Hers was soft, light but strong. "I'm presenting a scholarship at the school tomorrow and I'm afraid I'm lost," he said.
Her face softened, the suspicious furrow relaxing a little into the smoothness of her face. He had interested her, he thought to himself. Then, she turned abruptly and walked back to the kitchen.
Immediately, he second-guessed himself. Could he sell this? Was this doable? From his booth, he watched as she leaned over the counter, beckoning to the woman she'd spoken with before. "This guy needs directions," he overheard her say. "Can I have a few minutes?"
He smiled, drumming his fingers on the table and trying to look casual. When she returned, she sat in the seat opposite him.
"I'm Elizabeth," she said pleasantly. "My friends call me Liz. Arthur Carter is my school. My soon-to-be ex-school," she added with a wry quirk of her mouth. "I graduate next month."
He stabbed at the pie speculatively, testing the jaundiced wedge of gelatin with the tines of his fork. It was lemon meringue. He was finding it difficult to meet her gaze.
"So," she began, "you're presenting a scholarship?" She wondered briefly why this man who had been so talkative before had promptly clammed up as soon as she sat down. He finally looked up from his inspection of the pie.
She's beautiful. Fuck me, she's beautiful. The words rattled around his sluggish brain as his eyes drank in her face, her full lips, and the defined line of her jaw that had already shed the softness of adolescence. Her eyes were wide yet speculative. He could tell she wasn't too impressed by anything about him.
After a few moments, he found his voice. He had been so desperate to keep her from walking away that he had committed to the lie before he'd thought it through. Fuck me, he thought again.
"I am," he said, relaxing a little. "Did you mention that you were graduating?"
He did the math quickly in his head. She was 18, definitely, although he wasn't sure why that suddenly mattered.
She shook her head, the stubborn tendril shaking loose again. He watched it, entranced, as it caught on the updraft of her breath.
"Finally," she muttered. "I –uh…I got lost a little." She smiled shyly, and it bloomed in her eyes. "I got held back a year."
He smiled at this. Elizabeth, as she had introduced herself, had a rebellious streak. It was not unlike his.
He sipped at his coffee. "You don't seem the type. If I might ask…what happened?"
She twisted the rings on one hand, studying him. She had four simple gold bands on one finger and three on another of her right hand. They gleamed in the muted neon of the little diner.
"You first," she said. "What's this scholarship? Are you with a college?"
He cleared his throat. "It's more of a benevolent fund," he said quietly.
She nodded, unconvinced. She did not seem particularly interested, either. "So, what exactly is 'the type,'?"
He looked at her, not understanding.
"You said before that I didn't seem the type," she said in explanation. Liz leaned forward on her elbows, and the ringed fingers brushed her upper arms lightly as her chin jutted forth just enough to make his pulse quicken.
God help, he thought wildly, she's flirting with me. He fingered the fork again, needing something to do with his hands.
"I guess that was stupid of me," he corrected quickly. "I really don't know what that means." He laughed nervously, and then she laughed, too. She leaned back against the booth, and he released a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. Her self-awareness impressed him; she knew exactly how disarming she could be, a potentially dangerous but entirely useful quality.
Liz appeared thoughtful, suddenly older than her 18 years. She pursed her lips. "I got into trouble about two years ago. Me and some guy...we had a sweet little con going on." A whisper of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I was 16. I thought I knew everything." She shrugged. She did not seem particularly contrite.
"We all make mistakes," he said quietly. He spoke into the rim of his cup and mostly to himself.
She turned her head slightly. "You ever make any?"
He leaned back, regarding her. The thick envelope inside the jacket beside him seemed to accuse him. "Frequently," he said. "I think that's part of life."
She did not seem convinced. "What's the worst one you ever made?" She was looking at him with renewed interest now, the question of what he might say hanging in the air between them.
"Maybe I've yet to make it." He frowned, feeling warm again. Her scrutiny carried a causal intensity he wasn't used to. Most people did not dare study him that way; it was as if she was looking through him, into his history, and peeling away the protective layers of his inner self. He could feel the exposed nerve-endings of the last decade of his life shrink a little for want of hiding.
She smiled. "And maybe you're a liar," she said easily. The dying light bleeding around the huge sign out front cast her face in varying tones of shadow and shade. It made her appear harder, but no less beautiful.
"That's ok," she said good naturedly. "I wouldn't answer that question either." Her face moved into the light, and he could see the full warmth of her eyes and her easy smile. His heart dropped out of his chest.
"So, um...is that what melet sope stands for?" He was pointing at her nametag, just above the ripe swell of her breast.
She looked at him strangely, and he smiled, indicating the sign through the window. She turned the nametag, looking at it with odd humor. "Omelette Shoppe. Yeah." She laughed hardily then, a rich musical sound that he hoped he would remember. "God. That stupid sign." She put a hand to her face briefly to cool her heated cheeks.
And then he laughed. He couldn't help himself. It had been so long since he had reason to. He let himself laugh until he felt like stopping, until his eyes were wet with mirth and she too had quieted.
He quirked an eyebrow. "So, they went with the fancy spelling?" he added wryly, and she shook her head.
"It's supposed to be French," she said with a faux air of haughtiness. "As if the other spelling isn't French enough." She looked out the window in the direction of the sign, but didn't really study it. "No one bothers with it anymore," she said quietly. "That sign is like everything else in this little town...desperate to move on."
"Only it can't," he added thoughtfully. He studied her freely now as she sat in profile at the window.
"Right." She turned, looking at him. "So it periodically rejects part of itself, like a silent protest." She quirked her mouth. "We just try to stay out of its way."
