They're still a few miles out when he starts to smell smoke. He wouldn't have thought it possible to become more afraid, but he was wrong — the bone-deep terror that fills him now shakes him to the core.
Before he can say anything, Dembe presses on the gas and drives like a demon — he always knows what Red needs — so they reach the cabin in short order. Or… what used to be a cabin. All that remains in the cleared yard is a rough circle of jumping flame, bright and incongruously cheerful against the night sky. He leaps out of the car, but finds he can't approach the fire; its flame is impossibly hot. He scans the area, trying to hold back the panic, and finds her at the edge of the wood, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the fire burn.
He goes to her immediately, flooded with relief. He wonders, looking at her empty face, if she even realizes she, too, still burns, coated in subdued tones of red and gold, radiating heat and flickering light. Caught between inferno and ember, he's already sweating; he takes his jacket off and tosses it aside before he crouches in front of her.
Her still, somber features are crystal clear behind the flame, and he thinks he has never seen anything quite so wrenchingly beautiful as her pale and tragic face behind its mask of golden light. Her eyes seem full and wet, but she isn't crying — it takes him a moment to realize that her tears are evaporating the instant they touch her skin, and his heart breaks for her, just a little more.
He yearns to touch her, call her back to herself and to him, but he can't. He has to settle for calling her name, for reaching out with emotion, and hoping that there's enough of her left to respond.
"Lizzie," he tries quietly, at first, pushing all the calm he has left in her direction. "Sweetheart, look at me." The small endearment, spoken earlier with such deliberation, used as a distraction, now comes naturally, effortlessly, without any thought at all.
She doesn't even blink, just stares past him into the blaze beyond with hollow eyes. He tries to reach out with his mind as he had once been taught — she's a mess, the turmoil inside her a vortex of emotion that he instinctively shies away from.
He sits back on his heels and breathes deeply, soothing himself, blocking out the fire behind him, putting his fear aside. Then he reaches out again, pushing calm and understanding into her stubborn mind, easing her as best he can without touch. He whispers to her, soothing nonsense words, letting his voice caress her in place of his hands.
Slowly, her flame begins to dwindle away, drawing back into her skin until she is just a glowing coal perched on a blackened circle of scorched earth. She blinks, then, and focuses on his face in front of her for the first time.
"Red… Reddington?" she says hesitantly, her voice hoarse and raw. "What are you doing here? How… What… Oh, God…" Her expression breaks as reality seeps in.
"Lizzie," he says gently, aching for her, reaching to touch her face, but forced to stop short. "Talk to me, sweetheart."
She's rocking back and forth and shaking her head in denial, utter despair painting her features.
"Lizzie?" he says again, a bit more firmly — he's wracked with sympathy, but they're short on time.
"I… I…" she can't muster the words properly. She looks at him, and her devastation cuts like a knife. "I…" And then the dam bursts, words flowing in a torrent of despair. "I failed him, I failed Sam. I promised, I promised him I'd never let this happen, never a person, I'd do whatever it took to control… I… I'm a monster…" And she's wailing by the end of it and he's never in his life needed to hold another person the way he does now. And he can't.
Instead, he layers his tone with soothing gentleness, with reassurance, with faith. "No," he tells her, as emphatically as he can, as he dares. "No, Lizzie, you are not. Stanley Kornish was the monster — responsible for the horrific destruction of hundreds of lives. He was moments away from murdering you in cold blood," and his gorge rises just thinking about the desecration Kornish would have brought to her. "Defending yourself with the only weapon you had does not make you a monster, Lizzie. It makes you a fighter. It makes you a survivor."
"I… I didn't even try to save him," she says, low and defeated. "Dad… Sam, he'd be so disappointed in me. I… I watched Kornish burn and I didn't care. Not even a little…"
"Oh, sweetheart," he replies (it comes easily, so easily), a little sadly, but focusing on maintaining a strong send of compassion and care. "You're wrong. Sam would be glad, glad you survived, glad that you fought for yourself. He loved you, Lizzie, never doubt that, ever."
She looks into his eyes, the gold in her own shining damply, her expression now holding a morsel of hope. "I saved the dog," she snuffles quietly. "But he ran away when everything exploded."
"Okay, Lizzie. He'll be okay, I promise. Now, can you focus for me? The FBI will be here soon, and we can't stay."
