Were Not Promised Tomorrow

Chapter 1:

Helplessness is not an emotion with which Red is intimately acquainted.

He is familiar with foresight and planning, accustomed to being three steps ahead of everyone else, armed with layer upon layer of contingencies, cloaked in expertly designed exit strategies, and outfitted with an arsenal of influence. Being helpless is not a feeling he recognizes well.

And yet, after replaying the day's events in his mind, he can not, for the life of him, pinpoint where they had gone so very wrong. His contact had been unimpeachable, the location secure, the most current Blacklister unaware of Red's deception; nevertheless, here they are, confined to a concrete cell in the lower recesses of an early 18th century dungeon and neither his team nor the FBI task force would be able to track them.

His ribs hurt, he realizes, rubbing his hand absently across his right side. Bruised, he thinks, possibly broken. His chest is aching, but not from the injury; his heart is heavy with failure. He couldn't protect her and he can't save her now.

A shuffling sound from across the room alerts him to Elizabeth waking, recovered from the blow she had sustained when they had been tossed unceremoniously into the cell. He hears her groan into the blackness.

Lizzie sits up and looks around her, apprising her surroundings. They are in a large, open cell, surrounded on three sides by dark stone, the last wall comprised of thick iron bars. A small, barred window is recessed high up on the exterior wall, filtering moonlight through the grate, too far away for them to reach, even working together.

Her eyes find Red across the space, sitting with his back against the opposite wall, one black-clad knee bent, the other leg stretched out in front of him. His tailored black vest is torn, pressed, white shirt grimy with dirt and sweat and blood. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to just below the elbows, collar open at the neck. There is blood staining his temple, drying on his neck.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"I'm fine, Lizzie, how are you feeling?" concern winning out over despair in his voice.

"My head hurts," she responds, cringing, hand going to her left temple.

"I'm not surprised," he informs her. "You'll likely have a lump; that incompetent guard knocked your head into the bars when he dumped you inside. Probably not a concussion, luckily"

She is trying to remember something. He waits, the tightness in his chest growing.

They were supposed to meet someone......the Blacklister. They had been waiting at the drop site when the shooting started and everything had gone sideways.

Dismay dawns on her face. "Your contact?" she asks.

"Dead."

"And Dembe?"

"Still in Egypt," Far too far away to be of any use to them now, and unreachable in any case. They hadn't been in contact for the past 72 hours; he was scuttled away on another assignment. Dembe wouldn't even know where they had gone until it was too late.

Lizzie peers at Red in the darkness; she wants to be closer to him but he is being uncharacteristically tight-lipped and hasn't made any move to bring himself to her side. She finds that she can move and she is grateful; at least they aren't chained.

"You told your people we were coming here," she continues, remembering.

He nods in the darkness.

"They're all dead."

Again, that faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, confirming her words.

"We lied to the task force. They think we're in Spain," she reasons it out, her mind working through the steps to ensure there is nothing she has missed.

She comes to the same awareness that he has already, and far more quickly. She pauses, unwilling to give voice to desperation, "There is no way we're getting out of this alive."

Her words are a blade, twisting in his gut. She knows, then, he thinks.

She is so calm and he is grateful for it. He half expected her to scream, to rail at him for his failure and he would have welcomed it, but all the same, he is thankful for her cool.

They are quiet for a moment, the gloom of the cell settling over them like a fog. What else, really, is there to say?

"Did you know that this particular style of dungeon was built to...." he begins thoughtfully, desperate to distract her from their melancholy circumstances.

"I don't want a story," she interrupts.

Red stops, the silence passing between them. The night becomes a breathing thing, the quiet a friend in the dark. Suddenly, she can't bear the distance between them anymore.

She crawls towards him and settles, inches away. They are so close together now, facing one another, and he is waiting for the her to speak first, to make the first move because he knows what he wants, but he is unsure of her intention. Her hand reaches out to touch his face, craving contact with him. She wipes her fingers over the smudge of dirt on his cheek. She is sure, quiet, she needs no words for this. She slides closer, hooking her legs over his, straddling him, pulling herself into his lap.

Her hands are smoothing over his chest, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, coaxing him towards her.

