Work Text:
-
There's a routine to boxing that never changes.
Jab, jab, cross.
He finds comfort in the methodical task of taping his hands and wrists—prefers basic tape and gauze over the new products that sprung up over the years, all lauded as time-saving, more convenient. Time-saving they may be, but they've never felt quite right on his hands. It's worth putting in the extra time.
Most things are.
He throws a vicious combination at the heavy bag to head off the direction of his thoughts. Anger, frustration, disappointment may bring him here, but he rarely acknowledges them.
Use the emotions as fuel, harness them, but don't let them linger.
Jab, jab, cross.
Duck your head, move your feet.
This is one of his most closely guarded secrets. Anyone with access to his file or even a decent memory can tell you that he took up boxing while in the Navy, but few are privy to the knowledge that he still trains regularly. Other than when he's sleeping, it's the least put-together he allows himself to be. There's little sense to boxing in a suit, after all, and he's always considered himself to be rather sensible.
His gym bag travels with them everywhere—boxing gloves, tape, basic t-shirts and athletic shorts. Plain black sneakers, one with a bright red shoelace.
Jab, cross, hook.
He's been at it for too long tonight and his hands will need to remain out of her sight tomorrow. It's easy enough in winter to wear gloves to cover the bruising, but it's early spring now and the days grow progressively warmer. It's something she'll notice, livid purple bruises coloring his knuckles—she'll assume he's been up to no good.
He can't quite remember when her believing the absolute worst of him ceased being amusing. He can't bear her disappointment.
He never meant for this to happen.
Emotional detachment is his specialty. It's the only reason he's survived for as long as he has. Coming in, he had no reason to believe this situation would evolve this way. Oh, he expected to be fond of her, sure. Sam's daughter? How could he not find her delightful?
But then…
Well, but then she jammed a pen into his neck.
His neck. Him—the concierge of crime, or whatever the hell they're calling him now. She marched right on in and stabbed him in the carotid.
She's incredible.
(He never stood a chance, really. Cupid favors a bow and arrows—his Lizzie used a pen.)
Oh, but now? He faces far worse than her disappointment, now. He's staring straight down the barrel of complete disillusionment.
Irreversible resentment.
Hatred.
He's been stalling for months and he's running out of time. There have been so many chances to tell her his secrets but every clandestine meeting on a park bench, every stupid story he spins that leaves her in amused exasperation, every precious second spent in her company weakens his resolve.
Jab, jab, cross.
He wants more. He wants time with her beyond the boundaries of her profession and his criminal activities. Wants a chance to be someone she believes in, just once. One night. It's a fairytale, but that doesn't stop him dreaming of it sometimes. He wonders what it would feel like to really be hers—thinks if things were different and he could somehow be better that maybe she could care for him.
Truth of it is, he's going to lose her soon.
The secrets will come out whether he wants them to or not and he doesn't expect her forgiveness, nor does he have the right to ask for it.
Red enjoys a good story.
He can't afford to believe in fairytales.
-
The bruises have faded to a sickly yellow when he finally tells her the truth.
What makes today different, what makes today the ideal day, he doesn't know for certain. Nothing significant has changed. Perhaps he slept worse than usual last night and his judgement is impaired, or perhaps Dembe's urging has finally worn him down.
(Perhaps she smiled just a bit too brightly, was a little too happy to see him, and the gnawing, agonizing guilt finally devoured him whole.)
Whatever the reason, today is the day. She finds out on his terms now and, if nothing else, there's a certain comfort in being allowed to schedule your own execution.
He tells her about Tom. How the incompetent fool was only meant to protect her from afar but was hired away and ordered to marry her, that by the time Red realized what was happening it had all spiraled completely beyond his reach.
It's all he can do to keep his expression controlled when he tells her about the fire. How back then he was unknowingly helping the shadow organization he's now working so hard to dismantle, how his discovery of them and unwillingness to comply with their madness contributed to the circumstances surrounding the death of her birth parents.
He tells her every truth, but he keeps for himself the parts she will not want to hear—that he is sorry, that he regrets the past every day. How he is so ashamed over the mess with Tom that to see her question herself as a result of that deception makes him sick. He tells her about pulling her from the fire but does not share how it left him with burns and scars that most people could not bear to imagine, let alone look at.
Justifications, apologies. He keeps these because they are more for him than her—he will not attempt to explain away his guilt. She deserves more. She always has.
He sees the blow coming—tilt of her shoulder, hitch in her breathing—but allows it nonetheless when she slaps him viciously across the face. He thinks he gains more satisfaction from it than she does.
She is tearful, furious, and when she pushes at him and cries that she doesn't ever want to see him again, he doesn't doubt that she truly wants him gone. For a wild moment, desperately drinking in the sight of her—she is so beautiful, even in fury, and will he ever be this near to her again?—he thinks to offer her his gun. It would be a fitting end, would it not?
As he quietly turns to leave, she calls him a monster.
Well.
That is fitting, too.
-
That night, he works the heavy bag until his knuckles bleed and wishes with all his heart that he'd given her the gun.
-
He can't bring himself to face her after that. The work with the blacklist is important but he simply can't do it this time, can't insert himself into her space and try to force her hand or speed the process. He remains in town, close, just in case.
As ever, he takes refuge in boxing.
He favors late nights and this one is no different. He flicked on as few of the overheads as possible when entering the private hotel gym, preferring to work out in the gloom. Mood lighting.
He was sloppy when taping his hands and feels it with every punch, wrists too loose and knuckles misaligned, but he can't make himself stop. He tries to control his movements, to strike smooth and flowing, but it's no use—his fists connect violently with the bag in a haphazard flurry.
He hasn't seen her in over a month.
If they are to continue working together it must be her decision—he can't be the one to break this silence. He will give her that, owes her that much.
But it has been thirty-seven days, and he cannot breathe from the grief.
He adds more force to his punches and tries to block out the sound of her voice when she called him a monster. Does not allow his thoughts to rest on Dembe's obvious concern, deepening with each passing day in which Lizzie doesn't call.
Total exhaustion is fast approaching—the blessed point where he cannot force his arms to swing any more—when his sloppiness comes back to bite him.
A brutal hit, punctuated with a crack and white-hot fire in his left hand.
Broken finger.
He grits his teeth and knocks his other hand against the bag as he fights to control the pain. He should have stopped to re-tape. Stupid.
"This doesn't really seem like your scene."
Oh, fuck.
Please, no. He can't do this now.
Breathing heavily, he leans his forehead against the bag. Screws his eyes shut and attributes the way they suddenly sting to sweat and exhaustion, to the pain in his hand.
He's so tired.
"Why are you here, Lizzie?" This isn't right. She shouldn't be here.
He grunts with a final right-handed punch before walking over to the bench where he left his shirt, notices that his shoelace—black, not red—came untied at some point. He watches it flop aimlessly with each step.
"Dembe called."
"Yes, it's abundantly clear that Dembe called," he says, pulling on his shirt. He was facing the gym entrance when she entered and she won't have seen his back. Small mercies. "It's the only way you could have known I was here and, incidentally, is also why I'll be paying the hotel staff to short-sheet his bed for the foreseeable future."
"What a weirdly juvenile thing to do." She doesn't sound amused.
"Is it?" he asks mildly, sitting and bending to fix his sneaker. "He's over six feet, much too tall to simply shift further down the bed to compensate for unnaturally short sheets. He'll be forced to strip all the bedding in order to remake it properly."
"So?"
He shrugs. "Dembe hates making the bed." His dexterity is shot thanks to the beating he just gave his hands and he fumbles awkwardly with the laces. "Once is a funny prank. Twice is annoying. But at random intervals over the next month or two? He'll go quite mad."
There's a near audible roll of her eyes. "For god's sake, Reddington-"
Reddington. Something within him ruptures painfully. Prior to their last talk, she hadn't called him anything but Red in months. She doesn't feel close to him anymore.
He gives up on the shoelace. He'll fix it later.
