For days she imagined what it would feel like to be free, though she knew better than to hope for it. Even in her wildest dreams, she had never considered what she would do if she were to become a wanted criminal, go on the run from both the law and a corrupt government cabal only to be locked away at the end. She had tried to trace back the past few months to figure out what had gone wrong, but the threads she followed always threatened to unravel everything, even the good things left in her life. It wasn't so long ago that this life she'd been living recently was the never so much as a fear. She was going to be an FBI agent. She was going to be a wife and a mother. She was going help people.

As the days and hours dragged on and various lawyers and agents talked about her outside her cell like she wasn't there, she felt it best to get accustomed to incarceration; but when she finally did, it overwhelmed her. She remembered it washing over her like a cold, oppressive wave, collapsing her lungs and chilling her skin… shocking her breathless and numb. It felt familiar and a little too accessible; then she recalled how recently she'd been shoved in that box and suffocated slowly, a feeling that would probably never leave her as long as she lived. Her chest still burned from the long moments she spent gasping on the ground, praying in earnest that she would just be allowed give up consciousness. She remembered her lungs sipping for air and realizing the cruel irony of dying in the box that was originally meant to protect her from Reddington. And that all she could think of as she floundered for breath, was that she would never see his face again.

In her holding cell, she cried desperate tears into the slick fabric of Ressler's jacket that she had stuffed into the corner of her cell as a makeshift pillow. She could smell his cologne in the fabric and it brought back the day she had fallen into his arms outside the Stewmaker's cabin. How much things had changed since then. But just like that day, he remained stoic, unable to calm her from the other side of the bars as sobs wracked her body and reverberated from the walls.

When the moment came for her to sign away everything she'd worked for, she searched his eyes in vain for guidance.

"What would you do, Ressler? Would you give up being an agent?" she asked, her voice pleading for something she couldn't place. "If you were in my shoes, would you sign it?" She twisted the pen between her fingers as she weighed her options, and he carefully chose his words.

"Keen, you aren't going to be an agent again either way. They're giving you a get out of jail free card, here," he'd offered delicately, trying to be warm though his words were cool and punishing. He had been right, of course; her fate was already sealed. If this was the result of Raymond Reddington moving heaven and earth to help her, then this really was the best she could ever hope for. No other force, short of an act of god, was going to move the scales in her favor if he couldn't.

When Ressler's phone rang, he placed the call on speaker and Red's voice was masked by the fragile phone reception.

"This does not change who you are, Lizzie," he said. "It doesn't negate your talents. That badge is not your only key to helping people." Her eyes welled again with tears as she gripped the pen, digging her fingernails into her palms. "I understand your hesitation and I can appreciate how counterintuitive this seems. But sign it. The rest will come in time."

And with the scratch of the pen, she was escorted upstairs to gather her things. She hadn't realized that, by then, the sun had set; she'd had no way to gauge time in her holding cell. She wasn't even entirely sure what day of the week it was. The hallway outside the processing room was empty and dim, the last of the employees had long since gone home.

She foolishly hoped that Ressler might have stuck around to give her a ride home, letting what was left of his loyalty linger long enough to say goodbye. But even he had been up for hours now. But surely Aram would have heard she was being released and he might show up to take her home, maybe sit down with her for a cup of coffee. But the truth was, even if he had, she didn't have anywhere to go. She was relieved to go through this moment alone: the realization that her former home was unsafe and her former life unreachable. And that whoever offered her help right now would end having to shoulder part of her burden. She couldn't think of anyone she'd wish that on.

Her footsteps on the marble staircase echoed in the lobby. Outside there was no breeze and the street was eerily quiet - no cars, no pedestrians. She could hear her breath, her pounding heartbeat whooshing in her ears. She straightened her back and walked confidently in the direction of the parking lot and then stopped; she hadn't driven here herself. She turned back, hoping to find something inviting, some warm light from a window – a coffee shop or maybe a diner where she could sit and be near strangers. But nondescript concrete surrounded her on all sides. Not unlike it had inside.

Her arms hung limp at her sides and she was reminded of how it felt to be a child, the first day of kindergarten, stripped of everything familiar and trying to get by in a world for which, despite all its familiarity, no one had prepared her. She'd give anything to feel Sam's hand on her shoulder, just like she had then. One foot in front of the other, Butterball. That's all you gotta do. And so she set out toward the corner where she heard a car engine idling. With any luck it would be a cab; with the change left in the pocket of her jeans, she could take it to a motel where she could shower and sleep. But no sooner had she resigned herself to a night between scratchy sheets and cold air conditioning, she recognized someone waiting for her next to an idling black sedan.

