She wakes early — too early, deep lavender just starting to smudge the sky, dark and cold. She is stiff and aching, as if with fever, the previous night's relief vanished with her restless sleep. Her skin feels tight, muscles shifting beneath like sinuous creatures crawling, questing. Voices ricochet within, competing for her attention — Reddington's, Solomon's, Dembe's, even, at the very back of her mind, her own, small and piteous.
It's a cacophony, a rage that builds, gathering, coiling, readying itself to spring. It grows and grows as she tosses, until her entire being is shrieking for release. Without rational thought, she is up and moving, out the door and into a cab in a blind panic, aimed like a homing pigeon.
He isn't sleeping — can't, won't — lying still and staring on his bed, cat curled warm and comforting at his side. The quiet knock still comes as enough of a surprise that he jumps, though, chasing the cat from from its sanctuary and quickening his pulse.
It's both unexpected and somehow predictable to see her at his door, ragged around her edges, in pyjamas and bare feet, pulling at the sleeves of a thin, holey sweater, her gaze darting everywhere, anywhere but his face. The pallor of her skin is stark against the purple shadows of her face, the navy of her shirt; she is nearly vibrating with the tension that has her in its grip, that pushes out from her to prod at him insistently.
"Elizabeth," he says with a weary caution. "It's a bit early for calls, isn't it?"
She looks at him then, finally, her eyes dark with confusion and misery rather than fear and loathing, reaching out a shaky hand. He takes it automatically, and is shocked by the chill of her skin, wincing slightly as her nails dig into the side of his palm.
"Elizabeth?" he says again, grief tugging at him deep within, revived by her anguish-wracked form.
"Can I come in?" she asks, her voice a whisper, her gaze breaking away.
He hesitates ever so slightly, then turns to give her room to pass by him into the apartment; she clings to his hand as she moves. He twists to shut the door behind her, then is surprised again when she steps in close, shaking form crowding him him against the wood of the door.
The drive had been a blur — she has no firm idea of hailing a cab, of how long the trip took, or even how much money she had tossed at the driver. Only when his door swung open did the world come back into focus, the predator within snarling in anticipation, the scraps of humanity scrambling for the safety he represented.
The cold disdain that drove her had disappeared, her anger and hatred chased out by this clenching, consuming need. The sight of his utterly familiar face; his warm, spicy scent; his richly timbred voice — it's all a balm to her tortured system, sensory signals that ease the terrible tension and confirm that this is where she needs to be. For good or ill, she can't bring herself to care.
The heat of his hand around hers seems scorching, the icy, bone-deep cold within her delighting in it, wanting more. She pushes into him eagerly, welcoming the huff of expelled air as his body thuds against the door, caught off guard; relishing the twinge of pain as her head raps his chin smartly.
"Elizabeth," he says for a third time, and his voice is more cautious than ever — it makes her impatient.
She speaks into his chest, not wanting to look at him, to expose her weakness, as she tries to explain what she doesn't really understand.
"I need…to be here," she says reluctantly. "Even if… I won't do what he wants," she continues, suddenly fierce, "I won't give him that last part of me. But…" She trails off, unsure of what to say next.
He tugs his hand free of hers to take her shoulders and push her back gently, so he can see her face; she drops her eyes, unwilling to have him see too much, to leave herself vulnerable.
"You were weeks without me in the hospital and in rehab," he points out sensibly. "I'd think it would be easier to overcome the conditioning if you continued to stay away from me as much as possible."
"It was," she admits, "before yesterday. I think…what happened… I just…" She gives up, unwilling or unable to articulate her need. She meets his eyes again, wretched, hating them both, jittering against him like an addict in search of a fix. "Help me. Please."
And she reaches out to pull at him more literally, to twist her nervous fingers into his soft tee and wait.
Her voice has been quiet, furtive, that of a confessor that dares not speak her sins aloud. Her simple, quiet plea tears at him, even as he watches her trying to hide the strange mix of desperation and exultation that ripples over her features as she speaks.
He takes a long moment, needing it, wondering if Solomon had any idea of the damage he had wrought, of the extent of his twisted wickedness — or if he had just romped through her brain like it was plaything, heedless of the wreckage.
Anything she needs, he reminds himself yet again, that's what you owe.
Afraid he won't be able to keep his devastation from his tone, from leaching out to infect her further, he gently untangles her fingers and leads her away from the door, down the hall, wishing there were some way to protect himself from what would come.
He wonders if he'll ever be able to look in a mirror again.
She's showering when his cell rings, the air emanating from the bathroom so hot he imagines the water must be near boiling. He glances at the display, intending to let the call go, but it's Dembe, so he answers instead, making sure his voice gives nothing away.
