Hi Everyone, gee I've missed all of you! I hope you enjoy this next story (I'm a tad bit nervous) and it's a little different than The Guardian and Lizzies First Date. One thing hasn't change, it's a love story for Red and Lizzie! xxxx JJ
Opps, as always I don't own the Blacklist or anything associated with it!
Chapter 1 Reflections At The Hemstead House
The first time she found herself seeking solitude at the Hemstead house was after a particularly heated conversation with her husband. At two in the morning she had stormed out of the house, effectively ending the discussion. In retrospect it was probably the beginning of the end of her marriage as she knew it.
In the course of her grand exit she realized she only had her car keys - wallet, money, credit cards had been left behind. Refusing to subject herself any longer to Tom's anger, since she had no intention of placating his complaints or apologizing, she drove aimlessly around the dark, damp streets of DC, until, much to her surprise, she found herself parked in front of Fredrick's house.
Turning the car off she slumped deeply into the seat and stared at the place. Old red brick and mortar with decorative iron grills on the bottom windows, shutters painted a deep, dark rich green on the second and third story windows. Thick ivy trailed up the sides of the house, the dampened leaves gleaming from the street lights as the soft rain worked to wash away the last grungy mounds of winter's snow.
Liz knew the house wasn't being lived in. One could easily tell, it was as if were slumped with disappointment. Sad that no one loved it enough to stay in its warm embrace, that it had no one to shelter from the harsh elements outside. Sad that there was no one who wanted to laugh and love and live within its walls. She could imagine the house's unfulfilled need, much as she imagined it in her own life.
She found a pen in the glove box and stripped it before going to work on the lock, a pleased smile when the tumbler clicked. She knew that Red had a particular affinity for the place, but he was out of the country and even if he wasn't, he remained diligent in not staying in any one place for more than a few nights at a time. Surprisingly enough, instead of the house being cold and damp from the early spring chill, it was warm inside.
Welcoming warm.
As soon as she closed the front door she could feel the tension of the argument she had with her husband bleeding out of her. She closed her eyes in relief as she rested her back against the door, soaking up the warmth that surrounded her, relaxing her tensed muscles for what felt like the first time in weeks.
Finally she opened her eyes waiting for them to adjust to the darkness. She was reluctant to search for any light switches, not wanting the sudden glare to disturb the feeling of peace that was slowly seeping through her body. When she was able to see through the darkness and discern the shrouded shapes in the corners, she made her way to the library and then to the end of the sofa, sinking into the spot Red favored. Somewhere in the house the soft chimes of a clock rang, its four final bells reminding her that the night had almost passed and that now here, she would be safe to rest. She unfolded the soft cashmere throw that rested on the arm of the sofa and covered her body, the scent of Raymond Reddington filling her nostrils as she stroked the soft fabric against her cheek.
It was there, on the sofa, in the library, in the sanctuary of the Hemstead house, that she faced the truth - that nothing was as it seemed on the surface. That her marriage was crumbling and that the man she thought she once loved was pulling away from her and turning into something she no longer recognized. She could almost hear the house's silent sympathy as she pulled the soft wool close and her eyelids fluttered, finally falling asleep in the houses comforting embrace.
xxxxx
The second time she spent the night at the Hemstead house, she had been beat up, bruised and felt pretty much as if she had been thrown out with the trash. She had barely made it up the steps and picking the lock had taken far to much time, her hands trembling with nerves and adrenalin from a stakeout that had gone south. But once inside, she felt it again. The house was waiting for her, welcoming her. Asking gently, she had imagined, on where is was that she had disappeared to for so long. Enveloping her in a warm maternal hug. Of course the house was feminine. Everyone knew that houses were of the female persuasion and if they didn't, they would have recognized it from her graceful lines and the gentle beauty that came with her age.
Liz climbed a slow painful ascent up the staircase in search of a bed to rest on, the house nudging her on. Her hand trailing the oak banister as she made her way to the top of the stairs, the dim light of dawn peeking through the windows, guiding her safely into the unknown that awaited her. The nervousness she felt at intruding into a personal space that wasn't her own, but instead was the safe haven of one of the most notorious criminals in the world, vanished as she reached the last step.
Five paneled doors awaited her at the top. All were closed, except one.
The one furthest away.
