Moving in this part of the world requires an amount of subtlety and stealth that chafes and frustrates. He needs to find her, now, needs to see her safe, needs it so viscerally at this point he thinks he might choke on it. Without Dembe's constant, cool-headed, soothing presence, he would have gone mad long before.
Now, they wait for the cover of darkness to approach the lonely tower. They had located Madeline without difficulty — Glen's information is unquestionably valuable, and worth the irritations of getting it. She's living it up, enjoying the life of the billionaire with this Petr Mladek.
When they first arrived in Jesenik and there were no signs of Lizzie, there were a terrible few hours when he thought he had failed. It wasn't until Madeline left the house alone shortly after midday, meeting up with a strange man and haring off, that they discovered the tower, hidden away in the foothills.
They'd gone back to town a discreet while after Madeline and her mystery companion, to make plans and prepare.
They have been ready for hours now, and Dembe is about ready to sit on him to keep him from moving too soon.
He just needs her safe.
She's so tired.
The days have started to run into one another, all the same, with nothing to mark them but the daily blood draw. Her body cannot keep up with the pace of Madeline's greed; she is thinner, diminished, weak, dizzy. Everything has taken on a hazy quality that makes her a little afraid.
She's telling herself a story, a story of herself and Sam when she was a child, just to pass the time, when she hears it. Maybe. A noise? There are never noises at night, other than birds and animals. She must have imagined it. Or maybe she's hearing things now.
She wonders how much longer she has to live.
Then she hears it again. Clatter clatter. Something that might be a voice.
She gets to her feet, slowly, carefully. She's learned on her trips to the toilet that moving too quickly will make her fall, or sometimes vomit. On one regretful occasion, both. Supporting herself against the wall, she makes her way to the wide window and leans against the shutters for a long moment.
Clatter clatter.
She can feel the vibration against her body, and huffs in frustration. I'm trying, she thinks, I'm coming. It takes everything she can muster to push the shutters open even partway. It's just enough for her to push herself into the gap and look out, look down.
Vertigo sweeps over her, and for one awful moment, she thinks she will fall. It's the voice that anchors her again, floating up out of the dark, warm and deep and familiar. She feels the recognition of it right to her bones, and it gives her clarity and strength, strength enough to stay lucid.
"Lizzie," it says, "Lizzie, hang on, sweetheart."
She smiles involuntarily, sweetly. She looks down at the flash of light — the newcomer has lit a lantern, and made a small pool of gold around himself and his companion. She can just make out his features, creased in concentration as he pulls on a pair of slim black gloves. His companion is busy fussing with his clothing — doing what, she can't tell.
He raises his face to the window, and the relief that floods her body makes her feel faint again.
"Just a few more minutes," he says, his voice layered with calm reassurance. "I'm coming up."
She laughs, in spite of herself, her voice so cracked and faint that she barely makes a sound.
"How?" she calls, as loudly as she can. "I can't exactly let down my hair."
He laughs too, at that, rich and warm with relief and pleasure.
"Don't be ridiculous, Lizzie," he chides gently. "This isn't a fairy tale, and I'm not your prince. Just sit tight — I'll be there before you know it."
He looks away again, adjusting something, speaking quietly to the man waiting patiently beside him.
Red, she thinks happily. Red's here.
He lets Dembe readjust the coil of rope looped across his chest one more time.
"Are you sure about this, Raymond?"
Red grins. "Not in the least, my friend. But it has to be me. I'm sure," and he pauses to glance up at the stone edifice in front of him, "it will all come back to me once I get going."
Dembe sighs, but steps in close, bends down, and holds out his cupped hands. Red puts a foot in and reaches up as Dembe lifts, gripping the crevices in the stone with his fingers, digging in his toes, taking advantage of the sticky soles of his climbing shoes.
And he starts to climb, movements gradually becoming more sure — he knows he was right. It is coming back to him. Use your legs, he reminds himself, push up, don't pull.
He feels, for what may be the first time in his life, a little bit heroic.
She leans on the windowsill, watching in dreamy astonishment. Raymond Reddington is rock climbing. Rock climbing up a tower wall to rescue her. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or cheer him on. So she just watches.
It's a sight to see, too. It's easy to forget, when he's cloaked in his usual armour of three-piece suits and savoir faire, just how strong he is. Watching him climb, lit by the halo of the lantern beneath him, you can't miss it.
Clad in black, from watch cap to shoes, he moves with almost the same easy assurance up the wall as he does across a ballroom. HIs arms, searching and holding his body in place; his legs, supporting him, driving him smoothly upward.
It's almost like a dance, she muses absently. I bet the view is even better from the ground…
And she watches, as he makes his way up the tower, to see her safe.
The climb seems to take eons.
Reach, step, push; reach, step, push.
