A/N: Apparently, this is now a full-fledged fic, that will follow season one episode by episode, with diversions that respond to all the looks, the tension, the things said and unsaid, that scream for more. I don't even know how this happened.
Another restless night; sleepless, her mind a tangle. She couldn't stay in bed with a stranger, angry and afraid; she couldn't lie beside her husband, wracked with fear and doubt; guilt and shame.
She didn't dare sleep beside him when she knew exactly what she'd be dreaming about. And now, now that she'd experienced the reality…
God.
She thought of the pleasure on Tom's face when she'd picked him up from the hospital, how he'd reached for her hand; how, later, he had fallen asleep curled around her, like always.
How could it possibly be a lie?
She sifted hopelessly through the box again — Pandora's box in truth, she thought, the evils it released more insidious and stifling than she could ever have imagined. What was she supposed to...her eyes fell, then, on the gun, and finally, her brain clicked into gear.
She started moving in a rush, as quickly as she could without making too loud a sound. Morning broke as she worked, as she tucked away the spent bullet and casing that she hoped would bring her the truth.
If only she knew which truth she was hoping for.
Then it was time to face Reddington again, yet another test of her newfound acting abilities. When she arrived at the address Dembe had texted her, it was…what was a men's hat shop called, anyway? A haberdashery? She wondered why she even knew the word.
With the jingle of the bell on the door, the game began.
"Ah, Lizzy, an opportunity has come our way."
He seemed just as always; he clearly wasn't going to say anything…untoward, and she sighed inwardly in relief. There was comfort in the joust of their back and forth; in the way his face remained friendly, but cool enough; in the interest of a new case. But…Wujing?
"He's a myth," she said, skeptical, annoyed.
She thought he looked vaguely disappointed in her. "That's what they said about Deep Throat," he said, completely deadpan. "And the G-spot."
He might have kept his face even, but his voice dropped, syllables low and rich. It made her insides tighten, and she thought it was monumentally unjust that a voice could be an aphrodisiac. She strove not to react, and thought she probably succeeded, though he smiled his cat-smile. Then he told her what her role would be in this new caper of his, and her heart sank.
She couldn't do it. Even as she described the situation to the team, even as she looked at the bodies left by this notorious villain, she couldn't feel anything but afraid. She had no experience in undercover work, and knew less than nothing about cryptology.
But.
But Reddington had set this up assuming she could handle it. He'd given her the cover and the situation with a nonchalant confidence that made her want to live up to it. And Ressler's taunting made her want to throw his condescension right back into his smug face.
She tracked Reddington down again, a new determination making her feel strong.
"Okay," she said, standing straight and meeting his eyes. "Say I do this. What's in it for me?"
"Look at you," he answered, with that smile that made his whole face bright. "Camel trading like a Bedouin."
Was he…proud of her? For standing up to him? For not just doing what he wanted? Was it strength that he admired, or the more selfish way of thinking? She wished she understood him better.
"If I'm gonna help you, I want something in return."
He raised an eyebrow at that, and she fought back the flush and stood her ground.
"Such as?"
"The truth," she said, because that was what she wanted most. "Just once. I want to know why you chose me."
"Well then, we need to move quickly," he said briskly. "Things are already in play."
She couldn't help noting that he hadn't actually agreed to talk to her. She intended to ensure that he did.
He'd anticipated so many things when preparing to enter Elizabeth's life; he'd imagined that he'd thought of everything. A foolish conceit, perhaps, but he honestly did try. But one thing that he hadn't — that he couldn't have — was how much he enjoyed her.
In a few short weeks, her entire life had changed, everything she knew become something else, strange and dangerous. And yet, she seemed to take every blow, every challenge, and use what she needed from it to make her stronger. Her thought patterns had already altered, become more insightful and more calculating both.
She stood beside him in the elevator now, descending into goodness-knew-what. He could tell she was nervous, worried, but it didn't show — at least, not to strangers. To him, although the bored mien she'd affected hadn't changed, there was just…something about the way she held herself. He wanted to reassure her, but it was a near certainty that they were being monitored.
He didn't think she'd thank him for it, anyway, her fierce independence her shield against the world.
The anger that slapped at him when Wujing took her hand in both of his, in what he thought an overfamiliar and inappropriate way, caught him completely off-guard. He forced himself to look away, turn away so that he wouldn't punch the other man solidly in the face, laughing at himself as he did so.
Then things got moving, and the thrill of it overtook him, as it always did. He took a great deal of pleasure in the silent communication with Elizabeth; they worked together as smoothly as if they'd worked together for years. It soothed him, as well, just the small brushes of his thumb against her spine — and he could see it helped her, too, centering her and allowing her to keep going.
