Crossing the Line

With Dembe's assistance, she tracks Red down at his current safe house, a lake home about an hour's drive west into the Appalachian Mountains. She has no other choice now but to ask him for help. Who else could she turn to after the harbormaster's death had been tied to her? She couldn't let Ressler get involved any deeper in the awful mess she caused. If she had just finished Tom off when Red told her to, none of this would be happening, but she couldn't do it. She told Ressler she wanted to use Tom as an informant but she wanted more from him than that. She wanted answers but she also wanted to punish him for making her such a fool. And then there's Red, who was also just using her. He protested that it wasn't true but she couldn't let herself believe him, not after everything that had transpired. But maybe he would help her just the same, even if only to put her in his debt. At this point she has little choice.

She climbs the wide steps to a wraparound deck and approaches the front door, the light of the moon and a thick splattering of stars across the sky illuminating a calm lake stretching into the distance while the house itself sets in the embrace of towering pines. It is still and just cool enough to mute the symphony of insects and all manner of other creatures that might normally fill this natural setting. There is a spatter of lights in homes around the water's edge but none close enough to be rightly counted as a neighbor. As she raises her hand to knock on the great carved slab of Mahogany, the center of an impressive entranceway, the door falls away and Red stands in its place.

For several moments they just stand there, his face weary and eyes filled with a volume of pain and weariness beyond expression. He offers no pretense, no put-on smiles or careful façades. They started as enemies but their complex and confusing dance has led them here.

"Agent Keen," he says finally. "I thought you were through with me."

She shakes her head, "It's never that easy, is it?"

Red raises his brows, a twitch in his cheek revealing a conflicted mind. For a moment she is certain he is going to just send her away, a nauseous certainty that her harsh words in that empty pool had been all too accurate. "I was about to pour myself a drink," he says in an even tone, then turns and walks back into the mostly dark expanse. "Would you like one?"

"Sure," she says with a sigh, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. It is an open space, a well-adorned kitchen and living room spread out across one side of the house and doors on the far side leading, she imagines, to bedrooms and bathrooms and such. Flames glow through the glass front of a cast iron wood stove, lighting the space in a surreal ballet. A candle on the granite kitchen table and the indirect glow from a rope light behind a high shelf running around the entire room gives depth to the darkness. The furnishings are few; hand carved wood furniture adorned with fabric in a delicate pattern of crimson and tan, an antique black powder gun, handmade pottery and various mementos of another person's life.

Red hands her a tumbler of ice and an amber liquid before sitting on one side of a deeply cushioned couch. He seems weary and bitter, not at all the amiable facade he dons for her lately in front of the others. Liz sits in a lightly cushioned chair just a few feet from him, taking a sip of an alcohol she does not recognize, likely something far more expensive than she has ever tasted, she muses. So much has happened between them, so much pain and hurt, and still so many questions.

But she knows more now about her past than she had most of her life. She knows her father was killed because of the fulcrum and she knows that Red was there the night of the fire. She knows this thing is why he came into her life and that she is a means to an end. But she still holds on to the belief, however irrational, that she is more to him than that, even if she just can't quite figure out what.

She tries to formulate an explanation about her trouble but, right now, sitting with him in the firelight, the only thing that really seems important is their relationship or whatever is left of it, their connection and their past. Suddenly she is almost glad she has cause to talk about something else, anything else.

"I came here to ask for your help," she admits.

He smiles but it is a cold and joyless expression. "Why would I help you if I don't care?"

She swallows hard. He's going to make this as hard for her as he can. Maybe this was a mistake, she thinks, but presses on. "The local police have tied me to the harbormaster's murder."

His face, his eyes, are tortured, conflicted, with flashes of anger, sadness, concern, all playing momentarily across his features as his jaw flinches. Finally he sighs deeply. "That particular issue has already been taken care of," he tells her, eliciting shock and consternation. He continues, "The big fellow with that monster of an earring? He's cut a deal with the police, led them to the body, told them who is responsible. I suspect there is an arrest warrant out by now."

Her heart sinks into her stomach. Is he really enjoying this happening to her? Can he really cut her loose so easily? Because there's no question who's responsible, "Me," she whispers bitterly.

