Choices

Disclaimer: Yeah, the usual. Own nothing, just playing in the sandbox for a while.

What month is it?

November.

Well then, Happy Anniversary, Liz.

The son of a bitch had no idea how close to right he'd been. Just two days off from the actual day when he'd tossed off that mocking salutation.

Two days in which she'd chased down the lead Tom had given her, worried about her partner and his lingering addiction issues, played another round of verbal volleyball with Red, chased their latest Blacklister, worried some more about her partner, attempted to avert world nuclear disaster, been in a hellacious car accident, experienced guilt over presumably losing the man they thought was an operative, woken up in a hospital, felt massive anguish over the thought her partner had suffered potentially life-threatening injuries, put together the pieces that led to the realization they'd been kidnapped, felt massive relief that her partner was not, in fact, grievously injured, fought their way out of the hospital-that-wasn't, been shot at—multiple times—nearly caught the bad guy who would have unleashed nuclear Armageddon, rescued one of the country's brightest and most important minds, revealed an unexpected truth to her partner, learned the bad guy was now sporting a bullet to the brain and water-logged to boot, before returning to spar some more with her ex-husband, concluding with his challenge to look him in the eyes when she did…whatever.

And all that was just the first day.

The second day had brought with it an unexpected day off, mandated by Cooper, after the adrenaline had worn off and the lingering effects of the accident had made themselves known.

They'd promptly been shuttled to the real Bethesda Medical Center but obviously, hadn't been examined in the same room and afterward, Ressler had been predictably tight-lipped on the ride back to the Post Office. Obviously, he didn't want to slip up and reveal anything that could make its way back to Cooper, borne on the wings—or lips—of a junior agent eager to move up the ranks, perhaps at the expense of the agent he was ratting out. However, he had given her what she thought was supposed to be a reassuring glance when they parted in the Post Office parking garage that placated her. Sort of.

Which was why she was sitting in her hotel room, nursing a beer, and worrying. And fuming some more at Tom, the mocking son of a bitch. And worrying some more as her thoughts returned time and again to an exchange that had lasted barely ten seconds and that had stayed with her ever since, burrowed deep into her subconscious but emerging with increasing regularity until it played on a virtual repeat loop in her mind.

I thought for a second we might lose you back there.

The prospect of having to live without me—must've been terrifying.

It was.

God. She would never have said anything… pretty much ever—or at least, not for a long, long, long time. Their lives—not to mention, her little secret life as vendetta-seeking hellcat who did whatever she wanted, according to her son of a bitch ex—didn't exactly lend itself to heartfelt revelations. But this time, it had been so close. Too damned close. She could still feel the searing pain that had gripped her with physical intensity, overshadowing the actual physical aches and pains, at the sight of him unconscious in that bed. The fear that had grown with every moment no one came to check on him. And the overwhelming relief, followed closely by a powerful rage when she realized they'd been duped. And he'd been drugged. Because no, dammit. Not again.

Rolling the bottle against her forehead, the beaded condensation cooling her skin, she risked probing a bit further—poking at the more tender-to-the-touch moments of the previous day. Specifically, how he'd looked at her as she shook him awake—confusion, recognition, followed closely by relief, and then… trust. He trusted her so implicitly he'd simply done her bidding—followed without question. He had leaned on her as they stumbled through the labyrinthine warehouse with no pretense, no protests that he didn't need her help, that he was fine, that he could do it on his own. And when it mattered, his training and instincts had kicked in and he'd pulled her from the path of a bullet, holding her close as Samar had arrived in time to deliver the deadly shot that saved them both.

Hell yeah, it had been terrifying to imagine—even for a second—what her life would be like without him.

That she'd said it out loud, however?

She sighed and drained the lukewarm remains of her beer, slamming the empty bottle on the table with more force than was perhaps strictly necessary.