He thoroughly enjoyed throwing a small hissy fit; it relieved his anxiety and put the opposition on edge. Nobody liked it when someone they knew to be dangerous also became unpredictable. Presenting the unexpected always gave him the advantage, and he prided himself in keeping it. She moved through his chaos, swift and neat, doing what she needed to do without drawing even an eye flicker of attention.
Really, everything was going astoundingly smoothly. Until, with a screaming klaxon, it wasn't.
He grasped her arm urgently and hurried her toward the elevator anyway, hoping to avoid any…unpleasantness. Futilely, of course, and as they turned to face Wujing's rage, his mind was rapidly calculating — with no weapons of their own, the odds were not with them.
He watched dispassionately as Wujing mercilessly beat the unfortunate Jin Sun, but he felt Lizzy tense beside him, guilt gnawing at her. She was still so new to this work; she didn't understand the necessary sacrifices.
"We have to do something." A hushed, desperate hiss.
"Quiet." There was nothing to be done; nothing that would soothe her conscience or make the situation any easier.
"We can't just let them do this."
Of course they could, but he knew that she wouldn't. Then, it ceased to matter as any choices there might have been disappeared, as Jin Sun's eyes found the drive on the floor, and then met Elizabeth's with sharp realization.
He moved without thinking, without hesitation, with the swift economy of movement that had become second nature. Elizabeth stood frozen at his side; he didn't turn to her, didn't want to see the horror and revulsion he was sure would stain her face.
Even Wujing appeared to be in shock — he had to shout to snap the man out of his muttering trance. And then. Oh, then, it was his own turn to become ice as Wujing spoke.
"You don't kill one of my people." A hot, hasty anger; a weapon leveled. "Now I have to kill one of yours."
Before the sentence was complete, Red was moving, shifting to block Elizabeth from the gun's trajectory. His own fury was cold and sharp, more powerful than heat. It had to be.
He distracts with talk, biting, clear statements of fact. Then, the truest thing, the only thing that mattered.
"If you kill her, you'd better kill me. Or I'm going to kill you."
And consign the whole world to darkness.
He heard her breath catch, just behind him; felt her hand, hidden from view, come up to press against his back. With it, he felt slightly less wild.
But only slightly.
Alone again, and safe, with Dembe and Luli standing guard, he could draw a full breath at last. Wujing would go to jail, and Elizabeth would go home, safe and sound, if perhaps a little further changed. Angry with him, maybe, but he meant what he'd said. He'd do whatever was necessary, anything, to keep her alive. Safe.
He thought perhaps he could leave it at that, but of course, she hadn't forgotten their half-made bargain. She leant across him to slam his car door shut, and he breathed her in, savouring her warmth, her bright scent. He felt a surge of need to hold her close, to soften the edges of the long, difficult day in her supple form.
But she was already talking again, words making sharp, demanding shapes in the air.
"You owe me an answer."
She certainly wouldn't be happy with anything he could tell her, so he gave her the smallest answer possible — not a lie, he'd not lie to her, but a tiny truth, one that would mean nothing with the rest of it. She slumped sulkily in her seat and made him smile, a little.
"I share your frustration."
Her anger flashed and cut like a knife. "You act like we're the same — you're wrong. I have a life, people that care about me. But you…this is all you have."
Cruel, but defensive, too. She was desperate to believe her own words, to believe the lie of her life.
He couldn't blame her.
"I have you," he said — simplicity and complexity tangled together.
She flushed, sudden and vivid. And though it wasn't what he'd meant, the memory of her, lithe and eager beneath him, flashed before him like hot lightning.
"You don't," she said, a small whisper, a hesitant strike. "You don't."
And then she was gone.
She made her way home, away from the frantic tumble of the day — how had it only been one day? It wasn't even dark out, and she felt like she'd aged a year, two, ten. A man was dead because of her; instead of answers, she had only more questions.
But there was her ballistics report, and she had to sit for a few minutes, absorbing the impact. Not only a criminal's gun, but one guilty of a crime so serious that she didn't have clearance to even know what it was, let alone the details.
And so, she was left with still more questions. Was there to be nothing for her to hold on to? All she had now was more doubt, more fear, more misery. Once inside, she found her home full of people, the most important of them now a stranger.
I love you, the stranger said.
Every time he said it, she felt a little more insubstantial, a little less real. She stood in her own home, surrounded by friends, and she'd never felt more alone. She imagined Reddington, dining in solitary splendor in a fancy hotel, and wondered.
