#oh lizzie you fraught woman

[fuckyeahevanrwood]

"No Bra, No Panties": How Thirteen Defined A Generation Of Women

Catherine Hardwicke was paid $3 on Thirteen — $2 for the screenplay, which she co-wrote with actress Nikki Reed (then 13), and $1 for directing. Fifteen years later, that film stands out as a still-potent cultural milestone for women who grew up in the early aughts — a searing snapshot of the twisted, painful turmoil of being a teenage girl, without the redeeming after school special epilogue. Thirteen spoke to us, not at us. 

“I was a first time director,” Hardwicke said during a Refinery29 roundtable for the landmark movie's anniversary— the first time Hardwicke, Reed, and Evan Rachel Wood have been together since its release. “All the characters are women, and it was going to be rated R and about a teenager. That does not check the boxes for any studio.”

So, in her pursuit to get the film made, Hardwicke worked for nothing and poured whatever money she could into production. The filmmaker, who would go on to direct the first installment in the massive Twilight franchise, used her own furniture as props. Her car makes an appearance, as do some of her clothes. She and the cast, including leads Wood and Reed, slept in the rented house in Los Angeles where they filmed, often in the same bed. (Since then, the film has turned a profit — Hardwicke says she received a check for $18,000 two months ago.)

All of this — the paltry $1.5 million budget, the whirlwind one month summer shooting schedule — contributes to the raw, dizzying atmosphere of Thirteen, a dark and gritty take on the experience of being a teenage girl at a time when the only cinematic alternatives were Freaky Friday and The Lizzie McGuire Movie. Harmony Korine’s Kids — perhaps the closest example in terms of impact and subject matter — had come out nearly a decade before.

I vaguely remember the circumstances under which I saw Thirteen. It was likely a hot, humid early September day in Montreal — the kind that would make my best friend and I seek refuge in one of the city’s downtown movie theaters. I was 13; my best friend was days away from her own 13th birthday.

What I vividly recall are the feelings the film elicited. I remember being terrified, a fear I couldn’t exactly name, but which gnawed at my innards as I watched Tracy Freeland (Wood) morph from a prepubescent innocent into a sexualized harridan who hides her tongue and belly button piercings from her mother. Would I be like that? Should I be? I remember feeling seen, recognizing how intimate a relationship between two teenage girls can be. I remember squirming at the scenes showing interactions with boys, things I was starting to think about but couldn’t imagine myself actually going through. 

Of course, none of these anxieties were voiced as the lights came up, and my best friend and I wandered back out into the haze of the afternoon. But Thirteen had made its mark, as it has on countless women of my generation.

I wouldn’t learn until years later that the film was helmed by women. The script emerged out of a collaboration between Hardwicke and Reed, who had a personal connection: Hardwicke had been in a long-term relationship with Reed’s father and thought of her as a surrogate daughter. They kept in touch after the breakup, and Hardwicke started noticing that something wasn’t right with Reed. Much like Tracy, she was acting out, rising rapidly through the ranks of popularity at her West L.A. school. And then her friends got busted for selling crystal meth.

In her concern for Reed, Hardwicke invited the teen to her Venice Beach home. It was there that over a six-day period in January 2002, the pair wrote the script that would become Thirteen. In the aftermath, they made a pact: If Hardwicke could get the film into production, she would direct it, and Reed would star in it.

Still, the road ahead was rocky. An R-rated movie co-written by a teenager with female leads wasn’t exactly an easy sell. Securing funds wasn’t easy for Hardwicke, who was then working as a production designer in Hollywood, and had no prior directing experience; Reed, meanwhile, had never acted onscreen, and the screenplay was her first. It wasn’t until Holly Hunter, who would go on to be nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her role as Tracy’s mother, signed on that the project finally got off the ground. After an acclaimed premiere at Sundance, where Hardwicke won the top directing award, Fox Searchlight Pictures acquired the film for distribution. Thirteen was released in five U.S. theaters on August 20, 2003, and grossed $116,260 opening weekend. But the salacious subject matter resulted in word-of-mouth and heightened press coverage, especially for the teen leads. By its third week of release, Thirteen’s gross had increased by 622%, as did the film’s reach, as it went on to screen in 73 theaters, and then up to 243, for a total domestic gross of $4.6 million. 

But the value of seeing oneself represented on screen is something that’s harder to quantify.

“It takes women to tell female stories,” Reed says during the interview. This is something we’ve heard many times as Hollywood grapples with the way the industry historically treated women, as well as the systemic inequality that has resulted in a still-egregious gender gap.

Thirteen was an extreme portrayal of the alienation of an especially troubled teenage girl. But that hunger for an outlet for those complicated emotions is universal. “I had a need in me, like Tracy, to just explode,” Wood said. “And acting was something I did so that I could do that. I felt like I couldn't do it anywhere else.

