A/N: It's been a terrifically long time since I wrote the first part of this series (The Long Game), so it's fairly likely to be unfamiliar. It's posted here, though, and I'd probably recommend reading it first — not an absolute must, but a lot of what the characters can do and the actions they take may not make a whole lot of sense otherwise.

The Long Game followed canon pretty closely, with a slant; The Fulcrum will borrow from it sometimes, including dialogue, and diverge the rest of the time. So, thanks now to The Blacklist and its writers! Also, credit should go to Mike Mignola, creator of the Hellboy comics and the character of Liz Sherman, whose powers I based our Liz' on.

The sun shines brightly over white walls and dark brown roofs; touches on bed after bed of cheerful flowers. It beams golden through the unshuttered windows, warming her face and calling to her.

Liz blinks awake, feeling better rested than she has in a long time. She finds herself curled in a nest of soft white sheets and a heavy grey blanket, utterly comfortable, her previous agony just an echo in her bones.

She feels a great deal of contentment and simple pleasure, but thinks she recognizes the flavour that is Red colouring the air. Feeling him this way, quietly happy, hits her with a sense of relief much greater than she would have imagined.

I need to see him, she thinks; needs to make sure he is safe and whole, that they have come through their ordeal soundly.

She takes a moment to slip into the adjoining bathroom for an entirely necessary pit stop. As she washes her hands, she winces at her pale reflection, a dark bruise purpling one temple and scrapes and cuts showing on her arms and hands and through a rip in her shirt. She splashes water over her face gingerly; rubs a fingerful of toothpaste over her teeth hurriedly, washing away the stale tastes left by blood and drugs and sleep.

As soon as she's found the hallway, she can smell coffee, and follows the scent to a cozy kitchen. Red has his back to her, facing a leaded greenhouse window over a wide sink. The sight of him — the familiar shorn head, his strong back, her mark on his neck — allows her to take her first real breath; the homey feel of the scene stops her momentarily in her tracks, an ache in her chest that is more wistful than sad.

But he knows she is there, of course he does, and turns around, putting a mug on the counter and stepping to her quickly, his face alight with the same warmth that emanates from him.

"Good morning, Lizzie," he says, his pleasure at seeing her preceding him and wrapping snugly around her. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she replies, with a tentative smile. "I think the drug is pretty much gone from my system, and bruises and scrapes don't bother me."

His face becomes serious and he touches the mark on her temple, feather light, as if worried he may hurt her.

"They bother me," he says, his voice deepening. He moves closer to her and flattens his cool palm against her cheek.

More emotion is coming from him than she thinks he realizes — affection and frustration, fear and need, concern and…apprehension? She studies his face carefully, not sure what, if anything, is wrong.

Then it hits her. Good morning, he'd said, and it was bright shiny morning sun that had woken her, that glinted now off the steel of the sink. A pit opens in her stomach, dank and unpleasant, and she takes a step back from him. His hand drops to his side, and his emotions withdraw in a lazy coil.

"Red," she says, trying to keep her voice even, trying to ask rather than accuse. "What happened? I thought we were meeting Cooper's men at De Gaulle. Did you meet them while I was sleeping?" His face gives her the answer, but she goes on, not wanting to believe he would deceive her so quickly, so easily. "You should have woken me, but if we…"

"Lizzie," he interrupts, his voice cool and patient. "You know I didn't do any such thing. We are nowhere near Paris, and I have no intention of meeting up with any of Harold's ham-fisted lackeys."

Shock slaps her like ice water, followed quickly by the burning rush of her anger.

"We agreed," she says, slowly at first, then gathering speed and volume as her emotions fire. "We sat there together and agreed to connect with the FBI, to keep our actions above board, to all work together. This isn't a joke, Red, it's my job, my life. I promised Cooper…"

"But I didn't," he cuts in, his eyebrow raised sardonically. "You've broken no promise, Elizabeth — I've broken it for you. There is no earthly way I will risk you like that right now. We still don't know who in the Post Office we can trust, and I won't chance walking into a trap."

"You had no right to make that decision for me," she snaps, infuriated and steaming, her blood sparking angrily.

"I had every right," he returns. "You—"

"And where's my phone?" she asks, only now conscious that it isn't in her pocket. "Give it back."

He hesitates, then looks away from her. "No," he says quietly, "not now. Not while you're so angry, when you might make a mistake."

