Liz slipped downstairs in the early morning sun; fished the cards from her bag; dug a roll of tape out of the desk drawer. Leaned against the dining room table for a long moment, and tried to imagine enjoying a meal there, with the ever-present image of her bleeding husband superimposed over the scene. A hole in the floor that had almost ruined her life.
Determined, she carried chairs, leaving one to sit on; stacked them neatly in the living room. Dragged the table after them, took pictures off the walls.
She'd never really liked that wallpaper, anyway.
The sun shone brightly through the window as she started to tape up colour samples, holding them in front of her to evaluate each one. A fresh start, she thought, and maybe she'd be able to shake the heavy guilt that dragged at her constantly. Although she and Tom had talked and talked, working through all the turmoil, mistrust, and unhappiness brought by one wooden box, she hadn't been able to confess the worst of her sins.
She just couldn't; couldn't bear to see the look of horrified, angry betrayal mar his face again. Couldn't bear the shouting argument, the venom and vitriol that would be sure to follow. Couldn't bear the thought, that after everything they'd survived, that she could still lose it all.
"What…is this?"
His voice startled her out of her thoughts, so sharply and abruptly it was all she could do not to jump three feet in the air. She hadn't even heard him come down the stairs. Striving for normal, she answered, turning in her chair.
"Café au lait," she said, trying to be cheerful about it. "Unless you like the dark nut better. But don't decide yet."
The teasing back and forth that followed was comforting, was normal. Spoke to the two of them being happy and adjusted and alone in their relationship again. No more intruders, she thought. He was smiling at her, and she loved him, loved him.
She hopped onto his back, to hold him with her whole body, to try and tell him how sorry she was, how much a part of her he was.
"I'm just so sick of this room."
"Why? I like this room," he said mildly.
She rested her head against his with a sigh. "It's not the room. It's just that someone invaded our lives, our house. They put that stupid box in the floor."
She felt him tense, slightly, against her. "That doesn't matter anymore."
She slid down, nagging guilt pick-picking at her. "They made me believe you were a monster."
Reassurance, immediate, honest. They were past it. She knew, without a doubt — he loved her, too, and they would be fine. Fine. Better than fine, even. This new room would be their new start, without doubts, without fear, without Reddington.
Even as she thought it, her phone rang, and the day began for real, with violence and blood and death.
She still wasn't taking his calls.
Red looked down at the phone in disgust, then glanced at Dembe. The other man shrugged, somewhat philosophically, and looked away. Red knew what he thought, without him having to say it.
Stubbornly, he phoned the FBI tip line and waited; it took quite a while to actually get through to the Post Office.
"This is Special Agent Keen."
So official, he mused, and wondered if she was trying to fool herself, or everyone else. Probably both.
"Agent Keen, I have a tip. You're a winter not an autumn. Stop wearing olive." He was deliberately baiting her; couldn't seem to help himself.
A little more banter and he'd set up a meeting — she would have to face him sooner or later, after all. She was still angry, but he didn't have any more time to waste accommodating her. He supposed he understood, but could not bring himself to regret a single moment of the time they spent together, all the same.
He let his head roll from side to side, stretching his neck gently and trying not to let the images flood his mind. There was no point in dwelling on what was past — and that certainly wasn't what he'd come here for. It was better to forget.
She brought Ressler with her, and he wanted to laugh out loud. Was that her effort to protect herself? Although, she was right, he supposed — he wouldn't bring up their…personal relationship in front of anyone else. It would only make trouble for them both, trouble that he could ill afford.
He told them instead about Frederick Barnes.
"Betraying your country and auctioning off its secrets. Where have I heard that before?"
She could be as cutting as anyone, he thought, with a small inner wince. Well, she didn't know any better, and he'd long since learnt not to care about the opinions of anyone but himself.
"You want to compare him to me? Be my guest. I'm perfectly comfortable with what I am."
And he rather thought that was what she couldn't understand, couldn't forgive. Not that he was a criminal, hunted, reviled. But, that he was unapologetic, comfortable in the role he played.
He had to be, or he'd have gone mad long ago.
He just loves to hear the sound of his own voice, she thought resentfully, as Reddington explained the rarity of Strontium 90 to the team. At least here, at the Post Office, with everyone else around, there was no hidden subtext, no piercing looks. It was easier to focus on the work, here, and pretend that he was just another co-worker.
Well, sort of.
Except, "You should come, Lizzy," he invited cheerfully. "We could have a therapy session on the way, talk out our problems."
Except a regular coworker didn't take their private jet to Cuba at a moment's notice. Didn't invite you along, tell you how beautiful you were.
Didn't just ignore how incredibly complicated it was. As if you could have a single casual conversation, and just forget someone invading your life, seducing you, and nearly destroying everything you held dear.
Forgive and forget.
