Real fear, when it came, was much worse than any nightmare. Real fear left her icy cold, but sweating; made her tremble, but left her unable to move; brought bile to her throat, but had her gasping. Real fear swamped her as she stood, facing her husband over a wooden box.
But then, bewilderment, as suddenly she found herself arguing, not over who Tom really was, or what the box meant, but which of them it actually belonged to. Arguing, when the box was full of Tom. And still, voice shaking with her disbelief, she had to argue it. Argue for her husband to be a murderer, just so she would know she hadn't lost her mind.
And he railed at her, yelling, yelling and gesturing like he had gone mad, demanding answers. Why was he the one demanding answers? How did the tables turn so easily, so simply? Why was she suddenly defending herself against accusations of evil, when…when…
What was the truth, anyway? And then, suddenly, everything turned on her, again.
"If you think I'm guilty, then why don't you do something about it?" Like a child, making a dare. "Why don't you call the FBI?"
And somehow, then she was, and her life lay broken around her in sharp shards that cut her every time she moved.
A swift ride to the Post Office, a hooded Tom beside her, hand-in-hand. The errant, unwelcome thought struck her that for someone so confused and afraid, his hand was cool and dry and steady, for all his fierce clutching at her fingers. She shook it off, and tried to explain to him about the black site, and what she did, without actually saying anything at all.
Without saying the words, Raymond Reddington.
They were separated, of course, and this time, she could believe he was as afraid as she, as Meera led him away.
"You're gonna be okay," she assured him, wishing, hoping it was true. "Just tell them what happened. Tell the truth."
And make it something different than what it seems.
Then Cooper was sending her home, home, as if she could just leave and forget everything that was happening. As if she could sit in her living room and not bleed to death among the pieces of what she had lost.
She'd never been so thankful for a call from Reddington.
Sitting on a bench in front of the White House — she knew he reveled in the irony, but really — facing away from him, together but not, it was easy to forget his hands on her. His fingers, rough and hurried; his mouth, hot and wet and enticing.
Easy to forget how she'd wanted him.
Easy enough, anyway. Except he was droning on about politics and corporations and running the world and she didn't care. Couldn't care one iota less than she did right now. The world could burn, and she still wouldn't care, in this moment.
"I thought we were here to talk about Tom," she said, a weak attempt. Even his name slashed like a blade.
But Reddington just kept talking. She wished she didn't have to pretend, suddenly, wished she could whip around and confront him. Demand the answers she needed, force him, somehow, to show her the truth.
But he just kept talking.
Wait.
A woman? What?
"Gina Zanetakos."
"I don't know who that is," she replied, bemused. Maybe she should have paid a little more attention.
"Gina Zanetakos is a corporate terrorist. And frankly, she's the best of the bunch. Lizzy, if you want to find the truth about your husband, then you need to find Gina."
"Why? Does she know Tom?"
"Because she's Tom's lover."
And her heart broke, again. It was probably hypocritical. Maybe it was her just desserts. Did Reddington think this would make her feel better? Because it didn't.
She was a tangle of guilt and misery and fear, and if she did find this woman, it was all too likely the first thing Liz would do would be to punch her in the face.
He hurt for her, he really did. Every step he took seemed to damage her a little more, leave her a little less real, somehow. And he regretted it, regretted every word he spoke, every action he forced her to take that would lead her to the truth.
Except that the lie would hurt her so much more, in the long run. Knowing that, at this point, was what enabled him to stay steady on the road he had put them both on.
As he quarreled with Cooper — cheerfully enough; he rather enjoyed it, if he were to be honest about it — her tragic face lingered in the back of his mind. Along with futile memories of the previous evening. Of long, lingering kisses; of fingers that mapped him out. Of being inside her, and how much it felt like home.
He regretted that it came down to mild threats, but he couldn't afford to give here. Give in once, and the whole precarious pile would topple to the ground.
He won, of course. It was gratifying, but also annoying. They all knew he'd win, so why bother arguing in the first place?
But that's how the game was played.
And so off they scattered, his little team, to do his bidding while he got back to business. He was unaccountably nervous over this — he shouldn't be, not with Tom Keen's chickens about to come home to roost, and Lizzy on his side for good.
And yet.
Why was Keen at the FBI? What purpose did it serve? Red spent no time considering it was Lizzy that had put him there — Keen had wanted to be there, and not just to prove an innocence that he didn't have.
It nagged at him, like a bad tooth, as he went about his day.
When Lizzy called again, full of news of Zanetakos and a dirty bomb, he wondered even more. Not about the texts — surely each villain had more than one phone, and Tom Keen wasn't real anyway. He did wonder what name on that phone belonged to the imposter, though, if he was there. What did those closest to Keen call him, and did it even remotely approximate his real name?
