AN: A post- Braxton scenario. Enjoy, thank you for reading and please leave a comment!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Don't touch me.

Three daggers aimed right his way. Right on target.

God, she must have noticed it. How couldn't she? That broken look. It wasn't a complete novelty now, it used to be, but not anymore, not since she had so carefully crafted her weapons, studied all contingencies and effects. She knew what she was doing and she had every right to just go along with it because explanations rarely came easy in her universe, because nothing seemed to make sense, and every time he had managed to gain her trust he had lost it all the same. So there he stood, quite visibly in pain. And then she had left. You can stop pretending now, she had said. Brutal. It would be so much easier if it were all an act, if he wouldn't in fact feel the sharp sting somewhere deep inside of him, if he could swallow all her accusations and not feel sick, if he could just feel nothing. Yes, pretense would have been a luxury. But this was all very real. Like burns creeping down his back. The taste of ash on his tongue.

It's not like he didn't understand her reaction because he did. It was logical, frankly, for her to cling to her rationality and hadn't her rationality taught her so little about love and so much about betrayal? The fulcrum, the ubiquitous undercurrent of their relationship, and the last piece in her arranged puzzle. It fit in so nicely, and why else would he care about her anyway? That's where she was wrong, of course. If only she could make herself believe it. She had listened so attentively to his stories. And yet...

Well. There had been plans. Rich in detail, plotted and executed skillfully and unforgivingly. With crimson footprints on marble floors and scars all across his conscience and skin, sure, people had been traced and eliminated and wasn't that business as usual, wasn't that how it worked. But she, she was unaccounted for. A variable he couldn't have predicted. The flaw, the delicate, seismic flaw in his equation. And so plans had been adjusted and discontinued and disregarded, all at the touch of her hands, with her name on the tip of his tongue like a confession.

She shouldn't have to endure this. Memories were apt to poison and to torture and she needed none of that, she had been through enough. She should never have followed him in the first place, but that's who she was, independent and strong, maybe I actually care about what happens to you, and what if this were true. Would he indulge in the fantasy? Would he ever be able to let go?

And then steam and smoke and explosions and missiles and she was taken from him. He could swear he had felt her hands pressing down on his chest at one point- breathe- and her skin brushing his nose- breathe, you son of a bitch- or maybe he had dreamt it, he had longed for it. Braxton speaking of a fire, he definitely hadn't imagined that, and he should have shot him on sight and things would have gone differently. But all the ifs and whens amounted to nothing. At least she was safe. At least he had saved her. And doesn't everything come at a price?

Whiskey used to be much more effective, he thinks, or maybe it could only ever scrape the surface of his troubles and he could concede to the sweet possibility of an indifferent void. But now, with the glass in his hands and Lizzie gone, his predicament was very much present in the darkness of the room, pertinacious in nature and spreading, like the cold winter haze. Would he let it stand? Would he let them consume him, all these groundless claims? It's a game, a manipulation. A final sip. That's why you came into my life then. Buttoning his vest. Not because of me, who I am to you. Coat over his shoulder. Some object, some thing. A door closes.

No. No, he wouldn't.

What the hell is this?

Inside a bunny, of all places, what a cliché contradiction, the innocent quite literally absorbing the culprit. Or whatever this was. Secrets, certainly, conspiracies and contrivances and why the hell was she holding it in her palm?

Questions seemed to submerge her at a relentless pace and she, well, she was still marveling at it, this tiny thing that held her past and future so concisely restrained. It's all childish wonder, presents in stockings, something of the kind, but this of course was dangerous, this was life-changing and this made no fucking sense. And there's a knock on the door and she flinches violently, like waking up from a dream, good or bad she doesn't know.

She hides it. Not as dexterously as she extracted it, but it's safe nonetheless, and it's gone again and it's just a bunny now, some unconventional treasure chest. And she puts the bunny under her pillow and checks for her gun before he hears his voice. Lizzie, it's me.

She ignores it, this flicker of relief that had emerged for a mere second. The means to an end, remember, that's what she was and nothing more. The role she was supposed to play. Maybe some day it wouldn't hurt as much. Maybe some day she wouldn't even think about opening the door. But there it is again, Lizzie, and she turns the knob and watches him step over the threshold invasively. Dammit.

"What do you want?"

Her tone is cold and distant and all things cruel. Her hair just a bit disheveled, her sweater pitch black, comfortable. He wants to run his fingers along the seams, soak up its warmth and her suspicions in the process.