”If it’s been a while, here’s a quick recap: Tracy Freeland (Wood) is a good girl. She gets straight As, loves golden retrievers, and wears her fair blonde hair in cute dual buns. But that doesn’t mean everything’s rosy. Her poetry is an intense, poignant exploration of early teenagehood. Her single mother Melanie is a recovering alcoholic who runs a beauty salon out of her kitchen, and though she’s an attentive parent, she’s overwhelmed. And Tracy’s father (D.W. Moffett), constantly behind on child support, is too focused on his new family and new job to care very much. Tracy copes by locking herself in the bathroom and resorting to self-harm, an act that was shocking to many at the time. But not to Wood.

“I hadn't really done drugs,” she said. “I was a lot of talk, sex-wise, but wasn't really doing much. But the emotions, and that feeling of frustration and being lost and angry, and the dynamics with the family and the cutting — those were things where I was like, ‘Oh. I know what this is. Like, I understand this really well.”

“That's one of the reasons why I wanted to do it too,” the actress, who recently testified before Congress about a sexual assault that led her self-harm and two suicide attempts, explained. “Because I was like, I didn't know cutting was a thing until I read the script. And that's when I was like, ‘Other people do this?’

”So, when classmate Evie Zamora (Nikki Reed) comes along with her jeweled cross necklace, long glossy hair, and jeans so low you can see her thong peeking out, Tracy is already primed for some acting out. It would be easy to paint what comes next as black and white — and in fact, many of the film’s critics did so at the time. Evie and Tracy strike up a friendship, which leads Tracy down a bleak path of drugs, questionably consensual sexual encounters, illicit piercings, and shoplifting. But the truth is more complicated. In her own way, Evie is as vulnerable as Tracy. She lives with a woman named Brooke, sometimes referred to as her guardian, other times her cousin, whose main occupation seems to be recovering from Botox injections and getting drunk. She doesn’t care what Evie does with her time, as long as no ones calls the cops. With Evie by her side, Tracy upgrades to It Girl status at school. But that comes at the expense of her grades, her relationship with her mother, and even her own mental health.

The acting is fantastic. Seasoned child actress Wood, who would be nominated for a Golden Globe and a Screen Actors Guild Award, handles Tracy’s descent into hell with fiery zeal, concealed under angelic looks. When, towards the end, she’s wandering Hollywood Boulevard in a crop top and smeared black lipstick, drunk, she looks like a nightmare version of herself, her inner turmoil having taken over. It’s a duality that would come into play later in her career, as Dolores, the mild host-turned-avenger on HBO’s Westworld. Reed exudes an uncomfortable degree of sexuality for such a young woman, but there’s also a sadness to her, a need to be loved. And as Melanie, a mother who loves her daughter fiercely, but is blind to the scope of what’s going on behind her closed bedroom door, Hunter quivers with anger, anxiety and concern.

Watching the film for the first time as an adult, I was amazed at how avant-garde it feels.

The central relationships aren’t romantic in nature. Instead, the film focuses on the dynamics between female friends and mothers and daughters. That fraught connection between Tracy and Melanie is one that we’re only just starting to see again, in films like Lady Bird, and, veering sharply into supernatural horror, Hereditary.

Evie and Tracy’s friendship is complex and intense, vacillating between almost sensual devotion and cruel rivalry, especially where Melanie’s affections are concerned. That need to be utterly consumed by one’s best friend while grappling with latent jealousy is so specific to young women of that age, and a dynamic that’s rarely portrayed, even today.

It’s so true to life that while filming, Wood and Reed developed a rapport that mirrored the one they were portraying on screen. “There were moments that I was completely in love with you,” Wood, who came out as bisexual in 2011, told Reed.“

We had this kind of innocence about our relationship that was so personal to us,” Reed responded. “It was ours, and it was so real [...] And then, because a lot of that was in the movie, when it became something that the press could talk about, suddenly it was like our actual relationship, in a sense, was put out there for people to talk about.”

As often happens in Hollywood, especially where young girls are concerned, the stars were held up for comparison by the press. Who was cooler? Who was hotter? Who would have the best career? Things actually got so acute that, like Tracy and Evie, the two drifted apart, not speaking again until nearly a decade later.

“We had to talk about it when we were 25,” Reed said. “I actually went to [Hardwicke’s] house, and I said, ‘You know, I haven't talked to Evan in so long, and I really miss her.’ You gave me her number, and I said, ‘Do you think she would even want me to call her?’ You were like, "Yeah. You guys are in such a similar space.’ We had both gotten married. I called [Wood], and it was so cool. [She was] like, ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’"

Still, Thirteen is best remembered for its shocking scenes — and there are many, including the opening shot, which shows Evie and Tracy sitting on a bed, huffing paint and punching each other in the face, laughing. A provocative confrontation later in the film shows Tracy bragging to her mother that's she's not wearing a bra or panties. 