Wondered how he stood the loneliness; wondered if perhaps he treasured it. Perhaps the only safety was in being alone, in keeping a solid barrier between yourself and the world. She wondered, fleetingly, if he could teach her to be alone, to make isolation a strength, a purpose.
But as she smiled and chatted her way through the evening wearing a false face; as she tidied up the mess they'd left and helped Tom get into bed; as she lay beside him, staring wakeful at the ceiling…the memory that came, again and again, wasn't of passion and need, wasn't of the frantic, powerful coupling that haunted her.
Instead, she remembered the exquisitely gentle touch of lips on her skin, the whisper of her name with unbearable tenderness. And thought that even the strongest needed someone, sometimes.
Her anger gone like so much mist, she wanted him then, with a fierce and terrible yearning. Wanted that communion with someone who understood; who knew what it was like to have their life upended, uprooted, irrevocably changed.
With someone who could make her feel real again.
And even as she thought it, her phone buzzed quietly on the bedside table.
"Hello?" Barely a whisper.
A hesitation, then, "Lizzy?"
Red. "Is something wrong?"
"No, not…I just…" He sounded unusually unsure, and it gave her courage.
"What's the matter, Red? Are you okay?"
She slipped out of bed as she spoke, padding as silently as she could out of her bedroom and down the stairs.
A low chuckle on the other end of the phone. "I was actually calling to ask you that question, Elizabeth. After everything that happened today, I wondered…if you were all right."
"I–I'm dealing with it," she said, not entirely untruthfully. Borne of her own longing — maybe they could meet — she added, "Where are you?"
Another pause, and a slight cough. "My car is parked outside your house," he admitted. He sounded almost embarrassed, and she felt a strange surge of softness.
"Wait there," she said, and hung up.
She grabbed her jacket and shoes and slipped out the front door in her pyjamas, sneaking out of her own house like a neat bookend to her morning. The sleek black Mercedes was parked across the street, and she trotted quickly over to knock on the window.
To her surprise, Reddington was in the driver's seat. He stepped out instead of rolling down the window, making her hop back a little. He just looked at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. She wasn't sure how to read him; wasn't sure exactly why he was there. He wore his trousers and shirt, with a loose blue jacket overtop, hatless. It was like seeing a knight without his armour; it felt tantamount to seeing him naked.
"No entourage tonight?" she asked lightly.
A wry half-smile. "I wanted to be alone," he said, a quiet rumble.
"Aren't you always alone?" Her question was more wistful than accusing, this time.
A heavy sigh. "Yes and no," he answered. "Although having the company of those you can trust is invaluable, on occasion, even a silent companion is too much."
"Should I go back inside, then?"
He touched her hair, almost imperceptibly. "Let's go for a walk," he said.
It's past midnight, she thought. We aren't friends, she thought.
"There's a park at the end of the street," she said.
They walked along, companionable in silence. She kept her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, but leaned slightly into his warmth. It was funny, she thought. She'd wanted to talk to him and he'd come to talk to her, and here they were, as quiet as if they were each still alone.
Funnier still was how easy it felt, walking together in the peaceful dark. As if they were in fact, the oldest of friends. It didn't take that long to reach the park, and she was almost sorry for it. She'd intended to head for the wide bench under the trees, but as they strolled across the grass, Red laughed aloud.
"Look at that," he said gleefully, turning to her. "It's been years since I've ridden a roundabout."
She couldn't help but smile at his expression. "You don't honestly want–"
"Come on," he said, eyes twinkling in the glow from the lightpost. "I'll push."
He hooked a hand around her elbow and tugged her over the grass to the pool of sand and the wide metal spinner. He put a hand on a curved bar and just grinned at her, with the mischievous enthusiasm of a small boy. Unable to resist that joyful smile, she sat down, then scooted back so she was curled against the centre post with her arms wrapped around her knees.
"Not too fast," she warned, not very seriously.
He just winked at her, then started pushing, trotting around in a circle. He kept going until he was actually running, then joined her atop the disk with a nimble hop. He hung on exactly like a child, leaning all the way back with his face to the sky, laughing in unfettered happiness.
She couldn't help but laugh with him.
As the rotation started to slow, he crouched down and swung under the handles so he was in the section next to hers. She let her legs stretch out in front of her, and tipped her head back with a sigh. When she looked over at Red, he was lying flat on his back with his feet over the edge; when they came close to stopping, he gave a push or two with his foot on the ground to keep them going.
She felt better now, grounded, and wasn't sure how it had happened; was even less sure how thank him for the easing of her mind.
"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," she said quietly. Apologies were always a good place to start.
"Are you?" he asked mildly. "What did you say that you didn't mean?"
