A/N: So...prepare for feels. Go ahead and batten down the hatches. All aboard the angst boat. Choo choo, beetches. Thank you SO much if you've read, reviewed, followed, or favorite. Keep it coming, folks. Disclaimed, and I hope you enjoy! :)


/

.

.

.

.

.

She hopes she doesn't wake him.

She hopes with everything in her that she doesn't disturb, but despite her reservations, she still can't help herself. It's instinct, this need to see him. Even this early in the morning, what with the light purple and barely there, sunrise and yearn all pent up. Lizzie closes her daughter's door as softly as she can before she moves on the balls of her feet to the place she knows holds something as unfathomable precious as the little girl with blond hair splayed across her pillow.

There's utter silence in the nursery.

Stillness. Sleeping.

His breathing is minuscule but there, and Lizzie creeps, creeps, until she can see the tiny chest rising and falling. Purple eyelids, impression of a cupid mouth. Red's mouth.

He's older than he was before, the other time she lived this life.

Larger, more proportioned. Still baby, but older.

A few months, at the very least.

In sleep, in laughter— and she can hear him laughing, even if he's still asleep, even if this dream was supposed to end the last time it was conceived, when she woke up—in the silence, she finds herself utterly composed at the idea of having children with Red, Raymond Reddington, in this alternate universe.

She's protective, is the thing.

Lizzie looks at her son— honey locks across his forehead, light blue, footy pajamas—and she leans in because she can't help herself. Rests one trembling hand over his moving, tangible chest. Life, before her. Life she created. Life she created with the one man in the entire universe, in any alternate world, too— the one her soul knows. The only man that's ever made her feel like intimacy doesn't have to mean sex.

Lizzie's cheeks heat, thinking about the implications of two children, though.

The ring that she knows resides in the master bedroom.

The meaning of marriage, of children, of a house in the—

Somewhere, an alarm starts going off.

"Crap," Lizzie hisses, darting away from the crib, out the door, closing it as quickly as she can.

Through the hallway, back to the bedroom—

There, on her nightstand, her phone screams. Lizzie fumbles with it in the still-dim lighting, realizing that in order to turn it off, she has to have her passcode.

"Crap," she says again, panic rising in her throat. It's only half past seven, and it's a Saturday. Lizzie prays. During one of the rare moments in her life, Elizabeth closes her eyes and prays, and when she opens them again, she enters in her passcode from the other universe, the one she's from, the one that's real—

The last four numbers of her social.

Praying, praying—

The sound halts, and Lizzie releases air she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Then—

Sammy's cries pierce the air, crackling through the baby monitor.

"Crap."

/

He doesn't quiet when she reaches him, not like last time. Sammy's precious face is scrunched uncomfortably, flushed, hot tears wetting his cheeks.

"I know," she says to him, sweetening the tone of her voice with sympathy as she lowers the bars of the crib. "It's a tragedy."

His short arms flail and reach for her even as she's hoisting up, careening him to lay flush against her shoulder. The shrieks weaken, morph into over-wrought sniffles. Hiccups. Then, finally, the infant buries his face in the delicate material of her nightgown and snorts.

At that, the edges of Lizzie's mouth quiver upward a bit.

"So dramatic," she whispers, rocking back and forth on her heels, relishing the feel of him, the smell of baby. Relishing holding him again, and dramatics runs in the family. Must be, because Liz closes her eyes and thinks upon every occasion that Red has told a story in the midst of tension, has made a gesture of grandeur even despite all the circumstances that most would shy from. Red is dramatic, and even though in that other world Lizzie knows she'd never admit it in a million years, she can admit it here.

Lizzie adores how dramatic Raymond Reddington is, and she adores his child, their child, and she watches Sammy, just watches him.

He finally lifts his head, blinks awake. Yawns, smacking his lips together.

"Mama."

A gummy grin paints across his petite features, as if to say, good morning.

The light is going from purple to orange and pink through the white, wooden blinds. Lizzie's eyes are adjusting, and even if this is only the second time she's ever seen this baby this early in the morning, Lizzie is already more than adjusted to the idea of waking to his toothless happiness, his reaching hands—every morning.

"Ready for some breakfast?" she asks him, pressing her lips to the softness of his hair without thought.

In response, he chortles. Not the giggle she remembers from the other morning, not light and airy and peeling bells like Rory. Deep. Warm. Sammy throws himself against her shoulder again, laughs in her ear.

Red's laugh.

He sounds like Red when he laughs, because he's Red's son, and—

Come to think of it, Lizzie loves Red's laughter, too.

If home had a sound, or something like that.