In one memorable moment, Evie and Nikki seduce an older neighbor, played by then-27-year-old Kip Pardue, who reportedly wasn’t aware that the actresses were 14 until he showed up to shoot. “‘He was in shock,” Hardwicke said.” I was trying to talk him down off the ledge, ‘Look, we're going to be safe. I'm going to be there, the teacher's going to be there. It's all gonna be cool.’"

Ground rules were established: A studio teacher was present at all times, sitting behind the couch the three were kissing on. “Couldn't touch the nipples,” Wood recalled. “Couldn’t touch the top of Kip’s pants.”

All the same, the final film was extremely controversial, so much so that, Hardwicke said, juvenile court judges and directors of rehab centers, accompanied her at Q&As after early screenings so parents could voice their concerns.

“Three mothers stand up: ‘My daughter would never do that,’ she recalled. “And then the judge would say, ‘Excuse me, this movie is mild. Not one person got pregnant. No one got in a car crash, no one [died by] suicide. Nobody died. I see much more elevated cases in this every single day.’”

“I found myself in a weird position where I was being asked to be sort of the spokesperson for teen angst,” Reed said. (A clip from her 2003 appearance on Ellen shows her on the defensive, explaining that she’s a straight-A student: “I just got my report card.)

Both Reed and Wood are parents themselves now. Reed and husband Ian Somerhalder have a one-year-old daughter, Bodhi Soleil. Wood’s son Jack, from her previous marriage to actor Jamie Bell, is five. “I'd show it to my son,” she said of Thirteen. “ I think boys need to be watching more female-centric films anyways, so they have a better understanding about women, and opposite sex.”

Still, they now feel they have a deeper understanding of the visceral reaction adults, particularly parents, had to the film at the time. “I see it all differently,” Reed said. “I’m totally terrified, and I’m also really grateful for it. I feel like I have a really good understanding of some of the things that are going on.“

The movie helped open the door for Netflix’s 13 Reasons Why, which graphically depicts scenes of sexual assault, self-harm, and suicide, and even to a certain extent Eighth Grade, Bo Burnham’s film about the inner life of a 14-year-old girl who turns to the internet to compensate for the feelings of inadequacy she’s facing in the real world.

The lack of social media does date the film, as does its inability to really grapple with race and privilege. As a white middle-class young woman, Tracy is afforded the benefit of the doubt, not to mention a second chance. If she’d been a woman of color, she might never have recovered from her year-long bender. In fact, the only people of color in the film are the guys that Tracy and Evie alternately hook up with, and buy drugs from, a setup that is particularly iffy in hindsight.

Overall, however, Thirteen holds up in a way that never would have seemed possible to Hardwicke or Reed at the time they wrote the script. The impact it has had over the last 15 years far exceeds its original reach. Hardwicke’s $3 payday went a long, long way.

“Literally the other day, a woman came up to me, she's like 28 or 30, working at a cool company, Hardwicke recalled. “She goes: ‘You know what, I saw Thirteen,’ and it scared her straight. She never drank or smoked in her life, or did any drugs.”

“I don’t know if there will ever be anything quite like it,” Reed said. “It was kind of just magic.”

If you or someone you know is considering self-harm, please get help. Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

Lost in the Forest of This Heart, Chapter 10: Caught Between Forever And Nothing At All

Lizzington, The Blacklist. One chapter left for this longest-running WIP of mine!

Summary: Control, longing, plans. His voice lacks all of the polish she’s used to, like a shot of whiskey over broken glass. She has the ridiculous urge to burrow into that sound and never leave.  

Cross-posted on AO3. important notes can also be found there.

Liz wakes before sunrise, the solid weight of Red’s back pressed against her own.

It takes a moment for reality to return. Oh, yeah. That’s right. She did the stupid thing last night, letting her loneliness override common sense.

Sneaking into his bed without a word. Could she be any creepier? She’s lucky he didn’t wake her back up to evict her…if he even knew she was here.

Red is snoring lightly, which is both endearing and helpful. When Liz cautiously pulls away from him to turn around, she doesn’t have to wonder if he’s awake.

It will be really awkward if he turns over and finds himself face to face with her–the wise choice would be to retreat to her own bed before he wakes–but she’s not willing to let this opportunity pass her by.

As of tomorrow, she’ll be heading who-knows-where, and Red will be gone. Dembe will be delightful company, less prickly than Red can be at times, but he won’t be…Red.

Liz squeezes her eyes shut, so tight she sees stars, and accepts the truth she’s been avoiding for days now. Weeks, maybe. God, months if she’s willing to look at herself in the worst possible light.

It’s not really about her safety anymore, or where her future is headed. Red will keep pulling strings to clear her name whether they’re together or not, and Dembe is just as capable of keeping her alive–possibly more qualified, even.

No, this panic when she imagines going on without him is not about her at all. It’s about him.

She loves him.

Liz opens her eyes, strangely relieved to have admitted it, even just inside her own head.