"-he's just trying to look out for you."
"And he generally does such an admirable job. But I was quite clear earlier when I told him, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off." He is not fit for her company tonight. Not when he still wants to hit things, mangled hand be damned. "I'll not be so crass as to tell you to do the same, but I will ask you again: why are you here?"
This isn't how he wanted their inevitable confrontation to go, with him already vulnerable and torn raw. He wants this conversation as far from the gym as possible—wants a suit, a strong drink in his hand. He wants his damn hat.
"I told you, Dembe called me. Said something about you trying to beat an inanimate object to death and killing yourself in the process."
"He's always had a flair for dramatics."
"Oh, really? Because your hands are bleeding."
So they are. He really should stop using white tape—black would be better. Black masks blood so wonderfully.
"You also haven't looked at me once since I got here."
He'd foolishly hoped she wouldn't notice that.
He picks at the wrap on his injured hand until it comes loose, takes those few seconds to brace himself before pointedly meeting her eyes and unwinding the length of tape. Each layer reveals a layer cleaner and whiter underneath, save for the stain of red over his knuckles that instead deepens the closer he gets to skin. Normally, he would amuse himself by crafting some seemingly clever but ultimately nonsensical metaphor.
He wads the tape and gauze into a ball and drops it to the bench beside him.
She breaks his gaze and nods to his newly revealed hand. "That looks bad."
He smiles humorlessly and begins unwrapping the other hand. "I assure you, I've had worse."
"I think your finger might be broken."
He gives it a dispassionate glance—it's already swollen to an unnatural shape. "Oh, it's most certainly broken."
"You should have x-rays taken."
"There's no need."
"What-"
"Lizzie, I have broken no less than five different fingers throughout the course of my life. This is in fact the third time I've broken this particular finger. I'll splint it, it will heal."
She sounds particularly fed-up when she says, "You're an idiot, you know that?"
He's more than aware, but he's also exhausted and feeling irrationally antagonistic. He does't know where he stands with her anymore and doesn't think he can face the answer right now. He wants to fight—wants to make her angry so that he can retreat to lick his wounds.
"Please, do enlighten me."
"We both know that this is you punishing yourself because you feel guilty. And I'm not sure if me being here is making you feel more guilty or embarrassed or what, but acting like a stubborn jackass to get me to leave you alone isn't going to work."
He forgets sometimes that she's a profiler.
Were he to ask, he wonders if she would tell him what else she sees. Wonders if she can tell that while he has desired nothing more in these past few weeks than to see her, that to suddenly be faced with her is a particularly acute form of agony.
Looking at her hurts.
"You're such a mess," she says on a heavy sigh. "You really don't know if you'd prefer me to stay or go, do you?"
He wants her to stay, of course he wants her to stay. But he will not ask for what he cannot truly have. How do I face the knowledge your inevitable departure, he will not cry, when all I want is to stay with you for always?
For always. There he goes, again. Fairytales.
"Alright, come on," she says.
"Excuse me?"
"We're going upstairs to whichever suite you and Dembe have set up camp in-"
No. No, he cannot allow that. It's too close.
"-because I'm not talking to you while you're dripping blood all over the place."
"It's hardly dripping." Welling, perhaps. Oozing.
He remains stubbornly sitting. She can't stay all night.
She raises a challenging eyebrow. "I can stand here all night. Frankly, I'd be thrilled to stick around for a bit longer just because it bothers you."
Now who's being juvenile?
"Fine." He removes the clean roll of tape from his bag and quickly winds a couple layers around the knuckles of each hand, tries and fails to smother a pained grunt at the pressure it puts on his injured finger.
He holds his hands up for her inspection, his wounds hidden and the tape perfect-white. It will take some time for the blood to seep to the surface layer. She'll be gone by then.
"Better?"
Her eyes are wide, horrified. "Why did you do that?"
"You didn't want to talk while I was bleeding. I'm no longer bleeding."
"And it must've hurt like hell!"
A desperate animal, chewing off its own leg to be free from a hunter's trap.
He smiles, can feel that it's a broken, ugly thing. "I'll live."
Oh, he does not like the look on her face at all.
"Upstairs. Now." She grabs him roughly above the elbow and drags him to the door. He is so distracted by the shock of her hand on his skin that he doesn't realize they've left his gym bag behind until she's shoving him in the elevator.
"Lizzie—"
"Shut up." She pokes angrily at the panel of buttons, somehow selecting the appropriate floor number.
"You said you didn't know which suite we're in."
"I was giving you the illusion of control."
"And now?"
"And now we're not doing that anymore because it's become clear that you're out of your damn mind."
Fair enough.
He leans back against the wall of the elevator as it starts to move. He's dizzy.
They don't speak as the elevator rises, nor when it opens on the top floor. She gestures for him to proceed her though the door and he does so without argument, leaning on the doorframe briefly to steady himself.
She finally breaks the silence when they enter the suite and the door closes behind them. He has no idea where the hell Dembe is—probably having a good chuckle somewhere, the traitor.
"Go clean up while I find a first aid kit," she says.
"You don't need to-"
She glares, sharp. "Go and get cleaned up while I find a first aid kit."
He bows his head in deference and retreats to his room. He's so tired.
He peels back the tape while hunched painfully over the bathroom counter, biting back curses as the adhesive pulls unforgivingly at raw skin. She was right—it hurts like hell.
Abandoning the tape in the sink, he showers quickly and relishes the bone-deep ache in his body. He might actually be able to sleep tonight.
Towel round his waist, he has a moment's indecision over what to wear before resigning himself to the fact that certain lines have already been crossed tonight. It's not as though he can put on a suit, much as he may want the meager comfort it would provide. He pulls on a pair of cotton sleep pants and a clean t-shirt, starts to leave the room but doubles back to put on socks as well—padding around in his bare feet feels too intimate, somehow.
When he reemerges she's waiting on the couch, first aid kit on the coffee table beside a glass of orange juice. He's too tired to wonder where she found either.
She points to the cushion next to her on the couch. "Sit."
He sits.
She shoves the glass of juice at him. "Drink this before you pass out."
"I'm not going to pass-"
"Bullshit. You nearly fell over twice on the way up here. You're dehydrated and your blood sugar is probably low. Drink it."
He drains the glass while she mutters unkind things about him—"working out like that without even a bottle of water, honestly, complete idiot"—and then sets it back on the table.
He does feel a bit better.
She motions to his injuries. "Hands."
He offers them up to her, chews on and swallows a sarcastic comment about not needing someone to take care of him—current petulance and exhaustion aside, he's spent the last thirty-seven days positively aching for her attention. He thinks he'd probably cut off his own arm if it would get her to spend some time with him, to care about him just a little.
(He quickly files that away as the most unhealthy, pathetic thought he's ever had.)
The scrapes on his hands were washed clean in the shower and she dabs at each one with antiseptic ointment. She's methodical, not exactly gentle, but every cut is tended to before she wraps each hand with a soft bandage. It's clear to him that she's being careful not to cause additional hurt.
He wants to hit something again.
"What do I do with this mess?" She studies his broken finger with a grimace.
To his eye it looks to be no more than a fracture, and by far not the worst he's ever sustained. "Immobilize it. Ice to bring the swelling down."
She pulls a splint from the kit, carefully lines it up against his broken finger and the one next to it.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly, needing to understand. He wants her to go, wants her to stay, can't make sense of his feelings even in his own head.
She ignores the question.
"I didn't know you box," she says as she carefully tapes the splint in place.
He rests his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. "Yes, you did. You've read my file." He hates that she's seen his file.
"Alright, I didn't know you still box."
"Secret talents are useful. Dembe knows. Few others." He isn't worried—she won't share this information with anyone.
"Doesn't quite match up with your image." She removes a single-use icepack from the kit and breaks the inner pouch to activate it before pressing it to his splinted finger. The cold feels wonderful and he sighs in relief as it quells some of the pain.
"Probably useful," she continues. "People not expecting you to be able to beat the shit out of them, I mean."
