The Box

It was quiet, the lights turned down low and Agnes finally tucked away and asleep in her crib so that her parents could continue the arduous task of unpacking their lives from the piles of boxes that filled the living room. Originally they had been packed away with the understanding that Kate would have them sent along to Cuba after things died down, but they never made it that far. Instead they'd gathered dust, waiting through their search for Agnes, the exhausting battle with Kirk, and finally until the Keens found their way out of Reddington's windowless safe house.

Somewhere along the way they had found Tom's old turntable in one of the many boxes. Soft music played out - not the Ramones, but just as good - and Liz leaned back for the partially-emptied bottle of wine that was sitting barely in reach to refill her glass. They hadn't found the appropriate glassware just yet, but the tumblers were doing the trick. She tilted a little too far and toppled off balance, straightening only enough to shoot Tom a faux-irritated look as he stifled his laugh.

"Yeah, what was that?"

"Nothing," he offered, holding his hands up, palms outward, as if he were surrendering before the battle began. Smart man.

Liz snorted and resumed her reach for the bottle.

"You need some help with that?" Tom asked, his tone more amused than not as she found far less wine than she expected left.

"Yeah. If we have another bottle that would be great."

"When have I ever let our wine supply run dry?" he teased as he stood.

Liz came back to sit cross-legged on the wooden floor and watched him as he moved to rifle through the bags of groceries he'd picked up while she'd been at work. "And that's why I married you. Twice."

"At least I know my worth," he laughed and returned with a bottle of Pinot. He shoved another box between them with his foot before taking a seat and starting in on opening the new bottle. "And the second time we didn't technically get married. We should probably fix that."

"Not sure we're going to find a reverend willing to meet us at eleven o'clock at night."

"Wine and unpacking it is then."

He refilled her glass and handed it over. Liz took a long sip before setting it aside and looking at the box between them. "I guess we should do at least one more?"

"You're the one that wanted this done by the end of the week."

"That's tomorrow."

"It's Friday, Agnes is asleep, and theoretically you don't have to be at work tomorrow. We've got this."

Liz watched as he took a box cutter down the center of the tape, expertly splitting each side and pulling it away. She leaned in, finding more packing material than she expected, and started to pull at it until she found something solid. A picture frame with the photo of her and her mother on the swing set behind the glass. A small smile tugged at her lips as she let her fingers roam across it, touching Katarina's hidden face and feeling a strange sense of warmth settling over her with it.

A soft breath from her almost-husband drew Liz's attention and she looked over, finding Tom holding his own prize that he'd found packed away. Paper lay abandoned to the side, loosing the old, familiar go-box from its hold and she watched him run his hands across the wood almost nostalgically before opening it. It was empty. She knew it was. He'd stored his various passports and less-than-legal documents in a folder that he'd had with him on his flight with Agnes to Cuba. That didn't stop his fingers from running across the edges of the lid or down into the crevice of the symbol. There was something strange about the movement. Something she'd never seen before when he handled it.

"I didn't know if it'd made it," he confessed softly.

"How long have you had it?"

"As long as I can remember."

There was something in the words that stopped her. Liz's head tilted to the side very slightly as she studied the man she loved, his focus on the box in his hands. The box that had been a symbol of her own blindness. It had housed lies and sheltered his secrets for so long. Buried down beneath the floorboards and the carpet of their dining room, if Reddington had never come into their lives, she might never have known it was there at all.

Funny thing, in the dim lighting of their new living room she felt like she'd seen the symbol on the lid somewhere other than on the offensive box before, and as she reached her free right hand out to touch his, she saw where on the burn scar on her wrist. Strange that she'd never noticed just how similar the two marks were before.

Dark blue eyes met her own and Tom's lips pulled into a thin, awkward, and questioning smile. "What?" he asked, uncertainty pulling heavily at the question.

Liz pulled in a breath, her mind working through the response. "I never knew you had it before… I guess I just thought it was a place to store fake passports."

He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess."

"But you've had it a long time," she pressed.

His smile faded to a thin, even line and he pulled his hand away to run it through his dark hair. "Yeah. I mean, as long as I can remember. I used to…" She watched his jaw clench and filed another one of his signs of discomfort away. "I used to take it from house to house. I don't know how many before I landed at the Phelps household. I didn't own much. A couple of comics, a baseball card that someone told me was worth something…. A photo that I thought was of my family. No clue what put that in my head. Turned out it was a magazine clipping or something." He tried for an other smile, his lips tugging at one corner lopsidedly. "I was six."

"Kids have held onto stranger things," Liz murmured, tightening her hold on the photo of her mother. Adults too, if she were honest. She cleared her throat. "You said you were adopted, but you never said much about them. The Phelps'."

And just like that the smile was gone again, his expression closing off and he looked away. "Not much to say."

"Were they that bad?"