He nodded. Through the window, he could see the shattered remnants of oversized letters littering the ground beneath the sign. A comfortable silence settled between them. He realized how he must look, sitting here in a run-down diner smiling at this young woman like a fool. But she was smiling back…some secret part of him refused to deny it. It warmed him.
"So what's next for you?" He took a forkful of pie and moved it to his mouth. She tracked his movements, watching with anticipation as he tasted it for the first time.
The pie was both sour and sweet, with a gritty aftertaste. He chewed, working to get it down. He looked up to find her watching him, her brow furrowed.
"It's awful, isn't it?" She worried her bottom lip.
He took another sip of coffee to cleanse his palate. It was awful, definitely. "It's fine," he said instead.
She crossed her arms. "You're a terrible liar."
He couldn't resist a chuckle. Lying had become second nature in his line of work. Maybe he just found it difficult to lie to her.
She waved her hand. "It's ok. Obviously I'm not planning on being a chef." She tucked the stubborn lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm actually leaving here after graduation."
Strangely, it made him sad. He knew that if he never saw her again, Elizabeth would remain in his mind a beautiful woman in a mud-brown uniform who served him terrible pie. To think she would go on living her life elsewhere and without him made him feel somewhat empty.
"College?"
She nodded. "Yep, for now. Then, maybe more. I would really love to work for the FBI someday. You know, help catch the bad guys?"
He nodded. You've already caught one, he found himself thinking. He fingered his napkin. "And who are the bad guys?"
She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. "Dunno. Guess I'll find out. Maybe that's the fun of it." She looked at him intently, her eyes soft. "Maybe we're all a little bit of both…the good and the bad."
He nodded, feeling transparent, exposed. The sun had slipped low enough on the horizon to engulf the little diner through the large window. The brushed metal and chrome neon was on fire with it, the cool metallic and red vinyl molten in its amber warmth.
He wanted to kiss her. He realized this as naturally as he had realized the pie was horrible or that his jacket was too warm. He spread his fingers on the table, a bit anxious under her scrutiny.
Then, the woman Liz knew as Marge called to her from the kitchen. He watched the two talk quietly for a few moments, and then discreetly withdrew the envelope. By the time she had returned, he was finished and it was put away again.
"I guess," she said a little reluctantly, "I should get back to work." She gave him a small, rueful smile.
The words pierced him, bringing him back to the present. Again, he felt the rising panic of her impending absence roiling in his stomach. "I, uh…I never got those directions," he said, amazed by the apparent calm in his voice.
She laughed. "No, you didn't." She smoothed the uniform with one hand and proffered the other. "C'mon. It's better if I show you."
His throat constricted as he looked at the hand, the strong slender arm, the cunning face. He took it.
The hand was warm and more pliable than before. He let her tug him to the entrance of the diner and followed her as she pushed their way outside. The asphalt still shimmered with heat.
She released his hand, moving hers instead to the crook of his elbow. She directed his attention to the main road.
"Go back by the sign. At the intersection, you'll take a left instead of a right. Go about three miles and the high school is on the right."
He scarcely heard her. All he was aware of was her hand on his bare arm and the way she leaned into him, and that when she pointed toward the highway and canted her body, her right breast brushed his arm. She released him.
"You think you've got it?" She was looking up at him with such expectancy that it made him feel broken, unworthy.
He nodded tightly. "Think so."
Don't go don't go, he began silently. Two more minutes of her time-what would he give for just two more minutes with her?
She smiled up at him. "It was really great to meet you," she said quietly. He could feel the tethers loosening; their time was at an end.
And then, she hugged him.
He was stunned at first, but he managed to return the chaste embrace by pulling her gently to him, enfolding her against his chest. He exhaled. At some point in the last few seconds, he'd forgotten to breathe.
She was warm, soft but strong; he could feel her strength, the maturity that had nothing to do with her age. She smelled like strawberries and the green Nebraska air.
Elizabeth Scott. He worked the name over, his mind racing. She could go with him, he thought wildly. They could drive away in that rental car with the windows down and the letters on the ground and nothing but open highway, a blank slate, a new start before them. He had money. He could keep her safe.
He released her.
"It was great to meet you too," he said instead, "And thank you for everything." He meant it, everything he said and everything he could not say.
She nodded, gave him another bright smile, and then turned away from him. He stood there watching her until she was out of sight. He wouldn't leave her again; he was unsure if he could bear it.
But when the door of the diner had closed and she was safely on the other side of it, Raymond Reddington returned to his car and drove away.
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Inside the diner, Liz held the leather bomber jacket in her hands, taking a moment to feel its supple leather. It smelled uniquely masculine, like sandalwood and something citrus, and was butter-warm from sitting in the sun. He was already gone, she knew. She had stood at the window and watched the car inch its way along the main road until it turned and was out of sight. Every part of her hoped he would be back for it, but she knew he would not.
She stood at their table, the jacket heavy in her arms. Before she had time to reconsider, she put one arm into it, and then the other. She pulled the jacket close around her, doubling it around her middle. She closed her eyes.
Suddenly, something heavy fell from the pocket. She eyed it curiously where it rested near her feet. It was a thick, white envelope. She picked it up.
There, scrawled neatly on the front of it, was simply "Liz." And underneath,
"…To help you find your way."
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A/N: The Omelette Shoppe sign is real. The entire scenario for this story presented itself on a road trip over two years ago. Real life and other things have prevented me from finishing it until now. I hope you enjoyed it, and I would love to know what you think!