AN: Oh god. So...Forever. I think this chapter may have taken a little longer than that. All summer I've been OBSESSED with getting it perfect, and yet... I'm not at all satisfied. Anyway, I'm so, so, so sorry that I kept you guys waiting this long. Tremendous thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this.
*WARNING* No actual smut, but glimpses into their naughty minds, and sexual tension IN SPADES.
And oh yeah, I squealed SO loudly when Red reached out to Manny Soto in the premiere. I only used him in the first chapter because I couldn't recall any other Cuban contacts that Red may have, but still, I was excited.
Okay. No more rambling. You've waited long enough.
-...-...-...-...-
Dear Mr. Reddington,
Before you read any further, I'd first like to reassure you that I'm not just writing to waste your time with strings of tired, empty platitudes about a hope that you're coping well. No one, not even an optimist like myself could hope for that much. At the very least, and especially now, you're deserving of my candor.
Think of this message as an attempt to commiserate from afar. From what little Dembe has told me, I gather that even if I were to secure an in-person meeting with you, you'd likely be incapable of either listening or remembering much of it. It's my hope that by writing instead, should these words at first fail to penetrate, then you'll have the option to revisit them.
In such a fragile state, grieving the loss of a close friend, my instincts for self-preservation are at their most base. They dictate that I focus only on my own suffering, but that demand is impossible to heed. You and Liz are so inexplicably, inextricably linked that every time I think of her, my thoughts invariably turn to you, and how much worse you must be feeling now. 'Friend' doesn't even begin to describe your relationship with her, and to be honest, I doubt that an appropriately-descriptive word exists at all.
You don't need validation from me, of course, but someone should acknowledge what you're going through. Someone should care. Liz would, and I do.
I keep thinking about the day you turned yourself in- about how, regardless of your reputation and the fact that you were shackled to a chair inside a bomb-proof box, the bureau practically jumped to meet your demands. With so many competing theories, the only thing everyone could agree on was that your motives had to be nefarious, in one way or another.
We were always on our toes in those early months, nervously playing both defense and offense. It didn't help that you so smugly derived amusement from eliciting that response.
And yes, it was exhausting, but what followed was extraordinary and unprecedented.
Three years on, it feels as if both everything and nothing has changed. We still don't know your motives, and yet it's become increasingly evident that our collective knee-jerk assumptions were almost certainly incorrect. From that came a seismic shift in dynamics, an unspoken understanding among my fellow agents- that it's permissable (and sometimes even comfortable) for us to be kept in the dark about your mysterious endgame. Now, our desire to know your motives is more firmly rooted in curiosity than necessity. Against all odds, the most wanted criminal has become the most trusted.
Like I said, unprecedented.
What little I do know is that your ever-evolving blacklist and Liz are linked into some kind of intricate, long-term plan. Now that she's gone, I can only assume that your plans have died with her, and that the taskforce is circling the drain accordingly. I understand that foiled plans aren't the primary source of your grief, but they add a layer too wide and complex to be ignored, and I'm truly sorry.
Whatever wrongdoings you've committed over the years, and however many albatrosses hang around your neck, I hope that you can take some measure of solace in the good work that we've done together, as I have. So many government employees toil under the ego-guarding delusion that by performing their professional duties, they're somehow bettering the world. That isn't so at the Post Office. We know it as an indisputable fact.
For proof, you need look no further than the case of Maddox Beck and his cult. Without your intel and our taskforce, the virus could have driven our species to extinction. That's an infinite number of human lives saved, both present and future.
If it hasn't already, then let that sink in.
Even if it was the only case that we ever successfully closed, it would still be worth every ounce of the pain and heartache that we've both caused and endured along the way. I have to believe that even in death, Liz would agree.
Regardless of the direction that your life takes after this, please know that my time and skills remain at your disposal, should you ever need them.