Regarding the slope of his shoulders a few inches away, she wishes she was brave enough to cross the distance. He’s never pushed her away while conscious. Always had a hug available, or a hand to hold hers. She suspects he’s a cuddler.

Damn it, she’s going to miss him. It’s not fair. After everything else, she has to lose him too?

They haven’t even had a chance to work out most of their issues, to rebuild what’s been destroyed. They need more time.

If only the Task Force hadn’t found the phone they used. Ressler is probably on their heels right now.

A thought strikes her, as Red turns toward her in his sleep. He never said anyone was actually following them. He said they found the phone. Knowing the phone was found, they would know if the FBI was tracing it in their direction. But he said if.

If they found the trail, Red would be the one captured. Not when.

What were the odds Red would stick to a path he knew to be on their radar? He was better at protecting himself than that. And if he would be safe staying the course, why wouldn’t she?

Not to mention, it was only a few short weeks ago that he was agreeing that it would be easier to split up, but he had no interest in doing so. Were things more dire than he was telling her, to change his mind? Or was it something else?

While Liz is busy asking herself questions she can’t answer, Red wakes without stirring. She’s never seen anything like it–his breathing remains even and quiet, his body still. His eyes just drift open, and she gets to watch them focus on her as he comes back to the world.

For that one instant, as she watches his eyes go from a deep, clouded blue to a brighter, alert green, it feels like she’s the world he’s coming back to–and she can’t help wishing that were true.

"Elizabeth,” he murmurs, still motionless. It’s the first time he’s ever called her that without using it as a reprimand. His voice lacks all of the polish she’s used to, like a shot of whiskey over broken glass. She has the ridiculous urge to burrow into that sound and never leave. There’s something captivating about it.

She doesn’t even realize she’s smiling until Red’s lips curve in response.

“Good morning.”

He has that sly, knowing look in his eyes now, the one that tells her he’s got her number. He might as well be wearing a hat, it’s so much like any day he met her to share intel and poke holes in her team’s work.

“Morning.” She resists the urge to sit up, turn away–anything to avoid the intense way he’s focusing on her now. This wasn’t what she had in mind when she decided to steal a little time with him. She’s pretty sure she’s blushing, caught doing something she would never do when he was awake.

“How did you sleep?”

He’s not exactly looking at her now; more like through her, around her. If she didn’t know better, she would think his gaze kept drifting to her lips and back up. If she didn’t know better, Liz could pretend he liked finding her this close, rather than being too sleepy to care. Yet.

“I slept okay. Bit restless,” she admits.

“Me too.”

“Sorry about this,” she adds reluctantly. Now she’s given him the opening to back off, push her away, but it’s better than seeming like she thinks she has the right to climb into bed with him. Falling for him has made her crazy.

Oh, god, she really has. She has fallen in love with Raymond Reddington. A man who kills without hesitation. A man who sees her as his life’s mission to protect, some sort of debt he owes her dead parents.

It’s a bad sign that the second part bothers her more.

He can’t know what she’s thinking, but he seems too busy watching the shifting expressions cross her face to take the out she gave him.

“You okay?”

Liz swallows the laugh that wants to betray her hysteria. Just fine, no problem…head over heels for the Concierge of Crime. Nothing to see here.

“Yeah.” She knows she’s blushing again. He must be half-asleep still, because for a man who reads her easily, he doesn’t comment.

But boy, does he stare.

****

Lizzie’s eyes are so darkly blue this morning that they’re nearly violet. He has never gotten to look at her this way, so close for so long. The delicate freckles across her nose delight him. He’s too happy to be here to feel guilty about wanting to kiss her along the line they form.

Why is she still here? Why is she looking at him like that?

He knows the dream he was having before he woke to find her here involved a life that doesn’t exist. That happens a lot; it leaves him melancholy to face the waking world.

For once, reality is better.

“Did you…have a nightmare?”

He’s not sure how to ask her why she’s with him without scaring her off. He’s incapable of accepting the gift without questioning it. Mercifully, Lizzie seems unspooked, no more eager to go than he is to lose her.

“No.” She looks away, lost in thought for a moment. “I just didn’t want to be in that bed any longer.”

Her response makes no sense to him, but it seems like she expects it to, and he doesn’t choose to dissuade her.

“Alright.”

Lizzie covers a yawn, turning away from him and then back, and he smiles. “We have another hour or so, if you need more sleep.”

“No, I’m good.”

Still, neither of them moves.

“Red?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

He can’t tell if she’s apologizing again for waking up in his bed, or something else. Her sorrow seems incongruous with the moment, though, tears shimmering when everything feels warm, and close, and not-yet-fraught.

“Lizzie.” He presses his hand to her cheek, catching the tears when they fall. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

I’m sorry for being so angry for so long, she thinks. I’m sorry there’s not enough time now. I’m sorry I can’t tell you, when you deserve to know.

Liz sighs. “I’m sorry anyway,” she says, shutting her eyes.

He stays there, her face against his fingers, until the tears dry.

