She turned more than a few heads as she hurried out of the hospital. Not a completely illogical place for people to be crying, she thought. Her reasoning just happened to be quite unexpected.
Throwing her car into gear, she sped away as fast as was safe and wove her way through town back to the depressing motel she dared call a home. Not the loft. She wouldn't go back there. Couldn't go back there. Everything would remind her of him. How, when purchasing a second apartment for her, he chose one down the street from her favorite coffee shop. The one with the warm, flaky, chocolate croissants that he thought to bring her one early morning at the office. How, this time, the place actually fit what a young, single FBI agent would be able to afford yet was so invitingly furnished with cozy, yet contemporary things that spoke to her taste and needs. They may have been just things, some unique pottery and a few colorful throw pillows, but they spoke to her of what it could look like if they built a home, built a life, together.
But no. It was settled in her mind, now. She couldn't accept this apartment either. Not with things the way they were. If she was surrounded by things that reminded her of Red, she would just be reminded of Madeline, too.
Madeline Pratt. Just thinking about her made Liz consider a second shower.
Traitorous bitch.
How could he even consider allowing her the chance to polish the dirt from his shoes, let alone consider her a companion, or worse yet, a lover? She had to be up to something, once again waiting to sell him out to the highest bidder.
Attractive but treacherous.
She pressed her foot further into the gas, desperate to get out of traffic where she feared she could harm someone, or herself. Back at the motel, she thought, at least she could throw something or slam a door. Scream therapy, maybe. Her heated blood coursed so viciously through her that it hindered her hearing anything but its rhythm.
"Why? Why her?" she screamed into the privacy of her car. What did she have that Liz didn't?
Red had even described to Madeline that his relationship with Liz was fated. That he thought she was 'very special.' Where was all that now? She saddened, then, when she realized the responsibility she bore in driving him away. All the stolen moments in the back of his car and the longing glances and when you love someone you have no control. He held her hand, held her together when her marriage fell apart and he held her tightly to him as more and more of her world began to burn. She repaid him for his gentleness with scorn.
At least with Madeline there was no pretense about their relationship. They were both liars but whatever was between them was out in the open. And though one would invariably turn on the other, at least they knew where they stood with each other.
Liz couldn't say the same for her and Red.
If Red was blind enough to be duped by her yet again, then Liz, of all people, would never be able to talk him out of it. The more she allowed her mind to go there, the more she started to rationalize. They were the same age, both wanted criminals. They had traveled the world, sometimes together and they had history. Granted, it was probably less complicated than hers with Red and most likely didn't involve burning buildings and an artifact that could tip the balance of world power. Semantics, she thought.
She dragged her bone weary body up the exterior stairs to her room, dropping her coat, keys and bag on the dingy carpet at the door and locking it behind her. Crawling into bed still clothed, she kicked off her shoes and pulled up the blankets to her chin and prayed for utter exhaustion to take over and save her from her wandering thoughts.
Two hours in, the sound of a hollow gunshot shocked her awake, cold sweat coating her brow. Another dream, or nightmare, as it were. She couldn't get back to him fast enough and even though Dembe was putting pressure on his wound, she had to help, had to make sure he didn't slip away from her. She sat in bed hugging her knees to her chest, trying to shake the images that persisted in her subconscious. He was alive, he had made it and she needed to begin to believe that she was not complicit in the shooting, that she bore no responsibility in what happened but that maybe, just maybe, if she hadn't been there, he might not have made it. As much as she didn't want to imagine him with another woman, she would rather him be alive and happy, fulfilled even, than to die an undignified death in the middle of the street.
As much as she fought to sleep again, to ward off the dreams and constant thoughts of him, all synapses were firing. If she got it off her chest, if she just said goodbye before he surely disappeared with Madeline; perhaps one day she could find closure. Grabbing her coat and keys, she drove back to the hospital.
At the hospital, Madeline was with Red when he again woke, trying to speak but fighting against the tubes still in his throat. She went to the nurse's station and snapped her fingers at the shift nurse, barking at her to quickly come and help Red.
The nurse, ignoring Maddie's condescending behavior, came to Red's side and with a gritty smile, politely told Madeline that she needed to leave. With a huff and a swing of her flashy Italian leather pocketbook, she clipped noisily out of his room and then out into the night.
Skillfully, Red's nurse removed his breathing tubes and raised the angle of his bed. He would most surely feel the need to cough and drink some water, which she handed him when he seemed ready. He was still groggy and his throat was scratchy from the intrusive tubes. He motioned for her to come close so he could whisper to her.
"Rest. Right now you need rest. Your voice will normalize soon," she told him as she placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a kind, reassuring smile.
"Was there a young lady with dark hair here before, or did I dream that?" he was able to whisper just loud enough for the nurse to hear.