"Raymond." Dembe's voice is uncharacteristically anxious and tight. "Elizabeth is gone, and her door was left unlocked. Have you heard from her?"
"She's here," he assures quickly. "She's safe here with me. Could you make sure everything is all right inside, and lock up before you head over? Oh," he adds in hesitant afterthought, "pack her a bag, would you? I believe she'll be staying here for a time."
There is a brief pause, heavy with unspoken words, before Dembe answers.
"Of course, Raymond," he says simply. "I'll be there soon."
He ends the call and closes his eyes against the prickle of emotion that threatens.
She's rummaging for bandages in the bathroom cupboard when he knocks lightly and swings the door open. She flushes a little, straightening quickly, and the corner of his mouth tips up.
"First aid kit is on the right-hand side, Elizabeth," he says politely. "When you're done, if you wouldn't mind…" He gestures at the side of his neck, gauze pad long gone and scar oozing blood again. She remembers tearing at it desperately, and her flush deepens.
"Of course," she mutters, looking away as he steps into the vacated shower.
She cleans herself up and escapes as quickly as possible from the small room, the shared tasks creating an air of intimacy that she doesn't want, that threatens to choke her. It's only when she's naked in his bedroom that she realizes she has no clothes. She considers taking something of his, but recognizes that being surrounded by his scent like that runs the risk of firing the rage in a way she won't be able to stop. She shrugs back into her pyjamas philosophically enough — at least she'll be comfortable.
She's ready for him when he exits the shower — he takes no time at all, bathing quickly, even perfunctorily, as if used to maintaining a schedule — composed and clear eyed. He says nothing as she watches himself dry off briskly, prepare for the day. The scents that waft through the air are familiar, help keep the edginess down.
She tends to him efficiently, not exactly gently, but without aggression. She pays careful attention to the seeping wound on his neck, thinking absently that it is important to keep it clear of bacteria, trying not to think about the scent of his blood.
When she finishes, he thanks her quietly and leaves the room. She tidies up and wanders out into the living room — and encounters the cat for the first time, sunning itself lazily on the desk by the window.
This small domesticity, the sign of a need in Reddington that she had long denied recognizing in him — the simple need for companionship, affection, to have something to care for — touches her, helps to wear away the anger and hate a little more, a little more.
When Dembe arrives, they are drinking coffee in relatively comfortable silence, cat purring ecstatically in Reddington's lap. As usual, he gives away nothing of what he thinks, merely ensures that Liz sees the bag in his hand, then places it gently on the floor and walks into the kitchen for a mug of his own.
When the three of them are together again, Red sits up a little straighter, shooing the cat away gently.
"So," he says smoothly, "I expect you have more questions, do you, Elizabeth?"
She nods, pleased by his matter-of-fact attitude. She is more than eager for further clarification, for the ease to the pain and clamour, that last night's revelations had given.
"The fire," she says. "You took me…saved me from it. And handed me off to Sam?"
He nods. "That's right. Sam and I were old friends — we grew up together. I couldn't trust anyone in my official circles, and I wanted you to be safe. I knew I could count on Sam."
"And he just…took me in? Just like that? On your say so?" She forces out the last thing, brittle and sharp, the one that has wriggled and stung at the bottom of her heart since Solomon whispered it into her ear. "You paid him to take me. You sold me to him."
He was already shaking his head before she finished speaking. "No, Elizabeth, never. At least, not the way that you mean," he says firmly. "You knew him, didn't you? Sam had a big, generous heart and a kind soul. You needed him, so he gave you a home. For him, it was that simple."
A little of her pain subsides at his words; she can see the truth in his clear, earnest eyes; feel it in her poignant memories of her father.
"I can't believe there was never any money," she says, testing, prodding at it like a sore tooth.
He looks at her carefully, evaluating. "I stayed in touch with Sam," he answers quietly. "I…needed to keep an eye on you; ensure your welfare. It was… You mattered to me. I gave Sam some money, a few times. To help with your education, mainly. We both wanted the best for you."
She struggles internally — there's no flash of clarity like there had been last night. The knowledge is too nebulous, she has no direct connection, no event to tie the information to, no possible way to confirm or deny his claims.
She glances at Dembe, and he nods gravely.
It all comes down to trust, she thinks unhappily. And I just don't know. How can I?
"All right," she says aloud, her voice sounding stubbornly unconvinced. "That follows, I suppose."
"Good," Red says gently, "I never want you to doubt Sam's love for you, Elizabeth."
Dembe reaches over and squeezes her hand. "It's a good beginning, Elizabeth," he affirms.
She feels a pleased warm tingle at their approval, then her mind rebels angrily. She doesn't need their approval, they should be seeking hers — she is the victim here.
"Okay," she says, trying for an even tone. "Then which one of you wants to tell me about Tom Keen?"