It didn't matter, he tried to assure himself, as he jousted with Lizzy.
"Perhaps they exchanged letters," he deadpanned, at his driest. As if that scoundrel could write a decent letter.
"There's nothing between them," she insisted. "My husband is innocent."
As I am not, lay unspoken between them as she clicked off. Red missed the ability to slam down a receiver like the crack of a door — he was sure that at that particular moment, Lizzy missed it too. A beep was a beep, regardless of how you felt about it.
And then they were together again; a different park, cool stone steps. She sat beside him now, and they faced the world from the same vantage point. She was silent for a long time at first, and he waited patiently for the storm that he knew must come.
"I didn't know where else to go," she said finally, her voice small and tired and sad. The heat from her washed against him, and despite everything, he let himself enjoy it, just a little. Her fresh scent, so familiar already. The softness of her hair, shifting in the breeze.
The reality of her was intoxicating. But now tears came, and his heart broke for her all over again.
"I feel like I'm drowning," she said, clearly exerting an enormous effort to keep from sobbing aloud. "I don't know what's real or who I can trust."
Oh, Lizzy. "You can trust me," he said, voice low and rich with all he felt for her. You're safe with me, he wanted to say, although it wasn't true. Couldn't be true.
"I needed you to be wrong about him," and the words sounded like they hurt, coming from her emotion-tight throat as tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.
He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her close, to keep the world at bay. Provide her shelter, a safe harbour in which to land. And who in this park would know any better, anyway? Who would know that they shouldn't even touch, the criminal and the agent?
He knew it would matter to her, though, so he just nodded and took her hand, held it in his own. Tried, with the simple pressure of his fingers, to tell her that he understood, that he was here for her. That everything would be all right, that he cared.
And sat with her, until she seemed to recover herself. Just sat, until she was in one piece again, however fragile.
Just sat, and tried not to think about the swelling tenderness in his heart.
His hand in hers was entirely different than Tom's had been, was steady and reassuring. Warm and gentle, he grasped firmly, giving comfort as he could. And it was comforting, to sit and just be. He didn't try to make excuses or change the way things were, to cover the horrible truth.
He just gave her his sympathy, and it was the best thing. And the simple understanding in it almost shattered her heart all over again.
She longed to lean into him as she had before; to be enfolded in his strong arms and shielded from the world. She wondered, for one wild moment, what he would say if she begged him to make her disappear as he had so many others. To whisk her away on his sleek jet and give her a whole new life.
Of course she couldn't ask, and running away wasn't really her style anyway. As impossibly difficult as it was, she knew it was better to face things head on, to deal with things as they were.
She just wished it didn't have to hurt so terribly.
And he just sat with her, his thumb rubbing absently over their joined fingers, a soothing presence that was a balm to her abused soul. She found she could breathe again, sitting here beside him; thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to go forward after all.
"Thank you," she said quietly, when at last she felt able to move again.
He just raised an eyebrow in return, and she managed a slight smile.
"For being here," she explained. "For making everything bearable."
He offered a real smile in return, and squeezed her hand tightly. "I'm here, Lizzy," he rumbled quietly. "Whenever you need something to hold on to."
It wasn't the first time he'd said that to her, but now she believed it, right through. And thank goodness, she thought, thank goodness he'd been there, or she might have just fallen apart; disintegrated into dust.
She took a deep breath and stood up, but he didn't relinquish her hand. She looked down at him, and he looked back, squinting a little against the sunlight.
He brought her hand up and kissed it, a sweet, simple gesture of affection, a soft brush of lips that sent a reluctant tremble through her.
"Whatever you need, Lizzy."
And then they just went their separate ways, like ships passing, like strangers.
This tumultuous new existence might well be the end of her, but if she could keep moving, maybe she could survive.
And there was movement, a new clue, a task for Reddington, who agreeably buzzed off to Germany like it was no big deal. Maybe it wasn't, who was she to say? Meanwhile, she worked and thought and argued. And watched.
Watched through one-way glass with her heart breaking over and over as her husband pleaded with his own reflection to believe him. I know you're there, he said, and he was right. She couldn't stay away. I didn't do anything, he pleaded for her acceptance, and oh god, she hoped it would somehow, miraculously turn out to be true.
Then, Zanetakos, at last, and another brutal fight. She was pretty tired of getting choked, to be honest, and hadn't anticipated this aspect of field work. Was this really what it was like all the time? The physical toll was intense — she was fit, she'd passed the physical exams, she'd thought she was ready, but…
She just hadn't predicted the frequency of fist fights.