****

The woman who hands Red the car keys is petite and trim and looks as though she’s rapidly approaching seventy, but the firmness of her mouth reminds Liz of Mr. Kaplan. Like all of Red’s associates, this is not a person to be trifled with.

“You be careful,” she tells him, eyeing Liz from the doorway.

“Always am,” he replies glibly, and the woman sniffs. Red shuts the door, not bothering with farewells.

Liz is smiling when he turns around. “Friend?”

“Of course.”

“She didn’t seem overly awed.”

“Ah, well. She’s seen far more impressive and terrifying things than me in my glasses.” He tucks the keys in his right pocket and surveys the room. “We’ve got everything?”

“What’s to get?”

“Good point.” He scratches his neck. “Well, then, I guess we’re ready.”

Liz glances around along with him. Ready? To possibly never see him again? To share a car for the last time?

How is she supposed to get ready for that?

“Let’s go,” she replies softly. She may not be able to explain her changing feelings to him, but she isn’t willing to lie. No, she’s not ready.

This sedan is a dull blue, similar to the last. It feels smaller, even though she knows it isn’t. There just isn’t enough room for them and their melancholy, both lost in solitary musings. They’ve only been on the freeway for a few minutes when Liz breaks the silence.

“So after we…when we leave Wisconsin tomorrow, what happens next?”

“Right.” Red squints harder at the road, as though the parallel lines might up and move on him. “While you and I have been zigzagging across America, Dembe and Mr. Kaplan and a few others have been putting things in motion.”

“Okay…”

He spares a quick glance for her before returning his attention to the road. There’s a deadly satisfaction in it. “Now that the groundwork has been laid, Lizzie–we take down the Cabal.”

“We?” She’s watching him carefully now. “But I thought…”

“We’ll be travelling separately,” he acknowledges, “but we will still be working together. Meeting occasionally. I did hear you,” Red adds quietly. “It’s time for me to stop treating you like a child.”

Well, that’s something.

“Okay…what do you mean, we’ll be meeting? When?” Will you be Red then, or will you have disappeared behind your carefully constructed walls again?

He chuckles, unaware of her fears. “Soon enough. When the details are set, Dembe will pass them to you. And we’ll be meeting, because it will take the both of us, to truly, finally eliminate our enemies.”

The dark determination in his voice when he talks about “their” enemies gives Liz a shivery feeling that she can’t blame on fear.

“You’re going to need to be in disguise a lot,” he adds. “Dembe can help you with that part.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” she counters. “I took a semester of drama–I know how to style a wig.”

“Right.” How had he forgotten that? Sam had sent him pictures of Lizzie as Persephone, her one onstage role. Red had considered it a shame that she preferred to stay behind the scenes, focusing on the work, until he saw them. She was radiant, a scene-stealer.

Even then, it worried him. He told himself he was concerned for her safety, the possibility that someone might pay a little too much attention and dig into her past–but of course that was ridiculous.

No, he was just terrified of getting attached, of letting his feelings get in the way of what he would someday have to do.

If only he had listened to his fear.

Instead, he’s following the interstate, aware of every single minute as it passes. Red knows that whenever they do meet next, it’ll be too long an absence. Life without Lizzie will be a world without light, without color.

He can feel her eyes on him, and her mind working, trying to piece the plan together. When she gives in to her curiosity, it makes him smile. “So, if I’ll be with you, what are the disguises for? I mean, being in your company will make it obvious that I’m me–unless you’re talking serious prosthetics.”

“No, nothing quite that extreme. The disguises won’t be for disguise. They’ll be for testing loyalty.”

“They–wait,” she says slowly as it dawns on her. “I’ve heard of this. I studied this.”

“I’m sure you did. It’s a cliche at this point, but it works.”

“And you’ll what? Parade me around in different hairstyles and see what reports of me make it back to the Cabal?”

“As well as the FBI, of course. Any betrayal could put us in danger.”

“So I’m just for show.” Disappointment has dulled Liz’s voice. She shifts to stare out the window.

“Not at all, Lizzie.” Red reaches for her hand, glancing away from the road long enough to catch her expression. “The disguises will help me find weak links among my acquaintances, but that’s not why you’ll be with me. That’s a side benefit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You’ll be with me because it’s time to show the world that you are a formidable adversary. Our enemies"–there was that tone again–"as well as our friends need to know that if they go after us, both of us will retaliate. They need to know that I am not the only threat.”

She squeezes his hand. “So, I’ll be armed.”

“Yes, of course. Dembe will have weapons for us both when we get to Wisconsin.”

“You’re not worried…after what happened the last time?”

“Why on earth would I be?” The question baffles him. This is Lizzie.

“Well, I’m a little worried,” she admits. “I’d understand if you were.”

“I trust you,” he says firmly, letting go of her hand to rub her shoulder. “And if you need me, I’ll be right there.”

Except for when you’re not, Liz thinks but doesn’t say.