Red draws in a deep breath, lets it stream out in a long sigh. "Tom," he tells her, "not you." As she works to process this information, he tells her, "You have nothing to be concerned about. You are safe."

Liz stares at him, dumbfounded, while he avoids her eyes. He's still protecting her, but why? Because of the fulcrum? Because of something he thinks she knows? "Why do you do this?"

"You know why," he answers, still avoiding her eyes.

But she doesn't know. Because he needs her alive or because he truly cares? "I know someone intentionally erased my memories of that night, someone who didn't want me to know," she says, her tone one of accusation.

"Some things are better left forgotten," he tells her, staring at the ice in his glass.

"Maybe that isn't another's choice to make," Liz counters. "I'm strong enough to live with the truth and I don't need your protection, your lies or your false concern."

Red chuckles, "One truth you are going to have to accept one of these days is that you do need my protection." He licks his lips, crosses his legs and throws his right arm over the back of the couch, tilting his head a touch to the side as his eyes take her in. "I never tell you everything, but I've never lied to you, Lizzie, and I have never faked my feelings for you."

"You really want me to believe I'm more to you than this thing you think I know?" she says but he just sighs and looks away, eyes blinking against hidden emotions, all the hideous realities he thinks he has to protect her from.

Liz downs the last of her drink and sets the empty glass down with a sharp thud. Bolstered by the flush of alcohol in her system, she stands and strides confidently over to him, dropping down on the couch right beside him, so close that her hair brushes his arm positioned on the couch back above her. Surprised, curious and more than a little smug, Red smiles and straightens, drawing closer to her. "I cannot tell you a truth you are unwilling to hear."

"Bullshit," she snaps. "You keep information from me like a leash to pull and jerk me about wherever you want, to serve your own selfish needs!"

He studies her face, wanting nothing more than to touch her, to caress her soft skin and tell her exactly what he feels but that isn't an option. "My own selfish needs are not important," he tells her instead, any pretense fallen from his expression. He stands and walks away from her, staring into the darkness beyond a large sliding glass door.

But she is determined. She stands, follows him. "Since when?" she demands, standing so close behind him that they are almost touching.

"Ah, dear Lizzie," Red shakes his head slowly. "What you are to me means nothing because of what I am to you. We are bound to each other by that fire, by that night, and by our work if we continue it." He pauses in his thoughts but she says nothing, hoping he will continue. After a moment, in a low tone, he does. "He was your father, Lizzie, and he was my mentor. I was a naïve kid fresh out of the academy with no idea how the world worked, how twisted and convoluted the structures of power, the games of influence and the malleability of morality could become. Your father died that night and I would have died there with him … but I came to … in a fog of acrid smoke to the desperate, terrified cries of a young girl."

In a flash she remembers him, a much younger Red, drawing her from that closet, leading her from that burning house. Why hadn't she remembered that before? "You saved me," she realizes, eyes unfocused.

"We saved each other," he counters, sparing a quick look at her before returning his gaze to the darkness. "Both of our lives were changed irreparably by that night. Yes, the fulcrum matters. It matters because, if others realize that you may be able to lead them to it, that puts you in grave danger."

"So you helped me forget?" her voice is fragile, quiet.

Red turns now to face her with a penetrating, soulful gaze that makes her tremble inside as they stand just inches from each other. Despite everything he believes and knows he should and should not do, Red touches his fingertips along her beautiful face, wanting so much more but knowing he deserves none of it. "I helped you forget what they did to your father, the horror you witnessed that night. If you ever look again into that dark place, you will wish for the rest of your life that you had not."

She runs her tongue across the edges of her teeth, struggling against a truth she is still unwilling to face, eyes barely holding a flood of tears behind a mask of anger and yet she doesn't pull away. "What am I to you? An obligation? You pulled me out of that fire so now you feel responsible for me?"

"For the pain I've caused you, for my part in it, I feel responsible, absolutely," he says, his fingertips still grazing the gentle curve of her face. She doesn't pull away from his touch, so desperate for answers, he muses, that she will deal with the devil to find them. "I had many reasons for turning myself in to the FBI, but I didn't expect you, my dear Lizzie, not the woman you've become, my unbridled and intoxicating, beautiful and challenging Lizzie."