His memory flashes briefly to the Luther Braxton debacle, to repeatedly punching the face of that loathsome man demanding money in exchange for Lizzie's location.
"It does have its moments," he agrees.
He listens to the rustling as she replaces the items in the kit, the snap as she closes the lid.
"Alright," she says. "Finished."
He lifts his head from the couch, opens his eyes to view her work.
"Couldn't have done it better myself." The splint is well done. He'll know in a few days if a visit to a doctor will be necessary to reset the bone, but it's unlikely.
He still doesn't know why she's here.
"Lizzie-"
"Do you know what I have nightmares about?" she interrupts.
He startles at the non-sequitur before opening his mouth to answer, but apparently it was a rhetorical question because she's still talking.
"I wasn't planning on coming here tonight, you know. I was perfectly content to continue being angry with you from across town, but then Dembe called to tell me that you were having a meltdown and that I'm the only one who can stop it." She glares at him. "Do you realize how unfair that is? That I'm angry with you but also apparently need to be the one to drive some sense into that infuriatingly thick skull of yours?"
"I didn't ask him to call you. I specifically told him not to."
"Yeah, you said that already. But since you're clearly self-destructing, I'm going to try something new and just lay this all out for you."
"You're an ass," she says bluntly. "Half the time I want to shove another pen into your damn neck. I wonder over and again why I put up with this, with you." She looks for a moment like she's going to rage at him, but then she just deflates. "And..."
He braces himself.
"…when I have nightmares, they're about you," she finishes quietly.
He can barely hear over the roaring in his ears. He could have never braced himself enough for this.
She's afraid of him.
He is going to lose her, now. This is the part where she leaves and does not come back.
He'd thought his heart was broken before but oh, this. He stares with blurry vision at his hands in his lap—she really did do a wonderful job bandaging them. It's a shame that once she leaves he's probably going to put both fists through a wall and ruin all that fine work-
"When I have nightmares, they're about losing you."
What?
He raises damp, startled eyes to hers.
"I already knew you had something to do with Tom. On some level I think I knew about the rest of it, too. Not the specifics, but I knew you were involved. I'm mad because you didn't tell me from the beginning. I'm mad over this entire ridiculous situation."
He wants to look down, away, but finds himself unable to break her gaze.
"But that doesn't mean I don't care about you anymore."
He realizes that he's crying outright. He's tried so hard to control himself around her in the past, to mask his emotions, but he can't help the tears spilling down his cheeks now. How can she possibly...
"I don't know what the hell happened to you to make you think everyone is just sitting around waiting for their opportunity to abandon you, but that isn't what's happening here. I appreciate that you've been giving me space because I need to keep being angry. I need you to let me be angry. I… I'm furious with you."
"I'm sorry," he chokes.
She sighs. "I know."
Not enough, he's not enough. He wants slide off the couch to kneel at her feet, to press his face against her and beg for forgiveness, understanding, anything. He wants to tell her the story of a man who set out to be an avenging guardian and somehow instead found himself blind, wretched, stupid in love, a man who would tear out his own heart, and do so gladly, if it would only make things right.
"I'd burn the world for you, sweetheart."
She smiles sadly. "That's not what I want."
He knows that. He does. But what more does he have?
"Just let me work through this," she says. "I'll let you know when I'm ready."
Her fingers run briefly across his bandages. "No more of this." She readjusts the ice pack to rest more securely on his hand. "I mean it. Next time, you stop before it gets this bad. No more broken fingers, no more blood, and for god's sake drink some water when you're down there."
He nods and tries to smile for her, suspects he does not succeed.
When she rises to leave, terror holds him motionless on the couch. Please, he will not ask, please, don't go?
She stands before him, cups his cheek and presses her lips to his forehead.
"Trust me, Red," she whispers.
And then she's gone.
-
He doesn't know it yet, but she will return.
It will be only the second time in his life that someone comes back for him.
(Gun to his head and cold basement tile beneath his knees—the first time was her, too.)
-
Dembe snaps in under a week.
He storms into Red's room in the middle of the night, trailing sheets and blankets while throwing pillows at Red, who was reading in an armchair before the intrusion.
"I won't apologize, Raymond."
He'd forgiven Dembe almost immediately of course, but the point still stands. "You shouldn't have called her."
"I should have called her sooner," Dembe insists. "You were killing yourself. You refused to listen to me, to listen to reason. You believed she would not forgive you, though I told you again and again that she would."
She still hasn't. She still may not.
The doubt must be clear on his face because Dembe's anger wanes.
"You were in trouble and she came to you," Dembe reminds him. "That is not insignificant."
"Well I suppose you would know, since the two of you are apparently in cahoots now," Red grumbles without much bite.
"Yes, well… this is awkward." Dembe puts on a good show of contrition. "We have been in cahoots for some time. We're actually planning to cut you out and take over your empire. I am sorry you had to find out this way."
Red snorts. "Wonderful. I'm sure you'll be very happy ruling the world together."
"At least I won't ever need to drag her away from a punching bag."
"I should have listened to you, alright? I don't know what changed, why it was different when she…" He sighs and passes a hand over his face.
Dembe grins. "You love her," he says, like it's that simple, like it's easy. "And so it is not the same."
It's so convenient for the world to believe that Dembe is just his bodyguard and driver, his stalwart protector. He is those things, certainly, but he's so much more.
He's loyal to a degree that Red has never been sure he deserves. Finding a boy—a man, really, Dembe's boyhood was heartrendingly short—chained to a post in a filthy basement, of course Red took him in. With the money and connections available to him, how could he not see to Dembe's health, to his education? He never expected that some fifteen years later, Dembe would still be in his life.
The man in question claps a hand to Red's shoulder on his way from the room, gives a comforting squeeze. "You must be patient now, brother. Have faith. She will call."
He's the best friend Red's ever had.
"You forgot half of your bed in my room," Red calls after him.
Dembe curses in three languages while Red laughs.
-
Lizzie calls the day the splint comes off his finger.
She can't have known, but he decides to take it as a good omen and readily agrees to see her that afternoon.
They meet at a park, one he's particularly fond of, sitting side by side in awkward silence on a bench overlooking the lake.
The silence quickly becomes too much to bear and he starts, "Lizzie-"
"Just let me talk, okay?"
It's another few minutes before she speaks, clearly gathering her thoughts, but he holds his tongue throughout all the silence.
"You can never do that to me again, Red," she finally says. "Not ever. You need to tell me right now if there's anything else that I don't know. Not about you," she adds, anticipating his protest, "but about any past connections we have, any other influence you've had in my life—damning or otherwise."
She stares out at the water. "I get that you need to keep secrets about things you're involved in because you're trying to keep me safe. I don't like it, but I'll accept it. What I can't accept is another revelation like the last one. I'm willing to move past it because I believe that the harm done was not your intention—I saw what it took for you to tell me the truth, however delayed."
She shifts to look at him. "We can start fresh. I'm going to give you that chance."
He refuses to move under her gaze, afraid to even breathe.
"But I can't go through that again, Red. I won't. One more time is going to be the last time. Do you understand?"
He waits to speak until she nods her assent.
"I understand," he says, too grateful to express. "There's nothing else. The fire, your parents, Tom, Sam—you know all of it. To the best of my knowledge, I have told you everything."
She knows all that he knows. He can only hope that new information won't come to light in the future—should that happen, he wouldn't blame her for not allowing him to plead his case.
"Good," she says, nodding. "That's good. We're okay, then."
He allows himself a small, relieved smile. "We're okay."
"I've been ordered to get the next name on the list, do you have one ready?
Back on familiar ground, he launches into storytelling mode. "Oh Lizzie, you're not going to believe what they call this next one…"
Professionally, they will continue on as before.
Personally, from now on every second is a gift. He'll accept whatever she offers and he'll not ask for more. This is already so much more than he's ever deserved.
-
A few weeks later and it's another hotel, another private gym, where once again she shows up unannounced.
