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fandomweekly2016-02-16 06:58 pm
sealrat) wrote in fandomweekly2016-02-16 06:58 pm
Entry tags:
[#003] Mediterranean Blue (The Blacklist)
Theme Prompt: Domestic Bliss
Title: Mediterranean Blue
Fandom: The Blacklist
Rating/Warnings: PG-13? Spoilers for the end of Season 2
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 999
Summary: Two years of marriage, and Tom and Elizabeth Keen are finally getting to know each other.
The sun is already well overhead by the time she starts to wake up, drifting in and out of sleep to the gentle rocking of the boat. There are sparkles of light on the water through the window when she opens her eyes, too bright to see the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea properly. It’s enough to know it’s out there.
What day is it? she wonders, before remembering that it doesn’t actually matter. They aren’t living on the clock any longer, and such trifling distinctions as ‘weekends’ and ‘weekdays’ vanished when they left the Atlantic seaboard behind them. Her fingertips touch the ceiling of the cabin as she stretches – Tom had bought a nice boat, but it was still smaller and shorter than her first apartment. One of his shirts is hanging on the back of the desk chair, and she slides into it in case they’re close enough to the harbor to be seen.
The deck is warm under her bare feet when Elizabeth finally surfaces, naked but for underwear and Tom’s shirt. She breathes in the salt-kissed air and scans the horizon; she can see St. Julian’s Bay Harbor off the port side, and nothing but water on the other.
“No one is following us out here,” comes a voice from behind a copy of the Times of Malta. Tom is lounging against the cushioned bench at the rear of the boat, the fold-out table extended to bear the burden of coffee and an assortment of pastries.
“What makes you think I was worried about that?” she asks, playfully bending the newspaper down with her index finger until she can see his face.
“Because you do the same thing every time we go into a port,” he answers without looking up from the article he’s pretending to read, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You look for trouble on the horizon.”
Elizabeth settles onto the bench, curling herself against him. He puts the paper down and drapes an arm around her shoulder, brushing his lips against her forehead before taking in the sight of the Maltese coast.
“Well, what do you look for?” she queries, reaching for what looks like a sesame bagel crossed with a sweet roll, and tearing off a piece.
“Nothing, really. I just look.” Tom – no, he’s asked to be called Jacob – looks at her fondly. True fondness now, and not the crafted expressions of a man who was supposed to be in love. Somewhere the line between felt and faked became blurred for him, and she might not be alive were it not for that. “What do you see, out there?”
“Just buildings, I guess. Lots of little boats. Buoys.” She lists off a few other notable landmarks, and Tom – Jacob - just laughs. “What? What’s so funny?”
“That you can see all that without really seeing any of it.” He gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Have you ever been to Italy?”
“Shouldn’t you know the answer to that question?” Elizabeth teases. They’d come a long way, if they could joke about his being a spy inserted into her life with more knowledge about her than even she knew about herself.
“I do, but I thought I should pretend I didn’t,” Jacob explains. “Think about Italy when you look out there. Just try it,” he urges when her only response is a pair of raised eyebrows. “Think about the port cities, the way that the buildings come right up to the water. The churches. The way the boats line up when they’re anchored. The color of the lights at night. What do you see, Liz?”
There’s a softness to his voice that she lets guide her, that she relaxes into, as he speaks. The only answer to his question is the gentle slosh of waves against the hull and the distant call of a seabird. And then Elizabeth straightens, her eyes suddenly bright and shining.
“Venice,” she whispers excitedly, as though the realization is some kind of precious secret. “I see Venice!”
“Really? Cuz I was thinking Palermo or Ancona-,” Jacob starts, but he’s cut off when Elizabeth stuffs the rest of her sweet roll into his mouth in amused exasperation. He does his best to grin around the pastry, and she can’t help but laugh.
“Lizzy.”
She’s still laughing but it feels wrong now, feels fake like her life with Tom was, but she’s right here next to him, feeling his warmth against her skin, breathing in the same air.
“Lizzy.”
Elizabeth stares at the harbor, and it’s shimmering as though a wall of heat has crashed down between the city and the boat. The outlines of buildings, modern and sleek, fade into the sky beyond. The laughter has stopped – Tom is acting as though everything is normal, his expression unchanged even though panic has corrupted her delight, even though she can’t hear the waves or the birds or -
“Lizzy. Wake up.”
She jerks into consciousness – real consciousness this time – disoriented and consumed by a sense of dread. It takes a moment for her to place the pervasive whining sound: she’s on an airplane, and Reddington is leaning over her. Elizabeth blinks up at him, then glances around the cabin. The Concierge of Crime is watching her sadly; he’s been wearing that expression like a mask since he found her on the park bench.
After she shot Tom Connelly.
After she ran.
After she left Tom Keen on his boat with the promise to return.
“Where are we?” she asks groggily and reaches for a bottle of water. Her tongue feels like something died on it and she aches from sleeping at an awkward angle.
“We’re about to land in Malta,” he informs her. She looks up sharply, edges of the panic in her dream scraping against her mind. “Is everything okay, Lizzy?”
