Author's Note: I think I succeeded at keeping this chapter at a "T" rating; however, if you disagree, please let me know and I'll change it! I really don't want to offend anyone. Also, thanks again for reading and reviewing! As many have said: reviews are writing fuel, and I always appreciate them. :-)
Love, I have wounds
Only you can mend, you can mend
I guess that's love
I can't pretend, I can't pretend
She was confused when she saw Dembe waiting for her as she pulled up to the house, her backseat stuffed full of groceries.
"Agent Keen. Can I give you a hand?" he asked as she stepped out of the car, his expression almost comically serious.
"Uh...yeah, sure, thank you," she muttered as he opened the back door and leaned in to grab her bags. When he straightened, she could see that he was carrying all eight of them. "I guess I'll get the door then," she said, clearly bemused. "Oh, and please—call me Liz," she added as they entered the house.
He set the bags down in the kitchen and began handing her items to put away. She could immediately see why Red was so fond of him; he was as graceful as he was intimidating, protective almost to a fault, wonderfully attentive, and almost achingly kind…honestly, she wished she had more people like him in her life.
She threw together some turkey sandwiches for lunch, gesturing him to sit with her at the kitchen table as she poured him a glass of lemonade. They ate in silence for several minutes before she summoned up the courage to ask him about Red.
"So, Reddington...you've known him a long time, haven't you?"
"Yes," Dembe said. There was a rich, pleasant timbre to his voice; Liz felt as if she could listen to him speak all day. "He rescued me from the Eberhardt cartel, many years ago," he explained.
His honesty was refreshing, and it helped explain a lot. So that's why he was so loyal to Red, and why Red had been more than happy to watch Floriana Campo die a slow suffocating death on the hotel room floor. Liz dropped her gaze to her plate, trying not to imagine the brutal horrors Dembe must have experienced as a trafficking victim. She swallowed uncomfortably.
"What happened to him, Dembe? What makes a man walk away from his family on Christmas Eve and choose a life...like this?"
Dembe helped himself to a bundle of grapes from a bowl on the table, picking them off the stem slowly as he thought, popping them into his mouth one by one. "I'm afraid that's not my story to tell," he said simply. "But if I were you, I wouldn't believe everything I read in an FBI file. Actually...I wouldn't believe any of it."
"So you're saying...his wife and daughter...he didn't abandon them," she said slowly. He didn't respond. "At least tell me this: do you think he's justified in any of this?"
He smiled, his eyebrows raising slightly. "I think only Allah knows the answer to that." He paused to take a sip of lemonade. "I never thanked you for saving his life. He does care for you, Liz. More than you know."
She sighed. "I just wish I knew why."
"Does it matter?"
She almost laughed. He sounded just like Red...always encouraging her to sift out all the unnecessary details and focus only on what was truly important. "I don't know. Maybe not." She smiled at him and shook her head as he took another big bite of his sandwich, his eyes mischievous—full of secrets. She'd get the truth out of him one day, she was sure of it.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" she said suddenly. "I have another favor to ask of you." She stood up from the table and walked into the living room, returning with her purse. Unzipping an interior pocket, she extracted the fingerprint that Farid had shown her on the boat. It had been surprisingly easy to take (although rather difficult to hide...if only her dress had had pockets), and now she needed to find out exactly what Red's life was worth.
"Can you take this to one of his people and have them run it against our databases? All government and military employees—CIA, FBI, NSA, Army, Navy...you name it."
Dembe smirked as he took the artificial finger from her and stuffed it into his pocket. "Agent Keen, I must say...you are full of surprises."
"It's Liz," she corrected with a sly smile. "Just...don't tell him about this, okay? Not yet."
"Alright," he said, clearly intrigued as he sucked another grape into his mouth. "Not a word. I promise."
Red let out a contented sigh. "Ah, Dembe, when was the last time we had the pleasure of a home-cooked meal? It feels like it's been ages," he reckoned, lifting his empty wine glass as Liz reached across the table to refill it. Besides his unfortunate encounter with Janice and her stroganoff, he couldn't recall the last time someone had cooked for him what he considered a normal dinner meal.
"I don't remember," Dembe grinned, helping himself to another generous pile of mashed potatoes. "Wait, was it that elderly woman down in Monterrey?"
"Ohhh yes, what was her name...she was a feisty one wasn't she…"
"Roberta?"
"Roberta! Dear sweet Roberta. That had to have been over a year ago."
"Come on," Liz interjected. "You two can talk your way into any restaurant in the entire world, and you're saying you prefer this." She gestured to the small spread of food on the dining room table, which included bacon-wrapped pork medallions, mashed potatoes, green beans, and some store-bought dinner rolls that she'd warmed up in the oven. It certainly wasn't anything special.
"Yes, well...it's the little things you miss," Red said somewhat wistfully, Dembe nodding in concurrence. "And of course, I know what you want," he teased, gazing down into the eager eyes of the little brown terrier waiting patiently next to his chair. He picked a small morsel of pork off of his plate. "I hope you don't mind if I just—"
"Actually, we were trying not to feed him from the table—" Liz started, but it was too late. Hudson was already licking his chops in anticipation of a second bite. She sighed, more upset about the fact that she'd said "we" again, as if her and Tom were still enjoying marital bliss. Yeah. Right.