She flushed at that. "When I said that you had nothing, nobody — I want to say I didn't say it to hurt you, but I did. Of course, I did. I was angry at you, and frustrated. But more than that, I think," she hesitated, looking for the right words. "I think I wanted to make it true by saying it out loud. That you are nothing to me, and my life is full and fine. And of course, none of those things are true."
"We've only just begun," he said gently.
"That's the worst part," she answered, sliding down along the metal so that her head was next to his. "It's been what — two weeks, since we met? Three? Tonight, I went home to a house full of people, friends, loved ones. People I've known for years.
"And I felt more alone than I ever have. It frightens me, Red."
He turned his head to look at her, and their noses nearly touched. "I understand," he said simply, taking her hand and gripping, hard. "It's a terrible burden to live a life apart from those you care about. I truly am sorry, Lizzy."
"Why, then?" she asked, plaintive although she didn't mean to be. "Why did you come to me?"
He sighed, playing absently with her fingers. "There are things that you aren't ready to hear yet," he said. "And other things that I prefer not to share, not with anyone. But if you believe anything, Elizabeth, believe that I wouldn't have started this unless it was absolutely necessary."
"That's unfair," she said, snapping the words in angry snippets. "It's not your place to decide what I'm 'ready to hear'. And instead of answers, I just have to take it all on trust, and believe that it's for the best? This…dismantling of my entire life?"
"Would you prefer to live a lie?"
She laughs a little, bitterly. "Honestly? I don't know anymore. It would be nice," she continued, pushing herself upright, "to have just one thing left. Just one thing, to hold on to."
Red sat up beside her, and turned her face to his. "You can hold on to me," he said, low and solemn. "Have me as your touchstone, Elizabeth, as you are mine."
His hand on her skin was warm and gentle, but his eyes — his eyes burned green with a fierce intensity, as if he willed her to accept his words. As if it were necessary to his very survival. As if he could see inside her, to the mirroring need that smouldered there.
"It's wrong," she murmured, inhaling his spicy scent. "It's…dangerous."
"All the best things in life are," he said, just a growl now, not moving at all. "But it can't be that wrong to take what you need to survive, Elizabeth."
Her breath stuttered; her brain flooded with hot, sultry images of him, of the two of them, locked together. He was so close; everything in her yearned for contact. All she had to do was let her neck relax and their lips would meet.
It was the wrong thing to do, for infinite reasons. But she was just so tired.
Tired of pretending that everything hadn't changed.
Tired of suppressing the flickers of attraction and surges of heat that overcame her nearly every time she saw him; of lying to herself, trying to convince herself they were anger and fear and loathing, instead.
Tired of trying to forget his hands, his mouth, the intense pleasure she'd experienced at their instigation.
Tired of fighting her own every thought — even his slight touches on her back earlier that day had done so much more than communicate. They had tantalized, they had thrilled.
She hesitated for another long moment, then she let go.
And oh, if it was wrong, it was worth every sinful moment. His mouth was warm and supple, accepting hers with a hum of welcome. Where their first touches had been fierce and rough, careless and desperate, this was…different.
Soft kisses, not even open-mouthed; a quiet passion that sparked and glowed. Their lips moved together in perfect tandem, as if they had been lovers for years rather than being relative strangers, caught by lust. Her skin tingled with the contact, her stomach quivered with butterflies.
His warm hand still cupped her cheek, thumb rubbing over the apple, stretching the skin. Rather than a desperate delving, her tongue traced the outline of his mouth delicately, asking, not demanding. Rather than a flash of inner fire, a slow warmth uncurled inside her like rising smoke.
It was immeasurably enticing, devastating to her senses, and extraordinarily reckless.
Her mouth threatened to destroy him, soft and sweet and seeking. He let his thumb stroke against her, loving the feel of her skin. He reached under the metal bar between them to curve his free arm around her waist and pull her closer, as close as possible. Her body was pliant under his hands, her breasts full and plush against his chest.
He let himself sink into her, tasting, drowning in her rich honeyed flavour. Warmth lapped over him in waves, alluring and lovely. He slid his hand down to wrap around her neck, curling his fingers to tangle in her hair. She was murmuring wordlessly into his mouth, giving him something precious.
Her arms were around him now, hands under his jacket to grip his shirt and keep him close. Her heart beat faster and faster, urging on his own. He thought he could kiss her for hours, days, years. Her tongue made a questing pattern, tasting him in return. In the space between the edges of her jacket, there was only the thin t-shirt of her pyjamas. It provided no barrier at all to her rising heat, to the rise and fall of her breathing.