Forget short-sheeting, he's throwing all of Dembe's bedding off the roof. This ambush is completely uncalled-for. Would it have been so tremendously difficult to tell her, "Red is busy and will call you back later"?
At least he's wearing a shirt this time.
"I'm revoking his phone privileges," he announces in greeting, slightly out of breath. "Or having him tossed in prison. I do recall one in South America that was particularly miserable."
She scoffs. "Please, you wouldn't survive a day without him."
And Dembe knows it, the meddling bastard.
"Nonsense. I'm perfectly capable of fending for myself. That hulking behemoth is only for show."
"Of course he is," she says, playing along. "Does he box, too?"
"He does. I began training him a few years before he entered university—he's quite good. We spar sometimes, though he has a significant advantage when it comes to height."
"Also age and muscle mass."
"Rude, Lizzie."
She laughs and he easily forgives the good-natured slight against him—she's comfortable enough to tease him again and so he'll consider this a very good day indeed.
He drops to the bench and takes a swig from his water bottle. Contrary to the impression he gave last time, he does usually have one close at hand. "Is this a business visit? I'm afraid I don't have another blacklister for you yet."
"No, we're still rounding up the mess from the last guy." She hesitates slightly before gesturing to the heavy bag. "I actually stopped by because I wanted to ask you to teach me."
He nearly drops the water bottle. "Teach you to box?"
"Yes. Will you?"
"Any particular reason why?" he asks, hoping for a long answer. He needs time to think.
"I'm in the market for a new challenge."
"And you've come to the conclusion that boxing should be that challenge?"
She smiles down at him with hands tucked in her pockets, bounces slightly on the balls of her feet. "Something like that."
Oh, how he doesn't want to disappoint her. But this part of him, this unpolished, ugly piece should not see the light of day. His walls are so thin here. To allow her this close…
"I'm not entirely sure it's a good idea, Lizzie."
She takes a step towards him. "It's a great idea—you love teaching me crap. The only difference will be that now when the urge rises to punch you in the face I'll actually be able to do it."
That startles a laugh out of him and his head tilts as looks up at her, fondness threatening to overwhelm him. He's missed her so much.
"Come on, Red. Let's just try it. Weekly lessons? When you're not busy off buying a country or overthrowing a government or something?"
His brain finally catches up to what exactly is on the table. Weekly lessons, she said. Weekly. A chance to spend time with her without the FBI between them. A chance to know her.
She just offered a feast to a starving man.
Boundaries be damned. He can't refuse this gift.
"Just know it will be some time before you're practiced enough to punch me in the face."
She smirks. "We'll see."
It feels like something significant may have just happened.
-
She finally leaves that accursed motel and rents an apartment. It's not the one he purchased for her, but it's in a relatively quiet area of town and he certainly approves of her having a real home again.
When he informs her that he's bought the entire building in order to bring the security up to acceptable standards, she throws a book at his head.
Hardcover. More of an encyclopedia, come to think of it.
She doesn't move out though.
-
"What's with the shoelace?" Lizzie asks, amused. "It's a little on-the-nose, isn't it? Even for you."
It's their first lesson and he's had Lizzie meet him and Dembe at a private gym. Including Dembe isn't cowardice on his part—though he is appreciative of the emotional buffer—but rather because it will be good for Lizzie to have someone to train with when Red needs to step back and observe her boxing technique.
"Dembe's handiwork," he says vaguely in answer to her question, getting to work taping his hands and focusing his attention there. It's Dembe's story—he should be the one to decide if he wants it shared.
"I was still a child," he hears Dembe tell her quietly. "It was a few months after Raymond found me and we were staying in one place while I grew stronger. I ran errands from time to time to earn pocket money—the first thing I ever bought with my own honest money was that shoelace."
"Why a shoelace?"
"I thought it was terribly funny for some reason, a man called Red with red shoelaces."
"And you kept it all this time," Lizzie says, clearly directed at Red, more amusement and a trace of something he can't place in her voice.
"It's not the original." The tips of his ears are burning, something which has scarcely happened since he was still a child himself. "Shoelaces can't survive fifteen years of use."
"He still has the original," Dembe stage-whispers.
It's in his most secure storage facility, along with a copy of Dembe's university acceptance letter and a photo of the two of them together at his graduation. He decides to redirect the conversation before Dembe tells her about that, too.
"And it was actually the second thing you bought. The first thing you bought was an ice cream sundae bigger than your own head. Took you almost an hour to eat your way through it, it was incredible."
"You told me to buy that ice cream."
"Well, you never would have done it yourself." It had taken Red the better part of two days to convince him—Dembe at the time had been terribly afraid to spend his well-earned money, and understandably so. "You were dead-set on never having an ounce of fun."
Red turns conspiratorially to Lizzie. "He used to hover outside the ice cream shop. I nearly had to drag him by the ear to get him to go inside."
He hadn't, of course, because to do so would have been cruel. He'd simply told the boy that, since Red was going to help look after him now, it would certainly be alright for Dembe to spend a fraction of his money on a treat for himself. The look on his face as he ate through all that ice cream is one of Red's fondest memories.
He finishes up with his hands and gestures Lizzie toward the bench next to him. "Have a seat," he says, pulling out a set of rolled elastic hand wraps from his bag.
"They're not the same as yours," she notes, sitting next to him and unrolling the wraps.
"These will work better for you—they're easier to do properly on your own and are also reusable. Dembe uses this kind as well."
He teaches her how to wind the length around her hand. "Taut but not too tight," he instructs. "You don't want to cut off circulation or overly restrict movement." He secures the ends and asks, "There, how does that feel? Alright?"
She punches him hard in the shoulder. "Feels good to me," she pronounces with a smirk.
While Dembe chokes on poorly concealed laughter, Red huffs and tries to pretend he isn't also terribly amused. "I can see this is going to be something of a cathartic experience for you, Lizzie," he says, making a show of rubbing his shoulder.
"Been looking forward to it all week."
She beams at him and he can't help his soft, entirely-too-truthful response of, "I have, too."
-
He starts tossing around training punches during their normal interactions in order to hone her reflexes, a quick tap of his fist. No heat behind them, just the gentle arc of his arm trying to make contact before she can dodge or block.
When he wins and connects with his target, she punches his arm in retaliation.
When she wins and blocks him, she still punches his arm, but it's with a triumphant 'Ha!' and a smile.
And surely there must have been a time when he had the ability to at least pretend that he doesn't adore her, but as it stands, his entire world revolves around that smile.
-
Lessons are as regular as possible, what with his traveling and her work schedule. Business to conduct and blacklisters to catch, after all.
Where business is concerned he's still occasionally forced to deceive her. Well, not so much her as The Federal Bureau of Investigation. And he'll argue that it's not so much deceive as withhold some potentially-helpful-to-the-FBI-but-damaging-to-him information.
The bright side is that she seems to accept the necessity of his maneuvers and the results end up being fairly positive—she works even harder to outwit him, becoming a better agent and profiler with each case. She almost seems to enjoy the challenge.
She certainly enjoys the gloating.
"How did you possibly think that was going to work, though?" she asks Red, evading one of Dembe's jabs.
"Move your feet more," he instructs from his position observing them off to one side. "And as previously mentioned, I thought it would work because I thought that Donald would be intelligent enough to follow the breadcrumb trail I left for him. A gross overestimation of his abilities, clearly."
It wasn't so much a breadcrumb trail as a neon, glowing path.
"How much did you end up losing, anyway?"
"Five million," he grumbles, "and a property in the south of France."
She looks over and dissolves into convulsive laughter at the pinched expression on his face. She waves Dembe off when he advances. "Hold on, wait, I can't breathe," she chokes out.
"No need to contain your schadenfreude, Lizzie-" she only laughs harder "-I think we're done for today anyway."
She nods through her laughter, heading over to the bench with Dembe to drink some water.