"Let him live a little, Lizzie. He can't have many years left." She couldn't help but smile when she thought of how Hudson, a dog that usually took hours and sometimes even days to warm up to strangers, had been absolutely taken with Red from the moment he walked through the door. He must just have that effect, she thought.
When they'd all been thoroughly and properly satiated (including Hudson), Red lit himself a cigar and Dembe helped Liz clear the table. She joined him at the kitchen sink as he turned on the faucet, laughing when they knocked elbows as he began to scrub the dishes, handing them over to her for drying. He gave her a playful shove with his shoulder, sending them both into hysterics as she grabbed the retractable spray nozzle and directed it at him.
Red observed them with a bemused smile. "Alright you two! Honestly. I leave you alone for one day…" He shook his head.
"You're just jealous because he's way more charming than you," Liz teased. Dembe grinned and nodded his agreement.
"Dembe, you're fired," Red countered facetiously, and so the evening went, with everyone in unusually high spirits. It certainly didn't seem like the right time to begin a serious conversation, so Red decided to wait until they'd turned in for the night. He had spent all day with the assumption that he'd be sharing the guest room with Dembe; however, when she brought him home from the hospital, he had found his garment bags and suitcase laid out in the master bedroom, causing him a great deal of curiosity as to precisely what sleeping arrangement she had in mind.
He knew he'd find out soon enough. He smiled as he brought the cigar to his lips, savoring it as he slowly drew in its oaky flavor. After all she'd been through, it was so nice to see her happy for once, to hear her laughter echo throughout the house, and see something other than pain swimming in those crystal blue eyes.
He was in love with her—of that he had become utterly certain. Now he needed only to decide whether it was best to stay and confess his feelings, or to assure her safety by letting her go…by disappearing into the night and never looking back.
She was surprised to find him lying in bed when she stepped out of the bathroom, causing her to tighten the tie on her bathrobe self-consciously. He was on top of the blankets, his head and shoulders propped up by a small mountain of pillows, his legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded across his chest. Apparently he'd been dozing as he waited for her to finish showering.
"Is this Tom's side?" he inquired, making no effort to disguise the note of derision in his voice.
"Yes. It was Tom's side. Now…now I just sort of sleep in the middle." He nodded. "Is that what you're sleeping in?" she asked. He was still wearing the burgundy button-down he had changed into earlier, along with his black slacks. His belt and shoes were lying on the floor at the foot of the bed next to his suitcase.
"Yes. When you live a life as...uncertain...as mine, it helps to be ready to travel at a moment's notice."
"Suit yourself," she said, making her way to the opposite side of the bed. "Is everything okay?" she added when she took in his anxious expression.
A silence fell between them, and from the way his jaw moved, it was obvious that he was chewing on a question. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet. "Why did you save me, Lizzie?" When she didn't respond, he decided to clarify. "Last night you had an opportunity to put an end to all this. My...involvement in your life."
She stood motionless at the edge of the bed as she searched his eyes, wondering what he wanted to hear. The truth, undoubtedly. But the truth was complicated. The truth was that in those few terrifying moments when she thought she had lost him, a dark hopelessness crept into her heart...and with it, the realization that Raymond Reddington was the only person who truly loved her. She thought of how he looked at her through the blood smeared glass of the box the day that Anslo Garrick had infiltrated the black site. How desperate he had been to get out and make the ultimate sacrifice for her. At times, she felt like nothing more than a pawn in his game, but what use is a pawn if the chess master is dead? Whatever end goal he had, it wasn't worth as much to him as her life. And yet sometimes...sometimes she hated him for it. What right did he have to come barging into her world, destroy everything she held dear, and then insist on keeping her alive to watch it all burn?
If her experience with Tom taught her anything, it should have been to trust no one, even Red. Hell, Red even said it himself: The ones we love most are in the best position to deceive us. And yet that only leaves a person with two options: they could refuse to let themselves get close to anyone, or they could love anyway, consequences be damned. The first choice pretty much guaranteed survival, but only the second could lead to a life that was actually worth living.
When it came down to it, Liz was forced to admit that for her, there was only the illusion of choice. She had already let herself get close to Red. And with each unexpected confession, each show of vulnerability, he was letting himself get close to her as well. So yes, the truth was complicated: neither black nor white, but green.
She crawled onto the bed and propped herself up next to him, tugging at her robe to make sure she was properly covered. It was time to take a page from his book and practice some expert-level evasion. "Tell me about your daughter."
She watched the color drain quickly from his face, his expression unreadable. He swallowed. "What would you like to know?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What was she like? I know...I know you didn't just walk out on them."