/

She turns on the news in the kitchen, finds the sacred planner.

It's Saturday, it seems, but unlike every other day in the week, unlike tomorrow, and any day after that—

Today is entirely blocked off.

Nothing planned.

Absolutely, starkly free.

The broadcaster on the television catches her attention, something the woman with too much hairspray in her hair says.

More puzzle pieces coming together, painting a bigger picture.

At least she's still in Washington.

At least, at the very least, she and Red haven't moved to someplace obscure in Arizona, in California— some state she doesn't know, has never lived in before. The weather is warm for September, the meteorologist says. It's half past six in the morning, and the first thing she does once she gets Sammy settled into his high-chair with a banana is wander back upstairs to find Rory, to open the door gently, stride in. Rory must be a heavy sleeper, because she barely stirs, never awoke to the sound of the alarm, earlier. Lizzie sleeps light, so this must come from Red, too. At least, maybe.

Lizzie wouldn't know.

The thought makes her swallow thickly.

"Hey," she prods, sinking down onto the queen bed, the pink blankets a sea around the limp body "It's time to wake up."

With a caressing, motherly touch, she tilts Rory into consciousness.

Rory's face crumples, eyes squeezing shut before they open, squint.

"Mommy? 'ts Saturday," Rory slurs, attempting to cover her face with a pillow.

Dramatic. Right.

"I know," Lizzie agrees, like she had with the little girl's brother. Something she can't put into words urges her to say what she says, do what she's doing. "But today we're going to do something special."

"What?" her little voice asks, curious but still half-delirious.

"You're going to have to wake up to find out," Lizzie prompts, as if she knows exactly what the trick is to waking up a six-year-old. Truth is, she's never done this before, but it's like she knows. Maybe it's because Rory is her daughter. Maybe it's because this kind of method is pure instinct.

Regardless, it works.

Rory pushes herself up and rubs her eyes sloppily, blond hair all tangled.

"What?" she hisses a little sharply, half-glaring at her mother.

"I don't know," comes Liz's laughing response. "It's a surprise. But what do you say we wake up and make breakfast together first? You and me, hmm? Pancakes or French toast?"

If at all off put before, Rory's entire front changes, shifts to shock, to blithe. "French toast? Really? Mommy, we haven't made that in—

The child breaks off, shaking her head frantically. "Like—like—forever! Like a year."

"So…French toast it is, then?" Lizzie inquires, tilting her head and breaking out in an expression of tease. Rory nods, throws the blankets away to step onto the floor, rush to take her child-sized robe off a hook.

"Come on!" Aurora beckons, grabbing her mother's hand.

Lizzie is, all at once, taken back to the hypnotist's episode, to her own, child-self. The connection there is obvious, the resemblance uncanny. But this is different, somehow. Different, and the same. And even if Lizzie's smile falls, she still follows her daughter.

She tries to ignore the fact this world might not even be real.

/

The smell of cinnamon and syrup and calorie-packed breakfast seems legitimate, at the very, very least. Rory eats like a little lady, manners complimented by how dead set she is about cutting the bread into bite-sized pieces all by herself, denying Liz's help. Capable. Independent.

It's expected, really.

Lizzie sips at coffee the color of sand and inhales deeply.

Cartoons playing, normalcy, until Sammy says, out of the blue, in the midst of babbling unintelligible syllables:

"Dada."

Rory's reaction is far more excited than Liz's herself.

The big sister hops up from where she was seated in the breakfast nook, moves quickly to Sammy's side. Coos. "Mommy," Rory mutters, shocked. "Mommy, did you hear him say it?"

"I did."

There's a strange sensation in her chest. A burning.

Where's Red?

"Da," the baby goes again, clapping his hands together, kicking his legs against the plastic.

"Mommy!" Rory starts, in her direction. "Mommy, he said, 'Daddy'! He's asking for Daddy! When's he coming home?"

The blond curls fly as the little girl turns her head, eyes piercing amongst the baby's babbling, the cartoons; a morning song. "Mommy? When's Daddy coming home?"

"I don't know," Lizzie repeats, and the thing is, it's another day, another time in this dream world, and she still doesn't know where Red is, or when he's coming back.

There's tears stinging her eyes, but they never fall.

Lizzie steels herself, moves to crouch and touch Sammy's cheek, kiss Rory on the crown of her hair.

"That's such a good boy," Lizzie finds herself saying. "Isn't Bubby smart, Aurora?"

The little girl nods, even as her expression shifts, ever so slightly, at the unanswered question.

Lizzie wishes she had an answer, too.

