"I need the clouds to cover me,
Pulling them down, surround me,
Without your love I'll be,
So long and lost, are you missing me?" – Long & Lost, Florence + The Machine
Speaking isn't possible, her jaw clenched, muzzled by anxiety. To be so close to him now, so near, knowing the grief and misery she has sowed through his life, a farmer of sorrow and heartache, makes her almost fearful, sick with guilt.
His eyes bleed with pain.
She had thought, had expected that they would roam over her face, green eyes seeking confirmation, looking for any falsehood, anything superficial, a mere shimmer in her expression that would challenge the possibility she had risen from the dead. There is no sign of the cunning, suspicious mind of the criminal she had known, the tactician, the Concierge of Crime who could see through the darkest of shadows. She sees only a man in mourning.
Never underestimate the power of glitter.
But he had.
He hadn't bothered to look past the theatre, the fabrication, didn't bother to delve deeper into the lies and the deceit. Instead he'd pressed tender kisses to her forehead and clutched at her hand. A gulf of grief had gaped open inside of him, a putrid mess of mourning and pain and those closest to him had manipulated and knowingly blinded him, toyed with his emotions to reach a desired outcome. He had trusted them and they had destroyed him.
And even now he doesn't question her sudden reappearance.
He knows it is her, she can see it in the way his fingers tremble by his sides, the way his jaw locks. There is a simmering rage beneath the surface of his skin, even as the flesh tinges blue from the cold there is fiery anger, burning red, as the harsh wind lashes at them, chilling the already freezing material of his damp clothing. It is as if he doesn't feel it, has fallen numb to his senses, and before she knows what she is doing, not giving a thought to how he may react, Liz is shedding her jacket taking a step closer and drawing it around his shoulders.
He doesn't move.
And she doesn't speak.
There is only the rumble of the ocean, of the oncoming storm, the waves rolling along the shore and the clouds in the sky. It makes sense that this is where she returns to him, electricity buzzing around them, a tempest of power, the relentless swell of the sea behind them.
Tears begin to brim in his eyes, an ocean flooding the meadow of green. His tongue darts along his bottom lip, teeth catching on the delicate skin, making him wince. And Liz finds that she can't bear it anymore, a sob clawing up her throat, ugly and harsh, as she lurches forwards until they are pressed together, her hand bunching the back of his collar, face buried in the crook of his neck.
"Red," she breathes against his skin, clutching him closer, his chilled flesh tacky with sea spray.
There is a moment when her heart stutters in her chest, a moment where he remains tense for too long, doesn't return the embrace. It would be fair, she thinks, she would deserve it, his rejection, his disgust. He would have never have hurt her in such a devastating way that she has him.
This may be the end of them, after everything, she is the one to finally drive them apart.
But then his legs are buckling and she is falling with him, jeans immediately assaulted and soaked by an onslaught of waves, crashing around them in a soup of salt and sand.
Heedless to the chill, she only feels the way he has pulled her into his lap, the sharp heaves of his breath as he battles the maelstrom of emotions within, his hands carding through her hair, over her face. A thumb is brushing over her lips, her cheekbones, her head cradled in his hand, fingers buried into the soft skin at the nape of her neck, while the other ghosts up her spine, skims over her ribcage, up and down her biceps.
"Lizzie," he whispers over and over, like a prayer, a mantra. "Lizzie."
And in return she presses her forehead to his, hands trembling, tears cascading down the soft swell of her cheeks.
"I'm here," she replies, "Red, I'm here."
She promises him, swallowing back the memories of being without him, of knowing the damage and sorrow she had so purposely caused them both, wrecking their lives as surely as the storm rumbling above them obliterating all peace and calm.
All sense of time is lost to them as they sit on the shore, each of them clinging to the other. Neither calm, heartbeats still erratic, breath still torn from throats that are thick and choked with emotion. Hysterical are their movements, jagged and desperate, fingers digging a little too hard into soft skin, embraces so tight their arms begin to ache. She only suggests that they escape the elements as sheets of rain begin to pour from the darkened sky. And when Red doesn't hear her, ignores her, she finds herself heaving him to his feet.
And when they make their way to the abandoned shack he has inhabited, he clutches at her hand, knuckles, scarred and rough, fading to white.
It's just as cold in the house, perhaps even more so, as Liz cracks the door open, lets the salty breeze sweep through the dusty confines. Unlived in, dreary, dead, they make their way into the living room and Liz can barely breathe with the remorse that settles in her chest, restricting movement, clogging airways. She spots the flimsy excuse of a bed made up by the fire, long cold, grey ash; two couch cushions and a throw blanket that is thin, worn.