“So,” Red continues, “we’ll meet with my contacts some of the time, to check in, and our other reunions will be meeting members of the Cabal directly.”

“To get to the top of the organization?”

“To neutralize them.” Red returns his hand to the wheel, shooting her a careful look. “The Cabal isn’t structured in a centralized way, Lizzie. There’s no CEO, or President. That guarantees that if someone were to kill one member, they wouldn’t be much affected.”

“Like when I shot Connolly.”

“Exactly. We can’t kill their leader, because they have no leader. But they have a core.”

“And if we take out the core, the Cabal shatters.”

“Yes. Or is weakened enough that we can mount a broader attack.”

“It sounds like whack-a-mole.” Liz says, grinning at him.

“I suppose, in a way, it’s similar.”

She grows somber. “But we’ll be killing people.”

“Strategically, when necessary, I will be. Yes.” He sighs. “I wish I could leave you out of that part, Lizzie, I truly do.”

Noting his emphasis on I Liz frowns. “Red, if I’m in this with you, I’m gonna be all in.”

“I’m not going to make a murderer out of you,” he replies.

“It’s too late; I already am.” She lays a hand on his knee, stopping him from arguing further. “I know you think there’s a distinction, and I would love to believe that. But I pulled the trigger, I made the decision. I chose to kill him. And Connolly was no greater threat to me than everyone else in the Cabal.”

Red is shifting his attention from the road to her and back, concerned.

“They want me dead,” Liz says simply. “And the way things are supposed to work, where the authorities can be counted on to take care of them, protect us all–we don’t live in that world. Turns out that world never even existed. So if we have to kill them first…that’s justice.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, awed by her. There’s a warrior under all that tragedy and pain, one he’s seen glimpses of over the years but never so clearly as right now.

Sometimes, the way he loves her hits him like a fist to the stomach. He would die for the woman sitting next to him, without a thought. Without blinking. Without regret.

“Please don’t fight me on this,” Liz finishes quietly, misunderstanding his silence. “I’m with you, now–as far as it goes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assures her, gripping the steering wheel until it hurts. It takes all his strength to stop himself from pulling the car over right that second and telling her everything he’s still keeping locked away.

He could swear oaths and confess his feelings and reach for her, throwing a lifetime of caution to the wind for just one chance to touch her. Getting to breathe her in, finally letting his deepest needs out, his hands in her hair and mouth on her skin–

Red clears his throat, wishing not for the first time that he had been blessed with slightly less imagination.

It runs wild around her.

“You’ll have your own gun,” he says, returning to their conversation as though he can simply will the traitorous thoughts away. “I fully expect that you’ll use it if need be.”

“Okay. Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

****

Grateful to have sorted out the plan of attack, Liz waits until they’ve finished lunch to bring up the question that’s been burning inside her all day. She swore she wouldn’t push anymore, but this isn’t something she can let go of without a fight–this is losing him.

If she has any hope of stopping it, she has to try.

“Red?”

“Yes, Lizzie?” He looks up from the paper he’s reading, so unsuspecting that guilt almost steals her words before she can speak them.

“Why are we splitting up, exactly?”

He sets the paper aside. “For safety. I told you yesterday, the Task Force–”

“Found the phone,” Liz agrees, interrupting his measured words. “Not us. You never said we were in any immediate danger. Red…you didn’t explain why going separately will be safer, if we’re just going to reunite to face the Cabal. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s more prudent,” he says. “If we can succeed even slightly at shifting the focus to me, you’ll be safer.”

“Except nothing you do is going to make me less of a target,” she argues. “On our own, we’re two targets, equally at risk. Or I’ll actually be more at risk–it’s me they want now, more than anyone else, including you.”

“Staying together isn’t the best course of action,” Red insists stubbornly.

He hasn’t actually responded to her argument. “This isn’t about our safety from the Task Force,” Liz decides. “One clue about where we passed through two days ago won’t guarantee them any viable leads. So what is this really about?”

“I told you that I trust you. Can’t you trust me when I tell you we need to do this? It’ll be safer this way,” Red insists again.

“Safer for who?”

His face is a mask, and he doesn’t reply. Why won’t he tell her what’s going on?

“Damn it, Red.” She slaps a hand against the window at her side, unable to hold back the impulse to lash out at something. Someone. Was it her father who passed that down to her?

Red doesn’t so much as blink, which makes her even angrier. How can he be so calm about this? How can he sit and watch her desperate need to understand–to find a way out–tear her apart, and be completely unruffled? It’s the feeling of spinning totally out of control that compels her to actually voice the question.

“How can you just sit there staring at me like you don’t even care? Say something!”

When he grabs her arm before she can hit their car again in frustration, she’s startled by the iron in his grip. He’s never been less than gentle with her.

“Of course I care.” His words are deep and heated enough to be a caress, but they snap like thunder. He’s still holding her arm immobile, and she’s too shocked to tug it back. “Not everyone lets their feelings rule them, Elizabeth, and it doesn’t make them any less passionate. You think too little of me.” You pay too little attention.