It's really a terrible shame about the French property. He'd had the most wonderful fantasy about bringing her there some day, there's one terrace in particular where he's just dying to see her lit by late afternoon sunlight...
"Will you join us for dinner?"
Dembe's question pulls Red out of his musings, and he listens anxiously for the answer.
"Sure, I'd like that," she tells Dembe, looking to Red after. "If it's okay with you?"
He very nearly laughs at the question and with how okay he finds the idea. "Of course. You're always welcome, Lizzie."
He gestures for her to proceed them out of the gym and as she does he throws Dembe a grateful look—he just bought Red another hour of time with her.
"Well, you never would have done it yourself," Dembe whispers with a grin.
She dines with them more often after that. Not after every lesson, he's not greedy enough to ask—to hope, yes, not to ask—but sometimes she'll linger and they'll order takeout to the hotel suite. Lizzie and Dembe alternate choosing the restaurants, Red content to sit back and enjoy the presence of the two people he cares for most in the world, eating and laughing and frequently teasing the hell out of him.
He lives for those days.
-
He and Lizzie are in the middle of a sparring lesson when she blurts, "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course. Tuck your elbows more." She corrects and he nods with approval. "Better."
"Do you mind that I call you Red?"
"Why would I mind? Move your feet."
"I am moving my feet, damn it, stop telling me to move my feet-"
"Move them more."
"And I just thought- well, I know you hate it when I call you Reddington."
He doesn't like where this is going. "I haven't given it much thought."
She rolls her eyes at the obvious evasion. "You flinch anytime I say it."
And here he'd been thinking he'd gotten the flinching under control. Apparently not.
She takes his slight distraction as an opportunity to strike out at his torso. It's a well-placed, textbook punch and he grunts at the contact, more from surprise than actual pain.
"Good!" She's a natural talent. "Hit harder next time—you should practice as if it were real."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't hurt me. Dembe hits much harder and he's never hurt me."
"He told me he broke your rib once!"
"An anomaly."
He throws a combination of punches at half-speed, coaches her through blocking him. She does so successfully, and he's hoping they've abandoned the previous line of questioning when she prompts, "Dembe uses your first name."
"He does."
"Because you're friends."
"Yes, and because it's how I was introduced to him when we first met." He lowers his fists and takes a step back from her. He can't have this conversation and box at the same time. "What's this about, Lizzie?"
"Just figured I'd ask." She shrugs. "So? Do you mind?"
"No, I don't mind. It wasn't a nickname I much appreciated when people first began using it but I've grown accustomed over the years. And regardless, I…" He trails off, unsure how to explain without… explaining.
He's considered asking her to use his first name before and found that he isn't overly fond of the idea. He doesn't feel much like Raymond anymore and hasn't in a very, very long time. He doesn't mind Dembe using it but the others, the people from his past who call him Ray… they're speaking to a ghost, a figment.
Red has long since stopped mourning the man he once was—that man burned away with the skin of his back.
This is who is is now, for better or worse. Mostly worse, if he's honest with himself, but when he gets down to it his identity crisis is irrelevant. That nickname is his gauge. Any time she has ever felt positively towards him, Red is the name she uses—it doesn't matter what it represents to anyone else. If anything, it's the rest of the world that should have to change. That name belongs to Lizzie, now.
He shrugs helplessly. "It's what you call me."
She nods, to his immense relief, as if that is the response she expected. Perhaps even wanted?
"Alright, then. Red it is." She shifts back into a fighting stance. "Raymond is a stupid name anyway."
He starts toward her mock threateningly and she laughs, raises her fists and dances out of his reach. "Kidding, I'm kidding! Easy, Mayweather!"
She seems ready to return to sparring, but before he can stop himself he offers, "And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"Lizzie," he says significantly, hoping she connects the dots. He doesn't want to ask.
Fortunately, she makes the connection he was hoping for.
"Yeah, I think we both know you'll call me that whether I want you to or not. But, same—I don't mind."
She smiles at him and when she shrugs, there's nothing helpless about it. "It's what you call me."
-
An operation goes south, their cover blown. The target, enraged but fortunately weaponless, takes a wild swing at Lizzie. Without missing a beat, she ducks the punch and delivers a quick succession of blows to torso and throat that leave the man gasping and writhing on the floor.
She shakes her head at their adversary in exaggerated disappointment before turning to Red with a smirk. "Left his center wide open," she says.
Red gawks and just, just barely smothers the insane and overwhelming urge to collapse to his knees at her feet.
-
He doesn't know exactly how it happens, what he said or what she said, but one day after a lesson they're both laughing and she's half in his arms.
"I like you like this," she says into his shoulder.
"What, tired and sweaty?" He can't resist a quick press of his lips to her hair.
He feels her smile. "I like Red the boxer."
It seems he'll never understand her. Him, like this, is… nothing. This is the worst part of him, jagged and broken. No one was ever supposed to see this, her least of all.
"I can't truly say I understand that," he says, measuring his words carefully.
She sighs, mumbles, "I know you don't."
"Lizzie?" He's missed something important.
"It's okay." She's still smiling as she pulls away, but there's something sad in her eyes that he wants to destroy. "You'll get there."
He must look completely befuddled, because she laughs genuinely and takes his hand.
"Come on, I'm actually awake enough to attempt cooking dinner tonight."
"Excuse me?"
She tugs him toward the door. "I am making dinner. You are going to go get cleaned up, and then you are going to come over and eat it."
She's never invited him to her apartment before. He's been there, but she's never invited him.
"Are you sure?" He needs to be certain that she's actually asking.
"Yes. Go. Shower." She nudges him in the direction of the elevator. "I'll see you in an hour or so."
He presses the button to call the elevator down, subtly pinching his own arm to test if this is some sort of cruel dream. He's had quite a few of those.
"Oh, and Red?"
He turns back.
"Casual dress." She grins. "If you show up in a suit I'm not letting you though the door."
-
On her doorstep just over an hour later and he's paired dark jeans with a button-down and the vest from one of his less-expensive suits, figuring he fits well enough within her sudden and bizarre dress code.
She stares at him when she answers the door, an expression he'd be tempted to decipher had he not given up trying to decipher her expressions long ago—he's so frequently off the mark that there's really no point to it anymore. She doesn't seem displeased, at any rate.
"Only you would hear 'casual dress' and think, 'Hey, better wear a tie'," she finally says.
"This is a very nice tie," he protests. "It was custom-"
"Yeah, yeah. Very expensive, imported, made of unicorn hair." She rolls her eyes. "Lose it. "
"Absolutely not."
"Absolutely yes. No ties allowed."
"Lizzie, what kind of ridiculous-"
"My apartment, my rules."
"Well technically this property-"
She arches a brow. "You really want to finish that sentence?"
He takes off the tie.
Nodding in satisfaction, she smiles as she moves aside to let him in. "Much better."
He drapes the tie over a coat peg by the door and hangs his hat on the peg next to it. "Why the sudden urge to dress like savages?" Not that she doesn't look entirely perfect as-is, freshly showered and clad in jeans and a tee. Her hair is up in a ponytail, her feet bare, and in all honesty his head is spinning.
She just laughs and herds him toward the kitchen with a hand between his shoulder blades.
She keeps touching him.
The world has been shifting around him for weeks now and he doesn't understand why. What has he done, what changed to make her so different with him? He considers just asking her so he can make sure to continue doing whatever it is—he worries even more that asking will make it all disappear.
He's left with confusion and her friendly, casual touches. Considering that not long ago casual touches were more than he ever expected to have, it's not actually all that bad a place to be.
"You want a beer?" she asks, interrupting his thoughts.
He agrees readily, taking a sip from the bottle because he knows she expects him to ask for a glass. He glances at the label, not recognizing the brand.
"Local craft brewery," Lizzie offers, taking a drink from her own bottle.
"It's good." It really is. He isn't much of a beer-drinker these days, but it's crisp and light on his palette and he can imagine a number of dishes it would pair well with. "What's on the menu?"
