A/N: You might read this and want to kill me. That's all I have to say about that. Also, on tonight's episode— I'm not crying. You're crying. And Lizzie's crying too, apparently. Disclaimed. Enjoy!

Warning; NSFW.


/

It's quick.

The windows are fogged because even if the inside of the Benz is as warm as the fleece lining that covers the sequins and gold leaf, the wind chill still bit her cheeks, dried her harbinger mouth. Chafing. Damning. He's telling her that she shouldn't save him, and she doesn't need the psychology degrees she has to know that damage is not merely skin deep, not with the way his voice is gravel and his eyes are weak.

Raymond Reddington, a tale of evolution. A tale of a man that had everything taken from him on a cold night, black blanket, white sheets of ice. A tale of becoming. A tale of existence, in the way he won't acknowledge her existing, and caring, and Lizzie closes her eyes, and it's quick.

It's quick, how she imagines it.

Lizzie closes her eyes and imagines walking through the corridors of the secret storage facility again, dress too tight, clenching. Wishing she could sneeze and it all go away, because she hopes that the boy with the scared eyes found safety as much as every cell within her aches to find Red and keep him safe, to run away into the night, to take his hand and flee. But the gun is heavy, is quaking. Turning corners, and corners, and not remembering the way because she wasn't Gretel, and there were no bread crumbs, just sound. A man's voice. Cambodian. The man with the money, with the eighteen, and the mutilated ear, and the vengeance.

Lizzie closes her eyes and sees the man with the gun to Red's head, hears.

Lizzie closes her eyes and hears him say her name.

Not in acknowledgment of presence, not in recognition, but in resignation.

In peace.

"Lizzie."

Like it was his last call. His last hope. His last anything.

But then the coin lands, and instead of her trigger finger being quicker, there's a shot heard around the world, there's a gunshot, one gunshot, splitting her ears and Red's head. Blood. Instead, she's too late, and there's blood, and she's pulling the trigger, and the man from Cambodia is dropping to the floor, and she's hearing herself say,

"Let him be somebody else's problem. He's probably not even in my price range."

And, "It's time to go, Lizzie," he'd told her. "It's time to go."

She'd told the little boy to go, too.

But Red was trying to protect her, and Lizzie closes her eyes and there's blood, and Lizzie's hands are covered in Red's life, all the kings horses and all the kings men. All the kings horses and all the kings men, and Red is dead, and he's not waking up, and his eyes are dead and staring at something on the wall, and there's brain matter on the floor. Red is everywhere except for where he needs to be, and Lizzie starts screaming, and can't stop. She'll never stop screaming, and she wishes someone would find her and pull a trigger. She wishes someone would pull a trigger, and she could go find Red, and—

Lizzie closes her eyes.

Lizzie opens them again, and she's still in the Benz, and Red is quiet.

And she is quiet.

A tear, salty on her cheek. Lizzie turns her body to him, and Red's eyes flicker to her. To the tear, to her eyes. Whatever he sees, he doesn't like it. His mouth does that thing it does when he's upset. Quirked, like he's tasted something sour. Lines too deep around the corners of his face.

Lizzie feels like it's been too long since she's heard him laugh, and mean it.

"Red," she starts, and she's not sure what she's saying, or why she's saying it. She just knows that it has to be said. These chasms too thick, the car warm, even as every part of her is frozen, aching with the sentiment that he doesn't think she knows, but she does. She does, and she says, "You said my name."

Red's jaw clenches and unclenches, crooked teeth peeking and hiding.

The ember in his dies and rebirths in the spurn of seconds. He tilts his head, voice hoarse. "You'll have to be more specific. I say your name all the time."

Humor is a blessing, but he's still dull. Still flat enough that Lizzie's gut churns.

"Not like that," Lizzie murmurs, injecting a scoff after the comment. Barely there, when she shakes her head, focusing on his nose, his mouth, his eyes. The parts of him she's come to memorize, and now, in this moment, knowing how quickly she could've lost him, knowing how quickly he could go, trying to memorize him all over again. For her soul.