She watched the struggle, the promise of open honesty that he'd given her just the night before hanging heavily in the air and he swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight. "The Phelps' adopted me when I was seven. I think I went to the ER five times in the six years before I finally got away."

Liz felt her chest tighten and her eyes held his. "They hurt you?"

"We don't need to talk about this."

"Tom."

He cringed at the sound of his name and she hated how he almost flinched. She shouldn't push, she knew she shouldn't push, but something in her said this was important.

"I told you I'd try," he acknowledged. The lines on his face deepened as he tucked his chin and clenched his jaw, every inch of his demeanor screaming discomfort. When he spoke again, his voice was rushed, as if he were trying to get the words out before some long-instilled precaution stopped him. "He was drunk, she was complacent. I was… a little bastard, according to Frank. Sarcastic, ornery. I don't know. I just didn't like being shoved around."

"How did you get out?" Liz asked softly, almost regretting it as she did. Almost.

Tom shot her a look like she was asking him to confess to a series of crimes. Maybe she was, but it sounded more like he was the victim. "Yeah, I uh… He cracked a beer bottle over my head," he said as he ran his hand across the scar covered by his hair. She'd seen it when it had been buzzed short for his op in Germany, even if she hadn't given it a lot of thought at the time. "I think there might have been an argument. I don't know, but I got a couple things together and ran far enough that they couldn't send me back. This is the only thing I still have from before then. Thought about throwing it away more than once but just… never have."

Liz sat for a long moment as she let the story wash over her. She'd had her fair share of pain, but at least she'd had Sam to show her what it was like to be on the receiving end of love. Tom hadn't. All he'd known was pain and abuse and manipulation. It was no wonder he'd spent the better part of his life trying to be anybody else. Somehow, though, he'd come out on the other side of it. He could be violent and dangerous, but there was a gentleness that had managed to survive through it. She saw it in the way he held Agnes and felt it in how he loved her. He had said that his biological mother had abandoned him, but there had to be something buried in his past that had made it possible to love as deeply as he did despite everything life had put him through.

"Do you think the box is a link to your past?"

He settled back, glancing at it as he did. "Maybe. Doesn't really matter."

"Maybe your mom could -"

"We've been over this. I don't want anything to do with her. I know your past means a lot to you, but mine doesn't to me. This. Here. Now. That's what matters to me."

Liz swallowed the argument. There was no point when he dug in like that. Maybe someday she could convince him, but it wouldn't be tonight. Instead she set the photo still in her hand down and shifted to stand. She could feel his gaze on her, his voice hesitant. "Liz…?"

"Just a sec," she answered, moving into the kitchen. She checked two drawers before finally finding the one with the screwdriver in it and moved over to the vent in the wall. She crouched down, starting in on loosening the screws.

"What are you doing?" Tom didn't move from his place, but at least some of the tenseness had finally eased from his voice. It was almost amused, like he knew exactly what she was doing, but wanted verification before believing it.

"Well we're four flights up and we're just renting the place for now, so carving a secret hole in the floor probably isn't the way to go." She pried the tin screen loose and looked over her shoulder. "Passports are in the bedroom, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

She shot him an expectant look and he chuckled as he stood, disappearing long enough to retrieve them. He crouched down with her, handing over his go-box. She took it, fingers brushing across the old wood, and slid it into its new hiding place.

"I know I push you about looking into your past," she said softly as Tom handed her the vent covering to put back into place. "And if you're ever ready, I'm right here. With you."

He didn't say anything and she turned to look at him, finding the man she loved staring at her with wide, glassy eyes as if he didn't know what to make of the promise. She rocked forward, her hand sliding around to the back of his neck to pull him in. He met her halfway so that his lips pressed against hers, and when they finally broke the kiss neither were in a rush to put any distance between them. "I love you," he breathed, his voice trembling a little.

"You too," she answered softly and looked up, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "I don't know about you, but I really need a shower."

His lips tugged outward in a real smile. "That an invitation?"

"Sure hope so." She pressed one more playful kiss against his lips before popping to her feet, Tom following immediately behind her, leaving the box from his childhood stored safely away. The past could wait.

Notes:

So... it's been a while. Hi! lol

I've been sliding down a slippery slope and back into the Blacklist fandom full-force between working on my original scripts lately. The episode where Liz pulled Tom's go box out of the hideaway in the wall cut the breaks on it I think. I've been doing a full rewatch and I'm hoping to pick a multi-chapter Tom Lives fic up again during the hiatus. Who knows? I haven't had a ton of time for fic writing, but we'll see. I definitely have ideas for it.

This one came about in part from that episode and also a conversation I had with my podcast partner Tessa about how long Tom has had his box. She had the fantastic idea that it might have been something he had with him when he was taken and I love it. I happily blame her for helping to spark this idea.