"I need to talk to you." He's taken off his hat and placed it on the nightstand, has somewhat inadvertently made himself at home. She doesn't miss this, but doesn't protest either.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Which seems convenient because I'd like to do the talking." Out of place. He needs to focus. She's far away.

"Five minutes. That's all you get."

"Fair enough."

"So?"

"I'd like to tell you a story."

It seemed ridiculous and she couldn't believe she had actually let him in after everything this day had revealed, but there he was, with tired yet, dare she say it, kind eyes and he wants to tell her a story. And she nods and his voice is deep and calm.

"In Mexico there are these fish that have colonized the fresh water caves along Sierra del Abra."

He can't be serious.

"They were lost. They found themselves living in complete darkness, but they didn't die. Instead they thrived."

What the hell was he doing?

"You've told me this story, Red."

"Yes." He looks straight at her. "But you didn't listen."

"I heard every word."

"But you didn't listen." He pauses briefly. "Lizzie, I need you to listen."

What?

"Go on then."

"They thrived. They adapted. They lost their pigmentation, their sight, eventually even their eyes. With survival they became hideous."

He stops, if just for a second, and steps forward as if to test her. And she can't get herself to move. And when did this grief surface in his eyes? What did she miss?

"I've rarely thought about what I once was. But I wonder-"

Another step.

"If a ray of light were to make it into the cave…"

And another.

"Would I be able to see it? Feel it?"

She can barely breathe. With her arms crossed like a shield, with his proximity enlacing her, capturing her, she can barely breathe.

He needs a moment. He needs a moment because all he can think about is the nape of her neck against his calloused palm and her hand encircling his and her hair flowing through his fingers and her screams and turn around and go back, Lizzie, turn around.

The mingling air between them and all these voices and these merciless, these clueless intruders.

"Would I gravitate to its warmth?"

Her shaking form, rendered powerless, struck by lightning and haunted by the past, it reverberated within him as well, these shared scars, and he would never let anything happen to her.

"And if I did…"

He had held on to her so tightly, so intimately. Trying to protect her from an aftermath he couldn't control. Her twisted perception. Blinded by doubt.

"Would I become…"

His time was up.

"Less hideous?"

Well.

She doesn't even know where to start.

There's a lump in her throat and an ache in her bones and that distance she had so rigorously maintained is gone. Completely. And now he is right in front of her and she doesn't know where to start.

He had been right. She hadn't listened that first time. At least not carefully.

She had missed the essentials. The bigger picture. His perfectly timed pauses, for instance, and how his eyes had never left hers. The silent pleas and appeals and musings, all right there in his poignant gaze. All right there out in the open for her to see. What he had offered her were indeed explanations and answers, disguised so deftly, so elegantly.

And the pain, yes, there was that too. Self- hatred, the burden of the monster, seeking redemption and absolution from its place in the dark, a ray of light. How could she have missed it? A burst of sunlight on my cheek. This propensity for metaphors. None of it is worse than losing you. The gifted storyteller.

She wanted to trust him so badly. And weren't memories prone to deception? Weren't his declarations sincere? Didn't he come back for her?

I need you to listen.

"Red," she whispers and he's daring now, touches her cheek and waits for her to withdraw and yell but she never does.

"It's not a charade, Lizzie."

Gingerly runs his fingers through her hair.

"It's not a charade."

No metaphors, no allusions this time. No room for interpretation. He tells her this in very clear terms, not like an excuse, more like an indisputable fact. There were so few of those in her life now. Some sense of truth, of security. And his hand is so warm. And he presses his lips to her temple and says forgive me and she realizes then she already has and that this feels like hope and yes, he really does gravitate towards her.

And when a wistful sigh escapes her he encircles her with his arms, very softly so, the criminal who kills so willingly for her sake and threatens and inquires and is she okay? She will be, he knows, and this was more a beginning than an end. This was forgiveness or as much of it as he deserved. As much as she was willing to give.

She needs him, too. He notices the little things, how she grasps the back of his coat and how she takes deep breaths and how she closes her eyes and how she doesn't object to his contact. That's the key. That's how his wounds start to heal.

When she pulls back there's reverence in his expression, awe and gratitude, and it conjures something, that look, god, it's so tender and honest. And this is not about a tiny object, about the long-eared treasure chest, no, this is all about her. He is very much focused on her. Could he see it? Feel it? Would he become-

It's confirmation, her lips on his. It's vanishing doubts and dawning trust and an utter lack of pretense and it's a million intricately woven stories.

And she listens.