When she returns to the sitting room, the doctor is there with Kirk again, speaking to him rapidly in low tones. He cuts off as Liz comes into the room, and the men exchange an anxious glance.
"Feeling better, solnishko?"
"I'm fine, thanks." The lie is so much easier. "What's going on?"
"Going on? I don't think–"
Liz slams her hand on the table, making both men start. "You promised me the truth," she snaps. "I've had enough lies to last a dozen lifetimes. What is going on?"
"So stubborn," Kirk says with a fond smile. "Such fire. You're so much like your mother, Masha."
"Just tell me what's wrong."
The doctor clears his throat, and puts a comforting hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Elizabeth, I'm your father's physician, Dr. Reifler. I've been treating Alexander for many years for a serious blood disorder, a genetic illness inherited from his father called aplastic anemia. This disease has varying degrees of severity — unfortunately, Alexander's is very serious, and is now in the end stages."
She wonders how much more she can take before she breaks completely. "Wh–what does that mean?"
"An average person has between 150 to 400,000 platelets per microliter of blood. Your father's is under 10,000. Intracranial bleeding is a serious concern at this point."
She sits down with a thump, mind struggling to process the new information. "What about treatment?"
"He's been receiving transfusions for many years. If I give him another at this point, he's liable to suffer autoimmune shock."
"And if you don't?"
"He bleeds to death. And that's where you come in, Elizabeth."
"I…what?" She can't process it, has lost her grip who she is, what's happening around her. She suddenly longs for Red, even though she's still angry — for his sharp, incisive way of explaining a problem; for his steady affection; for his solid warmth.
"He needs a stem cell transplant from a genetic donor to have any chance at survival. I've tested the blood you gave, Elizabeth, and you are such a match."
"I won't force you to do this," Kirk says, taking her hands, squeezing tight. "It's enough for me to have you here with me, to know you're healthy and safe. Happy."
"I…" She doesn't know what to say. Finding a father, only to lose him again? Can she save him? Should she?
She is drained and empty and doesn't know what to do.
"Alexander!" A light voice from an adjoining room, female and worried. "What's keeping you?"
He drops Liz' hands and pats them where they lie in her lap. "I'll be back in just a moment," he says, and leaves the room hurriedly.
"Is it dangerous, harvesting stem cells?" she asks.
"Not really much more than any surgical procedure," the doctor says confidently. "Obviously, infection can cause problems, but we'll be very careful. There's risk of an embolism, which can damage organs, but it's a very small risk.
"I know this is a lot," he continues, and the kindness in his face takes her one step closer to breaking. "But we really can't wait long. Alexander…your father is in imminent danger."
Kirk returns, striding quickly across the room to pull her to her feet. "Don't worry for now, Masha," he says warmly, with a quelling look at the doctor. "I know you're tired and hungry — come and have some breakfast with me, and then a sleep, and then we can talk more."
She agrees, because she needs a clear head, and because she wants to get to know this man, at least a little. They go together to a warm kitchen, bright with early morning sun. Katja is already there, dishing steaming eggs onto plates, the scent of coffee wafting from the round wooden table at one side of the room.
So, she sits down, and has breakfast with her father, and it's a small oasis of cozy calm in the chaos of her life. As if sensing her exhaustion and her frazzled nerves, he leaves aside any further talk of Reddington and the past, or his illness, and instead tells her stories. Memories of the three of them as a family, their holidays here, in the Summer Palace; the things Liz had loved as a small child; the picture book she made him read to her, over and over again.
"The Poky Little Puppy," Kirk says with a laugh. "I think I could recite it, even now. It might still be on the shelf in your room."
She smiles back. "I'll have to look, later," she says. "I'm sure the plot holds up well."
It's a wonderful meal. She feels almost content, as long as she ignores the little voice inside her that clamours with things unsaid. Warnings of information not given, of the stories not told. Reminders of Reddington, and how he cares for her, and how the real truth must lie somewhere between these two men. Fear of the danger of being alone with strangers, in a strange place.
It's wonderful, as long as she pretends that everything's as it should be.
She sleeps again easily, despite the hours she got on during their travel. She curls into the warm comforter on the little twin bed and reaches for oblivion. She's unconscious in moments, but oblivion isn't attainable, not this time.
She dreams again; the same restless, frightening dreams she'd had in Venice. Dreams of masks removed and shattered hopes; dreams of fear and hate and hurt. But this time, there's no Red to save her from her own mind, to break the cycle, to wake her with a strong embrace and a soft touch.
