A/Ns:

Disclaimers -

1. There is no Redarina or any relation between Red & Liz in this or any of my fics. I simply reject the entire idea of Red's "real identity" being Katarina, NOT because being trans is wrong - because it ISN'T - but because it's a clear retcon that doesn't track with the early seasons of the show, it doesn't make sense in the small OR big picture of canon, & it doesn't align with my personal interpretation & understanding of the characters. I will not engage in discussion or debate about this in the comments or on my blog, so if you don't agree with this interpretation, kindly utilize the back button.

2. This is also obviously an AU fic. I haven't watched a single second past 8.22, nor do I ever plan to, so everything here is out of my head, including scenes that may or may not be similar. The only thing I know about season 9 is that Agnes told Red that Liz said he likes to hold hands, so it's possible that may have slipped in here somewhere, but any other similarity to seasons 9-10 is purely coincidental.

3. My humblest apologies to any Scottish readers. I've never been to your magical homeland, even though I would love nothing more than to visit someday, so everything included here is from subpar internet research & my own brain. Please take it all with a generous grain of salt.

4. This sentiment also goes for any artists reading this. I fall somewhere between hobbyist & admirer of all things visual art - particularly sketching & oil painting - so everything here is likewise gleaned from well-meaning research & likely contains errors. My apologies in advance.

5. Lastly, this is officially the longest fic I've ever written at just over 115k words & accordingly, it took me the longest to write (albeit on & off) with the Google doc having been created over 2 years ago. As such, this fic is entirely written & - after the prologue - will be updated every Sunday until completed. Any kudos and/or comments would be greatly appreciated, but there's no pressure! As always, I'll take great pleasure in responding to all comments I may receive, so please feel free to leave an emoji, tell me what parts broke your heart, or even leave a huge play-by-play while reading if you feel so inclined! I love it all!

Playlist - Please visit my tumblr (same username) to view the playlist for this fic, pinned at the top of my blog, as the songs listed there greatly inspired me throughout the writing process. Chief among them is "Rockland" by Gracie Abrams; this entire fic is based on the vibes of that song & the visuals in the official lyric video. A single lyric is even borrowed & hidden in this fic, so big kudos to you if you listen & find it!

Dedication - This fic is dedicated to all my Discord Lizzington peeps. Y'all helped this fic get written with your endless support. I hope it was worth waiting for. But also, this is dedicated to ALL Lizzington shippers, past & present. I wish things had worked out for us & - with the show having finally come to an end - this is a different kind of journey for the characters we know & love that I truly hope you enjoy ❤️

Chapter 1: Prologue

As with all things in her life, it was born from fire.

When the scorching heat and abject fear of her nightmares would wake her, screaming and crying in a hastily constructed pink bedroom that wasn't hers, the kind-faced man she didn't know would come running from the bedroom down the hall to try and soothe her. Although he'd always wanted a daughter, he'd had little experience with children, and the traumatized young girl thrust unceremoniously into his home could tell. And his clumsy hugs and strained words of comfort - however earnest and well-meaning - could not keep the awful visions away.

He'd tried everything he could think of to help her, from warm glasses of milk to sleeping with the lights on to crowding into her small bed with her to keep the demons away while she slept. But, try as he may, nothing had worked. Her nightmares full of flames and panic and shadowy, menacing figures had persisted.

And so, as their long, tortured nights continued without relent, both of them resorting to unsatisfying naps during the day, exhausted and frustrated, Sam had had to get creative.

It was only after little Masha woke from a nightmare so vivid that she had curled up into a tight ball next to Sam, pale and trembling, unable even to cry, that Sam's desperation gave him inspiration.

"I'll be right back, honey," he'd murmured to her, an odd current of excitement suddenly in his voice as he'd extricated his hand from her death grip and clambered out of her bed. "You stay right here."

Little Masha had watched, frozen in fear, as the kind, strange man hurried from the room, surprisingly distressed when he was out of sight, this relative stranger her only source of protection and comfort. But he wasn't gone long, jogging back into her room after only a few moments, and softly closing the door behind him. He had paused to click on her bedside lamp, illuminating the room with a soft glow, providing just enough light for her to get a glimpse of what he carried in his hands.