"Lizzie," his whisper is a warning.

"I'm not wasting any more time," she breaths, and closes her lips over his.

And he gives in, kissing her back, passionately. Because he wants to, he has wanted to for so long. Because he has failed her and he cannot bear to fail her again and pushing her away would only be another failure of her. Because they are doomed and hopeless. Because there is no longer a reason not to.

He tears his mouth from hers, breathless.

"I thought we'd have more time..." his words are pained, regretful, a tear in his eye.

"Shhhhh, it doesn't matter" she calms him, kissing the corner of his mouth, "It was never going to be long enough."

"Lizzie," his voice is a deep merlot washing over her, intoxicating, "Lizzie, I'm sorry." He needs to tell her, he needs to make sure she knows.

"I'm not," she tells him simply. "No apologies now, Raymond; no regrets. Just this, just us. Please."

And he can no longer deny her. He crushes her to his chest, arms tightening around her back, his lips opening on hers, allowing her to feel all the things he has kept from her for so long. There will be no secrets between them after this, nothing concealed; only a desperate longing for more time.

He is desperate for her, but Lizzie is all slow touches in the darkness, caressing his skin with her fingers, her lips, her own soft flesh. He is transported out of this dingy cell and they are lying on Guatemalan beaches stroked by warm tropical breezes, they are nestled in a vast sleigh bed in a mountain-top chalet swathed in moonlight, they are floating on his catamaran lulled by seabirds and the gentle wash of the waves. They are everywhere he wanted to take her. With her in his arms, they are everything.

Her kiss is searing, a direct contrast to her supple body arching into his chest. Red runs his hands down the satin skin of her arms, left bare by her black tank top. Her skin is flushed and scorching to his touch. He wants to savor this. He buries his face in her neck, breathing in the exquisite fragrance of her skin. He runs his tongue along her pulse point slowly, gently biting down until he hears her answering sigh. He brings his hands up, tangling in her hair, angling her head so he can capture her lips with his again.

Lizzie presses herself closer to him, her hands slowly dragging his shirt from his pants, unbuttoning his vest with care, her mouth sweeping over him endlessly, kissing him like he is her oxygen. She closes her eyes, letting her head fall back, her dark hair cascading down her spine, offering herself up to his touch.

Red's hands find her, brushing against the sides of her breasts beneath her top, pushing the cloth slowly up her body, leaning forward to capture her satin flesh with his mouth. She moans softly in the dark and he sinks his teeth slightly into her nipple.

Lizzie reaches down to his lap, tugging at his zipper, freeing him from the constraints of cloth. She lifts her hips, allowing Red to drag her black tights down her legs. He cups her tenderly, stroking deeply with his fingers; she is already wet and ready for him. She wraps her hand around him, positioning him under her and sinks down onto his shaft, tortuously slow, until he is buried to the hilt inside her heat.

All at once, time slows down for them both. He is holding her against him and she is gazing into his eyes and suddenly, there is nothing in the world that matters more than them, than this. He is inside her, moving gently, slowly thrusting and she matches his pace. He is more than Lizzie had dreamed he could be; he is everything.

Red is overcome by her; not even in his wildest imaginings had she responded so lovingly, with such passion. He desperately wants to memorize every feature of this moment.

She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, unhurried in the pursuit of her pleasure, mindful of his bruised ribs as she moves against him, seeking relief from the ache in her loins and the ache in her heart.

They move together easily, thrusting and withdrawing, her body rising up over his, his face upturned to her kiss, lips pursing in concentration, all his reverence for her gleaming in his eyes.

Theirs is a gradual heat, a progressive burn creeping by degrees that slowly becomes a blistering inferno. Their lovemaking takes on a dreamy quality, as though neither can believe this fantasy has finally come true.

"Lizzie....." he murmurs her name like a prayer and her control breaks like a dam, the dream shattered at the sound of his voice, spurring her passion on to new heights and suddenly, they are hungry for each other, ardently trying to find redemption in each other's touch for what little time they have left. She increases her pace as Red lifts her, his hands bracing under her thighs so his hips can rise to meet her. She shivers around him, her muscles clenching at his shaft, sending him over edge. Quivering, they come together, her soft cries and his deep growl of release echoing off the walls of the stone chamber.