She'd never been so happy to see Red's face.

The joy and relief she felt caused her to exhale sharply, something like a burst of laughter. Without so much as checking for traffic, she walked toward him with purpose - an awed smile curving her lips and lifting her cheeks for the first time in so long. His eyes were soft, proud even under these strange circumstances. As she approached, he straightened, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking for all the world like a boy anticipating his date. She stopped a conversation's pace away to study his face, to make sure it was real. She indulged an honest sigh of relief, shaking her head in disbelief.

Without a word, she threw her arms around his neck, catching him by surprise. His shoulders tensed, and he snuck his arms around her back, ran his hand through her hair. She buried her face into the skin-warm wool of his collar and listened to his pulse thrumming against her ear for a long, indulgent moment.

"You came," she whispered. "Thank you."

He leaned away to place his rough palm against her cheek and she leaned against it. Her eyes had dipped from his and he dropped his chin to catch them again.

"Of course I did, Lizzie."

As if it was nothing. As if it was a foregone conclusion that he of all people would be the one to gather her up when she needed it. Instead of bringing her comfort, it brought her back to the panic she'd felt the last time she'd dared to rely on his presence, that gas station in the little town where he'd been kidnapped by thieves. It was the last time she'd seen his face. No wonder the feeling of abandonment and fear was so easily accessible, almost bookmarked in her brain.

"Are you OK?" she asked, running her hands down his arms like she was inspecting them through his jacket. "I was so worried, when I saw the car was gone…" her voice trailed off as he laughed off her concern genially.

"It amounted to a very poorly attended tea party where I had to bear witness to a bizarre… family feud of sorts," he said, squinting as though the memory of it was just a ways in the distance. "But I came out mostly unscathed. Though I will say it did nothing to improve my fondness for trailer parks."

She blinked, amused but puzzled at his casual, disarming tone.

"A story for another time," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?"

"Not really, no," she answered. "But I could use a drink."

"That can be arranged," he said, opening the car door and beckoning her inside.

The apartment where Red was staying was predictably elegant and well appointed, displaying a personal style that made it clear that this was one of his more consistent hideaways. While he poured their wine, he explained that Mr. Kaplan would take her out the next day to look for an apartment, though she was welcome to stay in his as long as she wished.

"Kate has been particularly eager to see you," he said, handing her a glass from the other side of the kitchen, over a small but sturdy marble bar. The thought of Mr. Kaplan being happy to see her filled her with a sense of belonging that felt oddly foreign.

"I'm looking forward to seeing her too," Liz said, swirling the wine in the glass as a means of avoiding eye contact. "Dembe too." Red hummed an acknowledgement as he took a sip and immediately put down his glass, as if to signal that he wanted to discuss something of importance.

"We can talk about your present situation or not," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm not sure what I would prefer if I were in your shoes, but I'm happy to leave the logistical discussion for another day if that's what you'd like."

"It's fine," she said, her tone short but resolute. "I'll have to start thinking about it soon enough anyway. I can already tell which doors are closed, so it might be smart to look for ones that are still open."

"Don't think of doors as being closed, Lizzie," he said kindly. "As I said, your talents are still with you and they are valuable to your former employer."

"Well don't take this the wrong way, but not everyone has the ability to waltz into the FBI with a checkered past and leave with a job offer," she said, smiling.

"You're right," he nodded, chewing the inside of his lip thoughtfully. "But even fewer have Raymond Reddington as their character reference. I made a call to Harold Cooper. Your former position is open to you on a consulting basis should you wish to return."

"You called Cooper?" she asked, something in her voice sounding unexpectedly sour. "You didn't need to do that."

"Again, Lizzie, we do not have to discuss this now," he said, cut short by an exasperated shake of her head.

"No, I mean, I can't just go in there and expect my old job back; not after everything that happened. Cooper watched me kill Tom Connolly," she said.

"Lizzie, you are talented enough to write your own ticket," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not sure you're understanding the fact that he would not be doing you some kind of favor here. Much the opposite, in fact. You have leverage and you have as much time as you'd like to consider your options."