The one at the very end of the long hallway.
That door was cracked, just a few inches, coaxing her to come closer. With slow hesitant footsteps she walked toward it, the faint scent of lilac trailing behind her like the wisp in the wind.
It was much later in the day that she finally awakened. The sunlight diffused as it peeked through white batiste sheers and caressed her face. She felt warm and safe as she floated between sleep and awareness. She burrowed deeply under the covers with a sigh of bliss, the soft down of the pillows cradling her head. She was certain it was not so, that there had to have been a time before this, but she simply couldn't recall ever feeling such contentment and comfort. The pain and discomfort she had experienced before falling asleep was gone. The worries that had followed her these last few weeks, vanquished. She smiled sleepily, yes, the house had welcomed her once more.
xxxx
After that it was much easier to find an excuse to creep into the old place at night. It was late, the roads were bad, her brownstone a place to avoid. Truth be told, the house just always welcomed her in a way that couldn't be described. Perhaps it was the beautiful transom windows of lead and diamond shaped cut glass. Or the gleaming worn oak of the wood work or the oriental rugs with their subdued jeweled colors that covered the floors and muffled her footsteps.
Perhaps it was her growing need to avoid her husband and the storm that she sensed was coming.
Whatever the reason was, Lizzie slowly claimed the house as her own and in return, the house claimed her.
Her bedroom, the one she had found that second night, the one in the back that overlooked the garden filled with lilac bushes, was the one she chose as her own. The walls were painted the palest of palest pink. Champagne Blush, she liked to call it. The double bed, high with its little step stool to assist in climbing up and then sinking into the mattress. The tarnished brass headboard with its curly q's and the decades old, hand stitched quilt of white cotton, decorated with the tiniest of faded blue forget-me-not's. Yes, this was the room she claimed and it would have been...presumptuous... of her to claim the master bedroom. If there was irony that she had no qualms in claiming the house but not a certain bedroom, she chose to ignore it, after all, she had gotten very good at choosing to ignore some things.
Red, of course knew that she was sneaking into his home from time to time. Not by words or that penetrating look he had that made her feel as if he could see into her soul. But he still knew. She would have liked to have thought it was the house that had placed the key on the pale yellow nightstand beside her bed, but even she wasn't that fanciful.
No, it was Red. Understanding that sometimes she needed a safe haven, one away from the prying eyes that always seemed to follow her at work and the accusing eyes that followed her at home. Someone somewhere was always judging her, finding her lacking in whatever expectation they had for her. Her husband with his constant look of disappointment, Ressler, his condescending attitude, Cooper, all of them. All except maybe Red. He perhaps more than any of them was the one that judged her the least. Not that she didn't feel the weight of his expectations on her. She just had not been able to define what they were and Red simply had not been willing to share them with her. No, he expected her to either accept in ignorance his plans for her or else solve the riddle herself.
Yet still, hidden away in the quiet comfort of the library, wrapped in the solitude and protection it offered and Red's cashmere throw, she was able to look back on the paths she had taken and what had driven her to make the choices she had. She thought a lot about her childhood, of how Sam had taken her in and raised her as his own. She wondered what flaw it was in her character that she had never demanded answers from him on whom she was and where she had come from.
Thinking back she recalled the handful of times she had brought up the subject of her adoption, of how Sam had shut her down quickly with each inquiry. Even though the love she had for adoptive father had been strong and their bond close, Sam had not been above using guilt as a means to keep her questions at bay. 'Did she not love him?' he had asked her the last she had questioned him. 'Hadn't he done his very best by her?' She had been sixteen at the time and the acute pain she had felt at being disloyal to the only person who had ever been there for her had overwhelmed her. She had vowed then that she would never again ask about her past, never be the cause of seeing Sam's kind eyes filled with hurt. But here, now, as an adult, she understood that Sam had played on the emotions of a child. Whether it had been to protect her or him, she doubted that she would ever know the truth. She had allowed herself to be dissuaded from discovering the story of her origins, but even more disturbing was that she was she still allowing others to guide her in the direction of their choice, instead of forging her own path.
