"Stay with me a little longer,
I will wait for you,
Shadows creep,
And want grows stronger,
Deeper than the truth." – War of Hearts, Ruelle
Trigger Warning; He's back. I'm sorry. It's painful for me too.
Liz wakes slowly, quilt tucked up to her neck, eyes blinking in the dim lighting of the room. Her mouth is dry, curls tangled around her face, thin strands wrapped around the velvety skin of her neck. Shifting she finds that the hairs on Reddington's legs are soft against her smooth skin, trousers having ridden up during the night, their limbs tangled. Her arm is draped over his torso, head cushioned on his chest. Gently it rises and falls, the steady beat of his heart thrumming through muscle and bone until Liz can hear it. Tilting her head up, mouth a breath away from brushing the underside of his jaw, she watches his face, lax in sleep. His lips are parted, eyelashes streaks of gold under his eyes, smooth skin hiding fields of green, shining jade. The arm that runs along her back, palm pressed to her upper thigh, tugs her closer to him, the cords in his arms tightening. Liz finds her leg hooked over his, all too aware of how inappropriate the position is. Yet, she does not move, swallows down the guilt, rids it from her system, stems the flow through her blood. Safe is how she feels in this moment, and she does not want it to be tainted. He is just a man, a human, in sleep, not the king of a criminal empire.
Reddington wakes slowly and then all at once, his piercing green gaze meeting hers as soon as they are revealed. A smile tugs at his lips immediately after, hand sliding off her thigh. Liz shifts her leg away from him as he heaves a sigh, arches his back slightly and stretches his arms above his head, cat-like in nature. Her body moves with him, head rising as he yawns afterwards. When his hand drops down to the bare skin of her back, her shirt having also ridden up through the night, he begins to draw circles with his rough knuckles, she can't help but smile.
"Sleep well?" He asks and his voice is husky, sleep riddled, as seductive as ever. With his spare hand, the one not causing Liz's skin to tingle, he rubs at his eyes. She wonders when the last time he slept this well was, or slept at all for that matter, noting the heavy bags under his eyes.
"You snore," she says, a complete lie of course, but she wants to study his shocked expression, hoping to have startled him. Fearing that awkwardness will seep into them both, a realisation, if she admits that she hadn't slept so deeply, so soundly, since Sam's death. He closes his eyes, grins up at the ceiling.
"I do not snore," he growls. Her laughter filters around the room and soon he joins her, eyes squinted closed in joy. The blankets are tangled around them and Liz is loathe to move, but when they both regain their breath, Reddington nudges her into a sitting position, makes his way out of the bed and disappears into his own room. He comes back with his chosen suit for the day, cream in colour, before heading into the bathroom.
He is gone for several minutes, remerging in a crisp shirt and freshly shaven. Smiling at her as he walks past, Liz watches as he assembles his suit, his armour. Wool drapes over his shoulders, hugs his sides, silk slides against the soft skin of his neck. Nimble fingers deftly button the fitted vest, lace Italian leather shoes. He is efficient, practiced, not a crease in his clothing and tie, neatly knotted. Liz watches, with increasing awareness, as the Concierge of Crime materialises before her eyes. Uneasiness slinks its way into her body, corrosive to the blissful state of relaxation she has found herself in. She shifts from the bed, as he tugs once on his jacket, eyes assessing his image in the mirror before turning to her.
"I am sorry, Lizzie, I won't be around for breakfast" he declares, "I have a meeting to attend."
He doesn't meet her eyes and Liz knows it is about something she would abhor; drugs, weapons, assassination. It doesn't matter. Acutely aware of the man she spent the night with, drank with, danced with, slept with, her head on his heart and his hand tangled in her hair, she darts into the bathroom with a nod, stating that she needs a shower. She can hear his voice, slightly strained, through the door as she strips, hands shaking.
"I'll arrange a cab for you to get home," and when she does not respond, "Either Dembe or I will contact you about our next Blacklister."
There is the soft sound of footsteps over carpet, the click of the door and then nothing. Liz breathes deeply, closes her eyes for a moment, adrenaline thrumming through her body. She had been rude, impolite, but she is shaken, realising the close, the vulnerable, proximity she had put herself in the night before. Reddington is dangerous. His eyes flickering from molten jade to harsh flint in moments, voice amorous and then savage, hands empty until his trigger finger itches and bullets burst from the barrel of his gun, recoil seemingly having no affect on his steady and true aim. He can interrupt a conversation, correct Liz's posture and leave searing fingerprints on her skin like a lover before pulling his weapon and burying a bullet in an unarmed man. Handmade suits unblemished from food spills are marred by the spray of blood, his namesake blooming over the starched collar of his dress shirts. He is volatile, unpredictable, soft then hard then soft again. So she showers quickly, cards her fingers through her hair as she calms down, fights for dominance over her emotions. There had been no danger; she had never been at risk, wrapped in his arms, embrace, she had felt safe, comforted. Perhaps that is what she fears most, that this monster can appear so human, that she may become attached to a man with such a fearful reputation.