Lizzie's hands are on the sides of his neck, his head resting on the pillow of her breasts. They are incandescent, passion glowing in the dark, urgent and fierce and smoldering.

Slowly, her hold on him slackens and she collapses against him, her body soft and pliable in his arms, lungs heaving, a fine sheen of sweat cooling on her skin. She is tremulous in his embrace. She desperately wants to weep, for the lost time they wasted, for the fact that there will be no more second chances; but greater than her desire to cry is the need to remain strong for Red for these last few minutes together. She bestills her lamentations, swallowing down the shuddering sobs that threaten to surface.

"There are so many things I wanted for you..." he is trying to tell her how much she means to him, but he doesn't have the words.

"We had this," she reassures him, letting him know that she understands, absolving him of all his failures, real and imagined. "It's enough."

"It isn't enough!" he responds vehemently, anger at his own helplessness radiating off him.

"It will be enough," she tells him firmly, "because it has to be enough." She is staring at him intently in the darkness, her goodbyes shining in her eyes, her hands wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, resting his forehead against hers. "I love you, Raymond." She pulls back from him just far enough to press her lips to his forehead. She is his salvation, a balm to his lonely soul.

There is a clamoring outside their cell, but they ignore it, their attention fixated on each other. They are out of time. Her eyes close, a single tear slipping down her cheek. He holds her, breathing her in. He raises his head, she stares into his eyes, their hands clasped together over his heart. Without words, they are saying goodbye.

Chapter 2:

The noises outside their cell become louder, more frantic, staccato gunfire pinging the shadows of the dungeon. Shuffling and shouts echo down the corridor, sounds bouncing off the stone surrounding them. Lizzie presses a last kiss to Red's lips and moves, leveraging herself off of him, reaching for her discarded clothing.

Red watches her replace her pants, tucking himself back inside his own. Their eyes never stray from the other's face; no longer touching, yet still connected.

The iron bars of the cell are thrown open, the clanging sounds like an explosion next to their heads. There is shouting, loud, angry commands, and a pair of hands grabbing Lizzie roughly out of the darkness. She twists around, desperately seeking Red's eyes once more, but the men in black descend on him as well, blocking her vision and she is dragged out of the cell. There is smoke everywhere, stinging Lizzie's eyes as she tries to follow the shadowy figure out of the lower level.

Behind her, Red is shouting her name. She turns again, but another figure at her back grabs her shoulders, spinning her around, hands digging into her back, forcing her forward. How can this be the end?

Red lurches as two heavily-outfitted men drag him from the floor, his ribs protesting their force. He watches Lizzie's back disappear around the corner of the passage, a flash of her frightened eyes when she turns back to find him.

He calls her name, but she is gone and they are pulling him forward. His mind is screaming his resistance at them, but his body follows, back straightening, the determined, easy guise of the Concierge slipping back into place. He will not go slouched and despairing, no matter the turmoil inside his heart.

His captors herd him out of the cell, in the direction of the others and he goes willingly; will he have another chance to see her before the end?

Gunfire erupts around them in the hallway, their jailors returning fire. Lizzie pulls herself from the haze of her disheartenment enough to wonder who is shooting at them here.

Red and Lizzie are hurried up a steep, stone staircase, the faceless black-clothed men rushing them to the top. Lizzie is the first to burst through the door at the apex of the staircase, and out into the night, burning bright with searchlights all around and suddenly, it's like the world shudders into slow motion. She stops, dead in her tracks, her head slowly turning from side to side, eyes sweeping her surroundings, disbelieving. Her mouth ajar, she takes it all in. The FBI is everywhere, swarming the ancient stronghold, helicopters hovering overhead.

She spins around, her eyes searching for Red's face. He is gaping around them in shock, his usual surety replaced by an expression of utter surprise, hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the lights. And then, he finds her, gaze settling on her, taking in her tender features smudged with dirt, her beautiful eyes piercing him with her stare.

She wants to run to him, then, to throw herself into his arms and reassure herself that they are both still alive, that this is not a dream; that in some bizarre twist of fate, they have been escorted to freedom rather than marched to their death. She is about to close the distance between them when she hears her name being called frantically.