A tendril of panic wipes across her face, and he forces himself to speak sharply to keep her attention on him. "Elizabeth! Control it, now — you know what to do, I know you do."
"Wh-What?" she stammers, her eyes meeting his again. "I don't… What are you talking about?"
"Elizabeth," he says matter-of-factly, giving it a touch of impatience for emphasis. "You're still burning. We need to get you out of here, but you've got to get yourself together, first." She's in shock, he thinks, whatever else; she didn't even notice her own flame.
She's focusing inwardly now, her expression intent, and the remainder of her glowing flicker disappears with a slight oomph of displaced air. He feels the natural chill of the night air seep between them. She opens her hands and looks into them, then back up at him, and now she is crying, her tears still faintly steaming as they run down her heated cheeks.
"I can't… I can't just leave," she chokes out. "They'll be on their way here, looking for me. I need to… report in. Give a statement."
"Sure," he says, his sarcasm like a band of pressure around her head. "And just how will that go, Lizzie, hmm?" He puts on a slightly ridiculous falsetto. "You see, Agent Ressler, I'm pyrokinetic. Did I forget to mention that on my paperwork?"
"Oh, shut up," she snaps back, and he's enormously relieved to hear her sound about halfway back to herself. "I'll think of something. I can't just… take off."
"Of course you can," he answers briskly, heaving himself to his feet with a wince. "I'll call Donald from the car and put him off for a bit so we can decide what the story should be. Besides, you need some care, sweetheart — you're bleeding."
She touches her face and her fingers come away sticky and wet. The tub, she thinks dimly, then her mind shies away. He holds out a hand to her and she takes it numbly, feeling a wave of compassion roll through her as she does. If she could focus, she'd wonder about that, but her mind is besieged by memory now, wreathed in the screams of the man she'd burnt alive.
She lets Red lead her to his car, tuck her into the backseat, even do up her seatbelt — she can't think properly, lost in the horror of the day's events. As they drive off into the night, she is only faintly away of Red taking her hand again, rubbing soothing circles into it with his broad thumb; only slightly more aware of the care and love and understanding he sends to her, as long as he can manage it.
She doesn't say anything on the way to Reddington's current safe house — a cozy little two-bedroom in a walk-up in Bellevue. She doesn't seem to hear his short phone conversation with an irate Ressler, Red putting him off with short assurances that she is safe, but he is taking her for medical attention and rest, that she'll check in personally in the morning. She turns to look absently out the window as Red hangs up mid-tirade, and doesn't look back for the remainder of the drive.
She's almost docile as she lets him help her out of the car, as she follows him into the building, up the stairs, into the apartment. If he couldn't feel the hurt, the fear, the regret that poured off her in waves, he'd believe her calm, cool and unaffected. Since he could, he stays quietly in control, leading her into the bathroom to clean her up. He sits her down on the closed toilet lid, and gently washes her face clean of dirt and blood. He has to put butterfly closures on the worst cuts on her forehead and cheek, but he doesn't think that either is serious enough to scar.
He hesitates now, but he has to make sure she's all right, and the unrelieved black that she wears gives nothing away.
"Lizzie, where else are you hurt?" he asks, trying generalities, hoping she'll answer him.
She blinks at him slowly, as if she's just coming awake. She's tired now, so very tired, and his big, gentle hands on her face had eased away the nightmare in her head and made her sleepy… wait, she thinks, something's different… are there two of him? When did that happen, she wonders muzzily. One Reddington is more than enough of a challenge on a good day.
"I don't know, Reds," she says, trying to keep a straight face, but the two of him are suddenly very funny, especially since they keeping moving so much. "I don't really feel anything at all. Except my head hurts," and as soon as she says it, it gets a hundred times worse. "My head feels terrible. Is it all still there, Reds?"
Concussion, he thinks grimly. This will be a fun night.
"There's only one of me, I assure you," he says aloud, dry as a bone, "And that one needs to make sure that there are no serious cuts anywhere. I can't have you bleeding all over my linens."
She shrugs dizzily; thinks that the left-hand Red has a nicer smile than the right. "Okay," she replies. "Left Red can look me over."
With some difficulty, she peels off her jacket; she's only got a support tank on underneath, so she rolls it up from the bottom to reveal her abdomen.