She rests a few tomatoes on the counter next to a bowl covered with a clean dishtowel. "We're making pizza."
"Of course—because delivery is too convenient?" He goes to the sink for want of something to do, rolls up his sleeves and quickly washes his hands before leaning against the counter to await further instructions.
"Because it's fun, smart-ass. Besides," she asks, rooting around in a cabinet, "when was the last time you made dinner?"
"As a matter of fact, several months ago in Paris I stopped by this incredible restaurant I've frequented over the years and the chef was kind enough to allow-"
"Oh my god, shut up." She's laughing at him as she hands over a knife and cutting board. "You're pathetic. Chop some tomatoes."
He huffs as he gets to work dicing the tomatoes. Pathetic? It's one of the finest restaurants in the city. It's by far the-
She hops up to sit on the counter next to him, completely derailing his thoughts. She's tearing leaves into a bowl, and he will now forever associate the smell of basil with the feel of her knee pressed against his hip, natural and comfortable and so, so warm.
He tries to focus on chopping the tomatoes into perfectly even pieces, grasps for the lost line of conversation.
"It was a valuable lesson in French cuisine—I'll have you know I now make a superb coq au vin."
"Of course you do. We're all very impressed."
"It's an impressive dish."
"But still not the same as cooking dinner like a normal person," she sing-songs.
He can't look at her. "I'm not a normal person, Lizzie," he says quietly.
She takes a sip of beer while her foot brushes lightly back and forth against the outside of his leg. "You sure do like to pretend you aren't."
He doesn't know what to say to that.
She doesn't seem to mind though, and when she's done with the basil she slides off the counter to stand beside him, uncovering the bowl he noticed earlier and revealing the contents to be pizza dough.
"I obviously didn't have time to make real sauce, so we're stuck with stuff from a jar, but it's actually pretty good and anyway between the fresh tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella, I'm thinking we can pull together a decent margarita pizza." She dumps the dough onto the counter and starts splitting it into several smaller pieces. "Or feel free to raid the fridge and grab whatever you can find to put on."
He smiles. "Margarita will be just fine. It will go well with the beer."
"You sure?" She smirks and hooks a thumb over her shoulder at the fridge. "Pretty sure I have some leftover Chinese takeout in there."
"Am I to believe you're suggesting lo mein as an adequate pizza topping?"
She laughs. "I actually did that once in college."
"No."
"Afraid so."
"Lizzie, that's horrific."
"I was hungover, it tasted fantastic at the time."
He shudders dramatically. "Please don't ever do it again. Or at least be kind enough to spare me the details."
"Right, because you've never made questionable food choices—I seem to remember something about fertilized duck eggs?"
"That is not at all the same."
"How?"
"It's cuisine," he sniffs haughtily.
"Uh huh. And how did your cuisine taste?"
He smirks while taking a sip of beer. "Like death," he says deadpan, and her responding laughter fills the kitchen, warming him straight down to this toes.
He spent some time studying pizza-making in Italy—"Of course you did. Why am I not surprised?"—and so they make quick work of assembling their pizzas, cleaning and re-organizing the kitchen while they bake in the oven.
Her apartment has a small balcony and it's a fine summer evening, so they eat outside, sipping beer with their plates balanced on the banister.
Red has eaten pizza in nearly every country that has pizza—which is most of them—and quickly discovers that this is, bar none, the best pizza he's ever had. Rationally, he knows it's because of the company he's with, that it's because he and Lizzie made it, together, but it doesn't change the simple fact that he has never enjoyed pizza more. He's going to remember the taste for the rest of his life.
Lizzie must read it on his face—she shakes her head a little and passes him another beer.
"You're ridiculous, Red."
He hopes with everything in him that he doesn't imagine just how exceptionally fond of him she sounds when she says it.
Later, when the final dishes are washed and he's leaving, she thanks him for coming over and kisses his cheek just before shutting the door.
He stands in her hallway with his jaw dropped for an embarrassingly long time.
-
He doesn't usually do it around others, but once during a briefing at the Post Office he tosses a training punch just to annoy her.
They agree later that it doesn't really matter who won that time, because Donald's appalled expression was a victory all its own.
-
He enters a hotel suite after a workout to find Dembe and Lizzie on the couch watching a soccer match.
"Hey, Red," Lizzie calls out.
He takes a second to boggle at the remarkable turn his day has suddenly taken. Lizzie's here.
"It's about time," Dembe says, neither of them turning from the television despite speaking to him. "That was longer than your usual sessions—is the heavy bag still intact or did you pummel it into dust?"
"Regrettably, this facility doesn't have a heavy bag," he says, "so I was forced to choose a spot on the concrete wall to utilize instead."
Their heads swivel comically to face him with twin expressions of horror.
"Oh, honestly." He rolls his eyes. "I shadowboxed and used the speed bag."
"Don't sound so offended, there is a precedent," Lizzie says. Dembe mumbles something uncharitable in agreement and directs his attention back to the television.
"A precedent for punching a concrete wall? I am not entirely off my nut, thank you."
Lizzie arches an eyebrow at him as if to say Are you sure about that? and he gives her his very best mad grin in response.
"Goal!" Dembe suddenly calls out, and Lizzie's head whips back around to look at the screen.
"No!"
Red checks the score and sees that one team—apparently Dembe's—is ahead.
"Why does this keep happening? I hate soccer," Lizzie grumbles, ignoring Dembe's immediate correction of, 'Football, Liz.'
She addresses Red over her shoulder, her eyes still on the television. "I actually stopped by with a work-related question, but we're going to order dinner once the match is over."
"This match is already over," Dembe crows.
"You, be quiet. There's five minutes left, not to mention extra time."
"There will be seven minutes total, at most. There is no hope."
"I'll kill you."
"Please, don't," Red chimes in. "He's very large, it will be difficult to shift the body."
They start elbowing each other as the match nears its conclusion and Red rolls his eyes behind their backs. They're both frighteningly competitive and this has become a relatively common occurrence.
"I'm going to take a shower," he announces, feeling petulant—he hates when he doesn't have Lizzie's full attention.
He only makes it a few steps before she calls after him, "If you come back out here in a suit, I'm leaving!"
So he does have some of her attention. Such a shame it's at the expense of his poor suits, who never hurt anybody and do not deserve the cruel treatment she's been giving them of late.
He heads for his room, a small smile crossing his face at the familiar sound of Dembe's gloating and Lizzie's responding, "Shut the hell up, Dembe."
His shower is quick and he soon finds himself, once again, standing in front of his dresser without much clue as to what he's supposed to wear. He eventually chooses jeans—that seemed agreeable enough to her last time—and decides to forego a vest and wear just a button-down shirt. He leaves it untucked, cuffing the sleeves to his elbows, and it's close to what he would wear if he were by himself.
He still puts on socks though.
When he returns to the main room Lizzie is still on the couch, flipping through the channels with her legs curled up beside her, and Dembe is nowhere in sight.
"You haven't murdered him, have you?" he asks to announce his presence behind her. "Only I've promised Mr. Kaplan we won't bother her for a while after that last mess, and she's really quite frightening when she's angry."
He hears her snort of laughter. "No, but he'd deserve it. That man is not dignified in victory."
He walks round the couch to the armchair beside it and feels her eyes taking in his attire. It seems he chose reasonably well, because she gifts him with a smile and a murmured, "Nice."
At this very moment he has multiple suits hanging in his closet that are each worth thousands of dollars. Thousands. And Lizzie asks, orders him not to wear them.
He rubs the back of his neck as he takes a seat in the chair and tries to figure out how to ask her why.
He has the best tailors that money can buy. Image is crucial in his line of work and he spent years carefully constructing his. Does she simply not like it? He supposes he could craft a new one, one that is more in line with what she wants, but this one really is quite effective for his business and considering he still isn't entirely sure what it is that she wants it might be difficult to-
"I can hear you thinking over there. What's wrong?"