Sincerely,
Agent Mojtabai
PS: In regards to the attached video, despite its macabre content, I had a strange, ineffable feeling that you'd like to have it. In the interest of protecting both Liz's privacy and yours, I've purged all traces of it from our database. You now possess the only copy.
-...-...-...-...-...-
Liz clamped one hand over her mouth and clutched her heaving chest with the other, ineffectively trying to quiet her sobs. Either Agnes was a heavy sleeper, or the day's stress had taken its toll on her tiny body. She didn't react at all to the sounds of her mother's anguish.
Aram's letter, labeled 'read first', was just the first of two files on the thumb drive that Red had given to her. The second contained that so-called 'macabre' video, and god, she would have killed for the fortification of a stiff drink or ten.
She removed the hand from her mouth and took several steeling breaths as one trembling finger reached out to double-click the second file.
At first, when the video began to play, Liz could only discern that it appeared to be footage from an FBI dashcam. The resolution was somewhat dodgey, the subjects far away, but she could make out Reddington's car on the left, the back of a large utility van straight ahead, and an apparent flurry of activity surrounding them both. Perplexed, she bit her lip and watched as Ressler appproached the van and briskly opened the rear door.
But this was no ordinary van.
Understanding hit her so hard that she couldn't stifle the single word that erupted from her lips. "NO."
Inside, Liz saw herself laid out on a stretcher as Nik made a quick exit, understandably anxious to get away from Red. Without missing a beat, Ressler turned away and stood guard over the van's occupants, fiercely shooing away those he deemed too close.
Seated beside her with his head hung low, Red was holding her hand against his cheek. The video's poor quality couldn't conceal the agony radiating from his slumped-over, withered form. He pressed a kiss to her palm before slowly moving upward to pepper her face with more lingering kisses. It was the most tender, heartbreaking thing that she'd ever seen.
Too soon, Mr. Kaplan and Dembe emerged from Red's car, and only for them did her former partner step aside.
But Red remained motionless for a long moment, his bowed head resting against hers, seemingly oblivious to the arrival of his associates. When he eventually clambered out, Liz wondered what Mr. Kaplan had needed to say in order to pry him away. He looked so lost, so pale and distant as Ressler draped his FBI jacket over his shoulders and guided him to his car.
But then suddenly, Red's knees buckled and gave out.
The fearsome Concierge of Crime collapsed under the oppressive weight of his grief-the grief that Liz herself had knowingly cultivated. She could only whimper pathetically as his body folded inward on itself, crumpling like a frail origami crane in the clutches of a careless child.
Ever steadfast, Dembe caught him by the arms. His lips briefly hovered over Red's ear, murmuring what could only be a kind reassurance.
At precisely that moment, she willingly offered herself up to the swell of suffocating shame and regret. Feeling bad made her less of a monster, right? A real monster wouldn't cry, wouldn't care, wouldn't think twice about it. This desperate ache was self-affirming, but it also consumed the entirety of her attention span.
A break was in order.
She stopped the video and squeezed her eyes shut, this time clamping both hands over her mouth. Her shoulders heaved with every sobbing breath as a silent, steady deluge of tears streamed down her cheeks. One by one, she recalled the many times that she'd accused Red of not caring about her.
He absolutely did. Of course he did, but did he know that she cared for him too? So many of her recent actions suggested otherwise, but her heart had ached and bled for him all along.
Since arriving in Cuba, the few times that Liz had spoken to Mr. Kaplan, she couldn't stop herself from asking about him, about what he was doing and how he was coping. His associate's replies were invariably, maddeningly vague- almost as bad as Reddington himself. Once or twice would have been suspicious, but the collective sum of her non-answers said it all. Red was obviously struggling, but she could only speculate about the extent. Were Mr. Kaplan's evasions meant to stem Liz's guilt, or her own?
Both, probably.
In any case, seeing his part in the dashcam footage was enough to confirm her suspicions. She'd been right to worry.