"Some scrapes, mostly superficial," he murmurs, scanning her quickly and trying not to focus, trying not to think. Trying not to think about whether her skin would be soft over the firm planes of muscle. Trying not to think about the sleek curve of her waist or the shadow at the notch of her collarbone.
He gives himself a brisk mental shake and smiles at her. "Mind if I roll up your pant legs?" he asks, feeling foolishly awkward.
She tries to roll her eyes, but it makes her instantly nauseous. "What about the top half?" she says, with some irritation. "If you're going to check me over, Left Red, you might as well be thorough." And she manages to kick off her short boots, although she's not quite sure how.
He pauses to collect himself, but before he can decide what to do or say, she's fumbling at her buttons and lifting her rear to wriggle her pants over her hips, losing her balance and falling into his shoulder in the process. He sighs, and briefly indulges himself in running a hand through her hair.
"Okay, Lizzie," he says, taking her by the shoulders and gently sitting her back up. "Let me take care of you. You just… try to stay upright."
He tugs her pants off, carefully thinking of nothing at all; folds them neatly and turns to put them aside on the floor.
"Um… Reds?" Her voice sounds wobbly and vague. "There's something… ugh…" she trails off as he turns back to her, scanning her legs quickly. His eyes light almost immediately on a gash at least a couple of inches long on the inside of her left thigh, oozing blood onto the toilet lid.
"Okay," he says, soothing, calm, "Keep still, Lizzie."
He reaches over for the damp washcloth, keeping his eyes on Liz — she's looking at the ceiling, humming, trying to distract herself. He grasps her firmly by the knee to ensure that she holds still and cleans the wound thoroughly, wincing in sympathy but not stopping as she whimpers a little in pain at the pulls on the torn edges of skin.
He holds the cloth over the cut as he digs through the first aid kit with his other hand — one suture pack left, and about a half a dose of local anesthetic. It will have to do. "Keep still," he reminds her, loading a hypodermic with every drop he can shake out of the small bottle.
He firms up his grip on her knee, uses an alcohol wipe on a spot on her quadricep just over the gash, then injects the drug, quick and smooth.
"Ow," she complains in surprise. "What was that?" She's looking at him again, but her eyes are still hazy and unfocused.
"Just a needle," he says soothingly. "I have to close this cut, sweetheart — it's not going to stop bleeding on its own. Just do your best to hold still, and… you probably shouldn't watch."
Uncharacteristically obedient, she immediately screws her eyes shut, clenching her fists by her sides.
"It's okay," he says, his voice like a comforting stroke, giving her time to relax while the anesthetic starts to work. "It's okay. Relax, Lizzie, I won't hurt you."
When her body eases, he lets go of her knee and tears open the suture kit. He takes small, neat stitches, not wanting a scar to mar the perfection of her creamy skin, knotting each stitch carefully for more secure healing. He focuses carefully on bringing the ragged edges of the cut together, wiping away her blood as he needs to. He tries not to think about the softness of her skin, the warmth of her belly beside his head; he closes himself off to the slight murmurs of discomfort she can't quite keep in as he pierces and tugs. He takes ten stitches in all, and is pleased with his results — it should heal well, he thinks. He wipes the area clean again, then covers the stitched wound with a gauze pad soaked in antiseptic gel, covers that in more gauze, then tapes it all down securely.
"All done," he says with a sigh of relief. She blinks her eyes open and looks down, then back at him. "You should lie down, Lizzie." He stands up, groaning inwardly at the ache in his knees, and offers her a hand.
She takes it, yawning hugely, and he pulls her to her feet and leads her into his bedroom.
"Lie down," he says again, "I'm just going to get you some water and a couple of painkillers."
But when he comes back into the room, a glass of water in one hand, a bottle of acetaminophen in the other, she's curled up square in the middle of the bed, already fast asleep. Well, he thinks wryly, I'll have to wake her up soon enough — she can take them then. He pulls a throw from the bottom of the bed up over her bare legs and tucks it around her middle before settling himself in the armchair in the corner of the room. He stretches his legs out in front of him and watches her sleep, letting her peaceful rest soothe his tired mind.
He doesn't sleep.
He spends two quiet hours watching over her — you'd be so proud of her, Sam, he thinks, and knows that it's true and right.