"Are you kidding me?" she spits, flushed with fury. "Are you going to ground me too? Send me to my room until I can be 'reasonable'?"

"Elizabeth, don't be ridiculous," he answers sharply, angry himself, now. "I am simply ensuring your safety — our safety, actually, in case you'd forgotten that we are in this together."

The sheer hypocrisy of this makes her choke over her next words, and leaves her sputtering with rage, hands clenching and unclenching as she struggles for control. Struggles to remind herself why control is so necessary to her.

Tendrils of calm come, snake coolly across her skin, settling her stomach and easing the fierce inner tension. She is able to take a deep breath, then another, and opens her mouth to apologize for coming so close to…

Then it hits her.

This calm isn't her own, isn't the result of her long years of focused work and meditation and care. This calm is his, imposed on her just like he has imposed all these decisions, and the betrayal of it makes her sick.

She pushes it away from her without really knowing how, in a blast of anger and hurt and heat that is forceful enough to have him staggering. Tears burn on her cheeks; a warning that she is too close to the edge.

He is looking at her with real regret in his eyes, his face lined and worried. He should be worried, she thinks, and gives him the filthiest look she can muster.

"Never," she says, forcing the words out of her swollen throat. "Never do that again. You don't have the right — no one has the right to control another person like that. Especially not someone they claim to care about."

"Lizzie, I…I am truly sorry. I didn't mean—"

But she doesn't give him a chance to finish making his excuses — which she is sure will be practiced and smooth. The flame is hot and ready inside her, and she is both too incensed to keep talking and afraid, afraid she will hurt him.

She slams out of the kitchen and escapes outside into the quiet green of a shady backyard, leaving him standing in the doorway with a frown furrowing his brow and his eyes dark.

He gives her time to calm down, wanting their conversation to be free of volatility, hating the way she can't argue without being afraid. Hating what he has done to her. Worried he has permanently broken her trust.

But when he eventually paces cautiously out the door, he sees that he had been wrong — wrong to leave her, wrong to let her walk away, even for a moment. The yard is bare, empty but for a small angry scorch mark in the grass, a few steps from the door. The pretty white gate is open, moving slightly in the mountain breeze. Before he can think, he is dialing, snapping instructions to Grey to search the small town for signs of her.

As he tucks his phone away, his fear rises, sudden and fierce; thick and horrible. To lose her now, after only just having secured her safety, after arguing over securing her safety, would be too cruel. A picture of her, bloody and frightened and nearly broken, flashes through his mind. Then the images come in flood of remembrance.

Lizzie, walking toward him for the first time, proud, curious, defiant.

Fighting fiercely in dark alleyways, channeling her anger and strength.

Aglow with her power beside a burning cabin in the woods, unable to weep.

Her face, lit with delight as her flame flickered in her palm.

Trembling and pliant in his arms; her eyes filled with wonder and need and discovery.

He buries his face in his hands, trying to stop, to see nothing, to feel nothing. He's massively overreacting, she'll be back, she… Weak, suddenly, he drops into a curved wooden chair and tries to control himself. Wonders how long he should wait, trying to balance the need to find her with the possibility of her return while he's gone.

As he debates, knowing he can't wait long, his impatience for action gnawing at him, he hears the click of the gate, and he can breathe again. He lifts his head and watches her walk toward him, hands clenched, posture tight and tense and angry. He feels her resentful fury emanating from her, but welcomes it now, the vitality of her, the reality.

She stops a few feet away, her expression set and stiff, watching him. He stands to face her, putting some effort into making his movements smooth. He extends a hand, her phone resting on his open palm. And then he waits, waits for her to speak.

Even through her own roiling anger, she can feel the greasy residue of his fear staining the air. It surprises her a little, and she stops moving to take a closer look at his face. It is so drawn and tired that she rethinks what she had been about to say.

"I'm…sorry if I worried you," she says, carefully controlling her tone, taking her phone and shoving it in her pocket without looking at it. She appreciates the gesture, but she also needs to be sure that's not all it is. "I needed time to think; I needed to move — I needed to get away from you." It hurts him; she can see the pain flicker as if she had slapped him across the face, but she cannot relent, not on this. "Red," she continues, "Raymond. I cannot work with you if I can't trust you."