He doesn't look up, stays focused on the wall in front of him, keeping it clean and safe. He is damp with perspiration even in the cool night air; by the time the wooden shutters are within reach, his breath is short and rough.
The last pull, onto the wide sill, is the hardest, requiring mostly the strength of his arms to bring him into the opening. But he does it, driven by need, concentrating his remaining strength. And then he's there, wedging his shoulder between the shutters, widening the gap.
He crouches on the sill, balancing carefully. When he looks up, she's right there, waiting for him, smiling like he is the answer to every question she ever had.
"Red," she breathes, reaching out to touch his face gently, as if she needs to make sure he is real. When she makes contact, her smile widens, her eyes start to swim. "Took you long enough."
He huffs out a laugh, then hops down into the room. There's no light but the moon trickling in, but he can still see her gauntness, the unhealthy pallor of her skin, the deep set wells of her eyes. But still, she is whole, she is smiling at him, she is real.
He steps forward and wraps his arms gently around her, pulling her into the shelter of his body, the simple relief of it seeping through to his bones. He presses his lips to her hair and breathes her in; beneath the sour smells of her long days of captivity, the essence of her is still there.
"Lizzie," he says, murmuring into her, and it's all he needs.
She has curled right into him like she belongs, her delicate frame fragile in his arms, but real. Her breath is soft and warm against his neck, and then, a featherlight press of her lips, seeking. They share a moment of perfect peace, standing together, before the world intrudes. The sound of the engine is harsh and loud, and makes her tense and quiver against him in recognition.
"Oh," she whispers, panicky. "Oh no, she's here, why is she here, now?"
Red curses inwardly — despite the care they had taken, she must have known he was there. Dammit, he thinks angrily. If they'd only had time to get back to the ground… Well, it is what it is. He releases Liz and turns to look out the window; sighs in relief. It's only Madeline, alone in the basket of a cherry picker, approaching slowly. Dembe can handle the driver, he knows, and he can, he will handle Madeline.
She slides into the room from the basket without a twitch, familiar teasing smile on her face, her hands held out as if to welcome him.
"Raymond," she purrs, taking his hands when he doesn't move. "I wasn't expecting you. Whyever didn't you stop by the house, darling?"
Outlined by the glow of moonlight, the contrast between her and Liz is glaring. Madeline positively beams with health and wellbeing, her skin rosy and bright, her hair thick and long, her eyes keen and clear. He thinks she looks like she has shed a decade since he saw her last, and a terrible inkling of what she may have been doing teases at his mind.
"Madeline," he returns stiffly, withdrawing from her grasp and taking a step back. "I'm not actually in Jesenik to see you."
Her face falters a touch and she glances quickly at Liz, huddled against the wall behind him. She lets out a tinkling laugh.
"Don't be ridiculous. Why else would you come to this little corner of the world? There's nothing else here that could possibly interest you."
"You're wrong again," he says heavily. "I'm here for Lizzie. Just stay out of my way, Madeline."
Her eyes flash, angry now, and she casts another contemptuous glance behind him. "For that?" she demands. "She's nothing, Raymond, less than nothing. The best of her is already inside me, don't you see?" Her voice has changed again, becoming needier, cajoling. "Look at me, not her. Aren't I beautiful? Aren't I young and lovely? I can be everything you want, I–"
"Stop." He cuts her off, not wanting to hear anymore; he can't stand it. "Are you mad? What is wrong with you? Do you honestly think that I severed ties with you because you have gotten older? Because you weren't pretty enough?"
He has to stop to breathe, to keep from shaking her. All this, for what? A twisted, obsessive desire?
"But I've remade myself, darling. Just look at me, you'll remember how wonderful it was, how we always come back to one another in the end."
His eyes are grey chips of ice as he looks at her, his voice, when he speaks, is one of the most terrible things Liz has ever heard.
"When I look at you now, Madeline, I see nothing but an empty shell. If only you had found a way to renew the barren wasteland inside you, perhaps I'd take a second look."
Silence.
Then, an unearthly shriek of rage as Madeline throws herself at Red, clawed fingers aimed straight at his face. Liz watches anxiously, not wanting to distract him, not daring to interfere with no strength left in her, as Red grabs Madeline's wrists, as they grapple fiercely in front of the wide window.
Red should have the easy advantage, but Madeline is fueled by rage and hatred and obsession, and Liz' heart leaps into her throat as she forces him back, back, until his hips hit the windowsill; as she keeps pushing, screaming, her teeth bared over him, until he is bent over the rock, as they teeter together.
For one precarious moment, Liz thinks her world might end. Then, somehow, he shifts his weight, twists his upper body, and suddenly, Madeline is gone, her scream changed to one of panic and fear, fading away into the night.
Red flips his body and peers down, searching.
"Dembe," he calls coolly, "heads up."