She whips around to find her partner running towards her across the grass.

"Ressler! How did you find us?!" she exclaims when he reaches her, sweeping her into an uncharacteristic hug, spinning her around.

"You don't actually think we believe anything Reddington tells us, do you?" he teases. "We tracked you. When he insisted on this undercover op being just the two of you, Samar added a GPS tracker to the underwire of your bra," he blushes, uncomfortable. "After Zurich......well, let's just say the Bureau doesn't want any more close calls where Reddington's involved."

Liz smiles away her incredulity, "I'm going to overlook the gross intrusion of my privacy in favor of gratitude right now," she jokes.

She glances at Red over Ressler's shoulder; he is being looked over by a paramedic. She can see a flourish of purpling bruises exploding over his ribs and her heart constricts as he winces in pain under the medic's attention. Red lifts his eyes, catching her watching him. His eyes blaze and she can feel the heat searing her from here, heavy with all that is unspoken between them. She swallows; there is so much they need to say, but it will have to wait.

Ressler is speaking again, pulling her attention away from Red's heated gaze.

"Do you need a doctor, Keen?" he is concerned; mistaking the look of pain that has shifted over her features.

"No," she answers hurriedly, "No, I'm fine...My head is just a little sore," she covers with a bland explanation.

"We should get you checked out. You could have a concussion," Ressler signals to a paramedic.

"No, Ress, really I'm fine. It was a bump, that's all. I didn't lose consciousness and I'm not nauseous," Liz insists, waving him away. "I need to check on Reddington." She brushes past him, swiftly crossing the space to the ambulance where Red is being bandaged.

"What's the verdict?" she asks.

"Bruised, possibly broken, at least three ribs," Red smiles up at her ruefully, cocking his head to the side. "You need to be examined as well."

"I'm fine," she replies.

He looks at her pointedly, "Lizzie, you're not. You're likely in shock. You suffered a blow to the head and you were unconscious for at least two minutes. You could have a concussion."

"Are they taking you to the hospital?" she asks, changing the subject back to him easily.

"Nothing they can do for ribs except wrap them and that can be done here," he gestures to the medic. "An x-ray is an unnecessary procedure which will only confirm what I can already feel."

"What about pain meds?" she queries. "They must hurt."

"I am quite certain that the medication I have already at my disposal quite exceeds whatever they would prescribe here." Liz quirks an eyebrow at this, but refrains from commenting on his secret stash of prescription, and likely illegal, drugs.

Ressler ambles over to them, file in hand.

"You almost finished here?" he asks the medic. "I need to debrief you both," he tells them.

"Tomorrow," Red answers immediately, before Liz can reply.

"We need an explanation for what happened here tonight. We need to know how this whole thing went down," Ressler is ever the company man, pleading the case for expediency.

"Agent Ressler, Agent Keen and I have had a very trying 48 hours. I am jet-lagged and injured; Agent Keen likely has a concussion. We both need to rest. We will debrief with you in the morning," Red answers the agent's protest in a clipped tone, leaving no room for argument.

Ressler stares at him for a moment, duty and compassion warring on his face. "I'll escort you back to the hotel," he sighs. "The FBI has a block of rooms reserved in the city."

"No need!" Red responds cheerfully. "We already have accommodations at hotel near here, undoubtedly more well-appointed than the FBI could afford. I have certain standards, you know, and our belongings are already there."

"Fine," Ressler answers tightly, lips pursed. He turns to Liz, "If you really do have a concussion, you need to see a doctor and we need to arrange for someone to stay with you at your hotel to check on you tonight."

"Nonsense, Donald!" Red's voice cheerfully interrupts again. "Nothing will happen to our dear Agent Keen. It's all taken care of."

Liz shrugs her shoulders as if to say why bother arguing with him?

"I'll be fine, Ressler," she reassures him. "I just want to get a shower and some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow, ok?" And suddenly, he's sees how tired she is, how worn from the ordeal.

Ressler lets out a frustrated breath, "Ok, Keen. You two get some rest and I'll meet you in the morning to get your stories." He starts to walk away, then turns around again. "I'm glad you're alright."