And then, a bullet threatened to ruin her chances of ever knowing the truth, and she was so enraged she forgot to thank Ressler for saving her life. All she could do was rage, rage at the loss, rage at the danger, rage at the destruction of everything she held dear.
If she was tired of fighting, at least she could still think on her feet. A quick back-and-forth with Reddington and she had it, the reason for the bomb, the location. And she was able to keep moving.
Any triumph she felt at succeeding withered away in the face of Gina Zanetakos.
Calmly taking responsibility for Victor Fokin, completely exonerating Tom of every possible crime. Placing guilt, instead, in the hands of Raymond Reddington.
No.
Could she have been so wrong, so naive, so foolish? Was this all just part of some wickedly masterminded scheme to what — get her to trust him? To isolate her and make her dependent? Or was it only to ruin her life, some sort of Machiavellian revenge for a crime she wasn't aware of?
Her heart ached even as it rejoiced. Her safe harbour was anything but, was a lie, a trick, nothing but artifice. She'd believed in him. Cared about him. God, she'd fucked him, twice now. She wanted to peel out of her own skin, and leave it behind her, a filthy relic of her own wrongdoing. Shame and misery competed in her chest, her throat, and she had to flee to the hospital washroom to vomit, leaving Meera in the hallway. Thank goodness the other woman wasn't the type to ask questions.
But there was Tom, and as they held each other, hard, there was relief. Her pretty, perfect life could be hers again, after all. And then, he was pointing out a photo on the glass wall, that's him…who I met with, and any last shred of hope she had for Reddington was gone. Because it was Grey, Reddington's man, Tom pointed at, and her soul was scoured and bare.
She couldn't even bring herself to yell, as she strode into the empty apartment Reddington was spending his time in.
"Please do come in," he said sardonically.
She supposed he was offended by her rudeness at what — not knocking? He was lucky she didn't just shoot him where he sat.
"You and me," she said, voice angry but level, steady and sure. "We're done."
Unbelievably, he still tried to make Tom the villain. Take the fall, sure. What reason could there be? Hard evidence had proved Tom innocent and Reddington guilty. Guilty.
"I can only lead you to the truth," he said, and he sounded resigned, now. "I can't make you believe it."
Whatever acquaintance he had with the truth, she was sure it was fleeting.
"The truth," she spat back, "is that you're a sick, twisted man. This, your obsession with me…"
She almost couldn't continue. How could you? she wanted to howl at him. How could you lie to me like that, how could you make me care for you, why would you touch me, fuck me, take everything?
"I don't understand why you would do this, any of it," she said, instead.
"Go to hell," she said, and meant it. She walked away, and went home, back to her husband and her real life.
And hoped she was leaving Reddington behind for good.
He sat, left behind, the shards of all his fine plans scattered around his feet. He stared blankly at the soulful Rembrandt which had only moments ago given him such pleasure, and bit his cheek against the pain.
Go to hell, she'd said, and hadn't even sounded that angry about it. She merely consigned him to the abyss, as if, as if he didn't already live there. As if the flames that had marked him didn't still scorch and scar with his every move.
Except with her.
He closed his eyes tightly against the loss of her. Elizabeth, ephemeral and elusive. Beautiful, clever, kind. Believing in him, as no one had in so long. Her warmth, the light of her smile. Gone in a flash.
He gazed at the painting again, appreciating both its beauty and the power of its symbolism. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. The blues really were extraordinary. He looked at the Christ figure, and envied that calm repose, the faith in a greater good. He'd come so close to that serene sanctuary, and now he was lost again, tossed into the teeth of the storm, fighting for survival.
Would the storm calm for him? Or would the fury of wind and wave overtake and destroy him, and everything he'd worked for?
He wouldn't allow it.
His enemy had outthought him — this time, at least. He sighed deeply. There was no going back, so he could only look forward, make new plans. The truth would out eventually — if it was going to be a little more difficult to reveal it than he'd thought, well…
He was no stranger to hard work.
And it would be hard, to work with an antagonist rather than a willing, if sometimes reluctant, participant. Her anger lashed quick and harsh and hot, and it would afford him no pleasure to face it on a regular basis. He'd just have to see how things went, he supposed, and the next steps would reveal themselves as they always did.
But he would miss her.
The give-and-take of their work together, the easy partnership. Her openness to a new way of thinking, of seeing the world. The way she'd seemed to come to trust him.
The companionship of a sympathetic warm body beside him, sharing a drink and the loveliness of twilight. Walking together in peaceful silence, spinning in the dark. Her soft mouth, inviting; her silky skin, a temptation. The sweet heat of her at the core, drawing him in.
Home.