"You didn't even know I was there," she tries to smile.

She's really, really trying to smile, but her lips won't form right. They just wobble and wobble, fluid.

Red's eye twitches, and that's how she knows. That's how she knows he feels this way, too.

He doesn't deny it, but he does incline his head sharply, nostrils flaring, and she knows he wants her to stop, but she doesn't know if she even has it in her, at this point. They've come too far, and even if they could go back, it would just be to more silence, and the world is going on around them, and a little boy is going to be safe tonight, and Lizzie will only sleep safe knowing Red knows that she knows. There's a stuffed bunny, too, but that's for another time.

"You—you thought you were going to die, and you said my name, because you wanted—

She breaks off, and she's not crying, but there's soft, torn sound in her throat, like she's coming to pieces.

She feels like she is.

Her chest feels like it is, and Red goes, "Elizabeth."

And she whispers, so softly: "Don't you ever do that to me again."

"Lizzie—

"No!"

It's quick.

Lizzie grasps him by the collar of his tuxedo and digs her nails in, leaning across so that she can meet his eyes, so that he gets the picture. So that he understands that she means it when she tells him, "Don't you ever

But he shoots out just as snake-fast, wide palm wrapping around his hand, trying to get her to release or to back away, but there's a moment. This is the moment. This is the moment when their eyes meet and he does that thing with his mouth and he looks like he's about to cry before he makes a sound in the back of his throat and tosses his head and squints his eyes in a glare and stares, tormented. All this pain, all this hurt, and neither one of them can make it all fit into little boxes anymore, no more closets, no more rugs.

"Don't you leave me," Lizzie wheezes, a desperate plead through trembling lips.

Begging him. Begging.

And then leaning in and strategically pushing, splaying her mouth out over his own, and it's awkward, and she's fighting to move her body across the seats enough and his mouth, his mouth is touching her own, and she's kissing him. He's frozen, until—

"God, Lizzie," he moans, low.

Blindly fumbles to frame her jaw, to pull her in, and—

They're kissing, then. Closer, bodies pressed as best as they can. He tastes like peppermint and coffee and his aftershave isn't what he normally wears, but Lizzie likes it, likes the way he strokes her hair and tangles his fingers up in it and the way his teeth are smooth under her tongue, the way his tongue never stops moving, pushing past her own lips and—

They kiss, windows all fogged up, the world still babbling.

Lizzie's fingers fumble to place against the sides of his head, to stroke. Red flicks his tongue in her mouth, and Lizzie feels herself get wetter, feels the thong between her legs slip and slide as she jockeys to get comfortable with the way she's twisted, and—

When they break apart, they're gasping like teenagers, backseat of the Benz, people all around them, except she can't wait. She can't wait. Lizzie looks at Raymond Reddington and knows that with the way his eyes are tinged with pink and his mouth is swollen from the color of her lips and the jostle of her tongue, she can't wait another moment. It'll kill her, and Lizzie knows they'll be caught, knows they'll draw attention if they don't—

She thinks on her feet. She's been undercover too many times to not have the necessary tools.

Lizzie hits the button that rolls up the partition, twists her spine to slam the button that locks the doors.

"Lizzie, what are you doing?" Red asks her, still breathing heavily, and it's cold outside, it's March and it's freezing outside, but in the car, between them, it's warm. Everything is warm, and Lizzie hasn't felt anything but cold in so long, so. It's a good feeling, and Lizzie is on a mission, giddy but determined and feeling too many things at once, all wrapped up in the lump in the back of her throat called need, called desire, when she turns to him, tries to toe off her heels as best she can. She succeeds, thank God.