"We need to get you warm," she murmurs. His hand still clutched in hers, she can feel the tremor through his digits. They grip her with such ferocity, as if she is a figment about to dissolve into their grim surroundings.
He gives her no response other than a jerk of his head, before he is leading her up a staircase, through the dingy corridors, and into an old bathroom, cracked tiles and rusting pipes. The light that flickers on, humming with electricity, bathes them in a sickly yellow and Liz finds herself surprised that there is any power at all.
Red has released her hand, is now standing in the doorway, dripping water onto the floor, clothes rumpled and shoulders hunched. His eyes are downcast, and Liz thinks that she has never seen him this dishevelled, looking so distraught, dejected. Even when her hands had been splayed against his chest, his blood swelling between her fingers power had emanated from him, in the form of a swarm of medical officers that had surrounded his crumpled body, all there to salvage his life.
"Come here," she whispers, even though a storm rages outside, she can't bring herself to be anything but wary around him, quiet and gentle, wishing to wheedle him back into the force he had once been.
She wants him back.
She has no right.
Liz wants the soft smiles and the glances fuelled with desire, she wants the gentle embraces and the dry palms of a man who has slaughtered his way through life. She yearns for that green gaze of his settled on her every movement, the rich baritone of his voice lulling her into peace, into safety. She wants the supple material of his suits and the smooth silk of his ties. The criminal mastermind and the gentle man, Liz desires all of him. Raymond Reddington. She wants Raymond Reddington.
And now that he is standing before her, shaking with the cold, there is no reason for her to hold back any longer. After false deaths and long months she is standing toe to toe with him, sliding her hands up the damp material of his vest, fingers stiff and fumbling as they flick at the buttons until the cloth gapes open, revealing his dress shirt. It is then, as she reaches to shed him of the starched cotton, he halts her movements, hands reaching up to gently grab at her wrists, his green gaze finally flickering to hers.
With a calmness she didn't expect of him, his palms graze up her arms, flutter over her shoulders, her collarbones, until they settle at the base of her neck. She falls still, lungs seizing as he looks at her, seemingly studying the unknown depths of her eyes, until his thumbs have brushed up and over the soft flesh of her throat, skim so gently over her cheekbones. And then he is leaning forwards, so close that his breath puffs over her cheeks, capturing her lips with his own, so tender and loving.
Sorrowful and grief stricken.
"You can never do that again," he breathes against her, pulling back and cradling her head in his hands, "Lizzie, don't ever leave me again."
His voice is still so hoarse, scratchy as if from disuse. All she can bring herself to do is nod her head, even as hot tears cascade down her cheeks, catching on the soft pads of his fingers.
Turning away from him, she flicks on the faucets of the shower, runs the water piping hot, steam billowing from the alcove. The distinct sound of metal grating against metal has her facing back to him, as he pulls at his zip, works his way out of his trousers, all sense of etiquette gone. He stands before her in only his shirt and briefs, and Liz has to bite at her lip, never having expected to find herself in such a position.
She thinks that if the circumstances were different, her body would be laced with desire.
Instead, her bones are heavy, gravity dragging at her.
Because he is looking at her, as if in need of guidance, lost and in anguish, desperate for direction.
There is no hesitation, no uncertainty, in her movements as she sheds her own clothing, pulling her jumper over her head and wriggling her jeans over her thighs. His eyes are on her, unwavering, resolute, until she is standing before him clad in nothing but her underwear. Grabbing at his hand, she leads them under the spray, warm now instead of blistering, having adjusted the temperatures.
The water sluices over them, hot, heavy and merciless. Standing pressed together, chest to chest, lace bra and expensive cotton, they wait for the anguish, the sorrow so ingrained in them now, to be flushed away, the drought riddled crevices carved in their flesh swelling with fresh rain, pure, cleansing.
His hands are on her waist, holding her steady, thumbs brushing circles over her bare flesh, eyes closed. With every rise and fall of his chest, Liz watches him, studies the creases in the corners of his eyes, the way he chews at his lip, such a familiar gesture it makes her pull him closer, the ache in her chest making her swallow, mouth dry. Trying to ignore the tremble in her fingers and the way he seems to wince, so minutely, she trails her fingers over his face, dance over his jaw line and the swell of his lips.
"Raymond," she says, "Look at me."
And he does, head tilting to the side, just like last time.
"I love you."
A/N; Here you go, the last installment! Sorry it took so long, but I've just started this big ass adventure of travelling the world and haven't yet had that much time for writing. This is the case for She Put Her Scar Upon My Skin as well, but I am hoping to get the next chapter up in a week or so, perhaps earlier if all goes well. Thank you for reading!