"I have an idea, honey," he'd murmured as he'd climbed back into bed beside her, gently urging her upright as she peered with reluctant curiosity at the objects he held. "Sometimes, if we're too scared to talk about our fears, it can help to draw them."

She had frowned, reaching out to tentatively touch the brightly colored pencils Sam then offered to her, along with several sheets of blank printer paper.

"Draw?" she'd parroted in a hoarse whisper.

English was as familiar to her as her Russian mother tongue and Sam had known the meaning of the word was not the source of her confusion.

"Yeah, draw," he'd explained patiently. "I used to do this when I was your age and couldn't sleep, too."

Little Masha had turned to gaze up at him, this personal experience, however small, unlike anything he had shared with her before, and he took in her tear-stained little face with his kind, crinkly smile.

"Bad dreams?" Little Masha had questioned fearfully, her eyes wide, and Sam had nodded.

"Sometimes," he'd confirmed. "Nothing as bad as yours, but it always helped to get the scary pictures out of my head -" Sam had tapped lightly on his temple "- and onto the paper."

And he'd moved his index figure to touch the blank sheets instead, watching as little Masha's gaze had followed the movement, her brow furrowed in contemplation.

"What do you think, Butterball? Wanna try?"

Little Masha had looked at him once more, the endearing new nickname falling from his lips for the first time, and felt a surge of determination in the face of his compassion.

So, she'd nodded and reached for the orange and yellow pencils, beginning to trace them over the blank paper, her little tongue stuck between her teeth in concentration as she painstakingly brought the flames that had been plaguing her nightmares to life on the paper.

To the surprise of them both, it had worked like a charm.

For some reason neither of them had wanted to question, art became the cure little Masha needed to sleep soundly, the act of tracing the thick smoke and blurry figures onto paper finally allowing both her and Sam to return gratefully to uninterrupted nightly slumber.

When she had marveled at the change to Sam, the prematurely developed logical portion of her young mind - honed by trauma and loss - was not fooled by his child-friendly explanation of 'magic'. Little Masha was well aware that fairy tales and happy endings weren't real and 'magic' had nothing to do with it. The approach was simply one of many that they'd tried and the only one that had worked, and her equal acceptance and fascination with the phenomenon perhaps foreshadowed her future in psychology.

Soon, she didn't need to wake Sam after every dream, and they slowly began to decrease in frequency. Instead of lying frozen in bed and crying out for him in the dark, she would simply wake from her nightmare, crawl out of bed, and pad over to her small roll-top desk, which was well-stocked with all manner of art supplies for just such nightly occurrences. And then little Masha would draw and draw, coloring until whatever she saw behind her closed eyelids was recreated as well on paper as her little hands could manage, and she could keep her exhausted eyes open no longer. Then, she would neatly put her pencils away, leave her drawing on her desk to show Sam the next day, and crawl sleepily back into bed, turning out her light, and resting in a blissfully peaceful sleep until morning.

As she grew, young Lizzie brought the artistic habit into her daytimes, returning to her pencils when she was bored, and instead drawing happy things that didn't scare her. It became a hobby, something she enjoyed, and she soon graduated to other mediums, slowly adding markers and different types of paints to her little desk, and using them on a near constant basis.

Sam gifted her with new supplies as often as he could afford to, thrilled that his adopted daughter had found both some peace in her new life with him and a creative way for them to connect. Young Lizzie loved to share her art with her adoptive father, craving his over-the-top exclamations of how good her childish artwork was, preening with pride when he happily added her newest creation to the collection on the refrigerator.

With more experience and age, Liz developed technique and a more critical enjoyment of her art, indulging in after-school classes in high school and even extra credit courses throughout college. The habit became a source of stress-relief for her but, given its traumatic origins in her life, she kept her hobby intensely private, always sharing her creations only with her father. Even at Quantico in her early twenties and beyond, she adored her father for his love and continuous support of her art, never forgetting how he introduced her to her favorite outlet so many years ago simply in an effort to help her sleep.

In the years before his death, Liz still loved to see the way Sam's eyes would widen in no-longer-exaggerated wonder at what she could draw and paint with her hands, always using her beloved nickname in his enthusiastic praise, beaming at her with love and pride.

So, she never stopped.