She's left to struggle on her own, and so she when she finally fights her way awake, it's with an ache in her throat, a tear-streaked face, and a terrible sense of loss and loneliness. It takes a confused moment to remember where she is; another to collect herself.
She scrubs her hands over her face roughly, then looks around the room wistfully, only to find Kirk sitting in the window, watching her. Her heart gives a startled thump, but she manages to return his smile, fighting down her unease.
"You're awake," he says. "I'm sorry that you didn't have a better sleep."
"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," she returns, feeling awkward. "I…sometimes I have bad dreams."
"You call for him in your sleep, do you know that? Reddington. Red." The bitter words burst out, as if he hadn't intended to say them, but couldn't stop himself.
She flushes helplessly, but manages to shrug with some nonchalance. "Reddington has been…keeping me safe for some time now," she says. "When the nightmares come, I suppose I think he'll come too, to protect me."
Kirk looks torn between anger and regret. "I don't want you to count on him," he says slowly. "This man…this monster is not someone to look to for protection."
"I can't help what my subconscious does," she snaps back defensively. "He's saved my life countless times, taught me things, sheltered me when I was alone and in trouble."
"And how much of that trouble would have come to you if he'd stayed out of your life?" Kirk retorts, fists clenched on his thighs.
She hesitates now, because it isn't as if she hasn't asked herself the same question, over and over, when she's alone and angry and afraid. But…
"That's impossible to know," she says slowly. "Because he didn't. But if he had, it could have easily been much worse instead of better. He says he came to help me, to protect me, and I…I believe that's true, even if it isn't the whole truth."
The realization warms her, quiets one angry little corner of her mind. She believes it, and there's a great deal of reassurance in it.
"You have no idea what he's capable of," Kirk says. "He isn't what you think, Elizabeth."
She can feel her face set in stubborn lines. "It doesn't matter," she says. "It's not important right now, anyway."
His struggle is clear on his face — her father is an open book, just like her — but he manages to put it away, and nod in agreement.
"Okay," he says, "you're right. Let's go downstairs for a quick bite to eat, and then we'll talk."
"What time is it?" she asks again, as they sit in the kitchen.
"Almost 2," Kirk replies. "You slept for a long time. I think you've been working too hard, Masha."
She smiles, wishing that were true; wishing that were all it was. "Lots of travel," she answers noncommittally. "It wears on me after a while."
He pats her hand. "Maybe," he says gently, "it might be time to think about a change."
Inwardly, she thinks she's had more than enough change recently; outwardly, she just shrugs.
"Maybe," she says.
She takes an apple from a pretty blue bowl on the table and bites into it, so she doesn't have to talk. Her dreams have left her edgy and uncertain, and the comfort of the early morning has vanished.
They share a meal of fruit and cheese, much quieter than their earlier breakfast, the air between them strained by their brief argument. Kirk looks introspective, withdrawn, and doesn't eat much before rising from the table.
"Take your time, Elizabeth," he says. "Join me in the study when you're ready."
She watches him walk away, thinking that he looks tired. She wonders if he slept at all, while she was mired in nightmares. She wonders who this man really is.
Looking down at her plate, her stomach turns over, and she pushes away from the table. She doesn't want to go to the study though, isn't ready to face the demands that will come. Instead, she wanders toward the front of the house, coming to an open front room with a wide window.
There's a massive old tree on the front lawn, with an old swing hanging from a sturdy branch. Something in her mind twitches — recognition? Or just an inner longing for the simplicity and joy it represents?
She closes her eyes and breathes, long and quiet. She doesn't know what decision she'll make, but she knows someone will be looking for her before long.
Red, she thinks, I wish you were here. If nothing else, he always has her back, and it would be nice not to feel so alone.
But he isn't there, and she is alone, and time is up. She gives herself a brief shake, and heads back toward the study.
He's not there when she walks in, the room empty and still. She stalls in the doorway, confused, but then the sound of voices clues her in. He's in the room beyond, with the woman from earlier, and Dr Reifler.
She walks through the study to the open doorway on the other side; then hesitates again at the sight of what lies beyond it. That it's basically a hospital room isn't that surprising, she supposed, if Kirk's health is really so precarious. It's more the incongruity with the rest of the house, and the fact that it must have been put together in a fairly short time, that makes her stop and rethink.
How desperate are they?
Kirk's voice is rising in some agitation.
"...we may need to."
Then the woman, her voice strident and angry.
"Alexander, you're being ridiculous. This is–"
Kirk turns from her in frustration, and spots Liz in the doorway.