His face is intense, the depth of emotion in his eyes devastating, but she still refuses to understand. Her blue eyes beg him for honestly, for more. "Lizzie, I want nothing more right now than to strip you of your clothes, ravage every inch of you and bring you to the heights of ecstasy the likes of which you haven't even dreamed of, then again and again for the rest of my days," he admits in that husky cadence that makes her weak, sending shock waves of heat through her core, her skin tingling at the thought of it, her body aching for him. His words are sincere and the emotion in his eyes unflinching, but tinged with excruciating pain. "But that is not what I am to you. And it never will be," he adds sadly. He lets his hand drop from her face and turns away from her.

Now the tears fall silently down her stunned face. She cannot help but let them. And she cannot stop fire that roars within her at the thought of him doing intimate things to her. Could this powerful and dangerous man, whose melodic tones send tremors through her soul, who infuriates her and challenges her like no other, could he truly desire her? Or was he just manipulating her again, playing her to see how she would react, to see if he could have her and have that power over her? He always has ulterior motives, she thinks, and he's never denied his baser instincts, but for the rest of his days? She had never let herself think of him in that way, despite his charms, his gentle touches, the charge that passes through her any time she interacts with him. But they can't be like this. This can't happen, not between an agent and her informant, not between a law enforcer and a criminal, and certainly not between her and Raymond Reddington.

Red's gaze still peers into darkness as he adds, "I will respect your boundaries and treasure my time with you, Lizzie, regardless of the circumstance, and I always will, even if you hate me."

She almost stops his heart as she places a hand on his arm, holding firmly. He turns back to her, brows up over tender eyes awash in loss. He looks lost … the fish lost in the caves, but he is no longer hideous in her eyes. She says nothing but her eyes ask for everything, for some verification of his intentions, for something true that she can count on. His eyes fall from her eyes to her lips and back, his heart racing, breaking. He's too close and too close to giving in to his desires but he won't push her and he can't take her rejection. Standing so near but not touching, she searches his eyes and he expects her to slap him but instead she moves her hand to his face, fingertips running along his slightly stubbled jaw, brushing against his soft lips, testing, searching, as he opens them slightly. But he shakes his head and pulls away.

"Don't. Please," he begs with a bitter tone. "I know I don't deserve your compassion but don't play with me."

She blinks, tries to breathe. "This is not a game," she says, voice hoarse, her fingertips shaking lightly as she touches her palm to his cheek and she looks at him, openly searching for something she never realized she needed, seeing him differently, the vulnerability in his desire for her. This was a part of himself he had never showed her, perhaps never showed anyone.

But he is still resistant, the moment growing dangerous. "I think you need to leave," he tells her, breathless, trying to refill his lungs and clear his system of this moment, this temptation.

Tears fall silently as she blinks, struggling to comprehend what is changing between them. Instead of leaving, she leans forward, slowly, studying his face, his mouth and he is frozen for a moment as she finally touches her lips to his. His eyes fall shut as the sensation of her floods his body. Their mouths open and the kiss deepens, a gentle and tentative touch turning to sensual, open passion with just the tantalizing hint of tongues. He wants to pull away but is drawn by an irresistible force and he reaches out to her, taking her in his arms as they kiss.

When they finally part for a breath, he struggles to pull himself from this, from her, before he hurts her even more. "Don't do this," he manages, "You deserve so much better."

She gazes into his eyes, into the agony and heartbreak and love. And in her eyes, he finds more than he ever imagined, caring and compassion infused with a raw, frantic desire. It's more than he is capable of resisting. He kisses her, his hand raking into her hair and pulling her to him. Her hands are on him and their bodies come together, sensual kisses driving all reason from their minds. She pulls his shirttails from his pants and runs her hands up his warm flesh and in his intoxication of her taste and feel he fails to halt her roving hands in time.