I have never lied to you echoes through his head and he curses his own lack of foresight—he set this trap long ago and the irony isn't lost on him. He disarmed himself, took his greatest strength—the ability to talk himself out of nearly any situation—and placed it at her feet. It took some time but she's figured out how to use it to her advantage now, how to ask a direct question that he cannot easily circumvent.
"Lizzie, do you not… why don't you…" he fumbles and can't finish the question, his fingers picking restlessly at the upholstered arm of the chair. He promised not to lie. That doesn't mean he'll always be able to find the damn words.
He squirms under her scrutiny, holding her gaze until she seemingly takes pity on him and pats the couch cushion at her side.
"Come over here."
Hesitating never occurs to him but he feels uncharacteristically clumsy when he stands and moves to the couch, very aware of his arms and legs and hands and she doesn't shift away when he sits but did he sit too close? Their arms brush, her tucked-up knees pressed against his thigh, and he fights the urge to just pull her into his arms and give up on talking altogether. It seems far more pleasant an option.
She rubs the sleeve of his shirt between her fingers and he willfully directs his gaze to the television, where she has landed on what looks to be a documentary on sharks.
"You look good in your suits, Red. I just think it's also good for you to relax sometimes. I'd like for you to be able to relax around me," she adds quietly, her hand leaving his sleeve. "But if it really makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop asking. I don't want to-"
"It doesn't," he says, cutting her off gently.
"What?"
"It doesn't make me uncomfortable." Don't lie. "Well, it does," he admits ruefully. "But…"
But I'll do this, for you. Even if I don't understand.
I'll do anything for you.
If you'll just ask—Lizzie, I'll do anything.
"I'll get used to it," he says.
She gives him the sweetest, softest smile and he fumbles desperately for something to say—he can't think straight when she does that.
He nods to the television. "Why sharks?"
"I like nature documentaries," she says, and he files the information away, pleased to learn something new about her from her instead of as gathered intel. "And sharks are interesting."
"They're dangerous."
"Yes, but they're also misunderstood."
She leans her head on his shoulder as she says it, and he's fairly certain they're not talking about sharks anymore.
"I went shark-diving once," he offers carefully. "Years ago. Terrifying experience, actually." Onscreen, a great white rips apart a seal and he winces as the program brutally enforces his point—ever helpful, that Discovery Channel. "It was completely insane to try it at all."
"I bet it was worth it though," she says without a hint of doubt, despite the blood in the water. "Even though you were scared? I think it would be worth the risk."
He hurts with how very much he wants to kiss her.
"I… Yes." He swallows around the lump in his throat. "Yes, I suppose it was. Worth it."
She hums thoughtfully. "Although, impressive as sharks are, I guess you do always run the risk of getting close only to find out they're really just a mouthy pain in the ass."
He gives an affronted glare to the top of her head and she laughs without looking at him, takes his hand in hers and laces their fingers.
"Dembe went to pick up dinner from that Chinese restaurant we all like. Neither of us could decide what we wanted to order and you were still in the shower, so we just chose a bunch of different stuff and we can all share. That sound okay?"
She shifts on the couch, coming to rest more solidly against him.
"Yeah," he murmurs, dropping a kiss to the top of her head and screwing his eyes shut tight against an overwhelming surge of affection for her. "Sounds perfect."
-
It's late summer before he knows it and he and Lizzie are finishing lunch at a little cafe near the Post Office, having met to discuss the next blacklister on his list.
He's standing to leave when her hand darts out and holds his wrist. "Wait a second, I have something for you."
"Okay," he starts to quip, "but if-"
He stops abruptly when she pulls something shiny out of her bag, handing him the neatly wrapped package with a small smile.
"Happy birthday, Red."
He drops back to sit in his chair, weak-kneed.
He'd completely forgotten today's date. Years have passed since the last time he acknowledged his birthday, a decade at least since the last time he received a gift for it.
"I remembered the date from your file," she says before he can ask. "I didn't know what to get you at first since you have access to just about everything, but then I had an idea—I know you don't have one of these."
He stares at the gift in disbelief until she prompts, "This is the part where you open it."
Carefully, he peels back the wrapping, hearing but ignoring her amused huff of impatience. He doesn't want to tear the paper. He wants this moment to last for as long as he can keep it.
When the paper is finally removed, he finds himself with a framed photo in his hands and tears stinging his eyes.
Earlier in the summer, the three of them had ended up on a boat in the Caribbean to meet one of his more reclusive associates. Normally he wouldn't indulge, but Edgar is one of the few people Red is willing to call a friend.
He recalls that he was telling a story at one point in the afternoon—reminiscing one of his and Dembe's more thrilling adventures while Dembe kept a running commentary contrary to his own. They each swore theirs was the truer version of events, painting themselves the hero while making the other the bumbling cause of the tale's near-catastrophic conclusion.
The photo immortalizes the moment perfectly, captures Red mid-gesture with a mad smile, Lizzie grinning like she's terribly amused but might also like to push him overboard, Dembe nearly bent double in raucous laughter.
It makes him feel like he can reach out and touch that afternoon, one of the single best in his life. Sun and sea breeze on his skin—he so misses sailing, these days—with not a cloud in the sky. Dembe in good cheer, no trace of the silent, terrified boy Red met so long ago. And Lizzie, his Lizzie was just as he loves her best, happy and laughing and there.
"But this was months ago," he manages to say. His voice sounds very small.
"I just had to plan ahead a little." She shrugs.
Shrugs. As if it's no matter that she was thinking of his birthday months ahead of time. As if it isn't utterly remarkable, inconceivable that she would put such thought into a gift for him.
"I checked with Dembe first to make sure it would be okay. He said it would be, so I gave Edgar a disposable camera when we got on the boat and asked him to snap as many shots of the three of us as he could without you noticing. I think he got a little overexcited because most of them weren't very good—too blurry or had a lot of glare. But this one…" She smiles down at the photo. "I really like this one. I wish I could keep a copy, but obviously I can't have pictures of the FBI's fourth most wanted in my apartment. So you'll need to keep it safe. If you want it, I mean," she adds quickly. "You don't have to-"
"I want it," he blurts, clutching the frame closer to himself as though she might reach for it, change her mind and take it away from him. "Of course I want it," he says more softly. "This is… I don't have words."
"Well that's a first."
He chuckles at that, and she smiles in response before rising from the table. "Come on, the hostess has been glaring at us for a while and I should head back anyway. Plenty of fun paperwork waiting for me."
Before they part ways on the sidewalk, he pulls her into a gentle hug, kisses her temple while whispering the most heartfelt, "Thank you" he can muster.
Her arms wrap around his neck, tightening the hug and tugging him further into her space.
"You're welcome." She pulls back a little, says, "I've informed Dembe that he's in charge of finding cake—he said he'll be happy to as long as there's no candles or singing taking part at any point during the evening." She squeezes his arm. "So I'll see you later."
He can only nod in response to that and her parting smile, watching dumbstruck as she walks away.
At the next possible opportunity he finds the best digital technician in the world to scan the photo—he's not willing to sacrifice a single dot of quality from the original.
He prints three copies.
Two he frames and secrets away in his two favorite hideaways, the places he would escape to if everything crumbled and he was forced to disappear for good. The third is tucked carefully into the lining of his gym bag, where he can easily access it but where most would not think to look.
The original framed photo is placed in his most secure storage location, along with the gift paper it was wrapped in and a portable drive containing the only digital copy. Bombs could drop and they would remain intact, safe and sound next to a red shoelace.
When he finds the handwritten inscription on the back of the photo, hidden behind the frame and clearly left by her for him to discover on his own, he cries.
-
We are what we save,
and what we allow
to save us.
Happy birthday, Red
- Lizzie
-
Another dinner at her apartment and they're confined inside due to an untimely autumn thunderstorm. Despite his half-hearted protests Lizzie had insisted that they sit and eat on the couch instead of in the kitchen, and their cleared plates rest on the coffee table.
He's slouched slightly on the couch with his arm stretched across the back, loose-boned and happy, Lizzie this close to being tucked under his arm.
