AN: Hey guys, I hope you have all been enjoying season 2 so far. Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter done- the next one should be up sooner. Thank you all so much for the nice messages and comments regarding this story. Enjoy chapter 9 and please leave a review :)
Lyrics are from Fink's "Keep Falling"
Two weeks. It had been two weeks.
Two weeks ago Tom Keen had knocked on a door and shot his wife.
Two weeks ago Mr. Kaplan had found a lifeless body on the crimson wooden floor of an innocuous townhouse.
Two weeks ago a doctor had performed surgery in a warehouse.
Two weeks ago Raymond Reddington realized- not for the first time but with innermost intensity- that he could not bear the thought of losing Elizabeth Keen.
And now, as he lay beside her and watched the amber beam of the rising sun dance across her soft skin, he felt calm and content and, dare he say it, happy.
Maybe some things happened for a reason.
Maybe there was hope in tragedy.
Wanna know what I'm thinking,
Why I can't sleep at night
Liz had finally been able to leave the bed a couple of days ago, under Daniel's watchful eyes and with Red's hand on her arm to steady her somewhat shaky movements. Being basically tied to a bed had been a challenge, especially for an FBI agent who valued her mobility and independence above most other things. The pain had almost ceased completely, though the scar tissue was still delicate and every now and then a painful stinging sensation would remind her just how severe her injury had been and how lucky she was to still be alive now.
But what had surprised Liz the most was this air of domesticity she soon found herself in. She and Red would usually have breakfast together while he read through the papers or consulted with business partners over the phone; afterwards Daniel would proceed with his daily check-up (Daniel had removed most of the medical equipment from her room but still insisted on checking her condition, even if it was more of a precaution than a necessity-he wasn't willing to take any risks and he knew Red was deeply thankful for that); in the evening, depending on how tired Liz felt, she would rest next to Red on the couch, head on his shoulder, while he told her stories of his many travels ("If you haven't tried fresh Rendang in the streets of Jakarta, you haven't lived life to its fullest") and botched business transactions ("Never forget to read the small print. I learned that the hard way") before she would eventually drift off to sleep and wake up the next morning in her own bed. And sometimes Red would be there, too, making sure she was comfortable. Making sure she was safe.
They never talked about their relationship. Love was such an arbitrary term, too soft for what they shared, this bond, this connection, this thing that defied labeling. But it was palpable and strong and present.
She had learned a lot about him during their time together. He was a surprisingly talented cook ("I hate pancakes"- "No Lizzie, you hated your husband's pancakes"), he virtually never dressed in anything but a suit, he barely slept, he had a passion for early Frank Sinatra records and poetry by Walt Whitman. So this is what it would be like, Liz caught herself thinking sometimes, a life with Raymond Reddington.
It fascinated her how he switched personas depending on who he was addressing. How there were different Raymond Reddington types and she often wondered which one was really him and what his name would be. Red, Ray, Raymond. He remained an enigma, a puzzle she had yet to solve. Every new impression of him, every new bit of information acting as another piece.
She understood now that loyalty was essential to him. He kept certain people close- Dembe, Mr. Kaplan, Daniel, herself- and others at a carefully gauged distance. The profiler in her would have diagnosed him with trust issues, yet that sort of caution was most certainly part of his job and Red must have had good reasons to not believe anything he hears, to not jump to conclusions. Matters were rarely that simple.
She didn't miss the FBI as much as she thought she would, in fact, she enjoyed this temporary if at first involuntary break. Dembe had gotten her clothes from her apartment, as well as some of the files concerning Tom and Berlin, and she and Red had basically continued their investigation, simply in a more private setting. The FBI hadn't contacted her and she knew Red had something to do with that, but after he had told her about their fictitious Chicago expedition she hadn't bothered to ask again. The truth was the post office seemed completely out of reach, a day's journey away, while she savored the view over the woods surrounding the house, almost convincing her she was in another state altogether. Vermont maybe, or New Hampshire. A place where she had no reason to be afraid of her murderous husband.