He turns back into the room just in time, as Liz collapses into his arms.
She's in and out over the next several hours. Hazy, surreal images pass her by. Red, carrying her, as Dembe lowers the two of them to the ground in the abandoned cherry picker. Refusing to relinquish her to the steady bodyguard, cradling her in his lap as they drive away from the tower, from Madeline's crumpled body. Red's jet, quiet and opulent, his eyes on hers every time she manages to drag them open. His coat wrapped around her, to shield and protect, cocooning her in his scent. His voice, warm and soothing as he urges water on her each time. Quiet streets, leafy trees, the salty smell of the sea.
"Lizzie," he says now, quietly but firmly. "Wake up a little, sweetheart."
She's still dizzy and faint, weak and sleepy, but the hours of rest and the fluids he has pushed on her have helped. Her eyes flutter open, and there he is, right there hovering, where she has already come to expect him.
Simple happiness floods her, and she reaches out and touches his face again, because she can, because this is real. He covers her hand with his, pressing it into his cheek and smiling at her.
"Would you like to bathe before you lie down again? It might help you rest better."
"Oh," she sighs, her voice still little more than a whisper. "That would be absolutely lovely, but," and she truly hates having to say it, "I don't think that I have the strength. Maybe tomorrow?"
He smoothes her hair back with his free hand. "Well," he says slowly, "you can wait, if you want. Or, if you…if it wouldn't make you uncomfortable…I could help you. I promise you, Elizabeth, I won't…"
"Oh, thank you," she interrupts him, not caring about the implications, not at all concerned about her body at this point. "It would just be so wonderful to be clean again."
"All right then," he says, and wraps an arm around her to help her to her feet and guide her into a bright bathroom across the room. He eases her down onto a curved wooden stool, then busies himself getting the shower ready. When things are arranged to his satisfaction, he slips back into the bedroom, returning in short order stripped down to t-shirt and boxer briefs.
He crouches in front of her, looks into her face.
"Okay, sweetheart?"
She nods, sits docilely as he gently takes his jacket from her, then peels off the stained and reeking hospital gown. If the bruises and needle marks on her arms, the stark white of her skin, the strained hollow thinness of her body shock or disturb him, he is careful to let nothing show on his face. He just continues to handle her gently, raising her to her feet and walking her into the tiled shower, already steaming.
The hot water feels amazing — she's been cold for so long — and she sighs in pleasure and lets her eyes slip closed again. She feels Red's strong arm around her back, supporting her, his other hand coaxing her head back into the spray, stroking through her hair.
"Just relax," he says softly, so close to her that his breath teases over her cheek. "I'll take care of you, Lizzie."
And he does, such exquisitely tender care that she feels weightless and wondrous, every last inch of her washed clean, made new.
"Am I glowing?" she asks him dreamily, as he cards his fingers through her hair, rinsing out conditioner. "I feel like I must be glowing."
He laughs softly, the rumble of it in his chest making her tingle. "No, you aren't glowing," he answers, stroking, stroking. "But you are without a doubt the loveliest sight I have ever seen."
He reaches behind her to turn off the water, wet shirt rubbing against her skin. Lifting her easily out of the shower, he wraps her immediately in a huge, soft towel, patting her dry, then sitting her down again so he can take up another towel and rub at her hair. By the time he's satisfied, she's hanging onto consciousness by the merest thread, soothed into sleepiness, but not wanting to miss a moment of this time with him.
As he leads her back into the bedroom, she spots his clothes, folded neatly onto a chair in the corner.
"Red," she says sleepily, "can I wear your shirt? If I can smell you…I'll know that I'm safe."
His heart skips uncomfortably in his chest; he crushes her to him briefly, kissing her head, cheek, neck.
"Oh, Lizzie," he murmurs, his voice muffled against her skin, carrying an odd note she can't remember hearing before. "I thought I'd lost you."
"I knew you'd find me," she answers, burrowing contentedly into his embrace. "I knew."
A week passes, then two. She rests, regaining strength, letting Red fuss over her. He actually owns this house, he tells her, in the coastal town of Agde, France, on the Mediterranean Sea. Shielded from the street by lovely poplars, heavy with spring greenery, the cozy home quickly becomes her sanctuary. Red spoils her cheerfully, rarely leaving her side, talking endlessly to keep her amused, tempting her to eat with delectables that Dembe fetches from the local patisserie. She tells him of the horrors of her captivity, and he holds her while she weeps.
After the first few days, he coaxes her to walk with him through the quiet neighbourhood — they go down to the beach, where she revels in the fresh, salty air, the wide open space. It's too early in the spring for there to be many people about beyond the locals, but it's warm enough during the afternoons to be enjoyable. She collects the days like beads on a string, like softly-tinted photographs she will treasure, always.
