ooooo Chapter 4 ooooo
Reddington barely slept that night. His nightmares were back but he was used to them. What he couldn't bear was hearing Liz's restlessness. She was yelling out in her sleep, even crying at times. Her sobbing was heartbreaking. But he didn't dare enter her room. He wanted to reassure her but he wasn't certain he could help. After all, he knew who was to blame for her nightmares.
When Liz woke up her body was aching and tired. Her brain felt like it had been sawn in two, the skin on her left arm was scratched raw and the muscles in her right arm felt stretched and sore as if they had been twisted out of shape while she slept.
Recollections of the previous night's events crawled back into her mind: the need to get drunk; her anger, despair and frustration, and then her attack on Reddington. It was as if another Elizabeth Keen had taken over her body and mind. One that she didn't recognise.
And ... why hadn't he stopped her? Why hadn't he defended himself?
Nothing made any sense.
She stood up, putting on a sweater and pyjama pants, and opened the door just as Reddington was passing by.
"I'm so sorry …," she said when she saw him.
"Breakfast is served!"
"I don't know why …"
"Hurry up, it's going to cool off!"
He totally ignored what she had tried to say and continued on his way to the kitchen. The smell of warm croissants teased her nose and she finally stepped out of her room to follow him.
He was waiting in front of the table where all was set up for breakfast. There were delicious looking fresh croissants, a loaf of bread and jars of what looked like home-made marmalades.
"Tea or coffee? Do you want an omelette with bacon? What do you like for your breakfast?"
"I ... coffee, just a coffee. What is … all this? "
"I thought you'd be hungry," he said, tilting his head to the side in his familiar fashion and smiling. "It's preheated food. Have a seat, I'm going to finish preparing things."
He pulled out a chair and invited her to sit down before heading back to the kitchen. She thought, he's not said a word about last night, he's behaving as if nothing happened. A few minutes later he came back with mugs of tea and coffee.
"Red …"
"The marmalades are delicious, you should try them. The quince one is to die for!"
"... I don't want to …"
"Eat, Lizzie, please, take a bite, " he begged her. "We'll have plenty of time to talk about other things later. "
She forced herself to bite into a croissant, then, less reluctantly, she took a couple more mouthfuls and added some marmalade; slowly, as the flavours filled her mouth, her appetite began to return. The marmalades were indeed truly delightful.
Reddington stared at her happily, clearly pleased to see her eating and hopefully gathering some strength.
After breakfast, she helped him clear the table and started to put the dishes in the dishwasher. It was as she was passing him, plates in hand, that she noticed the bluey-black bruise on his chest, only half hidden by his casually unbuttoned shirt. Putting down the plates, she reached out with her hand.
"Red, did I do this?"
He stepped back to avoid her touch and quickly buttoned his shirt.
"Red ..." His mouth quirked at the edges. "Yesterday evening you called me Ray," he teased.
"Yesterday evening I was drunk and I almost killed you …" She hesitated and then added, "… Ray … "
"You see? It sounds far less frightening this way."
The wide smile that had been stuck on his face all morning was unsettling her. As if all that had happened the night before had never happened. She looked down at where the bruise would be beneath his now fastened shirt.
"It's nothing Lizzie, just a small bruise; I've had a lot worse, believe me. Although ... you do have quite a grip," he added, laughing.
"I never wanted to hurt you … I don't know what happened to me … "
"It was well deserved."
"Deserved? Is that why you didn't stop me?"
"Lizzie you have a predisposition to violence in certain situations. Do you remember the Warrior Gene? You have it and it's a reaction you can have, and something that you need to learn to manage."
"Alcohol can trigger it?"
"Tiredness and despair yes, alcohol perhaps. And ... you certainly have enough reasons to want to beat me up or ... just punish me." He paused, before adding, "And I was ashamed enough to let you do it."
"Ray, ashamed of what?"
How could he tell her?
He was ashamed of so much.
Ashamed of putting everyone around him in danger.
Ashamed that he was, in fact, worse than the monster she had called him.
And, most of all, ashamed that he could not make her life happy.
He stayed still.
"Ashamed of what?" she repeated.
"It's not important, Lizzie. I'm at your disposal if you need a punching bag," he said with a smile, trying to ease the situation.
"What if I had killed you?"
"You'd have had some trouble contacting Mr Kaplan from here."
She could have made him suffer, much harder and he would have let her do this to him. But not kill him, he hadn't spent the last 25 years making her forget a crime and now let her commit a new one. Now he just wanted her to smile and stop asking herself so many questions.
She could have made him suffer far more than she had, she could have been more violent and punished him much more, and he would have let her. He would not have stopped her.
Although, he would not have let her kill him. He hadn't spent the last twenty-five years ensuring that she did not remember a terrible deed she had committed just to let her commit another one when he was able to prevent it.
Now he just wanted to distract her. He needed her to smile. He needed her to stop asking herself so many questions.
"Look, if you're interested, I have some books about the Warrior Gene. Why don't you get dressed and I'll get them."
After she had changed out of her pyjamas she joined him in his bedroom where he had a large bookshelf crammed full of books and where the red-collared cat was curled up comfortably on his bed.
He took two volumes down from the shelf and put them on the bed. "This one," he tapped one with a forefinger, "is the most interesting." She looked at the title and noted that it was in Cyrillic.
"… Ген воина," she said deciphering the words on the cover.
He looked at her attentively, seemingly not at all surprised to hear her pronounce the title correctly in Russian. He smiled as she looked startled at her own ability.
"How is it possible that I can read Russian?"
"Your mother must have taught you to read it."
"I was barely four when I lost my parents!"
"You were quite precocious, I'm not really surprised. Try for yourself and see if you understand more. It's your mother tongue after all."
She browsed through the first pages. Words were not coming as easily as in English but she clearly had some skill in reading the foreign characters which didn't seem as strange to her as she would have thought. Before he let her go on reading further on her own, he did a small summation of what he knew about the Warrior Gene.
"This gene is regarded as a giving a person a predisposition to violence. It's quite rare amongst women and transmitted through the parents. Your mother had it. But having it doesn't automatically mean a person is going to be violent. A single gene cannot explain everything, it's a bit more complex than that. Each person is unique and will have personal trigger. Abuse or some other shocking event during childhood is a major one."
Liz didn't need him to explain any further to understand that her childhood contained the necessary criteria to push her into the violence associated with the gene.
"Is there a way to channel that violence? To control it?" she asked.
"That book gives some tips. It's not been written to contain the violent reactions but to … exploit them. That's what makes it special. But you'll quickly understand that it's possible to use these methods to avoid the worse."
He left the room without adding more. He didn't want to scare her. Controlling the gene's effects was going to be extremely difficult but, as long as he could be close to her, he knew what signs to watch out for and how to help her.
That was maybe the only reason he had to remain with her.
He was some sort of blessing in disguise.
A heavily disguised blessing but some sort of blessing, nevertheless.