With any luck he'd been too sunk in the euphoric aftereffects of the drugs pumped into his system and the adrenaline of the accident and firefight—both of them—to truly hear her. To hear the tremor coloring the two simple words that had revealed so much more than mere concern for a partner. A horrible thing to admit, but then lately, she hadn't been a whole lot better than horrible.

Her phone buzzed, reverberating in the tomblike silence of the room. Oh for God's sake—really? Didn't he have anthills to poke with sticks or traffic in which to go frolic or something that wasn't bothering her for once? She deliberated not answering but knew that wasn't really an option. He'd simply find some other way. Didn't mean she had to give in without a fight. Or at least token resistance. She hit the speaker button, somehow needing the small measure of keeping the phone at a distance. As if she could pretend he was at a distance.

As if that was ever possible.

Without preamble she snapped, "Not now, Red—Cooper decreed I have the day off and since in theory you answer to him—"

The familiar, mocking laugh filled the room so fully, it was almost as if he was there in the room with her, head cocked in that knowing tilt as he peered through the amber lenses of the glasses which served as his device for keeping people at a distance. "Oh, Lizzie, it's so delightful you imagine that to be the case."

Put it down to wishful thinking. But she didn't say it. Not that she needed to. She had a feeling he knew. The way he always knew. That constant knowing was getting sort of tiresome.

Really tiresome.

"What do you want, Red?"

"Me? Nothing. But I know what you want."

"A pony?"

He sighed—that long-suffering, patient parent sigh that made her feel about six years old. "Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie…"

And like a six-year-old, she sort of wanted to throw herself to the ground and drum her heels on the floor and for good measure, maybe throw things. And scream.

"You think I don't know what today is? Or perhaps more accurately, was?"

Of course he knew.

And since he knew and since he clearly had more to say, she felt no compelling need to respond.

"I don't think you should be alone tonight."

"Look, Red, I don't think—"

"Not with me," he broke in, for once blunt. "Not that I, personally, wouldn't welcome your company, but somehow, I suspect there's someone else who would enjoy seeing you even more. And with whom I know you would much prefer to spend your evening. This evening, especially."

For a brief, terrifying moment she thought maybe he knew about Tom. And that this was his sly, Red-like way of letting her know he knew. But that was irrational right? And impossible, right?

Right?

But before she could formulate some sort of vague question that might get her the answer she sought, a declisive click echoed through the room, signaling conversation's end. A moment later, however, the phone buzzed again. Not bothering to look at the display, she snatched it up and barked, "What the hell are you playing at?"

"Let me guess—you thought I was Red. And hello to you, too."

"Don." She slumped against the pillows, a relieved breath whooshing out as she made contact. "Yes, Red. Because he seems to get an inordinate amount of joy from tormenting me with enigmatic conversations, even on what should be my day off."

Ressler sighed and in her mind's eye, Liz could easily see him rubbing the back of his neck, envision the weary slump of his shoulders. But his voice sounded clear and as he spoke, she could even detect the faintest hint of his trademark dry humor. God, she'd missed that. She hadn't even realized how very much until she heard it now.

"And here I was going to ask if you had any idea why Dembe was at my door, telling me to expect you within the hour along with delivery of a catered dinner for two."

Her breath caught so sharply, all she could manage in response was a soft, "Oh."

Damn Red. Damn him for knowing. Damn him for being so maddeningly right.

"Liz—" Don's voice dropped a notch and again, she could envision him—turning his back to Dembe, not that it mattered, since Liz suspected the man was just as preternaturally gifted as his employer with respect to knowing… things. Just not quite so malicious in the use of said knowledge. "I also got the distinct feeling Dembe was here to… check on me. Make sure I was… okay, you know?"

"Yeah," she answered hestitantly, understanding exactly what he meant, yet not entirely sure where he was going with this.

"You didn't say anything to Reddington, did you?"

"God, no—he's the last person I'd tell. But you know how he is—"

Again, Don sighed. "I know, I know. Believe me, I know. Bastard somehow even knew I was B-negative, even though he did do me the courtesy of asking while I was bleeding out."