"Elizabeth, I am sorry that I…I didn't intend to influence you that way. It…got away from me."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "You've had a long time to practice control," she answers coolly. "It's hard to believe you do anything by accident."

He bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. "You're right," he says. "But you're wrong, too. When it comes to you, Lizzie, it would seem…all bets are off." He smiles, but there is no humour in it.

"I don't mind being able to sense your feelings," she says, careful again. "To know what you're feeling or thinking. And I know I let you in when we…I mean…" She flushes now; doesn't have the words to say what she means. "It's not right for you to go beyond that and manipulate me to suit your whims."

His face breaks in a terrible way, and she almost wants to take it all back, but it's too true, too important to let go.

"Lizzie," he says, and his voice is so heavy, "I would never…I am truly sorry. I swear to you I didn't think of it that way. I don't want to hurt you."

"Then stop," she answers fiercely. "Stop dictating, stop making unilateral decisions, stop trying to control everything. Especially me. I won't take it, Red. I'll walk away from you if I have to."

He swallows, hard and thick. "I won't manipulate your emotions again," he says earnestly. "Not like that. Do you believe me?"

Through the stubborn haze of anger, she realizes that she does believe him, and that one of them has to offer trust.

"I want to," she says. "I want to trust you, Red. I want to believe that I can."

"I will do my utmost, Lizzie." He looks so serious that she believes him instinctively, and the horrible knot inside her loosens. "When it comes to your safety, though, it isn't a just a careless whim, it's…you…you must realize, you aren't just a responsibility, an obligation. You are..." He hesitates, his emotions a snarl between them.

"You're important," he says, "And not just to me. I truly believe that I acted in your best interests when I brought you here."

Her eyes soften, but her mouth remains firm. She has the distinct feeling he meant to say something else, but can't read what it might be.

"But look at what you've done," she says back, serious and calm now, determined to make her point. "I've now disobeyed a direct order from my commanding officer, gone against both my superior and the FBI itself; I've betrayed my partner, my friends—"

"No," he cuts in, intent and at least as seriously. "I betrayed them — and every last member of that team will easily believe that I forced your compliance if that's what you tell them."

"That's close enough to the truth," she retorts, but her tone is less heated.

"There are still far too many unanswered questions to stay in close contact, Lizzie. Who is the mole in the FBI? How did Volkov get into the Post Office so easily? How much do all these factions know about you?"

She stiffens at the last, and he nods, reaching to take her hand, to comfort them both.

"It's far too dangerous to trust any of them, at least right now. And I would do far worse," and the sharp chill of his words slices into her, "than tell a few lies to keep you safe."

The rest of her anger eases out of her frame; he can feel her warmth again, can see the nervy tension slip away to be replaced with solemn resolve.

"You can't make these decisions without me, Red," she says quietly. "I'm not a child, and I'm far from helpless. I might have agreed with you," she adds, "if you'd asked."

He hesitates at that, for a moment, then inclines his head slightly.

"You know I don't lie to you," he says slowly. "I will…I will try to be more open about my own plans. Our plans. I suppose I am too used to working alone."

This isn't entirely satisfactory to her, but she can see that the concession is a large one for him, and tell by the unhappy set to his mouth that it is the best she can hope for — for now. They have time, she thinks, to become more comfortable with one another's expectations, to become a real team.

There is such a riot of emotion coming from him, though she thinks he doesn't mean to reveal them. Frustration and a grim sort of resignation; wariness and fear; but also the particular warm surge she associates with his affection. The sun glints off the soft fuzz of his stubbly hair, gilding his head and neck, the loveliness of it softening the rest of her edges away.

She remembers the feeling she'd had on waking — the contented happiness, the sense of utter well-being, her absolute relief in seeing him waiting for her, whole and well. She wishes she could share that feeling with him, and erase the unhappy creases in his brow.

So she reaches out to touch his face, moves close so she can kiss him, to ease the tumult rushing through them both, to reassure him that they are safe — but most of all, because she wants to. Wants to be sure that she still can, that what lies between them hasn't been extinguished.

Her lips meet his, tentative, all of this still so new, and it's a revelation all over again. She sighs at the pleasure of it, and reaches up with her free hand so she can hold him safe. He's so still, even the air around him gone quiet.

Her kiss is no less electrifying for being uncertain, he thinks, entranced by it, by her. When she comes closer, when she cradles him in her hands as if he — he, of all people — is something precious, he is unutterably moved. He's afraid to give back, afraid that if he gives a little, his need for her, his longing, will overtake them both.