“That’s not true.” She feels cold, and she knows there’s a hint of fear here, buried under her frustration. Fear of losing him, of pushing him too far–fear of the look in his eye while he restrains her. She wants to know this man, she does, but what she’s already discovered heightens her rollercoaster emotions. It’s all ups and downs with Red: flirtatious smiles and sobbing in his arms, vengeful words and selfless rescues.

“I have always appreciated you for exactly who you are,” he says more calmly, drawing his hand back and watching dispassionately as she touches her arm where he gripped it. “However, your habit of lashing out this way puts you at risk. It might be wise for you to practice some control.”

She can’t stop the bitterness from coming out through words that should be said lightly, pleasantly. “I think you have more than enough of that for the both of us.”

Red looks at her, then at her arm, where she can still feel the pressure of his hand. “Not always, Lizzie.”

He shifts away, resting his head in the corner against the window and closing his eyes. “You need to be more careful.”

[shimmershae]

Stupid Cupid, Chapter 5 (Caryl).

Sorry for the delay, everybody.  It took me forever to get this chapter whipped into something I even halfway liked.  I'm still a little iffy about some parts, might even go back and do a bit of a rewrite later, but until then, I hope you enjoy.  Mistakes are all mine.  I hope there aren't too many because I'm posting this and forcing myself to go to bed, haha. 

Deeper and deeper our babies fall. 

Stupid Cupid

    xx5xx

      Carol was up early the next morning, before the sun had even fully broken the horizon.  With a cranky Judith perched on her hip, she inventoried their food stores and supplies between bouts of pacing and rubbing her index finger along the baby’s painful gums.  It should have been a distraction from Daryl’s impending departure, but her heart and her mind were always with him.  Had been since the Farm, and that held especially true when he left the safety of the Prison’s fences.  Still, that mattered none to Judith, and between hiccupping cries, she gnawed fretfully at Carol’s offered finger, rubbed her teary face against her cheek.  “I know.  I know.  It doesn’t feel good.  Does it, Sweetheart?”

  “Reckon it don’t.  Looks to me like she’s about to make a meal out of you.” 

  Carol grinned against her charge’s feverish little brow.  “You didn’t.” 

  “You smiling, ain’t you?  Don’t mean nothing of it.” 

  His blue eyes did the smiling and the apologizing for him, and Carol felt that now familiar swell of warmth start to overtake her when he stepped closer to her, from her fingers all the way to her toes as he cupped Judith’s head in the palm of his hand.  His voice dropped to a low, lulling rumble, and the tiny girl responded to it, weakly pushing against her and leaning heavily into the warm, solid wall of his chest.  Truth be told, after such a long and restless night, Carol longed to do the same.   

  “Got a tooth comin’ in, AssKicker?  Lemme see.”   Daryl made no move to take the infant from her arms.  He simply shuffled closer, bringing them toe to toe, Judith supported between them.  Before long, the baby’s exhausted lids started to droop, and the small fist that had been halfway to her mouth did the same.   

  “What were you, some kind of baby whisperer in a previous life?”  Carol busied herself with straightening Judith’s twisted clothes as she whispered the teasing question, stroking tender fingers across her fretful brow.  She didn’t trust herself to look up and chance meeting his eyes.  Not in that moment.  It was so peaceful and soft, unguarded and fraught with possibility, and their proximity had her blood fizzing like champagne bubbles in her veins.   

  “Naw.  Nothing like that.  Weren’t nothing at all, really.” 

  She did look at him then, and her hand found his face, her thumb traced the downward pull of his mouth.  “You were always something, Daryl Dixon.  Somebody.  Even when you thought you were nothing.  Always remember that.” 

  His lashes lowered as he nodded at her, and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but the words?  They just weighed too much. 

  Maybe it was a trick of her hopeful heart.  Hell, maybe it was sleep deprivation, but Carol could have sworn his eyes flickered for the briefest of seconds to her mouth.  It didn’t matter, though, because Glenn was clattering tiredly down the stairs, and suddenly there was Michonne, waiting, and Carol’s hand drifted to the gentle rise and fall of Judith’s back as she took a step back, uttered a familiar goodbye.  “Looks like it's time for you to go.  Stay safe out there.” 

  “Nine lives.  Remember?” 

      <3<3<3

      Carol occupied herself with busy tasks the rest of the day, helping with the preparation of the meals, going around and gathering up laundry, just things that needed done.  Late afternoon found her in the library again, and she was pretending to listen as Ryan read to the children from a well-loved copy of The Hobbit when the man’s youngest daughter, Mika if memory served her correctly, stood up from the cross-legged group and approached her.  Carol offered her a small smile when she reached her.  “You don’t like the story?”

  The girl’s small shoulder lifted in a shrug and she gathered her bottom lip between her teeth.  “I’ve already heard it before.  Don’t you like it?” 

