They sit across from each other in an empty cafe, plates of food piled before them. Dembe stands by the door, expression grim as he faces the street. The cafe owner lingers behind the counter with a rag, polishing the slate countertop, though it is now sparkling clean. Soft music filters through the silent room, pairing with the ruckus of the morning traffic outside.
Reddington had insisted that they go out to eat for breakfast, but only to this specific cafe where he knew he could convince the owner, an old friend, to open later. He had wanted them to be completely secluded from the world. Liz suspected he just wanted to brood without anyone noticing.
So they sit in silence, both of them barely picking at their food, delicious as it is. It is tense between them. After Liz had calmed from her nightmare Red had tucked her back into bed and left the room. He had ignored her as she called his name just before the door clicked shut. It hurt more than she thought it would.
He slowly sips at his coffee, his eyes flickering over the contents of a manila folder Dembe had given him back in their suite. She doesn't know what it is; he's tilted it in such a way that she can't read it.
"Agent Mojtabai made contact earlier this morning," he says quietly, voice rough from disuse. "Agent Ressler has been released from hospital and shall be returning to the Task Force in no less than a week. So, knowing Donald, he will be back at work by tomorrow."
She feels the corners of her lips quirk up into a smile, relief blooming in her chest. Red's eyes are soft as they look at her, and Liz quietly thanks him for this information. He simply nods his head and returns to his paper, seemingly in no rush to catch the private jet awaiting them.
Dembe had informed her that they would be travelling to New York. He didn't give her a specific reason and she did not ask. If Red didn't want her to know, then the last person that would tell her would be Dembe.
Liz's mind drifts to Tom; where his body now was, how Red had killed him. She felt guilty; she felt no remorse, no grief for a man that she had once loved wholeheartedly. She could, however, feel the bandage of her burn catching on her clothing, the steady throbbing ache with each beat of her heart.
The rustle of paper and Red clearing his throat brings her attention back to the man across from her. He is watching her steadily, brows slightly creased. She smiles at him softly.
"Shall we go?"
Liz nods her head in agreement and they stand simultaneously. Dembe opens the door for them, after Red thanks the owner and gives him a handsome tip.
The drive to the airstrip is in silence. Liz notices the way that Dembe's eyes keep darting up to the review mirror, checking on Red. Her heart warms at the sight and her lips twist into a smile when Red gives an exasperated huff, turning to look out the window. He had noticed his bodyguard's attention.
When they board the plane Red disappears into the cockpit to converse quietly with the pilot. By the time he emerges Liz has served herself a drink and has a book in hand. She looks up at him as he slowly approaches, fedora in hand.
"I've asked Dembe to arrange a reservation at the Vanguard for us," he says quietly, moving to the bar and pouring a generous scotch. The ice clinks against the glass as he sits opposite her.
"Sounds like it'll be fun. Are we going to meet a contact?" She replies, slotting her finger into her book so she doesn't lose her page. He smiles softly and she can see that his thoughts are drifting.
"No, for the jazz," is his soft response. A serene look passes over his features and Liz feels a thrill of excitement run through her, that perhaps she may seem him find peace, if only for a few hours.
The flight passes by reasonably quickly. Liz reads and naps. Red sits in contemplative silence and drinks. When they entered the plane Dembe had disappeared into the cockpit with Red and only emerges once the aircraft has landed.
The three of them step out to see two cars idling on the tarmac; a black sedan and a cab. The driver of the sedan gets out the car, waves at them and then gets in the cab. The yellow taxi rolls away seconds later. Red carries Liz's luggage to the car. Dembe is driving once more.
It feels surreal as they travel through New York, being back in America, her homeland. She can't help the small smile that creeps over her face, seeing such familiar sights. However, as she stares out the window, eyes flickering over the towering skyscrapers and abundance of yellow cabs, dread coils deep in her belly, anxiety. They are so close to the Taskforce, can practically feel their looming presence over the city, the country. She breathes deeply, eyes sliding over to her companion. He had travelled into, around and out of America with apparent ease as a wanted criminal.
She had complete and utter faith in him.
When the car glides up to the entrance of The Empire, Red is almost back to his jovial self. As they are led to their rooms he speaks adamantly with the bell boy, gesturing wildly with his hands, telling stories, making the young boy laugh.
Yet when they are alone once more, Dembe disappearing further into the suite, he lapses back into silence. Liz's mood drops considerably, her heart aching slightly at the stagnancy they have found themselves in.
"What time should I be ready by?" Liz asks, running a hand through her hair. It's oily. She'll need to shower.
"I'd like to leave in an hour or so," is Red's quiet reply. He is in the midst of making himself another drink. Liz leaves him to it, moving to her room to get ready.
She isn't surprised to find another beautiful dress awaiting her on her bed. It looks nothing like the one she wore in Paris. It's beautiful none the less. The deep burgundy material is fitted and covers her shoulder blades, thick enough that the bandage on her back isn't visible. She wonders how he is able to work so quickly.