Grasps at the zipper, heaving, and Red tries to say something else, eyebrows furrowed in worry and something like—

Something like fear. Red looks like he's afraid when she unzips the jacket, gives him the vision of the dress with all the pretty beading again, and he's in a tuxedo, and this could be a popular pop song if it wasn't so wrought with unspoken things, the secrets of the bees keeping, and oh, they could be the most beautiful tragedy in all of America. Bonnie and Clyde, and oh. It's funny, the way he looks so frightened by the very being of her when she turns to him and adjusts so that she can grasp the length of her dress and shove up, shove up, but then decides against it.

She decides against to it, and twists away from him, voice breaking in two or three places when she manages to beg him: "Unzip me."

Then, there's his breath, puffing in her ear, against the base of her neck.

"Lizzie, you're in shock."

His hands go to rest on both her shoulders squeezing, but she's having none of it.

Turns, studies the outline of him, the silhouette in the dark, the dim.

Lizzie tells herself she won't cry, not really, and she kisses him again like this, wet and sloppy.

A last request, and he said her name. So she says his.

"Red," like her world is ending.

And it is, because this is the moment the world changes, the moment her life shifts on a turn, when he is still kissing her, and he sighs. He sighs like he's giving way to a thousand pounds on his shoulders, giving up. But in the right way, and the sound the metal makes when it slides makes her thighs clench. The chill across her back no mind. His wide, rough digits spanning the bared skin. A groan breaking free, music to her ears.

Raymond Reddington groans, moans under his breath when he watches her shift again, but this time to slide the dress from her lithe body, down, down. Off. Out.

The black lace of her bra outlining the paleness of her skin, and Lizzie does this because she needs this because she wants this, when she adjust them. Moves so that she doesn't knee him in the groin accidentally, and he helps her, braces his arms on either side of her ribcage as she straddles his thighs. Red thinks she's so soft, and he marvels for a moment. Parted lips, taking her in. Softer than he'd ever dreamed, and he has dreamed of this.

He is only a man, after all.

And Lizzie is reminded of this when she gets settled, moves to kiss him again, taste him again, but the movement instead makes her rock her body against his line of his erection, prominent in the black tuxedo pants. Aching, and tumble, and Lizzie digs her fingers into the jacket and whimpers, such a sensation as her half-naked body brushing against the material of his dress. They meet eyes when she undulates her hips again, intense, pointed.

And then he's desperate, and she's desperate, and it's like when they meet eyes it's a confirmation, a reward.

An acceptance.

Lizzie reaches between them to divvy a hold on his tuxedo belt, to try and—

It's quick, at least. It's quick and while she's discovering him, while she is reaching within his pants and pulling his length free, thick and blood-engorged, he's unclasping her bra from the front, delicately tugging the straps off her shoulders. Mutual satisfaction is the name of the game, but he leaks when she runs her nails over him, and she pants when he suckles at one pink, pert nipple, but—

He's taking note of exactly how she likes to be touched, and he's doing the same.

Books they've never read, but heard all the reviews, videotapes and Madeline Pratt.

It's different, and so much more beautiful.

And eventually, it's too much, and their eyes meet, and he says, "Lizzie."

And her mouth forms words.

Her mouth forms, "don't leave me," even if she never gets the chance to say it, because he understands, and pulls her tighter, as tight as he can while he's still mostly clothed, tangles his fingers up in her hair that's falling from the up-do when he kisses her, and there's fireworks. Maybe not literally, but in their heads, and she positions her hips, lowers herself. Lizzie blushes at the sound she makes, but he just kisses her harder.

The slide is slow, and he fills every part of her, but when they're settled, they hold.

They hold for a long, long moment, and Lizzie closes her eyes, and opens them again.

And Red is studying her like he'll never see her again, after this moment.

As if this is all they'll ever have, and maybe it is.

Maybe they'll die tomorrow, and Red could have died. Red could have been taken from her, and Lizzie opens her mouth and Red opens his mouth. And neither of them say a word.