He was silent for so long that she nearly decided to give up and change the subject. Finally he licked his lips and cleared his throat, raising his eyes to meet hers. "She was...my whole world," he began. Liz could see the muscles in his neck flex tensely, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down erratically as he fought for words. A wistful smile crept across his face as he indulged himself in the memory of his daughter's sweet, innocent face, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, wearing that smile that could erase every one of his cares in little more than a heartbeat…
He pursed his lips and parted them again, tilting his head slightly as he spoke. "Seeing life through her eyes...it was like...every caterpillar in the garden, every… orange creamsicle from the ice cream man, every airplane contrail blazing across the sky on a hot summer day...it all deserved to be cherished. She saw beauty where I saw only the ordinary."
"Red...I'm so sorry," she whispered, her throat constricting.
"Oh, how I would give...anything...for just one more chance to tell her how much I lo—love..." he squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaking down his cheeks as his body began to convulse silently, the only sound that of ragged breaths forced through his clenched teeth. He turned toward her, burying his face in her neck as she rubbed the back of his head, attempting to soothe him the way she often soothed Hudson in the middle of a particularly nasty thunderstorm. It took several minutes for him to calm down, and she guessed that he probably hadn't let himself cry like that in a very, very long time.
When he had exhausted his tears into the collar of her bathrobe (some gathering in warm salty pools at the base of her neck), he leaned back to look at her, his eyelids swollen and red-rimmed. "All these years," he said wearily. "Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed...like I'm hardly any closer to discovering the truth than when I began."
She pressed her right palm against his cheek, gently wiping the skin beneath his eye with her thumb. She left her own tears unattended, trickling haphazardly past the corners of her lips.
"At least one thing has changed," she noted, smiling. "You have me."
She watched as a range of emotions passed through his eyes, a swirling mix of grey and green and hope and regret and happiness and despair and finally...longing. He took her hand slowly from his cheek and pressed his lips against her scar, his eyes drifting shut and then fluttering open again to gauge her reaction. She was still smiling, her expression more or less mirroring his own.
Without breaking eye contact, he sat up and unfastened his shoulder sling, setting it carefully on his bedside table. Wincing briefly, he stretched out his arm and delicately separated the two halves of her bathrobe above the waist, creating an opening just wide enough for him to press his mouth to her belly, just above her navel. He felt her abdominal muscles tighten and eventually relax under his lips as he placed soft, open-mouthed kisses against her stomach, moving slowly up between her breasts and along her collarbone, finally arriving just below her right ear. "And you have me," he whispered, his breath deliciously hot against her neck and sweet with the lingering scent of Merlot.
She grasped the back of his neck as their lips met, urgently but tenderly—two battered, sea-tossed ships that had let down their anchors at last.
After considerable time had passed, she pressed a hand to his chest, urging him to lie on his back and rest his shoulder. Swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him, she began to calmly unbutton his shirt, stopping when she felt his hand encircle her wrist.
"Lizzie...you must know that there's no such thing as a happy ending for me—with me. This path I've chosen...it leads only deeper into the darkness."
She knew. Of all the possible scenarios she had considered, not one of them involved Raymond Reddington dying at a ripe old age, surrounded by his wife and children and friends who loved him. Not one.
"Maybe so," she said softly. "But that doesn't mean you have to walk that path alone."
"Ah, but you deserve so mu—" he stopped mid-word as with one fluid motion she untied her robe and shrugged out of it, letting it fall off her shoulders into a soft heap beside the bed. He raised his eyebrows, suddenly forgetting what it was that he wanted to say.
She finished unbuttoning his shirt, frowning at the sight of his badly scarred chest. One of his tattoos had been so disfigured by burns that she couldn't even tell what it was, and his stomach was criss-crossed with lacerations, raised and white and faded with time. She ran her fingers lightly over his skin, taking in every puncture wound, every cut, every burn. For a moment it looked as if she might cry again.
"It's okay, Lizzie," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
"I'm sorry, but in what universe is this okay?"
"It's just the price of doing what I do...of being what I am."
She nodded, blinking away the mist that had begun to gather in her eyes. "Your question...the one you asked me a moment ago. Ask it again," she said, leaning forward to plant several kisses against his chest. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of her lips against his skin, the scent of her shampoo filling his nostrils. God, she smelled like springtime.
He closed his eyes and sighed. "Why did you jump off the boat, Lizzie?"
"Because I love you," she said firmly, smiling at the fire she'd just ignited in his eyes.
Oh, feel our bodies grow
And our souls they blend
Yeah love I hope you know
How much my heart depends
I guess that's love
I can't pretend, I can't pretend
She woke to a warm tongue against her cheek, followed by soft panting and a cool wet nose sliding over her earlobe. Hudson. She opened her eyes and attempted to swat him away, momentarily surprised to find her arm in a dark red sleeve. Red's shirt. She lifted her head, peeling back the blankets to find nothing but empty sheets beside her. Her heart sank as she ran her hand over the place where he'd been—the sheets were cold.
"No," she whispered, taking a moment to inhale the scent of Red's collar around her neck. "Dammit." So it had all been too good to be true. He had never really meant to stay with her after all. She twisted onto her stomach, falling face first into her pillow as she began to cry.
To be continued. (Lyrics from "Can't Pretend" by Tom Odell)