She seethed and snapped as he plied her with his trademark charm, as if he wanted her with him, as if it was all just a game.
He was too close, in the elevator — she could smell the warm spiciness of his cologne; couldn't escape the bubble of his charisma. Had to shield herself with biting words and antagonism, which was easy enough. She had plenty of anger to channel, still.
Then, abruptly, he was serious.
"But in the meantime, we need to find a way to move past this. Because for me, there's just no fun in it unless you're there. And if there's no fun to be had, I'm not interested."
She watched him slide into his sleek car, slipping across the seat to snuggle up to Lulli as the door swung shut. Ignored the very small, insistent pang deep within at the sight. Tried to imagine that car, driving across the city. Reddington getting on his plane and winging away, and staying away. No more cases, probably no more field work…no more…
She shut her eyes tight and willed herself to stop. She didn't care about this. Thank goodness Ressler arrived beside her and they were off to question Barnes' former partner. And thank goodness Ressler wasn't one for small talk, so she could just stare out the car window and try not to think.
When they saw Ethan, and the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, it was an enormous relief. Now they knew why — why Kurz disease, why Barnes started killing.
It was so much easier when things made sense.
Then Reddington called in with Barnes' location, and it was time to move. Fast-paced, running, searching, an attempt to save lives instead of lose them.
And of course, it was Liz that ended up facing him, alone on the courthouse steps. Barnes, face grim and determined, with a gun to a security guard's head. Her heart thumped hard, painful in her chest, echoing inside her head. She knew the protocols, she did, but faced with watching a man's head explode in front of her face, when she could stop it…
She put down her gun — what choice did she have? And saved a man's life. Surely, she could feel good about that.
Apparently not. A strip torn from her by Cooper, and then another, harsher and more callous, by Ressler. She felt sick and miserable and alone, thinking of the chaos that could follow, that would be a result of her actions.
Maybe, maybe there was someone who would understand. Sitting on the stairs in a quiet corner she dialled, slowly, unsure.
"Either you accidentally dialed the wrong number... Or you're calling because you've hit a dead end. So, which is it?"
His voice was at its driest, sardonic and cool, and made her shrink further into herself. Show no weakness…
"Barnes got away, and the trail's dried up."
He laughed. Laughed. "Oh my god, you g-men are top shelf. Let me guess. Ressler slipped on a banana peel?"
If only. She tried to keep her voice under control. "Do you know how to find him?" Please.
"I'm not a gumball machine, Lizzy — you don't get to just twist the handle whenever you want a treat."
He hung up. He hung up. Never mind the double entendre, he'd left her alone, too, high and dry with no answers and no help and nowhere left to turn. That's not how this is supposed to work.
She rung him back — what choice did she have?
"We can't keep doing this little waltz."
"Don't hang up," she said, desperate, unhappy.
And he must have heard it in her voice, because he didn't hesitate. "I'm listening."
"The reason Barnes is still out there is because I let him slip away. And it's only a matter of time before he kills again. So, please, I need your help."
And this time, he gave it to her. Not without strings, of course, she had to sacrifice a small amount of dignity, but it was worth it. It was interesting, how often he didn't just give her the answer, but led her to it, instead — like a teacher, a mentor. He probed and prompted and made her think in new ways, from new perspectives.
As much as she hated to admit it, working with him had helped her to grow, had strengthened her skills as an agent and a profiler. His pushing made her stretch and adapt; think like a criminal, he'd said. She preferred not to think of it that way, but whatever you wanted to call it, it worked. He was clever and quick and insightful, and she was learning to be, too — they worked well together.
Perhaps she would have to forgive, if not forget.
It was possible that the work was worth it, that the way she had changed was worth it. Or at least, worth something. Since he didn't seem inclined to be easy to get rid of, anyway.
Then, the time for thinking was gone in frenetic movement — the drive to the Forrester's house, waiting for Anne to answer the phone, listening, helplessly, as Barnes arrived and chaos began.
Having to listen to pain being dealt while she just… sat there was potentially the worst experience of her life.
Then, there was history repeating itself, facing down Barnes with her service weapon steady in her hands; a needle steady in his.
"There's no universe in which I let you stick that thing in his neck." And she meant it. Didn't she? Would she have it in her, this time, to shoot? What if Barnes was right? What if it was a cure?
What if it wasn't?
"This...is his chance. This is the only chance that he'll ever have. And I don't think you're gonna stop me."
Barnes thought he knew her; they all thought they knew her.
Even as she fired, three shots, point blank, perfect grouping, she thought she didn't even really know herself. She'd just killed a man in cold blood, an unarmed father trying to save his son's life.
And all she felt was a strange sense of vindication.
She wasn't weak, like they all thought. She was strong, and she would get stronger — she was going to need to.