"Elizabeth," he says warmly, interrupting his companion with apparent cheer. "There you are."
"Hi," she answers awkwardly. "Is something wrong?"
"Just going over some details," Kirk starts, but the other woman interrupts him, her eyes flashing.
"You need to make a decision," she snaps. "Alexander needs your help."
Kirk shoots the woman a quelling look, then tries to smile at Liz. "This outspoken lady is my attorney, and a longtime friend, Odette," he says. "She is a fierce protector — maybe a little too much, sometimes."
Liz restricts herself to a nod of acknowledgement. She knows what that's like, after all.
"Dr Reifler tells me he has given you the details on my…illness," Kirk continues. "Really, there's no pressure, Masha, but time is short."
She bites her lip, uncomfortable, not wanting to say what she's thinking. Because if there is one lesson she has learned since Reddington smashed into her life, it's that you can't take anything at face value, and that trusting strangers is just stupid, and possibly deadly.
"Look," she says, feeling awful and strange. "I–I understand what you're saying, and it's not that I don't want to help you. It's just…I'm alone here. You say you're my father, and that the blood tests you ran prove it, but you could say anything. Be anyone."
There's hurt in Kirk's face now, and Odette's is clouded with rage.
"I think I remember this house, I do, but that could be suggestion as well, couldn't it? You want me to place myself in your hands, not just to be here, to talk with you, to believe what you say. You want to sedate me and do surgery on me. If I could have someone here with me…"
"How dare you," Odette snarls, her eyes flashing bright. "How dare you say such things to this man, your father, who has suffered, who has searched for you? You can save his life, and you'll stand aside?"
"Let me call someone," she answers, determined not to let this woman bully her. Samar, she thinks, Samar will keep me safe. "Let me have someone I can trust to watch over me, and…"
Her words trail off as she catches sight of a dark trickle of blood oozing from Kirk's nose. Then, everything starts happening fast, too fast.
Odette turns to follow her shocked eyes, and swears virulently. She spins on her heel even as Kirk wipes at his face with his hand, his eyes fixed on Liz. When Odette turns back, she has a gun in her hand and tears running down her face.
"You'll do this," she shouts. "You'll do it, or I'll kill you, and it won't matter whether you can trust us or not."
"Odette!" Kirk's voice is shocked, and a little frightened. "This is not the way, please, put that down."
"No," Odette retorts. "Not until this is over."
"You listen to me…" Kirk says.
"I won't…" Liz starts, angry herself now.
Before she can get more words out, everyone's moving.
Kirk is grabbing Odette's arm, his own face a mask of fury, spinning her to face him, shouting in Russian. She shouts back at him as they stand toe-to-toe, the gun wavering between them dangerously. Liz takes a step, wary but afraid — and for good reason, because then it goes off, the gun goes off, and the sound is enormous in the sterile room.
There's one of those moments, the hushed, terrible silence of shock and fear and realization. Then, Odette is screaming, and the doctor is shouting, and when Liz focuses her eyes again, she's on the floor, with her hands pressed to the bloody wound on Kirk's chest.
She's been here before, and the déjà vu is horrifying and nauseating. Her vision blurs again, Kirk's form fading in and out, and she bites the inside of her cheek hard, to steady herself.
She tries to ignore the chaos around her — the sound of running feet, Odette's harsh sobbing, and…more gunshots? Yelling, and the unmistakable sounds of fighting. Her name, demanding and strident, Elizabeth. Relief sweeps over her.
"Red," she shouts, "Red, back here, hurry!"
She focuses again on Alexander Kirk, on the bright blue eyes that match her own, on the lined, pale face that seems to be smiling at her.
"I love you, Masha," he says faintly.
Tears are running down her own face now, and she pushes harder on his chest, harder and harder, with all her weight, because he's bleeding far too much and too quickly and it's terrifying.
"I'll help you," she chokes out, "I was only afraid. I've been afraid for so long."
"It's okay," he manages. "Everything will be okay."
But his eyes are fluttering closed, and the pulse of the blood under her hands is dying away, and she can't hear the harsh rasp of his breath or the thump of his heart, and she's losing him before he'd even really been found, and no no no.
She doesn't realize that she's shouting until a pair of hands covers hers, familiar and warm. Until the most familiar voice is whispering in her ear, hush, Lizzie, hush, come with me now. Until her ears stop buzzing and she realizes that all the other noise has stopped, and that the room is empty except for her and her dead father. And the man behind her.