Stepping out of the bathroom, locating her own pile of clothing, she notices that a stillness has fallen over the hotel suite. There is no deep rumble of their male voices, no sound of either of them clattering around the kitchen, no music playing and the white noise of a television is absent. It is the type of stillness that filled her apartment, leaked through it like gas, after Sam's death. Emptiness.
She is alone.
Dressing quickly and stumbling out into the living room after having gathered her things, she leaves, leaves the night before behind her, leaves her conflicted emotions about Raymond Reddington locked in the room they shared; the apprehension, the tenderness. Lace and silk she has delicately placed on the bed, draped over it, looking like blood amongst snow. He will contact her, said he would do so, and she will wait, blanket herself with professionalism. There would be no need for galas, for conversations over a shared breakfast, no need to find herself cocooned in his warmth. Their relationship would be one of business, nothing more. She will not let his lifestyle consume her. Liz needs normality, stability; a life where she can go to work and come home to a loving family. So as she makes her way down the corridor to the elevator, not passing a soul on her way, she takes out her phone, messages Tom.
He replies before the elevator has hit the ground floor, saying that he will be at her house in an hour. She tries to smile at the thought, tries to look forward to the Chinese he has promised and his company. Eagerness should be an admired trait, but Liz already feels exhausted, hopes that he is willing to do all the chatting, will let her contribute with a nod or a smile, before rambling on about the children in his class. Perhaps they could actually watch a movie this time.
Passing through the reception, she takes no notice of the grandeur, her head bowed, eyes trained to the tips of her boots. She does not belong here, in this place of gold and sophistication. Sam had raised her in their humble home, taught her to love what she had, and modest is what she had grown accustomed to. Going through college, Liz had learned that she could survive on basics, that it wasn't uncomfortable or difficult for her to do so. She prides herself on being a practical and capable woman, not putting her faith in material possessions, but in her work, her embryonic career. When she wants to splash out, the clothes she pays for are on special, the hotels she stays in are decided upon after hours of combing through websites for the best deal. This hotel, this hotel of splendour and majesty, is the life Reddington can afford, the life he flourishes in, even with his money smeared with blood. Liz belongs in no part of it.
Stepping out of the doors, heels clacking on the polished marble, she finds there is a taxi waiting for her. One of the bellboys hastens to open the passenger door, a young man with a boyish smile, eyes still glinting after Liz hands him a tip that must be positively measly compared to what Reddington and the other occupants of the building would have given him. She slides into the vehicle, the typical smell of a taxi wafting around her; body odour masked by fake flowery fragrance. Rattling off her address, Liz sinks into the leather, fingers linked around her phone, the burner phone Reddington had given her, never far from reach. With each stroke of her fingertips along the screen she waits for a call from Reddington, hating herself for her impatience, hating him for the way he has threaded rope through her being, tugging her closer and closer. Chewing on the inside of her lip, she glares out the window, shoving the mobile beneath her thigh, redirecting her thoughts.
During her schooling years, when she was just an adolescent girl struggling her way through a mountain of homework and the tenuous foundations of her social life, Liz discovered that she found herself more at ease with her teachers than her peers. They offered more stimulating conversations; an insight into what the wide world is like after the confines of school. They shared experiences, both intentional and unintentional, that gave Liz her first chances at profiling, to see how these men and women were molded, what made them who they were to that day. Life lessons that were invaluable were granted to her, particularly by one gentleman; her history teacher. He had been a great bear of a man, as hairy and fierce as the grizzly Liz had spotted when she and Sam travelled through Alaska when she was but a girl. So many of the students feared him, despised him, a man of intimidating nature with a sharp tongue and a simmering anger, the type of anger that is laced with disappointment. A man that Liz had never been able to pin down, to profile; he had been so selfish in nature, his words unforgiving, brutal, but so willing to give to those who simply asked. His actions were always kind. Liz had been greatly confounded by him, her entire schooling life, graced by his smiles and then looked over the same day. It was as if he knew her, knew that she studied harder for his approval, fought valiantly for it, and was livid when he never graced her with it. One day he'd dock half marks from her, leaving her only a percentile short of a perfect score. And still, Liz would feel drawn to him, would study him, would want to simply understand who he was, what made him tick. The next day, his eyes twinkling, he would joke with her, smile at her, frustratingly confuse her. It had never made sense, he had never made sense.