/

Later, while they're cleaning up the remnants of preparing the meal, Rory comments, pitch quiet, small:

"I miss the way Daddy makes French toast."

The words catch Lizzie off guard, make her frown, make her heart quiver. Red, making French toast. Red in the kitchen. What a thought. What a thought.

Her silence and therein inner contemplation make Rory unsure, shaky. "I like the stuff we made, Mommy. I just—

She breaks off, and Sammy shrieks something wild, as if he senses the way his sister is emoting pure tension, devastation. Faster than Lizzie can even fathom, Rory's eyes well up, and the next words are tearful. "I miss Daddy," Rory whispers, covering her mouth, sobbing, and—

"Hey," Lizzie rushes for her daughter, lets the little girl bury her face, much like the baby had done this morning, in Lizzie's clothing. "It's okay. I know. Hush. Hush."

Something overtakes Lizzie at the way Aurora shakes, the same protectiveness, the same yearning. Lizzie wishes, with everything inside her, that she could make Rory stop hurting. But then, in the next moment, Rory pulls back, looks up at her mother with a wet gleam in her eye.

"It's okay, though," Rory coughs, snotty and utterly beautiful, how positively green her daughter's eyes are. Clear, and green, and so very Red.

"Daddy will be home soon," Rory tells her mother, abundantly confidant, despite all the unkempt emotion.

Lizzie smiles a bit because it seems right, in this situation.

Nods, even though a part of her, a part she doesn't even has a name for, doesn't agree.

/

"If you could go anywhere in the world—okay, no, maybe not," Lizzie chuckles at the mischievous look in Rory's pink-rimmed eyes. "If you could go anywhere around where we live, where would it be? The zoo?"

Giggling.

"The aquarium?"

More giggling, a shake of the head. "Mommy."

"Then where?"

Rory thinks on it for a long moment, her pouty lips quirking. Finally:

"Anastasia."

Lizzie's eyebrows touch her hairline. "What?"

"You know! That place Daddy and you took me to before Sammy was born. Sammy wasn't even in your tummy yet!"

"That long ago," Lizzie whispers, following along, even with a faraway look in her eye. Still puzzled. "What did you like about it?"

"Well," Rory starts, clasping her hands underneath her chin. "It was really green, and everything smelled good. And the water is fun to play in if—

"Anacostia," Lizzie realizes, cutting Aurora off.

"That's what I said, Mommy," Rory rolls her eyes, and Lizzie's the one giggling, this time.

/

In her closet, behind all the dresses and the fine things, she finds a good pair of running shoes.

It's a beautiful day in September, the leaves on the precipice of turning. Golds and oranges.

Beautiful for a hike.

/

She braids Rory's hair.

(She really, really loves braiding Rory's hair.)

/

Jesus, help her.

Jesus, the only sucky thing about this world, really, is that she's never had to fumble with a car seat in the other one, and, well. Getting sandals on a baby's feet is hard work. Getting everyone dressed is hard work, and packing the baby bag, and the picnic basket, and—

Lizzie never thought, in a million years, regardless of universe, that she'd ever wear one of those ridiculous looking child-carriers. But this is different.

This is the kind that makes him strap to her back, Sacagawea style.

An expensive Cadillac Escalade to load everybody into, the purr of the engine, and it's barely ten in the morning when she sets out with Rory in a booster and Sammy entertained with a rattle.

Explores a neighborhood she's lived in for years, because it's the first time.

When Liz goes to turn on the radio, the GPS lights up, and oh. Oh.

She still works at the Post Office, apparently.

That's the destination that's typed in, that's most often visited, most often point B, so. Oh.

Sirius plays some older stuff, but before Lizzie can change it, Rory starts singing. Off tune, but in beat. "You can go your own way, go your own way. You can call it another lonely da—

"You know Fleetwood Mac?" Lizzie murmurs, aghast.

She would turn around and look at her daughter if she wasn't so safety conscious.

She's kind of, sort of proud. Maybe a little bit, because hey, at least her kid is well-versed on oldies, on good music, until:

"Mommy, this is Stevie Nicks."

Like Lizzie is the insane one.

"Oh, right."

/

"Can I be Christopher Columbus?" Rory asks her mother once they've pulled off onto the gravel parking lot, getting settled to begin their journey.

"Christopher Columbus?" Liz questions. "Why not Louis or Clark?"

The Sacagawea vibe is strong, with the way Sammy easily accommodates to the backpack-like feel. Such an adaptable child. No fuss, no muss. Well-adjusted, happy.

Rory pushes her bangs behind her ear, fresh into the twined hair. "Mommy, did you know Christopher Columbus had a ship? Daddy likes ships. Daddy was in the Navy, and they have lots of ships."