With effort, Elizabeth erases the spooked expression and gives him a weary smile.
“I’m fine.”
Tom knew she wouldn’t come back.
Title: Mediterranean Blue
Fandom: The Blacklist
Rating/Warnings: PG-13? Spoilers for the end of Season 2
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 999
Summary: Two years of marriage, and Tom and Elizabeth Keen are finally getting to know each other.
The sun is already well overhead by the time she starts to wake up, drifting in and out of sleep to the gentle rocking of the boat. There are sparkles of light on the water through the window when she opens her eyes, too bright to see the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea properly. It’s enough to know it’s out there.
What day is it? she wonders, before remembering that it doesn’t actually matter. They aren’t living on the clock any longer, and such trifling distinctions as ‘weekends’ and ‘weekdays’ vanished when they left the Atlantic seaboard behind them. Her fingertips touch the ceiling of the cabin as she stretches – Tom had bought a nice boat, but it was still smaller and shorter than her first apartment. One of his shirts is hanging on the back of the desk chair, and she slides into it in case they’re close enough to the harbor to be seen.
The deck is warm under her bare feet when Elizabeth finally surfaces, naked but for underwear and Tom’s shirt. She breathes in the salt-kissed air and scans the horizon; she can see St. Julian’s Bay Harbor off the port side, and nothing but water on the other.
“No one is following us out here,” comes a voice from behind a copy of the Times of Malta. Tom is lounging against the cushioned bench at the rear of the boat, the fold-out table extended to bear the burden of coffee and an assortment of pastries.
“What makes you think I was worried about that?” she asks, playfully bending the newspaper down with her index finger until she can see his face.
“Because you do the same thing every time we go into a port,” he answers without looking up from the article he’s pretending to read, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You look for trouble on the horizon.”
Elizabeth settles onto the bench, curling herself against him. He puts the paper down and drapes an arm around her shoulder, brushing his lips against her forehead before taking in the sight of the Maltese coast.
“Well, what do you look for?” she queries, reaching for what looks like a sesame bagel crossed with a sweet roll, and tearing off a piece.
“Nothing, really. I just look.” Tom – no, he’s asked to be called Jacob – looks at her fondly. True fondness now, and not the crafted expressions of a man who was supposed to be in love. Somewhere the line between felt and faked became blurred for him, and she might not be alive were it not for that. “What do you see, out there?”
“Just buildings, I guess. Lots of little boats. Buoys.” She lists off a few other notable landmarks, and Tom – Jacob - just laughs. “What? What’s so funny?”
“That you can see all that without really seeing any of it.” He gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Have you ever been to Italy?”
“Shouldn’t you know the answer to that question?” Elizabeth teases. They’d come a long way, if they could joke about his being a spy inserted into her life with more knowledge about her than even she knew about herself.
“I do, but I thought I should pretend I didn’t,” Jacob explains. “Think about Italy when you look out there. Just try it,” he urges when her only response is a pair of raised eyebrows. “Think about the port cities, the way that the buildings come right up to the water. The churches. The way the boats line up when they’re anchored. The color of the lights at night. What do you see, Liz?”
There’s a softness to his voice that she lets guide her, that she relaxes into, as he speaks. The only answer to his question is the gentle slosh of waves against the hull and the distant call of a seabird. And then Elizabeth straightens, her eyes suddenly bright and shining.
“Venice,” she whispers excitedly, as though the realization is some kind of precious secret. “I see Venice!”
“Really? Cuz I was thinking Palermo or Ancona-,” Jacob starts, but he’s cut off when Elizabeth stuffs the rest of her sweet roll into his mouth in amused exasperation. He does his best to grin around the pastry, and she can’t help but laugh.
“Lizzy.”
She’s still laughing but it feels wrong now, feels fake like her life with Tom was, but she’s right here next to him, feeling his warmth against her skin, breathing in the same air.
“Lizzy.”
Elizabeth stares at the harbor, and it’s shimmering as though a wall of heat has crashed down between the city and the boat. The outlines of buildings, modern and sleek, fade into the sky beyond. The laughter has stopped – Tom is acting as though everything is normal, his expression unchanged even though panic has corrupted her delight, even though she can’t hear the waves or the birds or -
“Lizzy. Wake up.”
She jerks into consciousness – real consciousness this time – disoriented and consumed by a sense of dread. It takes a moment for her to place the pervasive whining sound: she’s on an airplane, and Reddington is leaning over her. Elizabeth blinks up at him, then glances around the cabin. The Concierge of Crime is watching her sadly; he’s been wearing that expression like a mask since he found her on the park bench.
After she shot Tom Connelly.
After she ran.
After she left Tom Keen on his boat with the promise to return.
“Where are we?” she asks groggily and reaches for a bottle of water. Her tongue feels like something died on it and she aches from sleeping at an awkward angle.
“We’re about to land in Malta,” he informs her. She looks up sharply, edges of the panic in her dream scraping against her mind. “Is everything okay, Lizzy?”
With effort, Elizabeth erases the spooked expression and gives him a weary smile.
“I’m fine.”
Tom knew she wouldn’t come back.