She's marvelous, truly — strong and clever, quick thinking and fast-moving; beautiful and volatile, emotional and open. Somehow, despite the life of duality she lives, she stays so open to experiences, to people, to life — it astounds him. He can almost remember, when he's with her, what it felt like to welcome the things life has to offer.
When the alarm on his phone chimes quietly, he clicks it off and gets up to move to the side of the bed. He puts a hand on her shoulder and gives her a gentle shake. "Lizzie," he says, not too loudly, "Lizzie, wake up, sweetheart."
She stirs a little, then curls more tightly into herself, a small frown forming on her forehead. He sighs, and shakes her again, a little more firmly this time.
"Come on, Lizzie, up you get," he insists briskly. "Let me see those eyes open, now."
This time she groans and blinks awake, glaring at him in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. "Reddington, you sadist," she croaks out, shoving his hand away. "What on earth could you possibly want?"
"You have a concussion," he reminds her. "You have to wake every couple of hours, to make sure you can, and to make sure you aren't any worse. How do you feel? Can you sit up?"
She grumbles about it, but pushes up to a half-sitting position, leaning against the headboard for support. The small effort drains the colour from her face, and leaves her gasping.
"My leg," she says faintly. "My leg is throbbing. And I'm dizzy… I don't…" she pauses, a vague and uncomfortable looks coming over her face. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"Okay," he says, helping her shift to the edge of the bed. "It's okay, here," and he leans out to pull over the plastic wastebasket, thankfully empty. He gets it under her just in time for the first heave, and gathers her hair in one hand and rubs her back soothingly with the other as she vomits painfully.
"I'm sorry," she manages, when it's over. "I'm sorry, my head, I just…"
"It's perfectly natural with a head injury," he replies, helping her carefully ease back into bed. "Don't give it another thought. If it keeps happening, though, we'll have to go to the hospital."
"I'm okay," she says, leaning back with her eyes closed. "I'm… okay."
He gives her uninjured leg a comforting pat, then gets up and takes the wastebasket into the bathroom, emptying it into the toilet and rinsing it with hot water in the tub. He dampens a fresh washcloth with cold water, pours a bit of mouthwash into a glass, collects a small bowl and the clean wastebasket, and carries it all back into the bedroom.
She's still awake, which he thinks is a good sign, still propped up against the headboard and looking down at the pad on her leg.
"You gave me stitches," she says, as he approaches the bed and unloads onto the nightstand, dropping the wastebasket to the floor.
"Don't worry," he replies, trying to sound cheerful. "It's not my first time. They're nice and small, and shouldn't leave a scar, or only a little one."
"It's not that," she says quietly, picking at the tape absently — he pulls her hand away with an admonishing look. "It's… you… thank you," she continues, and looks up at him now, her tired eyes soft. "Just… thank you."
"It's my pleasure to care for you, sweetheart," he answers, a pleased smile lightening his features. "In fact, I'm still on the job."
He puts her hand down on the bed and takes up the washcloth he'd brought in, gently wiping her face clean, oddly gratified when she leans into his hand a little. He offers her the glass of mouthwash, which she gratefully accepts, and then holds out the small bowl for her to spit into.
"You think of everything, don't you," she sighs as she leans back again, eyes already drooping.
"Hang on, Lizzie," he says, hastily putting all the used items back onto the nightstand and picking up the pills and water he'd brought in earlier. He shakes two pills out of the bottle and holds them out to her. "Take these, it will ease the pain and help you sleep."
She swallows the medicine obediently and empties the glass of water gratefully. "You don't have to watch me every minute," she mumbles sleepily, curling under the sheets and the heavy blanket he prefers, this time. "You should get some rest, too."
"I don't want to leave you alone," he answers. "Don't worry, I don't need much sleep."
She cracks an eyelid to look at him, a sliver of blue that shines like a star. "It's a big bed," she says simply, reaching an arm behind herself to pat at the mattress. "Just lie down here, Redding… Red." She ends her sentence with a huge yawn, but watches him until he kicks off his shoes and slides across the bed to lie down beside her.
"It's only… sensi… sensible," she mutters, already slipping under as he shifts around carefully and rests his head on the pillow beside her.
He lays there on top of the covers, uncomfortably aware of just how good the warmth of her body feels next to him. He listens to her soft breathing lengthen and deepen into sleep; watches the curve of her shoulder rise and fall gently.
He thinks, all in all, that he is going to have a very long night.