She walked outside, mind curiously blank, moving on automatic. But he was there, of course, he was there, waiting for her, the spider in his web.
"What are you doing here?"
He smiled at her, in that way he had, leaning against his car, and her stomach flipped. She didn't need him. Guava, for fuck's sake, who cared? Why did he always hide behind supposed pleasantries? Why didn't he ever just say what he meant?
Then, he did.
Then, "Say what you will about Frederick, but someone who's willing to burn the world down to protect the one person they care about... That's a man I understand."
Breath clogged, uncomfortable, in her chest, her throat. "Is that meant to be directed at me?"
"Aren't you presumptuous?"
She barely even heard him over the roar of her own anger in her ears. And why else would he have said something so pointed to her, if it wasn't about her? "Is that how you somehow justify your actions, by some misguided notion of protecting me? From whom? My husband, I suppose.
"I don't need your protection."
"Maybe not." He didn't sound like he particularly believed it.
She took a deep breath, painfully. Because what she'd been thinking earlier was true. "But I do need you to do this job. I've accepted that. And believe it or not, I appreciate what you do for the bureau.
"And at work, you and I are partners. But that's where this relationship needs to end... at work. I don't want you in my personal life. I don't know how to make that clear." She shook her head at him, emphasizing her feelings, wishing she hadn't used that word, relationship. It made her think of things that needed to be forgotten.
He tipped his head and looked at her, the ghost of a smile hovering. "You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand? With a breath of air, they disappear."
He straightened, and moved closer, close enough that she could feel his body heat. She wanted to pull away, to run — couldn't, couldn't betray herself that way. Not to him. Never to him.
"You may not like me. You may not understand how or why I do what I do. But I'm here because you want answers to questions you haven't even thought of yet.
"Now, if that doesn't matter to you, the solution is simple... I get in this car and I disappear."
Her breath caught again. Was that what she wanted? Him, gone; real life, back again. Like it was. Every messy thing he'd brought into her life, gone. Didn't she want that?
"You have a deal with the government. You have a tracking device in your neck."
He chuckled softly. "You don't believe Raymond Reddington could cease to exist in 60 seconds? I offer that particular package to clients."
Her heart beat, fast, hard. "You're offering to walk away?" Why did the thought hurt, like a knife to the gut? Why shouldn't he turn and walk away, as easily as he'd arrived? Would she walk away, if she could? She almost reached out to him.
"I'm not going to beg you to allow me the privilege of helping you. So, say the word, and I'm gone.
"Tell me to go, Lizzy."
A strange emphasis to his words, almost like he wanted her to say it. Her lips moved, her eyes were somehow damp. She couldn't breathe properly. The words were right there in her mouth, waiting to escape, eager to be said.
But she didn't say anything.
"Then I guess I'll see you tomorrow."
Then, he was gone, off into the darkness to go wherever it was he went at night. She wondered absently, as she made her way back to Meera's car, if he slept. She couldn't imagine it, somehow — couldn't see him allowing himself that vulnerability.
He personified vitality, life. To imagine him in sleep, slack, deflated, innocent, was near impossible.
And far, far too intimate.
When she finally made it home, the house was dark, the only light from a standing lamp in the empty dining room, now blocked off with plastic sheeting. And there was Tom, in the middle of the room, eating Chinese out of the carton, and her weary heart swelled with love.
He'd heard her, she thought, he understood what she needed as no one else could. She sat beside him and leaned into him; took off her boots and just let herself settle. This was real life, this here, with the man she loved. The other was just…
The other life was a dream she couldn't wake from. But as long as she had this, she could cope.
She smiled at him, tired and content, as he talked to her about their first night there, in their home, together. And she remembered, as he talked, how happy she'd been, they'd been; starting out, fresh and fearless.
"That's all we had," he said, smiling back. "It's all we ever needed."
"Just you, me, and Ike," she answered, and oh, wasn't it still the truth? Wasn't that still how she felt, under the confusion and lies and guilt and anger?
It was as simple and as complicated as love.
So she kissed him, soft and sweet, and he looked at her like she really was all he'd ever needed, and how could she have doubted that? No one could look at another person like that and not mean it.
She let herself fill with love and need and want, and kissed him again, taking off his glasses and pulling him closer. He wrapped warm arms around her, and they rolled to the floor, knocking over poor Ike in the process.
She didn't care. This was what she needed, just this, she and Tom, together, as it should be. His gentle hands moved over her, in familiar patterns that still pleased her, regardless of how expected they might have been. His touch on her skin still made her shiver; his slim body under her hands still aroused her need.
If you have love, she thought hazily, the rest doesn't matter.
Clothes disappeared, a messy combination of their hands pulling at buttons and peeling back layers. Sensual, enticing, exciting. She arched into his palm as it brushed across her bare breast; he smiled into her mouth and his lips blazed a path down her neck, across her collarbone.