The people she can't profile are always the most fascinating, always the ones she can't drag herself away from. The contradictions that are so intricately woven into their souls, knotted and twisted, becoming more tangled the further Liz tries to unravel them.
Reddington is quickly becoming the most complicated of the lot. With every rise and fall of the sun, Liz finds herself profiling, scrutinising him to the point of insanity. Every movement, word, every action he makes, she analyses. Nothing is becoming clearer, the idea she had first had of him abolished, and the deeper she delves the murkier the waters, the thicker and muddier her mind seems to become. As she studies him, learns him, gets to know Red, Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, the more knotted he becomes, a soul of incongruity. Cradling children against his chest, cradling her in sleep, a man with murder etched into the farrows of his skin, so caring, so kind to those in need. The feelings he inspires within her are just as contradictive as his actions, and Liz is practically paralysed with terror.
The drive is short, silent, and soon Liz is clambering out of the cab after paying, heading up to her apartment, phone clutched tightly in her palm. Clanking up in the elevator to her floor, Liz sighs in relief because the sound, the constant rattle, is home. She is back to normality, not off cavorting with criminals or being wined and dined with the city's finest, back to cheap takeout and crappy films. And when she steps out into the corridor, Tom is standing by her door, plastic bag in hand, dressed in jeans and a jumper, his chin covered in stubble. His eyes are bright when they alight upon her, behind his glasses and he greets her warmly.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she says, opening the door and leading him in, pleased that she, with the aid of Reddington, had tided her humble abode. The curtains are pulled back so light filters into the room, dust particles dancing in the rays.
"That's alright," he replies with a bright smile, setting the takeout on her dining room table. Liz would never say no to greasy Chinese for an indulgent breakfast. Without asking he begins to unpack the bag, placing the white boxes on the table and distributing chopsticks. Wandering over she takes a seat and thanks him for the meal as he pushes a container over to her.
They talk while they eat, about work, about Tom's school, politics, simple and mindless chatter. His attention is riveted on her, and then riveted on using his utensils, something Liz had mastered in her college years, and then back to her. Liz's attention is scattered, trying to keep track of his conversation, opinions, even while her eyes are drawn to her mobile, waiting for the screen to light up. She knows it is rude, can see that occasionally Tom follows her gaze, but she cannot bring herself to put the phone away. There may only be one chance to catch the next Blacklister, Reddington may need to see her immediately.
After each mouthful of noodle, the soft textures and sweet heat that accompany them, Liz finds that she can't eat her entire meal, the food sitting heavily in her stomach. It seems that Tom feels similar as he pushes nauseously at the cardboard box, dropping his chopsticks in something like defeat. It makes Liz smile, thinking of Reddington and his insatiable hunger, the extra scoops of icecream he served himself the night before, how he had eyed the last pastry when he'd brought her breakfast, before so politely offering it to Liz. She hadn't had the heart to accept it. If he were to be sitting across from her at this moment, there would have been more food to begin with and no leftovers for her to hoard in her fridge until they spoiled. He would have polished off every box and most likely scoured her kitchen for dessert.
They sit in front of their half eaten meals, no one moving to clear the table and continue to talk. Tom doesn't see his family often, only has his brother, Kreg, having lost his parents in an accident. He never specifies what happened, his face contorting in pain, tears pricking at his eyes. His grief is not as fresh as Liz's, but she stops him with a hand on his arm and a smile, not wanting to cause him discomfort. With a wobbly smile he changes the topic, asks about where she ran off to after they spent the night together.
Dirty faces, trembling hands, protruding ribs, fill her vision. Children only days from death, children scarred both physically and mentally, entirely stripped of their innocence and dignity. The smell wafts around her even now, the fear and rot, the smell of blood and metal. She can see the crimson pooling around the bodies of monsters, their deaths too quick, too easy. Reddington throwing himself into the fray, risking his life, and then afterwards glancing at her from the corner of his eye and when he speaks to her, sounding so proud. The rattle of gunfire, the screaming of bullets as they tear through flesh, through metal, still rings in her ears.
"Oh," she says breezily, her smile feeling forced, "I just had to run a few errands."
Tom's eyes narrow, only minutely, but enough for Liz to notice. And then he is smiling at her again, rattling off some of the movies he thought they could watch, whether she would prefer a thriller or a comedy, or whether she wants a mixture of both. Liz clears the table as he calls out to her from the couch, insisting that she decide, his tone teasing, happy. She listens half heartedly as she opens her fridge, shoving their half eaten meals inside, deciding that she'll finish the rest for dinner, as he names several films. Deciding that it doesn't really matter, she waits for him to finish his list and chooses the second one without thought, making her way over to him as he settles on the couch, the title menu bright on her TV screen.