As the shower runs Liz wraps a robe around herself and quickly strides into the living room in search of Red. He's hunched over on the couch, drink cradled in his hands as he stares into nothingness. She hesitates, not wishing to disturb him, but he hears her approach and stands when he notices her.
"I'm just going to have a shower, and I need help to change my dressing afterwards," she tells him, gut twisting as his eyes sweep over her robe clad body. He nods mutely and turns away, so she returns to her steaming shower.
Liz tries to avoid letting the water sluice over her wound. She twists her body in such a way that she can wash her hair, but her knees and torso twinge at the awkward position. It's a reasonably quick shower; the length of the dress giving Liz the blessed relief of knowing that she does not need to shave.
She dries herself quickly, hears the door of her bedroom open and close, announcing Red's presence. Her underwear sticks to her skin as she puts them on, still not completely dried. The towel is soft as she rubs at her still damp arms, knowing that the silk robe would feel constricting if she was still wet when she put it on.
When she steps out into her room, in a cloud of steam, Red looks up at her from his seat on her bed. Her heart stutters at the sight; the pure emotion in his eyes. The self-hatred, the sadness; they bleed green. Liz watches as Reddington's, the Concierge of Crime's, cold indifference slides into place.
He beckons her over, standing as she slides her robe to just below her shoulders. She can hear the snick of her bra as he undoes the straps and brushes them to the side. It should be such an intimate act, yet Red is methodical in his work, silent and stony and completely unmoved.
Liz turns to him once he steps away, finished and regarding his work with a serious eye. She smiles feebly at him, the tension surrounding them becoming too much and Liz briefly considers that perhaps they're broken now. That after everything that has happened, the death of the man that Red despised so much, that Liz had once loved, was the final straw, had driven them apart. It's almost too much; Liz bunches the material of her robe in her fists, bites down on her tongue. She traps words behind her teeth; confessions and explanations. His eyes stare at her, but he looks unresponsive, lost in his thoughts.
And then he slowly reaches up, brushes his thumb lightly across her cheek as he tucks a stray lock of wet hair behind her ear. His eyes melt into something more affection, tender. Perhaps, just maybe, they would be okay.
"Thank you," Lizzie whispers, sliding her robe back onto her shoulders.
"I'll leave you to get ready," he responds, his voice still so unemotional, deadened slightly. He scoops up the medical bag and leaves the room. Liz sighs quietly in his absence.
It doesn't take her long to get ready. She does her makeup as she waits for her hair to dry, just applying some foundation, blush, mascara and lipstick. Her hair, she leaves down, admiring the way the blonde reflects in the light, how the curls bounce around her shoulders and frame her face. Finally she slides her dress on, matches it with some strappy black heels.
After staring at her appearance in the mirror she hesitates to leave her room. She isn't sure if she can do this, step out into that room and face Red's current mood; pensive and silent. Her teeth grit together as she turns the door knob, her own emotions drowning her. Liz feels helpless, hopeless, unable to provide the comfort she is sure Red so desperately needs.
His reaction to seeing her isn't like before, he doesn't compliment her, and his eyes don't light up and glint. He does, however, offer her a small smile and an arm. At this point in time, after his detachment and silence all day, she'll take whatever morsel he is willing to give.
They walk to the car, Dembe driving of course, and begin their journey to the Vanguard. Red's fingers tap out a rhythm on his thigh and Liz watches him with mild amusement. He doesn't notice her attention, thoughts obviously elsewhere, perhaps the moment the light faded from Tom's eyes, from Pratt's.
Liz shakes her head, ridding herself of the thoughts that plague her. She focuses her attention back on the outside world, willing her mind to stop.
Dembe tells them that he will wait in the car, smiling fondly at Reddington as he pronounces that Jazz isn't really his thing. Red nods his head, returning the smile and briefly gripping the bodyguard on his shoulder.
The room is small, intimate, and definitely what Liz had expected. The lighting is dim, including the stage, and couches and tables are scattered around the room, the bar against the far wall. Music paraphernalia lines the walls; instruments and vinyls and blown-up album covers.
Liz and Red are arm in arm once more, so it gives her the opportunity to feel the way he melts slightly, as he steps into the venue. The chatter and jazz music washes over them, a cacophony of sound at first, but as Liz adjusts, as she picks out the individual instruments, she is struck by the perfect harmony.
Red leads them over to a booth, before disappearing to get them both a drink. When he returns he is cradling two scotches. She thanks him with a nod of her head, takes a sip of her drink and turns to watch the musicians on the stage.
The low light dances and glints along the brass instruments and Liz watches, mesmerised. The music rolls over her, soothing and then exciting. She forgets in these brief moments the anguish of the day, her agonizing thoughts about the man next to her. For a moment, Liz closes her eyes and just stops.
Soon enough, however, her eyes skim across to Red, sitting across from her. His own are lidded, almost glazed, but he seems at peace. He is leaning back in the booth, cradling his drink and holding it to his lips. Liz watches him take a sip of the amber liquid before her eyes skitter away.