But damn it all, the video wasn't over yet. It took her a long moment to collect herself enough to press 'play' again.
Just as Dembe closed Red's door behind him, Agent Navabi power-walked into view. Her lips were moving, speaking to Ressler, but he obviously cut her off to deliver the bad news. She abruptly stopped in her tracks and wilted, first reaching out for his hand, and then finally sobbing into his shoulder.
Samar publicly crying for her? To say that Liz didn't expect it would have been an understatement. As far as she could tell, she'd done nothing to merit such a reaction. Quite the opposite, actually.
Memories of their early interactions came flooding back, and the picture that they painted couldn't have been more ugly.
From day one, she was fiercely suspicious of the former Mossad agent. Really, why did Red bring her into the fold, and if the reason wasn't shady, then why wouldn't they give her a straight answer when she asked? Why be so coy about it?
Countless hours were spent mulling over the possible nature of their relationship. Best case scenario, Samar was on Red's payroll as a mole, planted to spy on the taskforce and guard his interests. That accusation was the only one that Liz could verbalize and she'd done so with a vehemence so excessive that it shocked her even in hindsight.
But it was the worst case scenario that provoked the bulk of her childish behavior. She was convinced that the other woman's hands were in more than just the pockets of Red's finely-tailored trousers. If she happened to be wrong, however, and they weren't fucking yet, then she deemed it inevitable, a mere matter of opportunity or time.
Such awful, blind jealousy.
Even now, in the face of her guilt, and after everything that they had been through together, aftershocks of that old insecurity coursed through her because she still didn't know if they'd ever slept together or not. And UGH, the shame of her mind wandering to that blindingly-bright green place again...
Not only that, Liz realized with alarm, but she wasn't even the first false Lazarus to betray Samar and rise from the dead. Shahin had already earned that distinction. And in the most heinous of twists, after finally finding her brother, she'd then willingly sacrificed him for Red's exoneration scheme.
Samar may have truly found it in her heart to forgive her for those months of rude, childish behavior. For this horribly cruel betrayal, however? Not a chance.
At last, the video came to an end with the unsettling view of Mr. Kaplan zipping up the black body bag. Liz was all too happy to disconnect the thumb drive and close the laptop.
Red immediately reclaimed his usual position at the forefront of her mind. Red. Red. Red. She was desperate to go to him, to apologize and hold him as tightly as he'd allow. He did tell her where to find him, in case she needed him, but she knew that the offer was mostly reflexive on his part. After all that she'd done, why should she be welcome there, in his room, in his arms? It was a miracle that he didn't hate her, that he even still cared enough to come to her rescue.
She sighed and hauled her weary body over to the bed, rubbing at the deep, dark circles under her eyes. It had been the longest of days, and sleep would be heavenly.
Unfortunately, it would also be elusive.
-...-...-...-...-
After taking a shower hot enough to make his skin bright pink and tender, Red dove headfirst into an expensive bottle of scotch. Knowing that Lizzie was alive and safe should have been enough to quiet his mind, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking about what she might be doing in that very moment. He pictured her up in her room on the third floor, reading Aram's letter, watching the dashcam footage, feeling guilty, and probably crying. No, definitely crying, and what about Agnes? Was she awake and fussing, or fast asleep? Was she a fussy baby in general? He knew so little about his own daughter.
His own daughter.
For decades, the word alone had been a ball of lead lodged in his thoracic cavity, making the weight of his own chest unbearable at times. It stung on his tongue and burned in his throat like acid reflux. Every ounce of his paternal pride had morphed into its inverse, perpetual shame and pain.
If Lizzie was his second chance, then Agnes would be his third. The realization made him anxious, knowing that trouble loomed around every corner, coveting that which he loved most. Men like himself don't get this many chances. They aren't rewarded for their reckless behavior.