"I think you are the only person in the world who could see my current position as being full of options," she said. "I can't tell if that makes you an exceptional friend or a just... delusional."

Red laughed and her frown relaxed. Either way it was a decision for another time, another day.

"I've spent the last three months seeing myself as a criminal, as the enemy of my former coworkers. Everywhere we went people saw me as a murderer, a terrorist. I don't know that it will go away overnight," she said, feeling the weight of those judgements stoop her shoulders. Her voice dipped into a near whisper. "We never really talked about Connolly. Or why I did what I did. Maybe at some point we will, but I just feel like something inside of me that used to make me good at my job is… broken."

Red got up to stand next to her at the little kitchen bar whose marble had cooled her forearms while she leaned against it. He took her hand and for a few moments he stroked his thumb over and over her tendons and delicate skin until she dropped her head to his shoulder. He didn't offer any words and she offered no explanation; he knew better than anyone what it felt like to have the world look at you and see a distortion. A wanted poster. The enemy.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't know what I did to deserve your help but thank you." Her voice broke a bit, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

"I know you feel that way right now, Lizzie. But you deserve all the help I can provide," he said. "The rest will come in time."

But it wasn't enough. All the seemingly blind devotion in the world couldn't fend off the feeling that nothing waited for her on the other side of this ordeal. That despite having a job to go back to, that maybe she just wasn't cut out to do this. That someone else in her shoes would have acted differently, not gotten caught up in the same pitfalls that seemed to call to her. She began to cry again and he pressed her shoulder blade closer to him, and pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I just need…" she said, her voice trailing off again as she realized she didn't know quite how to put it into words. "I just want to feel something. Anything other than… broken." She felt choked and raw, a coiling ache clamping down on her. His steady hands on her body reminded her how much she missed intimacy, another person's skin, the sound of another heartbeat… the way that it grounded her. He whispered his understanding, mistaking her need as just a passing craving for comfort. He held her in his arms, one drawn around her waist, the other woven through her hair in that way he always did. She kept her arms limp at her sides, feeling as though she was suspended. She drew her hand to his cheek, running her thumb over the scruff of his jaw. She pressed her lips to his neck, over the faded white scar she'd left there, and his body tensed against her.

"Lizzie," he said, like a warning. She could feel the tendons in his neck jump with the effort of a gulp.

"Just… don't," she whispered. "I'm fine. I know I will be fine. But right now, I just need to feel something else."

"I don't want to just be a convenience to you Lizzie," he said. "But I don't want to watch you suffer either."

"Well, now who's being ridiculous," she said, meeting his eyes. "You are the least convenient person I know."

"I don't quite know how to take that," he said, smiling back at her.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you that this is not even close to the first time I've thought about this?" she asked, her voice low and husky and close.

It was all he needed.

She could feel his nose nudge her cheek, leaning down to meet her lips, hovering them tantalizingly close but not quite touching.

"I've dreamt of this many times myself," he said, his breath ghosting across her face, disturbing wavy blonde tendrils of her hair. From the corner of his eye he could just make out the crest of her cheek, rising into a smile. His lips were so tender on hers, warm and satiny and languid. His breath made something in her gut smolder like a stoked ember, something like flames curling over her skin that thawed the parts of her that wanted to second guess herself. She knew that, soon, this wouldn't be enough, as comforting as it was. She didn't so much need comfort as she needed some kind of release. He cradled the nape of her neck, his thumb flush with her pulse, hammering away against his touch.

She passed her tongue over the soft flesh of his bottom lip, then drew it delicately between her teeth. He tasted oaky and sweet the wine on their tongues tinging their kiss with something thrilling and illicit. Her tongue lapped at his, slowly, delicately. Something about the squelching sound of their lips parting and finding each other again made her feel frantic and wild.

"What else have you been dreaming about?" she asked, leaving his lips to hang slack, searching for hers in the space between them. His eyes were heavy with lust, and searched hers with the feral quality she'd never seen before – dark and perilous. He cocked his head, that way he did when he wanted her to know he was considering his answer carefully. While gathering his thoughts his eyes dropped to look at her lips and locked them again on hers as he answered.

"I've been dreaming about helping you forget," he said, encircling her wrists in his rough, wide hands.

"Forget what?" she said, all the breath leaving her lungs.

"Everything."