There's the lump in the back of the throat, the tick-tocking, again.

Lizzie goes, "Right, right."

They start towards the path together.

"You can be whoever you want to be, Rory. You know that? Anyone. But I think I'd prefer you to just be you, today. Rory, the explorer."

It flows so easy, the conversation. The words of wisdom.

This is the advice she would give a daughter in this world and the next, in any given life.

(Red has yachts, and Lizzie wonders if he's on one now, some business trip.)

"Really, Mommy?"

"Really," Lizzie replies without hesitation, and here, now— this is the first time it crosses Lizzie's mind that Red is not here with them, and Red should be.

And maybe, just maybe, Red is choosing not to be here.

Just maybe.

He has a history of it, is all.

History.

/

Rory has a best friend named Ruby, and Ruby likes bugs and blue and Rory like pink and hates bugs, but they're still best friends. Ruby told Trevor, a boy that likes her and sends her notes that say love, even if he spells it wrong, 'l—u—v', that she thinks boys are gross. Trevor has started sending Rory the notes. Rory thinks it's to make Ruby jealous.

"Or he's just a player," Rory shrugs.

"How do you even know what that means?" Liz inquires, pedantic.

Rory just laughs.

/

When they finally arrive in the clearing Lizzie is thinking of, it's shy of noon. Blanket placed, water of the river rushing. The sun is warm on everybody's cheeks, and Lizzie is undeniably glad that she chose to lather Sammy's baby face in sunscreen, paint Aurora with it, too. They're fair-haired, fair-skinned, just like Red.

Red has to acclimate to a tan. Lizzie has the sinking suspicion Rory and Sam would burn if not watched, too.

Rory screeches when she spots a few river otter, points them out.

Sam, amused by his sister's loudness, rolls onto his stomach and squirms. Lizzie notes, if only out of worry, that Sam doesn't walk yet. He must be small for his age, and Lizzie counts the months, knows it's okay if he's behind. Premature children can always be behind. But it worries her, it does.

She props him up in her lap and works with him, in the clearing.

He falls back down any time she lets go, but it's a start. His baby legs shake and shake, but he's a fighter. Lizzie is a fighter. Red is a fighter.

Runs in the family, Lizzie thinks. Again, and again, and again.

/

Rory is munching on a piece of celery when she stops and narrows her eyes at her mother, clears her throat in a manner more adult than any six-year-old should be capable.

"How come you didn't work today?"

Here's a puzzle piece, Lizzie thinks. Here's something unfathomable.

"Do you think I always work Saturday?" she asks, soft, wondering.

"You have for…" Aurora pauses, thinks. "Ever since when I was, like, not in kindergarten. Since before Sammy, when Sammy was in your tummy. And then after you got to go back to work, when he could breathe okay."

The phrasing doesn't make sense, but Lizzie doesn't know how to make it make sense.

"Did it scare you?" Lizzie asks, because it's been on her mind, and this is a good time to bring it up. The baby coos in her lap, sucks on his bottle and holds it easily in his hands, propped up against her. "That he couldn't breathe?"

"Yeah," Aurora's voice breaks, but not from sadness. From raw emotion, all pent up in her tiny body.

Rory pets her brother's soft head lightly, smiles at her mother. "But it was okay, Mommy, 'cause Aunt Kate said that Sammy was strong, like Daddy. And he was."

Strong like Red.

Aunt Kate.

Mr. Kaplan. Mr. Kaplan is Aunt Kate, and Sammy was strong, like Red, and—

"Daddy wasn't there when Sam was born," Liz realizes, speaks aloud, and oh, how these realizations hit, touch her in all the odd places, dry mouth, and—

Rory jumps in, quick. "Aunt Kate said Daddy wanted to be there," she defends her father, but no.

No, it makes no sense, and all the sense in the world, and Lizzie suddenly understands.

Red has left them.

Red has really, honest to God, left them. Left Rory. Left her pregnant with another child on the way, and—

Lizzie struggles, as the pure emotion of being fuming, livid, shaking in her skin, overtakes her.

The baby book makes sense, now. Sometimes, I find it very hard to forgive your father for what he's done, Sam. Something of that nature, is what it said, and now it all makes sense. He left them. Elizabeth looks at her daughter, chewing on carrots and celery, precious. Her son, with his bottle, with his chubby cheeks—

She looks at their children, the things they made together, and—

And Lizzie realizes what it feels like to be a storm, to be a hurricane.

To want to destroy, to want to make him hurt, because these children, their children—

They don't deserve to be left.

She doesn't deserve to be left.