"Red, do you know why I asked you to teach me to box?"
It seems an odd question, but he shrugs and answers anyway.
"Your disturbing—and ultimately futile, I might add—hope that at some point in the future you may develop sufficient ability to punch me in the face."
"No. Well, yes," she laughs a little. "But it's really for the same reason I keep asking you to occasionally wear clothes that don't cost enough to feed a small city—it's a chance to see you without the pretense and all the other bullshit that you put up to keep people away."
That's… blunt.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to understand, and I don't think that you really do—I box with you because I like when you allow yourself to be that person."
She's quiet for a moment before she grins at him. "Plus, you look cute in a t-shirt."
He gapes at her.
"I…"
"Yes?"
He decides to focus on the most insane thing he can recall and work his way back from there.
"…Cute?"
"Seriously? That's what you're stuck on."
Of course he's stuck on that. He's stuck on all of it.
He doesn't know what to say.
"Lizzie," he sighs, "the suits, what you call pretense—all of that is who I am."
"We both know that's not true. It's part of you, of course it is, but it's not everything." She reaches over to hook a finger in his vest and gives it a playful tug. "There's a whole other person under here. You're sweet, Red. You're fun."
He doesn't know what to say.
"Something changes when you're in public—some piece of you gets tucked away, like a shield going up. You're still Red, you're still you, but you're also… closed. Locked up tight. Recently, I feel like I've been getting beyond the shield. And I'm glad."
He stares at her helplessly.
She shakes her head. "You still won't see it."
"See what? Lizzie, I… I'm trying, but-"
He cuts himself off, and they sit in silence for a few long moments.
"Red, can you do something for me?" she eventually asks.
She's moved to lean slightly on his outstretched arm and he reaches up now to gently tuck some hair behind her ear. "I would do anything for you," he murmurs. "Surely you know that by now."
She nods. "So can you tell me what it is you think I want from you?"
He manages a small huff of laughter, drawing his hand back. "I don't think I've ever known what you want, Lizzie."
"Just try."
He doesn't know. He has no idea.
She doesn't seem to like anything to do with his business or his money, doesn't seem to want him to wear his suits. She said she likes him when they're boxing—doesn't like when he's closed off. She's been initiating more and more of their time spent together, and months ago she was so focused on his first name and the idea that only his "friends" call him that…
But how could she think he doesn't consider her a friend?
Has he not been clear? He adores her. In his desperation to not push for more has he somehow made her think he doesn't care? It doesn't seem possible, but… that must be what she wants. She wants to be certain that he cares for her, that he isn't only in this because of his work. It's a fair concern, he has a terrible track record. He'll tell her, and then they'll be able to go back to this new normal they're been inhabiting recently.
"You want me t-"
"Stop," she cuts him off with a smile. "Stop. Right there, don't you see?"
He nearly growls in frustration—clearly he was incorrect in his assessment. "No, I don't see, you didn't allow me to finish-"
"You were finished." She's still smiling. "Say it again, say what you said before I stopped you."
"You want me…?" he trails off, hoping she'll fill in the blank and end this torment.
"Change your punctuation."
He sighs, recites, "You want me."
And then he actually hears the words he's said.
His eyes search her face as realization dawns and he tries to repeat it, only managing to silently mouth the words in disbelief. He can't find his voice.
You want me.
"There it is." Her smile shifts from amusement into something more gentle. "You don't need to turn yourself into some hypothetical ideal, Red. I want the man in the expensive suits who commands a room without a thought, I want the man who pummels the hell out of a punching bag because he's too upset to do anything else, and I want the man who thinks me making him dinner is the greatest thing that's ever happened."
She moves suddenly to straddle his lap, her hands clutching his shoulders.
"I just want you, Red."
He stares at her in shock, his shaking hands somehow finding their way to rest lightly on her waist. He studies them, sees how they're touching but scarcely believes that he's really feeling her beneath his fingers.
"…you want me?" He doesn't recognize his own voice. He sounds wrecked.
"Yes. Stop turning it into a question."
And then she kisses him.
Oh.
Oh, god, she's kissing him.
Lizzie is kissing him, soft and affectionate and so sweet that it hurts his chest.
He somehow finds the wherewithal to respond, tightening his grip on her waist, and it's a long moment before she gently pulls back.
"I know I already broke your brain a little," she says, kissing a line from his cheek to his temple, "but I'm going to tell you something else now. You listening?"
He swallows thickly. "Yes."
"Open your eyes," she whispers in his ear, her fingers rubbing gently at the nape of his neck.
He can't—he's had this dream before. He's had this dream so many times already, this isn't fair.
He doesn't want to wake up lonely again.
"Open your eyes, Red."
Somehow, he manages it.
Lizzie's still there in front of him, smiling. She's so beautiful.
"Hi," she says, pressing her forehead to his. "Still listening?"
He nods, darting forward and stealing another kiss.
"I love you," she whispers as he leans back.
He freezes.
"Red?"
She loves him?
"Red."
Wanting is one thing, but... how could she love him?
"Red." Her hand cups his cheek and directs his attention back to her. "I know this is hard for you, but I need you to try and believe that you're deserving of this, because the idea that you don't is breaking my heart."
Breaking her heart?
He can't allow that and suddenly it's all too much, he's held it in for too long and something within him just snaps.
He pulls her to him roughly, clumsily, buries his face against her throat. "Love you, I love you," he whispers desperately. "Loved you for so long." He tightens his arms around her. "Lizzie."
Her arms wrap around him in response, her chin coming to rest on his head. "I know you do. I know. Red, of course I know."
He keeps repeating it until she tugs his face back to hers and kisses him again and again and again.
Eventually, they pull back to breathe.
He manages to ask, "How long…?"
"A while." She continues when he makes an inquiring sound, "It's so stupid, but… I'd never heard you laugh before. Not for real, not just because you were happy. And then one time in the gym you did and it was so… it probably wasn't even the first time but it was the first time that I noticed and it just… made my day." She shrugs sheepishly with a tiny smile. "Kind of hard to ignore something like that."
Because he laughed.
What in the hell did he ever manage to do to deserve her?
He's about to tug her down for another kiss, quickly becoming his favorite activity, when her phone rings.
She turns and leans over to pick it up off the coffee table, apparently trusting his hands on her waist to keep her from falling off his lap and onto the floor.
Straightening back up, she kisses him quickly before answering the phone.
"Hey, Dembe. He's still here. Uh huh. No, you don't need to come get him. Yeah," she grins widely, "I'm keeping him."
Red's brain shorts out, watching but not really hearing as she wraps up the conversation and then tosses her phone to the side.
He doesn't see the blow coming—she's still smiling at him, she's the prettiest thing he's ever seen—and her fist connects gently with his cheek, playfully pushing his head sideways.
"Oh, wow," she says. "It looks like someone just got punched in the face. How embarrassing."
He turns his head to kiss the knuckles pressed against him, a smile nearly splitting his face in two. "You win."
She laughs in delight and cups his face in both hands. Presses perfect, smiling kisses to his lips.
"Damn straight," she whispers.
-
He doesn't know it yet, but he'll never be lonely again.
-
fin.
"I said it before (though perhaps with less grace)
and I’ll say it again:
I want to take the messy parts of you in
like small children, like stray dogs.
Kiss them on the mouth, give them a place to stay.
I can’t believe there are bits of you, at your age,
that are still too young to know
that they are worth taking care of.
If you don’t want to look in the mirror, that’s fine.
We will cover every piece of glass in the house.
We will drape sheets across the bathroom walls
and only drink out of coffee mugs;
but I am still going to marvel at the blessing of your face
at my kitchen table."
-Trista Mateer (x)
Strip it away, all away
until all that remains
is all you need.
We are what we carry,
what fits in our arms
as we rush from
the flames.
We are what we save,
and what we allow
to save us.
Nothing
more.
- Tyler Knott Gregson (x)
-
Artwork on tumblr (x)