Following the tradition of ignoring the small intimacies they share, neither of them speak about the kiss the next morning. Red is awake first, if he ever actually went to sleep, and has breakfast set out on the table, coffee steaming in a mug for Liz, as she makes her way into the kitchen. She can feel his eyes following her across the room, calculating and assessing. She almost shudders under the intensity.
Liz is aware of the exhaustion, coloured purple, smudged beneath her eyes. Her blonde hair is tangled, knotty, and her feet drag slightly on the slate floor. She had barely slept. Worry and fear for Ressler greatly muted the confusion that arose when she thought of what had occurred between her and Red. She dreamt of the latter when sleep finally claimed her.
Her hands had been pressed to his chest, his skin hot turning cold, as the blood flowed around her fingers. It bubbled out of his mouth, as she remembered so vividly, spewing forth into the air as he coughed and gasped for breath. His eyes were locked on to her, filled with panic, his hands feebly pushing at her, to get away. He was there, still trying to protect her as his life seeped out around him, a shroud of red. He was there and then he was not. His green eyes, so dark and protective and knowing, had glazed over.
Liz had woken up, tangled in her sheets and body slick with sweat. She choked back sobs and waited for the sunlight to filter into her room, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them. A shiver runs through her at the memory.
"Are you alright, sweetheart?" Red asks quietly, as if speaking to a wounded animal. Perhaps he had heard her screaming in the night. She swallows, turning to look at him, aiming for some kind of level of composure.
"I want to speak to Aram," she states, voice hard as she meets his questioning gaze. He nods his head, as if conceding that this request is inevitable after he had divulged the information of his asset last night. He wordlessly slides the phone out of his pocket and slides it across the bench to her, turning and leaving the room. The front door creaks open and she hears him step outside. She doesn't think of the weather, the brittle cold he is now standing in, the wind tearing at his clothes.
She picks up the phone and finds that a number, presumably the one Aram has been using, is already dialled. She shakes her head, a small smile, though fleeting, flickers over her face. Swallowing, apprehension twisting her gut, she presses call. Her feet carry her over to the alcove; she pulls a cushion into her lap as she sits, squeezing the pillow between her fingers.
It only rings a few times; tears well in Liz's eyes as her dear, sweet friend answers the phone, stumbling over his words as he addresses the Concierge of Crime.
"M-Mr Reddington? How can I help you? Is everything okay?"
"Aram," she gasps out his name, fingers trembling as she holds them to her mouth. The line falls silent, but he hasn't hung up, she can hear him breathing, and then all at once it's as if he explodes with worry.
"Liz? Liz is that you? Are you okay? Where are you? Where's Mr Reddington? Tell me your location; I'll get Dembe to come find you."
She huffs out a strangled laugh, tears rolling down her cheeks. She glances out the window, looking out and seeing Red nowhere in sight. The phone is pressed so tightly to her ear that it is beginning to become hot. Her breath fogs against the window, it's almost freezing outside.
"I'm... I'm fine. God Aram, what are you doing working for Reddington?" she asks, voice a bit too sharp, a harsh protective instinct filling her.
"Keeping you safe, Liz, until you're exonerated," is his reply, so steadfastly loyal and confident and Liz starts to cry afresh.
"Is Ress okay?"
He takes longer to reply this time, perhaps wondering how much Reddington has told her and whether he should divulge the information and face Red's wrath should he say too much. In the end, Aram had always been loyal to Liz.
"I'm not sure how much Mr. Reddington has told you, Liz, but he is expected to make a full recovery. He'll be taking a few weeks off, which should give you and Mr. Reddington some breathing room, so to speak. Agent Ressler has been dogged in his pursuit of you."
Liz considers this information, knowing that she ruthlessly betrayed her partner's faith and trust in her. He had let her go, turned his back on the law, to see her to freedom and then she had gone and betrayed him. She'd flung the taskforce and the American Government into disarray, burying that bullet in Connolly's chest the way she did.