I see you carefully treading on the fire
I already put out
"Hello Agent Ressler."
There it was, that unmistakable voice. He's been trying to get a hold of him for days now. But of course he only speaks to Elizabeth Keen and of course he can't be reached unless he wants to be reached.
"Reddington, where the hell are you? Where is Keen? I know the two of you aren't in Chicago."
"Donald, do you remember that fateful day at the post office when you and I spent a delightful couple of hours in that homely box?"
He remembers. How could he ever forget. The Concierge of Crime saved his life that day. He remains silent.
"I thought you might. Well, an opportunity has arisen and now you're going to have the unique chance to repay the favor."
"I don't partake in your games, Reddington."
"It's about Agent Keen." His voice is suddenly serious. Stern.
"What do you want?"
"She was shot and needs to be taken care of."
"And I'm assuming I'm supposed to believe you?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what happened."
"That's confidential."
"You can't seriously expect me to-"
"Donald, listen carefully. Agent Keen is in danger and needs medical care."
"Why don't you take her to a hospital?"
"Donald, we both know that wouldn't be safe for anyone involved."
"So what do you want from me?"
"I need you to cover this up and frankly I don't care how you do it. Tell Harold whatever he wants to hear. Agent Keen won't be back for some time."
It's a preposterous request and Ressler knows it. He hesitates, analyzes.
Red's voice left no room for interpretation. This isn't a game; this isn't business either. This is personal.
He still hasn't responded when Red speaks again.
"She's in serious danger, Donald."
"Can you protect her?"
"Donald I may be the only one in the wor-"
"None of that. Can you protect her?"
His response follows quickly and dissipates all doubts.
"Yes."
Another pause, then finally a decision.
"I expect updates Reddington. And I want you to know that I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for Keen."
But by the time he finishes the last sentence Red has already hung up the phone.
Meet me back at the start
Back at the part where we know how it ends
Red was in the middle of preparing breakfast when Liz joined him in the kitchen. Whatever he was cooking smelled divine and Liz watched him for a moment, captivated by the serenity that emanated from him, before she sat down at the kitchen table.
"What's on the menu this morning?" she asked curiously.
"French toast with homemade caramel sauce and fresh strawberries."
"How did you manage to get fresh strawberries during this time of year?"
"I don't cook and tell, Lizzie," he responded with a light chuckle. Then he took a plate out of the cabinet above his head, placed the toast in the middle before sprinkling some sauce over it and handed it to Liz. "Enjoy, sweetheart."
With a faint expectant glint in her eyes Liz reached for the fork and took a small bite, and Red indulged in the look of sheer delight that crossed Liz's face.
"Red, this is amazing."
"My own recipe."
She looked at him in disbelief.
"Oh Lizzie, you shouldn't underestimate my abilities. I'm a man of singular talents."
Red walked over to the table and sat down across from her, and was just about to elaborate when Daniel entered the room, holding a briefcase and his lab coat in his right hand.
"Morning, you two. I was just dropping in to wish you a nice day since I have to go back to the warehouse. My desk is still covered in paperwork I should take care of. Funny how one can never escape bureaucratic matters, even if the work one does is technically off the records. But anyways, I should be back tonight." He paused for a brief moment before he turned to Liz. "Will you be alright?"
"I'll be fine, Daniel," Liz responded with an assuring nod.
"Fantastic. I'll leave you to it then. Goodbye."
I've been on the wrong side for so long
That it feels right now, it feels right
As promised, Mr. Kaplan had managed to install both cameras and wiretaps near the warehouse where Tom was residing and Liz and Red were eager to track his every move. They weren't sure what he was up to or if he was convinced that Liz was no longer alive, but for now his actions, his daily routine, seemed almost harmless. They could have attacked him at any moment, but that wasn't the plan they had agreed on. They would be patient and wait for Liz to fully recover. They would make no mistakes this time.
Liz had spent the afternoon in her room, battling the fatigue that overcame her sometimes. She still had troubles with panic attacks, though she had become skilled at dissimulating any indications- usually she simply told Red she was exhausted, needed some time to herself, and he understood. There was no need to worry him any further.