She stops when she feels the mass of scar tissue and they pull apart, her eyes searching his, their breathing still labored by passion, this charge of electricity between them. She slowly and deliberately unbuttons his shirt and pushes it from his shoulders so that it drops to the floor. She moves around his body, examining the evidence of his sacrifice, her fingers drifting over the mangled skin as she so often does with the scar on her wrist. They were both forever scarred by that night.

Finally he turns again to face her as her hands continue to explore his body. Red caresses her as he removes her shirt and with a quick, skillful move he unsnaps her bra, pulling it gently from her shoulders until it falls and she is bare breasted in front of him. His Lizzie. He had dreamed of this moment, of being with her like this, but never allowed himself the hope that it could actually happen. She walks him back to the couch until he drops back onto it and she moves to straddle him, each knee pressed into the couch on either side of his body, the warmth emanating between them intense.

He leans forward, taking her breasts in his mouth and she runs her hands over the wonderfully soft hair on his head, pressing her body against his crotch, enmeshed and enthralled by his touch, this criminal, this man who has wielded such havoc in her life. This murderer, this criminal, this monster, this man. This incredible, charming, provocative man. They should stop this. She has to stop this. It is wrong in so many ways. But it is also so right.

He reverses their positions, laying her back to the couch and she watches in a daze as the one and only Raymond Reddington slowly and carefully removes her jeans and then the panties beneath, placing soft kisses along the inside of her thigh. As she feels his tongue tasting her, exploring and pleasuring her, Liz shutters again at the realization of what they are doing, of who she is with, of who is doing this to her. His touch is intense and intoxicating. As he moves with tender, wet kisses up her body, coming again to her mouth, his eyes are drowning in desire. "Are you sure you want this, Lizzie?" he whispers, struggling against every fiber of his being to stop this from happening if she says no. He wants it to happen, more than anything he has ever wanted.

She doesn't tell him to stop. She wants to, needs to, but instead, her hands are on his belt, unbuckling, pulling the fabric of his pants and boxers down until he twists to step out of them, and then presses his naked body against hers.

"I want this," she manages in a heavy gasp, kissing him again and moving her hand down his body, gripping his hot, stiff flesh in her hand. His breath catches and she can see the intensity in his face. The kisses continue as they adjust their bodies and she maneuvers him into her. She wants him inside of her, pounding into her. Their bodies come together, flesh to flesh, and she wraps her legs around him, taking all of him, clinging to his body with boundless intensity.

She had never seen him without a shirt on before this day and now his naked body is entwined with hers, on this couch, in this borrowed house. Again the reality of the situation strikes her. Raymond Reddington, the FBI's fourth most wanted, the informant she was supposed to be pressing for information but now all she can feel is him pressing into her, filling her, and the weight of his body on top of her, their bodies hot and wet with perspiration and the pheromones of sex.

They met each other's gaze but no words are spoken, just volumes of emotion and desire spilling out. Time no longer exists. The glow of the fire dances on their skin until they were both finally spent, collapsing together in wonderful exhaustion.

His eyes are on her and his hand caresses her naked body beside him. "Are you comfortable?" He asks, moving to adjust his weight off of her as they lay together.

"I am," she says but otherwise she is silent.

"Do you regret this?" he asks, tortured by the thought, though he wouldn't give this night up for the world. He could have the world, ironically, but all he wants is her.

Liz turns her blue eyes to him, mildly conflicted. "I might," she admits with a light smile, "but not right now. Right now I just want to be with you like this. How I feel with you, I've never felt this before."

"I would do anything for you," he says. "Even walk away if that's what you asked."

"And if I asked you to stay?" she wonders.

"I would never let you go," he says and their lips come together again with such tender, beautiful passion. She rests her head against his chest and he holds her against him. Time passes in a slow, softened reality between them, the world outside far removed. Soon they will both have to face what they have done and what it means but for right now they just hold each other close.

Intoxicated by this surreal, wonderful moment, this unexpected but long desired encounter, Red brings his lips to her head, kissing her hair. "What am I to you?" he asks, finally.

Liz's eyes widen but the answer is so obvious she can hardly fight it. She pulls her head back so that she can gaze directly into his eyes. "Everything," she tells him. He is everything.