As soon as she sits down she is tucked into his side, his arm slung around her. He smells like deodorant, masculine and fresh, but conventional, clichéd. It reminds her of the teenage boys she went to school with, the amount they used almost toxic, so heavily applied that as Liz walked past their lockers she could taste it. Lean muscles can be felt under his shirt, shifting with each breath. After their night together, Liz can attest that Tom is an extremely fit man, toned and trim. It is lucky he is teaching primary children, if he had been hired at a high school the young girls would tear him apart. She never contemplates why he is in such good shape.
With a smile she relaxes into him, phone grasped in her right hand, left clasping his thigh. He kisses her on the top of her head and presses play, the movie reflected in the lens of his glasses.
It's a typical action film; a young handsome man with an excessive range of skills chasing after his damsel in distress, a pretty blonde with bright blue eyes and a shrill voice. There are ticking bombs and firing guns, explosions and fires, car chases and fist fights, and none of it causes Liz's adrenaline to spike. The villain is laughable, and when he is on screen Liz finds her eyes drawn to the mobile in her hand, waiting for a more charismatic and complex criminal to contact her, to actually feel the rush of gunfire, of battle. Tom seems irked by her actions, giving her occasional nudges when her attention seems to waver and explaining what she has missed in a tight voice. She wonders if he uses the same tone on his students and tries to smother the indignation that coils in her belly. Instead she endeavours to focus, rolls her tongue around her mouth rather than snapping out sarcastic remarks about the shoddy acting and fake redemption arcs. He seems to settle down beside her, thumb stroking up and down her arm.
And then she is shifting again, fidgeting, and she doesn't miss the huff of exasperation he gives when the blue light of the phone bathes their faces in a ghostly glow. It paints his face in a harsh light, making the angular features, cheekbones and jaw, sharper, almost demonic. The way frustration glints in his eyes as he looks at her causes discomfort to worm down her spine and she quickly shuts off her phone, offers a whispered apology and returns her attention to the screen. Liz swallows back the sick feeling swirling through her, embarrassed that he seems upset with her.
"Who're you waiting to contact you?" He asks and his voice is purposely light, his eyes never once straying from the screen. There is an undertone of suspicion laced through his words, blanketed with a small smile. And so the lie flows from Liz effortlessly, protecting her, protecting Reddington with surprising ease, realising that this man is just as much as a stranger as the Concierge of Crime, perhaps even more so.
"Aunt June said she'd contact me," her tone calm, "There are still certain things that need to be put in place regarding Dad's affairs."
The tension in the room for a few moments is palpable, enhanced by the screaming, shouting, shattering glass, blaring through the speakers of her television. And then Tom has turned to look at her and is smiling, leaning forwards to kiss her softly, knocking the burner cell on to the floor with a thud as he pulls Liz into his arms. With a huff of laughter Liz turns away, aiming for nonchalance as she says, even as she can taste the diversion on his tongue, on her own,
"We should be paying more attention to the movie."
His entire body is pressed against her, lean and warm, and then it is gone. Heaving himself up off the sofa, shoulders rigid, Liz just stares as irritation ripples over his features, wondering what has overcome him. His movements are jerky, eyes sharp as he looks down at her. When his lips pull back into a smile, resembling a snarl, wolfish in nature, Liz frowns at him.
"I think I might just go, Liz," he says briskly, making his way to the door, "Give me a call when you're free."
Rooted as she is on the couch all she can do is call his name, but the door clicks closed behind him. Running a hand through her hair Liz stands, begins to pace in agitation, the sickening feeling of confrontation roiling within her. She is greatly unsettled by his actions, the callous change in demeanour, like the rolling rumble of thunderclouds, dark and menacing, leaking over a sunny meadow. His actions, the blatant jealousy, had been unfounded. For all he knew, Liz could have been waiting for a message from Quantico. Her excuse should not have inspired such a reaction. It is unnerving. So as she makes her way to the kitchen, craving a cup of tea, she scoops the burner off the floor, checks it one last time before shoving it into her pocket.
Reddington will call when he is ready and not a moment before, Liz knows this. She is determined not to contact him, even as the silence of her apartment closes in around her. Her fingers are gripped onto a thread of professionalism, what feels like her last strand of sanity, and she is not yet willing to release it. Teeth gritted, Liz takes a sip of her tea, moves to her bedroom to rest, drifting off to sleep before her beverage has even cooled. When she wakes, her fist is frozen shut around the phone.
A/N; I don't really know about this one because it is incredibly difficult for me to write Tom, like it borders on physically painful. So please let me know what you think! I hope you found it enjoyable!