Instead, they move. Red's capable hands gripping the firmness of her hipbones, Lizzie at his shoulders, steadying. Sweat beads at his temple and they're focused. They barely blink, and everything has lead to this, to the moment when they're moving together as one, and he doesn't end and she doesn't begin, and they're not fucking. They're not screwing. This isn't a movie. This isn't nothing.

This is exact, and everything, and they look at each other the first time they make love.

Even when the rocking grows more forceful, Lizzie's pelvis stuttering, little movements, fast movements. Red grunts and the windows are fogged up, and it hits Lizzie, it hits Lizzie that there are people outside. Anybody could find them like this, but it doesn't matter. He matters, and she's never felt like anybody has ever seen her soul before, but he has. He's seen every part of her, and she's never been more naked, and Lizzie feels the burning in the pit of her stomach, the heat at the way his cock angles forward, and the material of his tuxedo pants is brushing against her clit, over-sensitized, too much. Too much, and perfect, and Red is holding her. Red is holding her, and she thinks she's going to scream so she grimaces and goes to bite her tongue, but Red is quicker.

She doesn't know he does this, but Red braces his dress shoes against the console in front of them, and braces his hands against the tender, fallible flesh of Lizzie's slick back. Tugs her close, and Lizzie releases breath when she slams against his chest, and the angle is harsh, and she winces, but—

But Red knows what he's doing, and her sounds are muffled, then, by the skin of his throat.

He maneuvers them so that he has the upper hand, has full control of the movements, and then—

Then he slams.

Once, twice, three times—maybe.

Lizzie can't remember, just knows, really, that she's never fallen so hard, never been strung so tight and then unwound, and when he comes, he goes still beneath her.

She's heard about it being able to happen at the same time, is the thing.

College dorms, sleepovers, erotica novels, giggling.

But he holds her tighter when he twitches and drains himself inside her, but Lizzie chokes and shakes, and it's white-hot and screeching trains to a halt, and Lizzie's got her mouth buried against his neck, but when she orgasms, and he orgasms, they kiss. It's romantic, deliriously cliché, but they release together, and Lizzie thought that was only the movies. They come together, and they come together, and Lizzie tastes his mouth, and her own salty tears.

And Lizzie realizes, too late, that it's too much.

The tears rise into her eyes and burn, and fall fast and hard down her cheeks, and before she knows it, she's sniffling, and she pulls back and can't look him in the eye. Can't stand to leave him, either, so instead, instead she waits, and lets the tears come. Hides her face in the stupid tuxedo jacket, and they're slick, and she can taste him in her mouth. And everything smells of sex, of their bodily fluids mixing, and she—

She just.

She loves him.

She realizes it, and he realizes she's crying, and he inhales sharply.

God, she loves him, and it might just kill her.

And Red goes, "Lizzie?"

Conscious, terrified.

She pulls back so that she can look him in the eye, and oh, she knows she's an ugly crier, but she loves him. She loves him, and if he gets the fulcrum, he might leave her. If he leaves her, it could kill her. It really, probably could, and, "I'm sorry," Lizzie cries out.

Clasping a hand over her mouth to stop the childlike sob, and shit. Shit, what's wrong with her?

"I'm so sorry," she apologizes, trying to smile, and she can, now. She can smile, but it hurts.

Red frames her cheeks, concern smoldering, suffocating. "What's wrong?"

His eyes are wild, looking for something, looking down, where their bodies are still interlocked.

"Did I hurt you? Lizzie, are you hurt?"

He was rough, and she'll probably be sore tomorrow, but even then, Lizzie grunts, scoffs, hiccups. Something in-between, and reaches out to frame his cheeks, and their foreheads are pressed together when she tells him, "No."

"Then," he breaks off, eyebrows rising,

"It's perfect," she explains, smiling, all wobbly. "This was perfect."