She got up slowly to not cause any pain, grabbed her black cardigan off the headboard and left the room. As she stepped out in the hallway she noticed that the door to Red's room was left ajar and a soft glow of light eluded through the opening. Carefully, she moved forward and pushed the door open.
There he was. With his back towards her. His shirt hanging loosely over his shoulders.
He mustn't have heard her. He didn't turn around.
He took off his shirt and Liz saw it then, his back, and the marred skin, and the scars.
And she must have taken a step forward, for whatever reason, maybe to get a better look, she wasn't sure, it was all a matter of intuition at this point, and she couldn't think clearly and what the hell was wrong with his back?
And the wooden floor creaked when her weight shifted and he turned around at once and he looked surprised, startled, shocked even, and he put his shirt back on and tried to speak, but what was there to say at this point, how could he explain this to her now?
Yet somehow he managed to form the words- "Lizzie, you shouldn't be here"- and she took another step forward- "What's wrong with your back?"- and he retreated and hesitated and she asked again- "Red, what happened to your back?"
This wasn't supposed to happen. Why hadn't he been more careful?
But there was no choice now.
He took a deep breath, asked her to sit down, asked her to listen.
And he told her.
About the fire. How a plan had gone horribly wrong, how a little girl was still in the house, how he had heard her screams and pulled her from the flames. How he had brought her to a friend who he trusted. How that friend had taken care of her. And how years later that girl had become an FBI agent who was introduced to Number Four on the FBI's Most Wanted List.
He left out some details. He had to. She wouldn't be safe otherwise. Maybe he wouldn't be, either.
She listened attentively with no visible reaction or emotion and that scared Red the most. And when he was finished, when the silence dragged on between them, she turned around without looking back. Left him standing there. With fresh scars.
What now?
Keep falling
Until you can't fall no more
So that was it. Their connection. The history they shared.
Liz was sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to calm her breathing, trying to make sense of whatever had just occurred. An hour must have passed. Maybe two.
Gingerly, she traced the scar on her wrist, then on her stomach. These resilient souvenirs reminding her that in the face of danger, of pain, of unpredictability she had prevailed and come out stronger on the other end.
Did it change anything, his admission? Did it affect the way she felt? Wasn't this the honesty, the transparency she had longed for?
He had saved her. He had saved her. And she liked to believe that somehow- by trusting him, by accompanying him, by staying with him- she had saved him, too.
It felt like a déjà vu now, getting up, crossing the threshold, walking down the hallway towards his room. Opening his door for the second time that night. Darkness.
Then you will know about me,
You'll know about me
He felt her presence in the room before he opened his eyes.
Her insecure, timid footsteps. Her inner turmoil. The mattress dipping lightly. Her body next to his.
Even in the dark her eyes gleamed. She was looking right back at him now and her thumb ghosted along his cropped hair over his cheekbone down to his neck. He could barely breathe.
These tender actions of reassurance. The night keeping them safe.
Nighttime. When they were both at their most honest, their most sincere. Hadn't it always been like this? Hadn't it all led to this? All the crossed lines and confessed secrets and violent scars? All the acrimonious contentions and playful innuendoes? All the meaningful looks? The words unspoken?
He closed his eyes, certain he must be dreaming, and only opened them when he could feel her sigh against him. A kiss on the corner of his lips.
She moved down to his jaw and her hands lifted his shirt and traveled over his back, his revelatory back, (it's okay, she whispered, we're okay) and they were so close now that no secrets could subsist between them anymore, that no lines were left, that nothing else mattered but their mingling breaths in the silence of the room.
Both painfully aware that they were losing themselves in the feeling.
Both completely and utterly willing to take that risk.
It ends alright now,
It ends alright
Daniel locked up the warehouse and was on the way to his car when he heard footsteps approach behind him. Then, cold metal against the back of his head.
"Good evening, Dr. Albright. I believe you performed surgery on my wife not too long ago?"