  Carol’s smile faltered.  She watched as the child arranged her assorted art supplies on the table before climbing into the chair across from her and regarding her thoughtfully.  “I do.” 

  “Then how come you weren’t listening?  Were you daydreaming?” 

  “Maybe,” Carol admitted.  She didn’t see any point in denying it because it was true, and she couldn’t lie to the girl.  She was too sweet, too genuinely curious, too pure in a tainted world, and for a moment, her baby’s beautiful face swam before her eyes.  She didn’t let herself be swallowed up by the sudden, fierce pang of longing she felt, though.  Nothing good would come of it.  Besides.  She had to believe her Sophia was in a better place.  Instead she propped her chin in her hand and asked, “What are you making?” 

  “More hearts.” 

  “More?  What are they for?” Carol murmured. 

  “They’re not to hang up.  They’re for people to give to their Valentines at the party,” Mika answered her matter-of-factly.  “The white ones are for families like me, Lizzie, and Daddy,” she explained.  “The pink ones are for people that like each other and want to be boyfriend and girlfriend.  And the red ones are for people that love each other.” 

  She giggled as she said that last bit, her big brown eyes shining, and the wispy ends of her braid brushing against her mouth, and Carol felt her own lips curl upward.  “And the yellow hearts?” 

  “Those are for friends.” 

  “Friends.”  Carol nodded to herself.  Yellow hearts, yellow flowers.  It made sense.        

  “You can have one to give to Mr. Daryl,” Mika offered.  “Just pick.  Whichever one you want.” 

  “Any one?”  Carol’s arm reached across the table.  Her fingers hovered in the air.  “As simple as that?” 

  “Yep.” 

      <3<3<3

        Carol was cleaning and stacking up the dinner dishes, Beth long since sent to bed, when the run crew came straggling in, each one looking worse than the last.  By the time Daryl limped through the door behind Glenn, her fingers had gone nerveless and her heart.  Well, it would be a while yet before it started beating normally again. 

  Rick pulled Michonne aside.  Maggie and Glenn embraced in reunion then followed Hershel.  Tyreese tiredly said his goodnights. 

  Daryl wordlessly started climbing the steps to his cell. 

  Swallowing against a dry throat, Carol looked to Michonne in question, and the other woman rest a hand on Rick’s arm, broke away from their hushed discussion. 

  “He’s okay.” 

  “Did something…” 

  “Carol.  He’s okay.  Why don’t you go see for yourself?” 

  “Go,” Rick encouraged. 

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Carol frowned when she reached the space Daryl had claimed for himself.  It was empty, no trace of him, but then she heard his voice.  Gruff and sounding exhausted, he called to her.  She whirled around.   

  “Hey.  You think you could…” 

  She guided him into her cell, his fingers tethered to her own, and gave his shoulder a gentle push when it seemed he didn’t know what to do, how to act, had him sit on the edge of her bunk while she crossed the small space to gather up some towels, some bandages, the small bowl of water she used at night to wash away the grit of the day.  Her Hershel-approved Daryl Dixon basic survival kit.  When she had everything that she needed, she returned to him, and all her worries, all her fears were in every line of her face as she stared at him.  Studied him.  Finally asked, “What happened?” 

  Daryl offered her a smile that was really more of a grimace.  “Rather not say.” 

  “Daryl.” 

  He lifted his chin at the warning in her voice, stubbornly asserted himself.  “Naw.” 

  “Fine, then.  You can patch your own self up.”  He surprised her then, reaching out and reclaiming her hand.  Beneath the fresh, blossoming bruises on his face, a telltale tint of color arose, and Carol softened.  “I can take it, Pookie.  I’m a big girl.”   

  Daryl ducked his head, lowered his eyes, and then he mumbled, “S’embarassing is all.  Rather not talk about it."

  She smiled, a barely there thing.  “Scale of 1-10.” 

  “15,” Daryl muttered.   

  She lifted her free hand to his face, gently brushed his sweaty, disheveled hair aside to get a better look at a small cut above his left eyebrow.  She probed it with tentative fingers.  “That bad?”    

  Daryl winced, and his hands reflexively found her waist.  “Yeah.” 

  The warm press of his fingers through the thin layers of her clothes was dizzying, almost overwhelmingly so, but Carol willed herself to ignore it as she tended to his wounds.  Likely, he hadn’t even realized the placement of his hands anyway, being tired and in apparent pain.  His usual defenses were down, and they were friends.  He felt comfortable with her, in a way he didn’t feel with anybody else.  It was simple as that, and oh.  Oh.  Deeper and deeper they were falling.  This must have been how Alice felt when she followed after the Mad Hatter.  Her heart started doing somersaults beneath her ribs as his blue eyes found hers and his fingers started unconsciously playing with her belt loops.  “Daryl?” 

  “Hmm?” 

  “What is this?  Are we still pretending?” 

  “Hell if I know.”