He could think of few things more reckless than letting go inside of her, and zero things that felt as mind-meltingly good. His blood began to pool lower at the memory, and goddamnit, could he ever have a solitary, pensive moment without remembering how she moaned into his mouth as she pulled him in deep? And how she was so tight and so exquisitely wet just for him, and FUCK, ENOUGH ALREADY.
Chastising himself, he sat down on a rattan wingback chair, looking across the yard to the window of her room. If she should come to see him, then he wanted to have the meager benefit of a few seconds notice. Each minute that ticked by, he vacillated ten times between hoping she'd come and hoping she wouldn't. His eyes seldom drifted from her window.
By the time the back door opened and she emerged, cradling their daughter with both arms, he'd refilled his crystal tumbler four times. The diaper bag slung over her shoulder suggested that she intended to stay awhile, and Red couldn't even begin to process how he felt about that.
As she lightly padded around the perimeter of the pool, his overactive imagination formed an image of her taking a graceful, slow-motion swan dive off of the diving board, in the nude. Her skin would look exquisitely opalescent, so creamy and smooth and begging to be tasted, under Havana's full moon.
He was so taken by the fantasy that her soft knocking abruptly startled him back into the present, and hell, he was already hard again. He stood up and grunted as he hastily tucked his erection into the waistband of his boxers, concealing his arousal as well as he could. He then took a deep breath and smoothed his expression before opening the door and stepping backward in immediate invitation. "Lizzie."
Before he could say another word, she blurted, "I couldn't sleep." Impulse drove her an extra, experimental step forward, into his personal space.
The very depths of his fury, relief, frustration, desire, and love all rushed to inform his behavior at once, but none managed to come out on top. They instead combined into a homogeneous, useless amalgam of feelings for which he had no name. After closing the door behind her, his outstretched hand rose a bit higher and froze, hovering near her neck.
Her breath hitched in anticipation, but desire quickly gave way to concern when she registered the furrow of his brow and the twin funnel clouds brewing beneath. "What is it?"
Several silent seconds passed, just long enough for self-doubt to creep in and color her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I- I shouldn't have disturbed you. I'm probably the last person in the world that you want to see right now."
She was wrong, but not completely.
In truth, part of him still wasn't entirely convinced that any of this was real- that she was actually there, alive, and that together they'd made the beautiful little creature in her arms. If this turned out to be another cruel hallucination, then he wouldn't, couldn't possibly endure it. He bit down on his inner cheek until it bled, as if physical pain might satisfy the burden of proof.
But rather than answering the question or asking her to stay, he leaned in and more closely appraised her appearance, gently combing his fingers through her hair and pushing it back, off of her shoulder. She trembled at the warmth of his breath cascading over the vulnerable, newly-exposed skin of her neck, but it wasn't at all clear to her what he might do next.
Would he kiss her? Bite her? Pull her tightly against the broad expanse of his chest? Push her up against the wall and use his tongue to locate her carotid pulse?
All she knew was that good or bad, pleasure or pain, she'd accept whatever happened next.
His fingertips answered her unspoken questions by lightly tracing the length of her collarbone, only to arrive at the strap of the diaper bag and step backwards, taking it in the same opportunistically-chivalrous, hospitable-but-gratuitous way that he'd so often taken her coat.
Liz let out the breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding, disappointed that he hadn't kissed her, but also encouraged that he didn't want her to leave. Every cell in her body screamed for more, more, more.
Too slowly, Red realized the mistake that he'd just made. Her red-rimmed eyes confirmed his suspicions that she had been crying in her room, but they also noticeably flashed with need at his touch.
That look.
Oh, he knew that look. He couldn't possibly forget it. It was, after all, the one that had lead to the conception of their daughter.
And he was powerless against it.
His own eyes lowered to escape her gaze and to hopefully cease the overeager twitching in his pants, only to discover that taking the diaper bag had caused her blouse to slip lower on one side, giving him an eyefull of her cleavage. He thickly swallowed and croaked, "Would you like a drink? Can you even, uh, I mean, are you-"
After following the path that his eyes had traveled, the musical sound of her laughter filled the room. She couldn't help it. He was impossibly endearing when nervous, and it empowered her to find that she could still elicit that response, especially now, after the horrible things that she had done.
