disclaimer: not mine

Her legs buckle. Leaden exhaustion pulls her down on the couch. She hears him but the words don't register. Nothing seems to register anymore. Her stained fingers curl into the soft cushion, gripping it tight, trying to hold on to something. Anything. She can't recall how they got here. She remembers pulsing red and blue. And shouting. Rain. Tom. And blood. Fragments. Painful splinters of memory that burrow deeper with each attempt to join them up into a whole. So she stops trying. For now. She doesn't touch them. She doesn't move. She just sits, empty and wordless, with skinned knuckles and muddy shoes.

"Lizzie."

Her name wrapped in his voice finally penetrates her fatigued haze. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because all your FBI friends can offer you right now is a nice blanket and a never-ending barrage of questions. Both of which are utterly useless at the moment."

"What can you offer?"

"A safe place," he answers, shrugging out of his jacket. "And some time to process what happened."

What happened? she wants to ask but the words get stuck and sink back. She doesn't look at him. She can't. She stares at one of the expensive-looking knick-knacks on the elegant coffee table in front of the couch, briefly wondering whose home they are "borrowing" right now. There is an undeniable upside to Red's hermit crab-like practices but she couldn't live like this. The beauty that surrounds them feels alien.

As if he could read her mind, he sweeps the smallish table clean of every object, then sits down on it. Their knees touch but she doesn't move. There's a small first aid kit in his lap. He soaks a piece of gauze with antiseptic liquid, then gently pulls her hand into his. "This is not gonna be pleasant," he warns her, then starts dabbing at the raw patches of skin. Her fingers flex and unflex, but she endures the process silently. He doesn't speak either. She watches him as he cautiously and meticulously cleans her hands of dirt and blood.

"I hate you," she says after a long stretch of silence. Her voice is hollow, barely above a whisper. It's one final, desperate grab for some semblance of control but her grip slips. She doesn't sound convincing enough - not even to her own ears. Why can't she hate him? Why isn't she allowed at least that much satisfaction? Their eyes lock. He doesn't say anything. As usual, he seems unaffected but she sees a spark of emotion. A small twitch under his eye. He waits. "You…" she continues, "… you destroyed everything I had."

He lowers his eyes and grabs another piece of gauze from the kit. "The things you had," he says, his tone low and even, "were not worth preserving, Lizzie." He doesn't patronize her. He states a cold hard fact she hasn't quite come to terms with.

"That's what you decided," she says.

"No." He soaks the sterile fabric and turns her hand palm up. He studies her scar. Runs his thumb along its edge. "That's what you decided when you trained your gun at the man masquerading as your husband, and pulled the trigger." When he looks back up, he finds her staring back at him with mounting intensity. "I think it was the right decision."

"You're hardly an objective bystander."

He holds her gaze. There's a long pause. A slight twitch - this time in his shoulder. The armor of easy-going indifference is cracking. He bites the inside of his lower lip, not allowing any words to escape. It's a momentary success in a battle already lost.

"You're loving this, aren't you?" she asks, her voice full of tears and accusing.

His jaw clenches. "I am not."

"I don't believe you."

He inhales deeply. Silently. "I care about you."

"You're a liar."

"I love you."

The simple, unceremonious confession throws her. It's followed by ringing silence but she is quick to push back. She doesn't even want to begin to comprehend what sick, twisted meaning he might associate with those three words. "You're a liar."

"And I love you," he repeats. His demeanor still feels casual, detached even, but his eyes flash with emotion.

His mere presence stings and burns like antiseptic. "I hate you," she whispers.

"Lizzie—"

"I hate you," she repeats, much louder this time as if volume could lend credence to her declaration.

He regards her quietly, then tilts his head. "Who's the liar now?"

She keeps her eyes fixed on him. That's all she can do. Then something gives way. The numbness finally cracks and the chaos churning inside her rushes to find an outlet. Soon she feels the tears. They roll down her cheeks in silence. He doesn't try to wipe them away. He doesn't move to sit next to her. He doesn't try to touch her. Not this time. This time he is simply there. With her. For her. If she needs more, it's up to her to reach out.

Once again, she refuses to look at him.

"I've been where you are now," he says. "It's…" he trails off, tasting then discarding a few words before finding the right one, "… disorienting." He packs away the gauze and the antiseptic. She sneaks a glance at him. A memory flickers across his features. "Like being pushed out of an airplane at 14,000 feet," he says, closing the kit and she quickly shifts her gaze. "If hating me makes you feel any better, then by all means, hate me, Lizzie. Hate me with all you've got for as long as you need. I promise I'll still love you with everything I have."

He waits a few seconds, letting it sink in, then rises to his feet. He's already at the door when her voice stops him.

"Why were you pushed out of that airplane?" she asks.

He turns back around. "Well… that's a long story."

She absently rubs her scar, then looks up at him. "Tell me."

He finds her a small smile and she scoots over a bit, making room for him on the couch. He flops down next to her and they study each other for a long moment. "This also falls under my immunity package," he reminds her and she gives him a small nod. "All right. Well, it all began on the island of Nauru with a man named Jubal. Fascinating character. Mad as a hatter. He made his fortune selling cremation jewelry and his Coupe de Ville cocktail is a killer. In this particular case, quite literally…"

He talks and talks for minutes on end.

He didn't lie.

It really is a long story.

And she doesn't mind at all.

She secretly wishes it could go on forever.

Because she finds peace in his voice.