"The pretty, young FBI agent? No, she was here a few hours ago. When you were brought in, she asked for an hourly report of your vitals. Not exactly normal procedure, but I can look the other way this time. It seemed very important to her. In fact, she was in the waiting room for nearly two days right up until that other lady showed up," she said, hooking her thumb and motioning toward the hallway and Madeline.
"The agent left?" he breathed, now becoming visibly upset. The heart monitor got the nurse's attention and she crossed to it, silencing it.
"Dearie, you really need to relax. You'll rip that incision right open if you keep up like this," she said, trying to calm him. She was about to push his morphine pump when she felt his hand on her arm. Looking surprised, she leaned down to hear again what he had to say.
"No, please don't, I want to be coherent for this conversation. What did she say when she left?"
"She was fairly distraught. I tried to pull her aside and tell her that you were going to be alright, that you had pulled through the worst of it but she wouldn't stop to listen. I tried to push a few tissues into her hands but she was crying and mumbling something about needing to get out of the way," she said.
"Did she say anything else?" Red asked, a look of terror in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, no, she left so quickly. Now, I need you to relax, for your own good," she said finally hitting the pain pump and waiting until he acquiesced and reclined, heaving a sigh and giving into the comfortable numbness that was washing over him more and more with each beat of his heart.
"Oh, she did mention something about it being important that you had extra blankets," she said pulling another layer from the end of his bed, unfolding them over him.
All he could manage was a crooked smile. Even starched, bleach-white and scratchy hospital blankets felt good to him now. The pleasing weight of the blankets and weightlessness dripping into his body in stark contrast. And Lizzie. She had thought of him, of what would make him feel at home, even in the ICU.
She dimmed the lights and turned to leave. With her hand on the door, she turned over her shoulder and said, "It must be nice, working with the FBI. The agent looking after you seems to really care about you."
Red could only nod. He had no words, for once.
For the second time that night, now nearly morning, Liz entered the hospital and headed to his room. She stopped by the nurse's station first for an update on his progress. Although his breathing tube was removed and he was doing better, the pain was still considerable. Liz told the nurse that he would need to be moved to a private facility for further rehabilitation as soon as he was strong enough. The nurse gave her a knowing smile. In just a few interactions with Liz, she discovered that she was invested in this patient far beyond what was normal for an agent and a federal witness.
He was asleep when she entered his room, eyes gently shut and lips slightly parted. It was darkened, quiet. This time, she sat in the chair, hoping not to disturb him. With any luck, he would never know she was here.
She looked at him for a few minutes, burning the serene image of him sleeping so peacefully into her memory and searching for her resolve. The familiar lump was already forming in the back of her throat. Eyes already stinging with heartache and she hadn't yet opened her mouth.
Finally, but cautiously, she reached up and took Red's hand, lacing her fingers with his.
"I know things have been strained between us," she began, "and I know I have been quick to point out all the ways you have hurt me by withholding information from me and that doesn't change the fact that I was hurt, still am in some ways.
"When you were shot, God, Red, I've never been so scared in all my life. And I don't really remember everything that happened after, just that it felt like hours were passing by in those few moments. It made me think about all the times I have given you the cold shoulder or thanked you for your kindness and generosity with my own sarcasm and ingratitude.
"But you never called me out on it, you just quietly took every blow and I don't know why. I don't know why you kept coming back for more. You walked through fire for me, the least I can do is be honest with you," she took a long, cleansing breath then continued.
"Red, somewhere along the way I fell in love with you," and as the words left her lips, the flood of tears overwhelmed her. She covered her mouth, trying to keep the audible sobs from waking him.
"And I guess I thought that this would bring us closer. We're so fragile and we're not guaranteed tomorrow and I just thought we would finally get our chance," she struggled to get out as the realization of what she was saying crashed over her.
She sniffed and wiped at her tears.
"And it's crazy, right? A criminal and his handler. I don't know how it happened. I mean, I begged it not to happen. But here I am, confessing my feelings for you in the middle of the night just days after you were gunned down in front of me. I should have told you before Madeline.
"I just should have told you, period," she admitted, still tearful and choking down the sobs as wave after wave of reality began to roll in.
"You're going to go away for a while now and I'll try to get over you. I'm not making any promises. But I think this is a good start," she added. She reached into her purse, taking a keepsake she had kept on her every day for nearly two years and placing it in his curled hand and placing a long kiss there with it.
She turned and left the room, not looking back.
The heavy door closing caused Red to stir. He felt a cool heaviness in his hand and lifted it to look more closely.
Tucked into his palm, still bearing the evidence of his own dried blood, was his golden, Montblanc, crossword puzzle pen.
A/N: So I totally heard Princess Leia's voice as she frees Han from the carbonite when the nurse tells Red, "your voice will normalize soon." Inspiration and imagery comes from so many places. Thanks for reading. I just love hearing what you have to say – what did you like? What did you not like? More on the way soon!