"Excuse me, but what?"

To her surprise, Don chuckled. That soft, sardonic laugh that was yet another sound she hadn't realized she missed until just now. "Long story. That I suppose I'll tell you over dinner. If, that is, you're coming."

"Yes." There was no hesitation, no fumbling.

"Good." Now she could see the half-smile that tended to grace his features when he was especially pleased. The only thing that eclipsed that half-smile was the full smile he only employed on the rarest of occasions.

It had been far too long since she'd seen it.

Maybe… tonight?

A fluttering sensation overtook her stomach that she tamped down with vicious immediacy. It was enough to have already gotten what little she had. And more was absolutely not in the cards right now. Dinner, however…

"I'll be there in an hour."

"Great. Oh, and Keen?"

"Yeah?"

"You might want to wear something nice. Given that Reddington's arranged this dinner I suspect we're going to have a five star meal and wine that's worth more than both our combined monthly salaries."

A bright, delighted laugh erupted that died almost as suddenly as it had appeared.

"Don?"

"Yeah?"

She hesitated not wanting to put a damper on the evening even before it had started, but wanting there to be no pretense or mystery behind the evening's provenence.

Taking a deep breath she quietly said, "Red's arranged this dinner because today's my anniversary. Or would have been. I guess… still is. He doesn't think I should be alone."

After a beat of silence, he said, "You know, no matter what Reddington says, you don't have to come over. You don't have to do a damned thing you don't want to, Liz."

You're gonna do whatever the hell you're gonna do—you always have.

Tom's words, laced with bitterness that went far deeper than even the sham that had been their marriage echoed in her mind even as Don's voice, steady and sure, vibrated softly against her ear.

"An hour."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

"All right. See you then."

Even though she couldn't see it, she could almost imagine the smile gracing his features—maybe not quite the full smile, but definitely more than the half-smile.

It was a start.

As she set the phone down, a sharp knock sounded. Out of habit, she reached into the bedside drawer for her sidearm and slowly approached the door, peering through the curtains as she did.

No one was there, but from the corner of her eye, she caught the briefest flash of a dark, well-cut coat and a snappy fedora. Nevertheless, she remained cautious as she opened the door glancing around and noting nothing out of the ordinary until she looked down. Propped against the wall beside the door was a large white dress box, tied with a lavish deep red bow. Inside the room, she opened it to discover a simple cashmere dress in the exact same shade of red as the bow. The three-quarter length sleeves were fitted as was the bodice, while the skirt fell in long, soft folds almost to her ankles There were large, polished black buttons down the front, the waistband was trimmed with Deco-inspired embroidery and it was altogether the most elegant thing she'd worn in a long, long time. Not to mention, diametrically opposed to the dark severe suits and jeans and close-cut tanks and hoodies that comprised the majority of her wardrobe these days. Beneath the dress lay a pair of black platform pumps and in a velvet box, a classic pearl necklace and earrings.

She was going to yell at him for all of this—for his presumption and arrogance and every damned thing that made Red so infuriatingly Red.

But not tonight.

Not with the note she'd found tucked in the box with the necklace and earrings.

It's not just you who doesn't need to be alone tonight, Lizzie. He's had a rough time of it of late, our Donald has. It's going to be a difficult road for him and right now is a particularly precarious time.

For both of you.

It's all about the choices we make, Lizzie. Sometimes, those choices are out of our hands, but the vast majority are not.

Make the right choice, Lizzie. Tonight and… well, let's start with tonight, shall we?

Oh, and tell Donald I have the name of a good physician who can help with any lingering symptoms—should he feel the need. I suspect that offer will be met wth typical Ressler scorn, however, you'll let me know if assistance is needed? Despite what both of you might think, I am rather fond of our Donald.

And you.

Have a good dinner.

Part of her still wanted to pistol-whip him. She might still.

But not tonight.

Tonight, was for a different choice altogether.