"Liz, I'm sorry, I have to go, we can't risk having this call traced. Stay safe and... and stay with Mr. Reddington, he'll keep you safe. I believe in you."
The line dies and Liz brings the phone down to her thigh, breathing deeply past the tightness in her chest. She curls her toes in her socks, dropping the phone and watching as it bounces almost falling onto the floor. Her eyes are drawn back to the window, but she can't see Red anywhere. She stands and heads out the door.
He's sitting on the front steps as she had been the night before, twirling his fedora absently in his hands. His gaze is far off, contemplative and serious, but when he turns to her, it bleeds into something more like sorrow.
"Done?" His voice like steel on stone.
She nods her head, extending an arm to him, which after slight hesitation, he accepts. She heaves him to his feet, not releasing his arm immediately once he is standing. His jaw works as he stares at her, as if he is about to say something, before he begins to cough. He winces and presses a hand to his chest and Liz almost flinches from the sight; imagining blood swelling between his fingers.
"Your chest," she says, once he stops coughing and he can't seem to look at her, eyes darting around their surroundings and he keeps his hand pressed to his chest. "How long has it been hurting you? Why haven't you said anything?"
He laughs softly, hand finally dropping and Liz feels as if she can breathe again. Walking inside, Liz follows him, waiting for an answer.
"It doesn't usually hurt, but the cold... exacerbates the injury," he admits, snatching a piece of toast off the table, the rest of the breakfast he had prepared left untouched, cold.
"So... you brought us to Iceland?" Liz remarks, incredulously.
"A slight discomfort of mine will in no way impede keeping you safe, Lizzie," he states, "it is nothing."
She narrows her eyes at him, frustrated, but figures that if she can manage to keep him in the kitchen and close to the hearth, it may be better for him. She won't be able to achieve that if she begins an argument with him.
"Well, make sure that the next destination you plan for us is somewhat warmer then, will you?"
He smiles at her, nodding his head as he does so, but there is a glint in his eye that makes Liz mumble under her breath. She moves forwards, snagging her own piece of toast, cold and slightly soggy. She isn't all that hungry, but she forces herself to eat so Red didn't make a comment.
During the first few days on the run, Liz hadn't been able to bring herself to drink, let alone eat anything, the anxiety and nausea within her was so intense. She can remember the way Red would fret in silence, offering her food and water ever stop they made, watching her uncomfortably close to make sure she consumed something. She remembered the way, at one petrol station, he guided a bottle of water to her parched lips, gently tipping the liquid down her throat. She had become unhealthy thin, at one point in time, only really recovering after Fiji.
"So, where are we going then?" She can't help but ask, trying to find some level of normality between them, trying to forget the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his touch. She turns her back on him, facing the hearth.
"Paris," he replies, his tone is soothing, quiet. "Lizzie... we should discuss my actions regarding last night."
Liz doesn't turn to him, but shakes her head. She can't deal with this right now, can't cope with it. She doesn't care about the underlying tension they are both steeped in. Her emotions are running rampant.
"Not now, Red."
His jaw shuts with a click and she almost feels guilty, hearing the way he shifts on his feet, probably uncomfortable. He wasn't as decisive as she believes him to be, he'd need courage to mention it, and she'd shot him down, ruthlessly. She powers on, regardless.
"You need to stop involving Aram; he isn't an asset of yours. He works for the FBI and if he is found out, they'll destroy his career and most likely lock him up."
His eyes shutter as he gnaws at the inside of his lip. He shakes his head once.
"No."
"He isn't one of your pawns, Reddington," Liz snarls, turning to glare at him, infuriated by his impassive stare. She waits for him to reply, suddenly needing to fight, but he surprises her. Does something he has never done before when they've argued. He walks out on her, without a reply, without a witty remark. She's left alone, like she was the night before.
A/N ; I know it was short, apologies for that, but i hope you still enjoyed it! There will be some slight changes in the tags and the rating next few chapters, because as i like to say, shit is about to hit the fan. So stay tuned! Chapter 12 will be up in a few days!