She curls into him without looking. She doesn't need to look, because even without the soothing cues of sound and touch and smell — who else would be here, now?
"Red," she manages, "was it true?"
"Yes," he answers, his voice heavy and sad. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
She's lost to tears again then — she can't speak, can't even move. Strong arms enfold her, lift her with a swift exhale of air. She clutches his jacket and buries her face in the soft cotton of his shirt and soaks him in anguish as he carries her away from the cottage, from the Summer Palace.
Her savior; her destroyer.
Her shadow knight in tarnished armour.
Hers.
She huddles in his lap like a broken thing, withdrawn and quiet, the only sign of life her choked breathing and her fingers wound tightly into his shirt. He curses himself for his weakness, for letting her go, for the way she's hurting.
For the way he can't be anything but happy that she's safe and here, with him.
His hands rub her back, up and down soothingly, his arms cradling her close. Love swamps him, mires him in tenderness; he brushes a light kiss against her hair. She turns her head then, tips her face to look at him, her cheeks stained with blood and tears. Closing his eyes against the hard beat of his heart, he presses his lips to her forehead.
She makes a small, needy noise in response and pulls at him, her eyes dark; knowing, understanding the need in her, he kisses her mouth, soft and warm. Her lips tremble against his, and he shifts a hand to cup her face, steadying them both.
The fog in her brain starts to clear with the gentleness of his embrace, with the familiar feel of his mouth on hers. Finally, she is able to shake the image that haunts her — not the newest death, which is awful enough, but an old and familiar nightmare. Red, lying broken in a dirty street, choking on his own blood.
She finally feels something besides fear, terror, confusion — the comforting heat of lust coils inside like smoke. Her fingers can finally loosen, and she wraps herself around him, rejoicing in the assurance of the physical.
He reacts quickly; he always does. He is by far the most responsive lover she's had; his simple joy in touch is a continual revelation. She sighs her relief, mouth slipping open so she can taste him. His breath is coming faster, his body hardening beneath her.
He loses the ability to think for a moment, maybe two, as she slides her tongue against his. She tastes of salt and cold metal, and he misses her usual wild tang. He lets his hands, his mouth, trace the familiar shapes of her; both reassurance and need, twining together.
She wants nothing more than to lose herself in him; to forget the last two days completely and drown in him. She turns into him, aching for the oblivion of sex. His hands are rubbing her back again, though, and she suspects he is trying to calm her.
She nips at him, fingers plucking at his shirt buttons, pressing her body close. But although he doesn't pull away, he keeps himself carefully banked, his mouth soft and easy.
He is alight with need inside — the urge to let her have her way, to strip her bare and drive inside her, to make her his, again, nearly overwhelming. But it isn't the right time, and he doesn't want to be reduced to a foil for her turbulent emotions. He uses a great deal of his formidable control to keep the fire inside him at a quiet flicker.
She needs to face what happened, to rest and recover. He can tell that she is nearly at her limit of endurance, and is more in need of sleep than anything else.
"Lizzie," he says softly, managing to pull away. "Lizzie, wait."
"No," she says, sliding the tie from his neck and tossing it behind her. "I don't want to. I want you."
He draws a shaky breath, because god, he wants her too, so much he can taste it. He marshals himself with some difficulty; grips her shoulders and shifts her back a bit, enough so he can look her in the eye.
"Lizzie," he repeats, gentle but firm. "Not now, sweetheart. You need to rest."
"Don't tell me what I need," she snaps. "I know what I need, and–"
"Lizzie," he interrupts, a little louder, a little firmer. "No. Your hands are still covered in blood, for goodness sake."
Shocked out of the haze of longing, she looks down and her stomach lurches unpleasantly. Both her hands are stained to the wrist, so saturated in her father's blood that a few spots are still glistening and red. Red's shirt is covered in handprints and streaks of rust; his face and neck also bear the marks she's painted on him.
She scrambles to her feet, horrified and shaky.
"I'm so sorry," she manages. "Your clothes, I…" She can't go on; she is overwhelmed.
"I don't care about that," he says impatiently, standing to pull her back into his arms. "I care about you. Go and wash up, and then you can sleep until we're home."
She nods against his chest, thinking again that there is no home, and that she may never sleep again.
But when she's as clean as is possible without a shower, and tucked under a soft blanket across from him while he reads, with the monotonous hum of the jet engine the only thing to be heard, she slips into the darkness like it's the simplest thing in the world.
A/N: I borrowed a few more words, about Kirk's illness, from the show, so thanks again to the writers.