And even as his mouth caught one tight, aching bud and made her gasp, she had room to feel pity for Reddington, alone and without love. Room to remember how he had driven into her, hard and fast and desperate, as if afraid she might disappear.
Such stark loneliness must be the real hell; she'd do everything she had to do to avoid it.
She shook off the errant thoughts fiercely, determined to leave Reddington behind — he had no place here, no one did but the two of them, she and Tom. She reapplied herself to her chosen task with renewed vigour, making Tom grunt lightly in surprise, then respond eagerly.
He murmured her name against her belly and nipped lightly, then a little harder. Need intensified inside her, and she gripped his hair; dug her nails into his neck. His hands on her became a little rougher; he moved back up her body to capture her mouth in a hard, demanding kiss.
As he slid inside her, making them complete, a homecoming, she finally thought only of him.
As they drove up to the worn-out house, Red couldn't decide if the sunlight was perfect, or incongruous. It made everything shine, look more beautiful than it really was.
But it was a day for a funeral, of sorts. And the sunlight didn't match.
He got heavily out of the car and walked up to the front door, the screen hanging wearily from its hinges. God, he was tired. The previous day had been both physically and emotionally demanding — he wondered briefly if he was getting too old for this.
He shook off the thought as ridiculous. There was far too much for him still to do to even consider age or exhaustion. Usually the action, the demands of his life, invigorated him. Maybe it was just the personal antagonism aimed his way, these days.
He wished she wasn't so angry, but didn't know what he could do about it.
He brought himself back to the present and walked through the doorway after Lulli. He took his hat off; looked around. Strange. He peered up the stairwell, placing his hand on the newel post. Was this really the right place?
"Strange," he said aloud, looking, searching. "I remember it being bigger."
He walked on down the hall, Dembe already vanished into the depths of the house, Lulli trailing behind him. The two of them looked around the kitchen, dingy and forlorn. He barely recognized the place, and it shook him in an uncomfortable way.
"I don't understand," Lulli said, with her customary frankness. "Of all the places...Marigot, Doha, Florence, Seychelles...why this place?"
"I raised my family in this house," he answered quietly, walking further in, seeking…something. A recognition, a feeling of belonging.
"It's lovely," she said quickly, anxious not to offend.
He almost laughed out loud. "No, it's not. But it used to be."
Further in, to the back room, looking for memories. There, that door jamb…there was wainscotting covering it, but… He pulled at the cheap beadboard and it came away with little effort. There, his own writing, height marks, just where they should be.
His heart ached, and there, there were the memories, flooding back. He stood and looked out the wide back window, seeing, not what was really there, but back into the past. His beautiful girl, so delicate and fairylike, laughing, streaming bubbles behind her as she ran in the yard.
He wished, viscerally, that he could go back. That he could live that part of his life over again, knowing how fleeting it was, how quickly and easily everything could change. He wanted to reach out and grab her, his little daughter, and pull her into his arms, just one last time.
Even as he smiled, watching the poignant memories unspool in front of him, his heart broke one more time.
This house might be drab and dirty, neglected and forgotten. But there had been love here, love and family and happiness. Once upon a time, he thought whimsically, a man lived a normal life. And it had been everything, everything.
He could weep, but instead, "Time to go," came Dembe's gentle voice from behind him. Saving him from losing himself completely.
It took him a moment to be able to speak.
"Did you prepare everything the way I asked?" he said, turning slowly.
Dembe only nodded — because of course he had; if there was one stable, reliable thing in the entire world, it was Dembe. He nodded back briefly, and the other man turned to walk out. He followed, more slowly, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the ache, recovering his hat.
He was the last out, shutting the door with a quiet click. Time to leave this place, and the last of his past, behind for good. He tucked the vision of his golden child away in his mind, where she'd be safe, and walked away.
As they approached the car, Lulli ventured, "This place must hold a lot of memories for you."
Too many. He opened the rear door so she could slide in. "I spend every day trying to forget what happened here," he answered flatly. Dembe was already starting the engine. "This should help."
He got in the car so that they could drive away, drive away without looking back. They weren't very far at all when the explosion burst into being behind them, the sound harsh and alarming in the silent morning.
He listened, straining to catch every last echo, every remnant of the past disappearing into the suburban air. He made a silent wish, for his vanished family, for himself. That he wouldn't forget; that remembering wouldn't destroy him.
It was time now, he thought, to focus completely on the future. On what would be, not what had been. On forging the future that he wanted, out of all the glimmering possibilities. The future that must be.
It was time to focus on Elizabeth.
A/N: There's a fair bit of dialogue borrowed from the show in this chapter, so the usual disclaimer — anything you recognize isn't mine, and all credit to the writers, etc.