Daring, her tongue touches his mouth, a gentle flick, like a question. He tastes a little like coffee, a little like some warm spice she can't name. She slides deeper, putting her arms around his neck.

And he is undone.

He wraps himself around her in turn, lost, hands flat on her back, pressing her against him with a murmur of words she can't decipher. They tangle intriguingly for a few long moments; long enough for that fascinating new heat to start to burn inside, long enough that her whole body seems to thrum with a desire she doesn't recognize.

Then he moves gently, tracing the curve of her jaw with his mouth, soft kisses on her neck that make her shiver against him. The effort it takes him to break away, to not just devour her where they stand, is almost more than he can manage. He holds her tightly, cheek pressed to her hair. She lets her arms drop to circle his waist, offering the comfort he needs, knowing somehow just how to soothe him.

"If you need to get away," he says quietly. "I understand. Just...don't go like that, without a word, don't disappear."

She can give him that, she thinks, it's common courtesy really, one that her father had always insisted on and that she can understand.

"All right," she replies, and turns her head so her cheek rests on his shoulder.

They stand like that for a few minutes more, and it's more than comfort.

It feels like home.

He talks her into another walk after they eat, so he can show off their temporary home, point out the things she needs to know.

"The house belongs to an old friend," he says, tucking her hand into his elbow. "We had many adventures together, once upon a time. Why, I remember one time in Monaco—"

"Red," she interrupts laughingly, "where are we?"

"Oh," he chuckles back, "I'd forgotten you didn't know. Welcome then," he says, with a sweep of his free arm as they reach the front gate, "to Grimentz."

She looks dazzled, he thinks, pleased‚ aglow in the clean sunlight, trying to see everything at once.

"We're in the mountains," she says eagerly. "Are they the Alps?"

"Yes," he confirms, "Switzerland. It's quite lovely, isn't it?"

She gazes down the cobbled street, lined with neat white houses and tidy gardens in a riot of colourful blooms.

"The air is so clear," she murmurs. "And look — look at the the flowers."

He can feel her pleasure, the wonder at her surroundings. Through her, he gains a new appreciation for the quiet town. She turns to him with a wistful smile.

"Dad and I always wanted to travel," she says softly. "He would have loved this."

He lets her hand drop so her can wrap his arm firmly around her.

"I think so, too," he says warmly. "And I know he'd be glad that you're safe."

"For now, anyway," she answers with a sigh.

"Chin up, Lizzie," he says, tamping his fears firmly down and smiling broadly. "We'll do well together, don't you think?"

She shoots him a dark look. "That depends on you, I'd say." she says drily, making him laugh.

He urges her into movement again. "All right, then. The first order of business is rest and recuperation — one good night's sleep isn't enough to erase the traces of an ordeal like the one you've just been through."

"We've been through," she says, frowning up at him.

He shrugs. It's fair enough. "Next is a meet in a few days with an old…associate of mine. Used to smuggle American goods into the Soviet Union in the Communist days — he still knows all the players."

"And you think he'll be able to tell us who's likely to be taking over from Volkov?"

"Among other things. I'm a little concerned," he admits quietly, "about who Volkov was really working for."

"You told me that he was FSB," she says, doubt chilling her.

"He certainly was," Red confirms. "For many years. But the things he did at the Post Office, the men that he had with him, the drugs he used on you…it all felt off, too rough, haphazard. And if Volkov had fallen in with the Mafiya, then the government is still in active play, could be preparing to make a move even now. Anders can tell us one way or the other."

"All right," she says, worried, but glad that he is backing up his earlier promises of transparency with information, thinking — albeit reluctantly — that he is a better partner in this than the FBI.

"Dembe is still in Washington," he adds. "He'll be bringing your things with him, shortly."

It warms her that he would remember their conversation, which seems eons ago now; that he would remember her needs and tend to her. He continues to speak, now, of what they might do after their meeting with this man, Anders, of how they might proceed to both ensure her safety and pinpoint those hunting her.

And despite this uncharacteristic sharing of thoughts and information; despite their physical and emotional closeness, that even now warms her as they walk; she isn't wholly content.

She can't quite rid herself of the niggling thought that a promise to never lie to her is not the same as a promise to tell her everything.