Author's Note: An alternative ending to 1x04 "The Stewmaker". Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).
She would have been dissolved, had he not arrived on time. Would her brain have given in to death first? She remembered praying for that to be the case. She hoped to have been dead by the time her flesh and bones were attacked by the acids. Her body would have been turned into human stew. Even the genetic memory of her would have been wiped out, eaten by chemicals. There wouldn't have been a body to bury or burn. She would have been washed into a drain. Could a funeral be arranged if there was no corpse?
It was there, in that wheelchair, that she had started to love herself unconditionally, paralyzed body and terrified soul.
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She knew the Stewmaker was about to lose his life the moment Reddington had started his story. It was the prelude to the execution of his revenge. He was avenging the mere possibility of her death. The Stewmaker was not going to be given the benefit of the doubt or a second chance.
A single, horrific splash and the acids took a victim after all. Flesh for flesh; bone for bone. His life for hers. Something had to give. Red was there to simply ensure she would not be the sacrificial lamb.
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She felt his palm on her head. He informed her that the effect of whatever the Stewmaker had given her would start to wear off eventually. Not only was she alive, but she was going to be able to move and speak. She was going to be the rightful owner of her body again. She'd protect it better, she decided then. She'd cherish it purposefully and on a daily basis.
She was going to criticize Reddington's wicked, unfair ways, of course. She would tell him he shouldn't have taken that sorry man's life. She would go over the protocol of how criminals were to be treated. But first, she'd thank him. For always being on time. For being there, wherever she was. She was lucky enough to have been bestowed with two guardian angels. Some people weren't as lucky. Sometimes they were turned into liquefied corpses.
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Twenty minutes later, an FBI team was fussing over her, and over the Stewmaker's leftovers. They were asking questions. Reddington was giving answers for her. She couldn't speak, not yet. They'd take her home, Donald had promised. Only, she didn't wish to go home. She wanted to give her thanks to her guardian angel. The one she could see. The one with the under-eye bags and bright eyes; the one with the stubble. She'd thank Reddington for salvaging her life and for unleashing her love for it.
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"I want to talk to you," she told him very slowly, testing her speech. Her tongue was recalling its use again. It was difficult. She'd never hate her own voice again. It was so wonderful that she still had one. So wonderful. "Don't let them take me to my house," she pleaded. He nodded. It was going to be arranged.
She was seated at the back of an ambulance. The doctor confirmed Red's assessment – she'd be fine in a few hours. Liz attempted a nod and it worked. She received a pat on her back by the doctor who celebrated her slow recovery as if she were a wobbly toddler. Her body did deserve praising, she thought. It was so good to her and so agreeable.
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"Lizzie, we're going to a safe house. Is that alright with you?" he asked her once he was satisfied with her position on the backseat of his car. "Dembe and I can take you to your home safely instead, if that's what you prefer." She didn't. She hadn't changed her mind. Perhaps Red had assumed she'd been a hair too euphoric to be alive and had asked to have a conversation with him as a result. His assumption wouldn't be inaccurate. She was ecstatic to be alive. But it didn't make her incoherent. She was resolved to thank him, to be near him. The irrational pull towards him had been torturing her for weeks. Her condition was the all-forgiving cloak that would justify the odd tenderness she felt for him. Any boldness would be allowed.
"I want to come with you," she reassured him. He did nothing to change her mind but rearranged the blanket they had given her instead.
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No one warned her about the shaking. It started near the end of their car journey. She was convulsing as if she'd been under local anesthesia. Only, it was infinitely worse. Her body was trying to get the gist of mobility again; it was lunging itself in various directions as if ecstatic to be awake after the forced slumber. It was not going to be a dignified process. Learning how to walk never was. Reddington was quick to soothe her, whispering words of encouragement, embracing her to his side. "You're doing so well, Lizzie. So well!" he told her. "Look how strong your body is. You'll be back on your feet in no time." But she was no longer a little girl. Sadly, she had learnt to distinguish between empathy and true enthusiasm. She forced a nod, then two, just so that he'd know it was not the muscles of her neck playing tricks on them both. "Good girl." And a kiss on her head. It would seem she was not the only one making the best of the all-forgiving cloak of temporary paralysis. He was allowing himself the body contact he'd probably been craving without justifying it. Not in any way. It was alright with her. Everything was. Because she had a body that Reddington could kiss.
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He never asked her why she insisted on joining him and Dembe. He never questioned her angle, her intentions. But he did ask her if she was hungry. She was not. She told him so. She didn't stutter.
He offered her hot chocolate.
"I'm convulsing like a drug addict trying to get clean, Reddington." That one made him laugh. And it was not empathic laughter either. He informed her she'd have to try his notorious hot chocolate before she left. She promised him she would. Leaving could wait.
"I want to sleep. Then, I want to shower. Is that okay?"
"It is," he nodded, springing to his feet, getting her back on hers.
It was a long walk, the one from his living room to the bedroom. But he was praising her silly steps as if she'd achieved the impossible. It certainly felt like she had. He took off her shoes. He deemed her feet too cold to be left without her socks. He'd held onto them for several long seconds before he announced his verdict, giving them a few gentle squeezes.
"Lie down, sweetheart," he instructed. She did as she was told. She managed to answer a series of questions while he was fussing over the duvet and the placement of the rest of the pillows. Yes, she was comfortable. No, she was not cold. Yes, the shaking was subsiding.
"Try and get some rest, Lizzie. We can talk when you wake up," he suggested, and was about to retract his arms from her. Her hand grasped one of his; she was fast enough for that, at least. They had time; the all-forgiving cloak was still working its magic.
"Stay here. The bed is more than enough for the both of us." He hesitated. Not all limitations were forgotten. It took him several seconds but he made up his mind. It had been decided. She was laying on her right side, trying to look up at him. His fingers were unbuttoning his vest while his eyes were taking in her shivering form. The vest was dealt with. He let go of it, letting it land on her duvet-covered thigh. Next came his shirt. He was standing there, mere centimeters away from her with his opened, crisp shirt. Once it was unbuttoned, he gathered his vest and moved away from her.
He was in bed with her by the time she managed to roll over to her other side. His pants were still on and so was her undershirt. He was lying on his side, smiling at her, comforting her. But her mission was not fulfilled yet. So, she lunged forward, landing on his pillow. Skin was touching skin. Her forehead was aligned with his mouth. He kissed her there, straight away. She hoped it was because it was the organic thing for him to do. She prayed there wasn't a single thing he'd rather he'd done instead.
"Thank you," she told him in a breath that warmed his neck. She was shaking against him. She wanted to spare him the discomfort of moving against him but her body wouldn't listen. He held her through her convulsions, palm gliding up and down the length of her spine. All was forgiven.
He was about to apologize for the way his body reacted to her involuntary movements. She didn't let him. Her shaky hand wrapped itself around his back, soothing him through the material of his T-shirt. All was forgiven.
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He kept kissing her forehead until she fell asleep.