/

It haunts her the rest of the day. Rory plays alongside the river until the bottoms of her pants are soaked, and once Sam starts to fuss, they hike back to the car. By the time they're all finished and exhausted, Lizzie decides on ice cream for dinner, on sitting on the steps of the memorial and watching the sun go down with them. Sam falls asleep against her shoulder twice, and Rory's face is covered in chocolate, but it's perfect. It's perfect, and Red's not here to see it.

Regardless of the circumstances, her heart is breaking for Rory, for Sam.

Her heart is burning with disgust for Raymond Reddington, and yeah.

It's just not.

Fucking.

Okay.

/

She gives them both baths. Yellow rubber ducks, bubbles.

Sam is out like a light, but Rory wants a bedtime story, wants her mother squeezed beside her, tucking her in and giving her a kiss goodnight.

"Mommy," Rory mumbles, one of the last things she says to Lizzie, barely there. "Mommy, I miss Daddy's stories. Do you think he could tell me one on the phone? If you told him that all I wanted was a story, and he didn't have to come home, would he—

"I don't know," Lizzie answers, and this time, it kills her to be honest.

"I wish he'd come home," Rory whines, blinks tears as she falls asleep.

"I do too," Lizzie replies. Kisses Rory's forehead. Turns out the light.

"I hope he comes home, too."

/

There's a message on her phone. The phone she left at home all day.

It's Don, of all people. Donald Ressler, and Lizzie wonders, briefly, how he's doing in this world.

"Liz," his voice comes, all deep and wary. "I know it's a hard day for you, for the kids. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call me, okay? You know I'm here. Hell, if I could—

He breaks off, and it's funny, how everything rides on this moment—

"—I'd kick his motherfucking ass, and drag him back here to be with you guys. I know how out of character that sounds, even for me, but—

Lizzie ends the voicemail early, buries her head in her hands.

She still wears her wedding ring, Lizzie realizes.

Lizzie stares at it, and it's funny, how everything rides on this moment.

The one where she realizes she can't take it off. She can't possibly take it off, and Lizzie lays down, exhausted. Still clothed, but too tired to move.

Too tired.

Closes her eyes, Egyptian cotton and pretty furnishing, and this life, this life is swallowing her whole and spitting her out and Lizzie falls.

Lizzie falls fast asleep.

/

She wakes that morning, in her own bed, childless.

Her fingers flounder to her abdomen, to the clear, unmarred skin.

Lizzie wakes still furious.

/

She meets him at the DMV and paints the prettiest smile she can upon her face, but truth be told, all she wants is to be home, to be back with Rory and Sam, and this is dangerous. Seeing him and being angry for all the crazy reasons is dangerous, and she's trying to steady herself back into this reality, but all she can think is that he's left his family. He left Jennifer and Carla, once.

He leaves people, he abandons them, and she knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if she gives him the fulcrum, he'll leave her too. He's already left their children. Rory and Sam, babies with his eyes—

He has a game plan. He doesn't believe in anything else, and Lizzie wonders, fleetingly, what the hell set him off, after she fell pregnant with Sam—

But then there's the Kenyon Family, all those precious children.

Children in a vicious trap, and Red's right, politics don't matter.

When she's taken hostage, she looks into the haunted little girl's eyes, and comprehends that the reason why Rory sleeps so well is because she's never experienced terror, trauma. And maybe, just maybe, that's the positive to take from the situation. In another life, in the future—

If Red leaves her, Lizzie could still provide their children with a stable life—

But, but, but—

It's not real.

Sam and Rory are not real, it was just a dream, and ha.

Ha. Ha.

/

Red tries to give her an apartment.

Red tries to give her a warm place, a safe place, at The Audrey, with a view of the Potomac, and all Lizzie can think of is Rory, playing in the water, pointing at an otter, squealing—

Red buys her a goddamn apartment and all Lizzie can think of is the house, the home that he never sleeps in because he abandoned them, because he left, and—

And he tries to tell her a story. He tries to tell her a story, and she stops him.

Rory doesn't get to hear his stories, so why should she?

(It is silly thinking, and she knows it's crazy to create her own brand of logic, like this. But she can't help it. She closes her eyes and sees Rory crying herself to sleep because her father won't tell her a story, isn't there to tell her stories, begging for him to just tell her a story, and it's not okay.)

He looks more helpless than he ever has, when she leaves. Resigned.

Elizabeth wishes she could make it better, but she can't.

Because she's helpless too.

Helpless, and angry, and so, so hurt.

Hurting for a life she's hasn't even lived yet.

Mourning a love she's never even lost.

.

.

.

tbc.