He wondered a little absently if she wore anything under the equally thin cotton pants. His hand around her waist slowly and cleverly spread its fingers to edge beneath the hem of her shirt and her elastic waistband at the same time. Only velvety silk grazed his fingertips, and he made a deep noise of appreciation and pressed them harder into her skin.
It was intoxicating, just this — fused together, mellow and easy; shared breath and gentle hands, brushes of texture and shape. She made a little noise in response to the dig of his fingers, seductive. Her fingers tightened and pulled at the fabric of his shirt, one hand moving to palm the back of his head; his body heated and hardened, forged by her.
The slow climb was enticing, sublime. He was dizzy and shaken — with the spinning of the disk, with the insubstantial ground, with Lizzy. He wanted to stay here, just like this, until dawn. He wanted to see, touch, taste, every inch of her. He wanted to haul her off to some forgotten island and spend weeks making love.
She nipped at his lower lip and he growled, tried to pull her even closer. Her breath left her in a little oof of dismay as she hit the metal bar between them, and she leaned her forehead against his, breathing fast, eyes shut tight.
"I think," she started.
"Don't start now," he said, squeezing the nape of her neck, letting his nails prick lightly.
She stretched under his hand with an appreciative hum of sound, then sighed. He could tell from her expression that she both regretted the end of their interlude, and was thankful for the interruption.
"We're in a park — a playground — in the middle of the night. And…we can't let this happen again, Red, you know that."
"Can't we?" he said, sounding half-amused, half-wistful. "You know, Lizzy, I don't usually let things happen, anyway. I prefer to make them happen."
"Oh, I just bet you do," she replied, laughter behind her words.
She pulled away from him gently, and he released her, but let his hand trail along her leg, just to hear her breath catch one last time. She wriggled to the edge of the roundabout and stood up, then turned and offered him a hand. He took it, and kissed the back of it in a long press. She flushed pink and dropped her eyes.
"Come on," she said, tugging on his hand. "Walk me home."
He pushed himself off the cool metal and upright, then pulled her close, instead. She curled into his arms with another sigh; he pressed his cheek to her temple. Relief filled him at her seeming acceptance, her lack of anger and regret.
"No strings," he murmured. "You can hold onto me, Elizabeth, when you need an anchor. Separate from the work we do, from the past and the present. When you need something real, come to me."
"Red," she said, just that, his name, and he held on a little tighter.
"You're just what I needed," she said, and pressed a shy, light kiss to the side of his neck. "I hope…" She pulled back so she could look at him. "I hope I gave something to you, too."
His heart thumped; it felt too big suddenly, to fit inside his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair again, cupping the back of her neck briefly.
"You have no idea, Elizabeth."
The smile she gave him was just another gift that he would tuck away and carry with him, always.
She slipped back into the house, quiet, dark, still. She leaned briefly against the door, trying desperately to process the swell of feeling inside her. It was one thing to succumb to lust, to need, in a moment of passion that could be forgotten.
(If only it could; instead, it haunted her, a ferocious ghost.)
But tonight…tonight had veered dangerously close to something else, something much worse. Something so tremendously inviting that she was afraid she wouldn't be able to stay away. The way he looked at her – sometimes, as if she were something precious, to be treasured; sometimes, as if he wanted to strip her bare and ravish her where they stood.
It was potent, exhilarating; it might well be irresistible.
Try harder, she told herself firmly. She was married, she loved her husband. If he was an imposter, that had still to be proven. Wasn't he innocent until proven guilty? Didn't he love her, too?
She didn't know, and it was the uncertainty that made her weak, made her susceptible to this…whatever it was. She just had to focus on work, on doing what she was supposed to do. And hope that, somehow, she could find out the truth.
And hope that the truth would solve her problems, and not destroy her.
She slid into bed, tired now, even the whirl of her thoughts slowing with exhaustion. She thought that finally, she might be able to sleep. Beside her, the blankets moved, a sleepy noise of interrogation.
"Liz? Is everything okay? Were you up?"
"I had to take a call from work," she whispered. "I went downstairs so that I wouldn't wake you, I'm sorry."
Had she always been able to lie so easily, or was this another life lesson she could lay at Reddington's door?
"They should leave you alone at night," Tom grumbled, throwing an arm around her. "Come here, it was cold without you."
She smiled, not sure if he could see her face in the darkness. She let herself shift close, snug against her husband's form. She listened as his breathing evened out into sleep, tried to match her breaths to his.
She pressed her head into his shoulder, shut her eyes, and wished. Wished hard that she would sleep, and that when she woke, her life would be right again.
That everything could be the way it had been, once, not so very long ago.