He shifted in his chair, trying to alleviate the sudden ache in his cock. He downed his scotch and tried not to think about it.
He might as well try not to breathe.
He groaned and stood, holding back the images as he walked out of the room to the sparse bathroom. He braced a forearm on the wall above the stained toilet and pressed his forehead into it; let the visions come.
Lizzy, all creamy skin and nervous anticipation. The clean, citrus scent of her hair; the sharp answering taste of her. His free hand yanked open his flies and he groaned again as his hand wrapped around his eager cock.
The sweet little mewls she made when he touched her just right. The way she hooked her heels together over his ass to pull him closer, and closer still. His hand moved roughly, short strokes, the slap of skin. The perfect rosy buds of her nipples, the way she arched when he used his teeth.
A warm trickle already leaked from his tip — all he had to do was summon the image of her in his mind, under him, over him, god. He moistened his palm with it; lengthened his strokes into long pulls. He thought of her, wrapped around him and urging him on, hot and wet and tight. The soft lushness of her breasts against his chest; the clutch of her strong thighs.
He moaned, couldn't help it; his hand quickened, the ache near unbearable. He felt like a teenager again, desperate for release, compelled by the mysteries the female form. By one female form. All the women he'd been with over an adventurous life, and not a single one had affected him like this.
She was right; he was obsessed. He thought he should feel guilty about using her this way; took some comfort in the fact that she'd wanted him just as much. Be with me, she'd said, not that long ago. And that fast and frantic coupling had imprinted itself on him, leaving him wanting her, wanting her.
Sweat beaded on his skin as the familiar heat uncurled at the base of his spine, his hand jerking fast, his orgasm spiraling out him in long, hot spurts. The relief of it was almost painful. Suddenly exhausted, he tucked himself away; rinsed his hands at the sink and was thankful there was no mirror.
He tried to think of next steps, and couldn't. He needed to find Dembe, and go somewhere else, somewhere clean and comfortable where he could sleep. Once he'd slept, he'd be able to find them.
His next steps out of hell, and toward home.
Home was home again, she thought with relief, as she followed Tom through the door. Both of them exhausted, they didn't say much, just headed straight for bed. The routine of getting changed, teeth brushed, moving around one another in smooth, habitual ways eased her, sanded down the rough edges of her anger.
She climbed into bed and switched off the light as Tom came around to his side, and sighed, long and heavy. She felt him slide over and tuck an arm around her.
"I know what you mean," he said quietly. "It's been a very long day."
"You could say," she answered wryly, and made him laugh.
"Liz," he said, and kissed her cheek, nuzzled into her neck. "I love you. I'm so glad this is over."
"I'm so sorry," she managed, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. "I love you, too. This whole thing…it's been so awful."
"You should have talked to me right away," he admonished gently. "You can always talk to me, Lizzy."
She turned her head to his and just breathed. "I…I couldn't."
"It's going to be okay," he said resolutely, kissing her again. "We're going to be okay."
Their lips met, easy, familiar, sweet. But his lips were cool and dry, and just reminded her of the other, of warm, soft, wet, and she was washed again with sickening guilt. She pulled away and stared at the ceiling.
"What's wrong?" he asked, raising up on his elbow to look her in the eye. "Is everything okay?"
She had to tell him. "Tom, there are things…I haven't told you everything. I…" She couldn't, couldn't look her own husband in the eye and say that she'd lost faith so far and so fast.
Couldn't tell him about Reddington, at all.
"Liz, it's okay," he said, stroking her cheek with a soft finger. "Your job…I don't really get it, but I understand there are things you can't tell me. I guess," he continued with a little laugh, "it's you that's the secret agent. Lizzy Bond," he teased.
His understanding was her undoing, and tears began to fall, unbidden, unwanted. He wrapped his arms around her and held her; rubbed her back and whispered soothing words. It just made her feel worse.
She wept out the guilt and anger and tumult of the day; the terror and loss she'd struggled through for weeks. The fact that his shoulders weren't quite broad enough, that his embrace wasn't quite as warm and secure…she wept harder, her own sinfulness spurring her sobs.
And still, he held her and rocked her and whispered that he loved her, and that nothing would change that, not ever. That they were meant to be together, and that this hadn't broken them. That nothing could, if the past few weeks hadn't.
Empty at last, of tears, of words, of emotion, she curled against him, head tucked under his chin. He kissed her forehead one last time, and she pressed her lips to his collarbone.
"Love…you…" she murmured, as she slipped, drained, into sleep.
She didn't see him watching her, eyes glittering strangely in the dark room. Didn't see the strange smile he wore as he lay back with his free hand tucked behind his head.
Didn't hear him laugh, low and feral and triumphant, while she slept.