She doesn't try to initiate any conversation, knowing that all he need right now is his music. Liz questions, silently, whether she should have come along, that perhaps he would have preferred to be alone. As the thought flashes through her mind she brushes it away, knowing that Red would not willingly part her side for anything, especially after the events of Paris.
They sit there for hours, the crowd building and then thinning around them. Empty glasses of drink are piled around them, but neither of them feels too intoxicated. They've had enough to numb their more extreme senses, but are able to gracefully slide out of the booth, thank the band and barmen, and make their way out to the car.
A misty rain has begun to fall, the street lights turning the fog yellow. Dembe has the car already running, battling the biting chill of the outside world. Winter was setting in; it would be Christmas before she knew it.
They slide into the car and Liz's gaze is drawn, immediately, to the man at her side. She is always drawn to Red.
He sits slightly slouched, his chin almost resting on his chest. He looks as if he is in pain, lips pinched and eyes narrowed slightly. His actions regarding yesterday have taken a toll, both physically and mentally. Liz can see that he is deep in thought, eyes glazed and bottom lip caught between his teeth.
She can't stand it, his agonising expression, knowing that she is the reason he looks so haunted. Liz can practically see the murders playing out before his eyes. Raymond Reddington was a man of redemption, of sin eating. He had such little self-worth, cared nothing of his own soul.
I absorb the misdeeds of others, darkening my soul to keep theirs pure.
Reaching out, she grasps his hand in hers. He doesn't look at her, but she can see tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. He squeezes her fingers gently, turning his head to look out the window. She hesitates, rolling the words around her tongue.
"Let me be your sineater, Red," she whispers, "Just this once."
He jerkily shakes his head, but his grip on her fingers tightens. He looks so incredibly vulnerable and Liz aches at the sight. She undoes her seatbelt and slides closer to him, pressing her thigh and shoulder to his. They lapse into silence for the rest of the ride, choking down their emotions.
Dembe opens the door for them, expression solemn as he regards Reddington. When the man in question moves past, heading for the elevator, Dembe offers Liz a small reassuring smile, and her confidence is greatly bolstered by it.
When they reach their suite, Dembe wishes them both a goodnight and disappears off into his room. Liz stares after him, acutely aware of Red staring out the window, looking out on the nightlife of New York. He turns on his heel, not meeting her eyes and sits on the couch.
"You should rest, Lizzie, we are only here for the night," he states quietly, still not looking at her. She wants to get changed and then join him, sit with him in companionable silence, so that he knows that she is there. Instead, she settles for slipping off her heels, knowing that there is the distinct possibility he could disappear while she is gone.
She settles next to him, noticing the way he turns his body slightly to face her. She wonders if he did it consciously. He has made himself another scotch and as he reaches for it, as it condensates on the coffee table, she grasps his wrist. He falls still immediately, eyes fixed on his drink.
His skin his warm in her hands, arm heavy as she tugs him closer. Red reaches up, rests his hand on her shoulder as if to stop her, but she pushes past. She captures his lips between her own, her hand still firmly grasping his wrist. He remains still; eyes open as she brushes her lips over his once more. Her resolve almost breaks, she almost pulls away, but his hand drifts up to gently grip her waist. That is all the encouragement she needs. She sucks at his bottom lip and it's as if the walls fall, the dam breaks.
Red kisses her back with such a soft kind of passion that she doubts she'll ever grow accustomed to it. His breath mingles with hers, his tongue swipes along her bottom lip, enters her mouth. Liz isn't sure who moans, but she knows that his hands on her body, lips on her mouth are the only things she needs in this world.
He leans forward, pushes her back against the pillows, the couch, so his weight is above her. His hands run up her sides, not fervently, but gently, as if she is fragile. He breaks the kiss, stares down at her. She pushes herself upwards, feeling her breasts press against his solid chest. He groans softly as she kisses him, trailing her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, over the soft skin of his stomach. She smiles as he rocks against her, igniting every nerve in her body. Her fingers trace up his sides and she is about to slide her palms against his shoulder blades before he pulls back abruptly, freezes.
"Don't do this to me, Red," she whispers, pleading with him, but she removes her hands all the same, waits for him to make the next move. He presses a kiss to her cheek that lingers, runs his thumb over her bottom lip.
"You can't ask this of me, Lizzie," he murmurs, eyes locked with hers. She is still as he leans down, bites gently on her bottom lip, before pulling away only slightly. She feels a shudder run through his body.
"This isn't rejection, sweetheart," he breathes against her. He draws away and then stands, still staring at her. Liz tiredly nods her head, slowly raising herself from the couch and quietly padding to her bedroom, leaving him in the lounge, in the dark.
A/N; There we go! Hope you all enjoyed the read! Feel free to let me know what you think and thank you all so much for you support! Chapter 17 is making great headway, so you shouldn't have to wait very long at all until it's out.