He doesn't smile like she expects him to, is the thing. Weeks ago, before she pushed him away and told him it was just business, maybe he would've smiled. She wants him to laugh, then. Wants him to tell her if it's impolite not to say, 'thank you', it's definitely impolite to cry after sex, but. But he doesn't do any of that.

Instead, he just looks at her steadily. Memorizing again, in that exact, daunting way.

Kisses her forehead as an afterthought.

He holds her until all the tears have dried, and Dembe knocks on the partition because it's time to go.

It's time to go.

/

Getting dressed again isn't what she'd thought it would be.

It's quick.

Lizzie closes her eyes and sees him kissing her bare shoulders, helping her get rezipped. Offering to buy her a new thong, more kisses. Teasing. Sweet. Sweetheart. Red was calling her the pet name, weeks and weeks ago. It would slip out without a conscious thought. Since Luthor Braxton, she hasn't heard it once. It's silly, how some part of her thought he'd start calling her 'sweetheart' again because they'd—

Because.

But he doesn't.

And it's not, it's quick. The zipper goes quick, the sound jarringly loud. Damning.

And it's quiet, after that. Quiet, and he stares out the window.

He's staring out a window that's all fogged up, which means he's really just trying not to look at her, and she's already cried herself out. This is different. Sinking. Knowing. Numb.

And then Red does something she'd never expected, in a million years, he'd do.

He rolls down the window.

Just enough, and the wind whistles and it's cold, and Lizzie scrambles for her jacket, for the fleece.

"Hey," she growls, more shocked than anything else. In another second, he rolls it up.

"Sorry," he apologizes, but there's no emotion, and oh. Oh, her chest hurts, and she knows, but she doesn't want to be right.

"It's a little musky in here," he says, offhanded.

It stings. Lizzie can't seem to swallow right.

Tries to be useful, to say something useful. "There's some cleaner you can buy online from the Mercedes dealership that will—

"I'll have it detailed tomorrow," he cuts her off.

It's like a slap in the face, and Lizzie goes very pale, and her stomach lurches.

He still won't look at her. Please, look at me. Look at me. Please, just look at me.

And she loves him. She knows that she loves him, and she wonders if this is the end.

"Red—

And then he looks at her, but it's not the way she wanted. And oh.

What has she done?

"You know we won't do this again," he mutters, levels his gaze at her. Like it's obvious.

It should've been, but she has a mind that runs away, and if she closes her eyes and she can see how he'd look on her bed. But he hates her bed, he wants her to have an apartment at The Audrey, and he despises the way she lives, so it's funny. He'd probably rather do anything else in the world than spend the night in her bed, and wake up with her in the morning, and Lizzie steels herself against whatever emotion is bubbling up in her throat.

Her cheeks are warm, but she shivers.

The cold is back.

"Of course," she answers, raising the end of the phrase a hair. Like it's obvious.

It's not obvious. None of this is obvious. He's not saying they can't, but that they won't. He will not. He will not. He should not have. He regrets this. He regrets her, and she saw this coming, but she didn't expect it, not really. She didn't expect it, and he regrets her. And she's sick. She's going to be sick.

It was perfect, and it's over, and he's—

The car comes to a stop, but Lizzie doesn't move, doesn't look away.

Even when he does.

Even when he looks away, out a fogged window, and Lizzie closes her eyes and sees him looking at her and only her, moving inside her, hands on her hips, holding, holding—

"Agent Keen," Dembe catches her attention, and the door is open.

It's quick.

Getting out of the car, trudging up the steps to her room. It's quick, when the car goes, and he's left her. There's a stuffed bunny under her bed that means he can't really leave her, but that's for another time. Cooper had said she'd debrief in the morning, but now there's just an apartment, and being alone.

The truth is, she never actually wanted to be alone a day in her life.

She doesn't shower. Diligently scrubs the makeup from her face, lets her copper hair fall down her naked back.

Lizzie sleeps bare and cold.

Her thighs, still sticky.

This is the only comfort she finds.

/

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fin.