He is as free as ever with his affection, taking her arm as they walk, holding her hand on the beach, bidding her goodnight with a kiss on the forehead or cheek. But she knows the feel of his hands on her now, so careful, so full of love, and she can't forget. She wears his shirt to bed each night, and wishes he would stay with her.
She realizes, eventually, that if she leaves it alone, so will he. So one night, unable to sleep despite the comfort of her bed, her full stomach, the long day in the sun, she takes the step she needs. Leaving her bedroom at the back of the house, she pads down the hall to the room she knows is his.
His door is still open a crack, lamplight shining through. She hesitates, then steadies her resolve and slips inside. He is sitting in a low chair facing the window, cigar in one hand, glass of Scotch in the other, and doesn't hear her come in. Her bare feet are noiseless on the carpeted floor, and she remains unnoticed until she perches on the arm of his chair, following his gaze out the window.
"You can't see the water from here," she observes quietly. "The trees are in the way."
"The price one pays for privacy," he replies drily, not moving, not looking at her, but enjoying the added warmth she brings. "Is there something you need, sweetheart?"
She takes a deep breath, lets her hand drop to rest on his leg.
"Just you," she says simply.
He does move then, bending to carefully stub out his cigar in the ashtray by his feet, then shifting so he can see her. She's still looking out the window, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, her slim body enveloped in one of his crisp white button downs. Her hand is warm on his leg, and he thinks she's smiling.
"Can't sleep?" he asks cautiously. "Do you want to go for a walk? It's still warm out."
She turns to him then, her bare leg rubbing against his slacks. She looks at him, shirtsleeves rolled up, vest unbuttoned, face full of care and concern. Mine, she thinks, determined, mine.
"No, Red," she says aloud. "I don't. And I don't think that you really do either."
His lips part to answer her, but whatever reply he might have made is stalled as she reaches out to cradle his face in her hands. She leans in, slowly, imprinting the moment, and kisses him full on the lips, soft and sweet.
Thoughts chase each other through his brain chaotically. But they all fritter away in the face of the reality of Lizzie, kissing him, eliminating his ability to think of anything at all but her. He slides his arm around her hips, tugging her gently into his lap. The warm weight of her is both reassuring and enticing, and she sighs contentedly into his mouth.
Her hands slip from his face, one curling around his neck, the other wrapping around his back to pull him close. She traces his lips with her tongue, wanting to taste, to experience every part of him. He opens to her, helpless under her gentle onslaught, hands gripping her hips, clutching at the shirt she wears. She tastes of toothpaste and something undefinable and light; she smells of salt and sand and Liz.
He desperately wants her skin under his hands, needs to touch her everywhere he can reach. He lets go of the shirt and slides his hands under it, smoothing the skin over her hips and bottom, running his right hand up the line of her spine. She quivers against him, sinking deeper into his mouth, fingers flexing where she holds him.
He firms up his grip underneath her and lifts, standing up with her in his arms. He strides over to the bed and lowers her to the mattress, leaning with her but breaking their kiss, at last, to unbutton her shirt. She opens her eyes to watch him, a hot electric blue that he can feel on his skin. She's completely bare under the shirt, and she watches his own eyes darken with hunger as he drinks in the sight. She grasps at the edges of his vest, peels it down his arms and tosses it. Her hands start to fumble their way back to his shirt, but she's distracted by his mouth, which in that same moment has fastened over her breast.
He proceeds to make a feast of her body that leaves her writhing in an agony of want, her breathless moans a symphony in his ears. He leaves no part of her untouched, untasted — he brings her to the precipice with teasing fingers and a clever tongue, suspending her there as long as he can, spinning out her pleasure. When she finally falls, it's with a whimpering cry that arrows straight through him, her arms and legs clutching around him before every part of her loosens and drops into the bed.
It's virtually transformative, the sight of her, and he burns and aches with a need too enormous to contain. He rises up just long enough to strip off his clothes, kicking them aside without a thought. He covers her body eagerly, her arms coming up to bring him in, and he slips inside her while her body is still throbbing, hot and wet.
She whispers his name into his neck, murmurs endearments and emotions and need. He, beyond speech, suckles at the soft places — the curve of her neck, the dent behind her ear, the skin above her collarbone — desperate to mark her, to make her his and his alone. He moves inside her like it's all he was ever meant to do; when his release finally comes, it's in long, powerful pulses that make him dizzy.
He drops into her, can't help it, he's lost now, lost to her as surely as he ever was, breathing fast and desperate into her neck, arms wriggling under her to keep her close. She wants to laugh her triumph, her joy in him; to reassure him with words and touches; to wrap them both in the blankets and cuddle him back to himself — but she can't do any of those things, can only lie with him, stunned and shaken.
When it comes at last, she thinks drowsily, it's more powerful than any fairy tale.