A/N: There will come a day when I will write actual Blacklist fic. But it is not this day. ;) Shippy post ep scene.

HOMECOMING

DC exists in a perpetual state of chaos. It isn't New York but as a rule it's never quiet. Not even their little suburb, so far from the city proper, ever manages it. There's always an alarm somewhere. A dog. A crying child. Typical city noises Liz has learned to drown out.

Tonight, it's perfectly silent. She can't make out the omnipresent hum of traffic. There's no wind through the trees lining the walkway. Only the stark sound of her own breathing, the deafeningly loud rustling of fabric as she shifts in her seat.

Red's slumped slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice but enough for her. The majority of his weight is supported by the sofa (her sofa, her mind volunteers, that one word somehow making all the difference). His features are pinched, the muscles all held together more tightly. The suit is nice but it isn't pristine, as he so often favors. There are still crisp lines in the collar and the shirt itself, hidden slightly behind the heavy jacket, as though he's only just purchased it. The outfit is an afterthought, thrown on for her comfort more than anything else, a callback to their first encounter.

It's only been months since that first meeting but it feels like so much longer. When her life had been simpler, when there'd been no questions, no suspicions, no moles. When she slept at night. A part of her, tired and small, wonders that she doesn't miss those days. She's never stopped long enough to miss her life.

She does stop long enough to miss him. Somehow, that loss registers immediately.

The contented feeling settling in her stomach is quickly written off the moment she sees him. Her mind, ever logical, has a litany of explanations on hand, all expertly filed. He is a valuable resource, of course. He has been useful to the FBI, to her country. It is a valid excuse and she chooses it to justify the relieved smile playing havoc with her lips.

There's a voice in the back of her head, though, a new addition she both welcomes and loathes, chiding her, whispering. You didn't feel lighter for a resource. You didn't smile or invite it to sit in your parlor. You didn't welcome it back into your life without question or clause. She's too relieved to focus on any of that.

He offers her the next name on the Blacklist and everything seems to fall back into place. This brief chapter will become just like her old life. Something easily and readily forgotten. She smiles instead of replying, knowing she it isn't needed. He would explain. Tell her where he's been, what's he's been doing. He liked listening to himself talk.

Only he doesn't. Red doesn't leave but he doesn't speak either. He simply...is. Lounging on her couch, coloring her space, looking markedly at odds with the soft suburban decor. His edges are somehow too hard, colors too dark for her supposedly bright life.

She likes him there. The thought manifests before she can stop it, confusing and instinctual. He adds much needed character to the otherwise...sterile room.

Liz's brow furrows slightly, giving him a once over. There's a thinner quality to him. Maybe not weight but something. "You look tired."

Red sighs, linking his hands in front of him. They fall in his lap with too much weight, looking out of place when juxtaposed with the image in her head. The smug, all knowing, bastard she's somehow come to associate with safety these past few months. This man is somehow an echo of him. The lines of his face are deeper, sharper. He's aged infinitely in the time since she last saw him. She'd be surprised if he's slept.

He shrugs, leaning forward. It's at odds with his previous behavior. As a rule, Red always made himself appear larger when cornered. Now he seems content to simply be. He will exist in her space but he makes no move to dominate it. The simple change unsettles her more than it should; she shifts in her chair, watching him more carefully. "There will be time to sleep later."

"When you're dead?" she says it teasingly, a little lilting but there's a more severe question lacing the words. Chastising him if that is his decision.

"Something along those lines, Lizzie," he glances around the room before finally looking at her again, lips pursed to an overly thin line, "Though I will hope it does not come to that."

They are silent. It is not uncomfortable (it never has been; they are both, at their basest self, lonely souls and have long since learned to embrace silence) simply...different. She drags the tip of her nail along the inside of her palm, idly weaving her fingers between one another. That foreign voice is chirping in the back of her head, pushing aside every protocol painstakingly driven into her skull these past few years, insisting she offer to let him stay. He looks so tired (he's been gone so long) and he needs to sleep (to stay).

She opens her mouth, the thankfully reasonable words silencing the other voice, "Tom will be home soon." His eyes narrow slightly but he makes no comment, nodding. Her fingers tighten in the fabric of her slacks as he rises, speaking more quickly than she intends, "Where will you go?"

"Away for a while. Not far."

"You're disappearing on me again?"

Red laughs. The sound has no right to leave her heart twinging painfully in her chest. It isn't the same sound. That's the crux of it. She'd hated his laugh before, if she's honest. It had always rang so nakedly false, so damnably conceited and arrogant. That laugh had never been with anyone, only at them. This is somehow worse. It is hollow. It is tired. It isn't him. "When we have so much work left to do? I think not, Lizzie."

In a matter of moments, a car will be pulling up to the house and her husband will be strolling back into her house. Her life as it was and should be will have returned. Elizabeth fixes Red with a look, perhaps a challenge but it's laced with a more knowing sort of sadness. "Call me when you're settled."

The corner of his lips quirk up in a sort of smile. Smug, though not as intensely, "How gallant of you."

"Pragmatic," she tilts her head, watching him carefully. The height difference between them is not overly great but it's enough to leave her staring up, the lines in his face harsher for it, "You're a wanted man, after all." He laughs again, the sound a little mocking as it drifts around them. Empty laughter for her empty, sterile, home.

"Do you intend to defend me, Lizzie?"

Not at first maybe but the answer is now a resounding yes. She'd fought for him, she's searched for him. The notion of letting him slip from her life again when he has only just returned is almost nonsensical.

Her lips purse to a thin line, posture squaring. It dares him to comment (and he does not), watching her closely as she takes a small step towards him. The sudden proximity is nothing new. He has always pushed the boundaries of propriety, standing just too close to her for comfort.

It's different now. She can feel the air between them. It's something warm on the winter air, heavy. Daring her to reach out. Her hands clench at her sides. Liz tilts her head, meeting his gaze squarely. There's too much there on his face. Anger, hurt, exhaustion and something she cannot place. But above all else there is a nearly stifling sort of pride.

For her.

The corner of her lips tick up in a weak smile, swinging her hand towards him. The tips of her nails graze the back of his hand but it leaves her quiet a second too long. Her throat seemingly constricts as she looks up at him. Listening for the sound of her husband's car.

"Call me."

The two words call him back to reality.

He stares at her for a long moment, his more severe features seeming to soften. He breaks their contact first, nodding slowly and offering her that trademarked smirk. Too self assured and quite obviously plastered on as he takes a step away from her. He tips his hat as he backs towards the door, stepping out of her life (momentarily) again, "The moment I'm settled, Agent Keen."

The door closes behind him with a click and she can breathe again.