It was those childhood fears of being abandoned that had shaped her. Without logic she had always been afraid that if she wasn't good enough or tidy enough or smart enough, that she would wake up one morning and find Sam gone and she would be without anyone. She was only now beginning to understand how that fear had influenced her to marry a man she thought she loved. She had been the good child, the good student, the good wife. From her earliest memories she had hated discord, despised friction.
Liz was honest enough to recognize her weaknesses and her strengths - and they were many. She could be stubborn to a fault, certainly arrogant at times and rigid in her opinions. She disliked ambiguity and firmly believed in the importance of taking a stand for what you believed in. Whether you were right or wrong in your opinion, it made no difference - as long as you believed in it and fought for it. She had little tolerance for those that live their lives within the comfort of blinders.
But it was at the Hemstead house, that she recognized the biggest truth about herself - that she was a woman of order. She appreciated lines that were clearly defined, she expected structure. She respected accountability and rules, clear cut objectives and goals. Society couldn't function without order and discipline and she had chosen a career that would allow her to help enforce that order. She thought she had chosen a husband that respected and loved those qualities in her.
She admitted that she had grown into a woman of pristine white and ebony black. Sadly enough, the knowledge felt heavy on her, almost unwelcoming. The truth rigid, isolating, it didn't define the passion and wildness that she knew was buried inside of her. She had always known that part of her existed, pushed away and denied as she pursued her desire for order. But more recently and if she were to be honest with herself, since meeting Raymond Reddington, that wild and unfettered emotion was growing stronger as it tried to push itself to the surface and reach out to the light that would allow it to live and thrive.
Her thoughts often drifted to Raymond Reddington. He had been the catalyst of change. The corrupter of her perfect world, perfect job, perfect marriage. From the moment their eyes had met in the box and he had curled his lips into that strange little smile, everything she thought and knew started to unravel. His dramatic entrance had caused her rules to shift and change.
When they had first met she had looked at him with an entrapped type of awe. If she were truthful she would even admit to having been frightened of him. Why wouldn't she be? He had turned himself in, refusing to speak with anyone but her. He was a criminal, number four on the FBI's most wanted. A notoriety that didn't come with out him earning it. She had disregarded his statement that she was his second chance, that there was some kind of bond that connected them. She had been certain they were lies, trickery.
The longer she worked with him, the more time she spent with him, she realized that there was far more beneath the surface of this criminal than what he ever revealed. Like a chameleon, he could adjust and fit into any situation, any scenario in the blink of an eye. Whatever the person expected or thought Raymond Reddington was, he became. He was the ultimate actor, a master manipulator. The question of how much he was manipulating her, remained unanswered.
She watched with amazement as he played blacklisters and shopkeepers alike. That gregarious act that he would put on. Arms out stretched in welcome, the fast paced stride moving towards whoever it was that he was greeting. The tight close bear hugs, voice booming with pleasure as he pulled an acquaintance or enemy close for a kiss on each cheek.
She couldn't help but think it interesting that he never greeted her that way.
And then there was the Red of tight thin lips and narrowed eyes. A voice that could leave a person questioning if they would still be alive at the end of the day and sometimes they weren't. Raymond Reddington lived by his own code of justice and honor. Loyalty, not to his own country or any other country, but loyalty to himself, to those that he trusted. Loyalty to Luli, Dembe and even in some strange way that she had yet to understand - her. He had proven it time and again. After he stepped out of the box to save her life, she had stopped questioning his commitment to her and just accepted it.
Vigilante some might call him. Monster and murderer were the words that she had once flung in his face. But the more time they spent together, the more she saw that the names eliminated from his Blacklist were far more deserving of the words monster and murderer than Raymond Reddington ever was.
It was there, in the comfort of Fredrick's library, that she came to the realization that what she thought was the way of honor and justice, of clearly defined lines, of truth and righteousness, was not always the case. That good frequently disguised itself as evil. Where honor was a definition you found inside of yourself and not always found in the words written by man. That the shimmering image of your reflection in the water was a more accurate picture of your soul than the one reflected in a mirror.
That was when she stopped looking at Red with the eyes of a profiler and once that happened, her pristine white lost a little of its crispness and her ebony black began to fade and she began that slow slide into a world of grey.
xxxxxx
So there you have it! Chapter One. I hope you're still awake after reading. I'm concerned that it was to long, dry and boring. I just wanted to spend some time delving into Lizzies psych. Hope you stay with me!