There was hope for them, yet.
"Yes, please. I would love a drink, and you don't have to worry. I'm not breastfeeding."
It didn't escape his notice that despite catching his wandering eyes, she'd made no move to cover herself up.
Then a familiar, stabbing pang of regret caused her to abruptly fall silent and look down at her daughter with apologetic eyes. She did want to breastfeed. It was one of the very precious few parenting decisions that she'd made early on, and with absolute certainty.
Red wanted to slam his head against the wall for bringing it up. If he'd given the subject even the slightest bit of thought, then he would have known not to ask.
Regardless of Lizzie's own culpability, his anger at Kate's betrayal swelled anew. Oh sure, she'd drawn up a fine set of blueprints for an impromptu fake death, but what had she done to prepare her for the very real life that would follow? Good god, with all of his resources readily available, Kate could have at least given her a fucking breast pump. He clenched his jaw at the thought of Lizzie's time alone in Cuba, about the physical and emotional pain that she must have endured while her breasts became engorged with milk and then slowly dried up, her body behaving as if her daughter had died.
His instinct was to apologize, but her body language suggested that she didn't want to talk about it, so he pretended not to notice her suddenly-crestfallen demeanor. "Please, have a seat. I'm having scotch, but I'm sure we can find something lighter for you in the wine cellar."
Had it belonged to anyone else, she would have been surprised that the pool house had a wine cellar. "Scotch would be great, thank you."
He placed the diaper bag on the bar top before grabbing his empty glass and a clean one for her.
By the time both were filled, Liz had made herself comfortable in the very center of the living room couch. He could either sit right beside her, or fetch the wingback chair from the other side of the room. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two options, but it seemed beneath him to expend that much effort on a seating arrangement. He was grateful when she made the decision for him, expectantly patting the couch cushion beside her.
It took him entirely too long to realize that she'd chosen her seat for exactly that reason.
After he sat down, she then surprised him again by scooting even closer, until their thighs touched. He bit his lip to quell the shiver that threatened to race down his spine.
It was in that precise moment that Agnes stirred, slowly blinking her sleepy eyes and then locking her focus on Red. She began to squirm within the confines of her swaddling.
"Uh oh," he whispered, expecting imminent shrieks and tears. He took it upon himself to hastily locate the corner of the blanket and then untuck and loosen it.
She continued to wriggle until her arms were free and outstretched toward him, both hands opening and closing in a grabbing motion. Her objective was crystal clear.
"Do you want to hold her?"
His eyes lit up and his breath caught at the offer. Of course he did, and despite the fact that he'd held her several times already, this moment carried the heavy significance of the first time. He'd never done it with her permission before. Too choked up for words, he nodded in affirmation.
It tugged at Liz's heartstrings fiercely, just to see how much Red wanted his baby girl. Blinking through the sting of fresh tears, she made a secret, silent vow to him that she would never disappear again, and then finally placed the baby in the crook of his awaiting arms.
It occured to her then how capably Agnes had demanded and retained his full attention, and that they each seemed equally enthralled by the other.
Never one to let an opportunity pass, Liz leaned into his side and rested her cheek against his shoulder, where she could surreptitiously revel in the heady scent of his aftershave.
She sighed in wonder and exalted, "It's like she knows."
After a few seconds, Red found his voice again. "Knows what?"
"That she's yours. Do you think she does?"
He offered his fingers for their little one to grab, genuinely considering the question before replying, "No, but... I think she knows that I'm hers."
-...-...-...-...-
AN: The tiny seed of an idea for this story came from my desire for Liz to have seen Red's reaction to her 'death'. Hopefully, the whole dashcam footage thing wasn't too contrived.
And there's at least one more chapter to come!
