AN: Hi folks! Here's my take on one particular scene from the fall finale. Enjoy and please leave a review if you get a chance!

This was initially a one-shot, but if you would like to see it continued let me know.

P.S.: The next chapter of Running To Stand Still is in the works as well and will hopefully be uploaded soon.

You should have come to me.

His low voice echoes off the metallic walls; she feels the words resonate within her. It sounds so easy, doesn't it? He makes it sound so easy.

She would never admit it, but she's glad he's here. Doesn't care how he found her. He's here and maybe this is a chance for closure, a new chapter perhaps. She's so tired.

The tension is palpable. Has been for some time and she can't stand it any longer. She feels confused and exhausted and is glad that her secret is finally out in the open, whatever consequences that entails. But it's no longer solely her responsibility and it feels like an immeasurable weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She tries hard to keep her cool. Not let his gaze break her.

I didn't need to.

No, she needed to do this on her own, even if she was aware of the avalanche of events she would initiate. The enduring threat of slipping up. The inevitability of being buried under it all. That she couldn't hide this from him forever. That he would find out, that he could see the betrayal in her eyes. He had given her the opportunity, more than once even, to just open up, to address the issue, to take care of this problem with him by her side. But instead she kept it to herself; certain that she would be able to manage. That she would be able to contain the situation. Tom, Berlin, Fitch. Hadn't it all been worth it in the end?

Elizabeth, we need to talk.

Of course he had known. He was the Concierge of Crime, after all. But he had been unable to hide his disappointment; he had addressed it openly. She had hurt him and this seemingly simple fact affected her on some deep level she wouldn't even dare to acknowledge. She hadn't meant to disappoint him. Some part of her even thought he would be proud of her, in some strange, distorted way. Keeping Tom a prisoner, chained up on some ship, to gain intel. What a Raymond Reddington thing to do. This dark, criminal side of her so alive suddenly. It had felt good, being in charge like that. A little too good, perhaps. But he himself had committed so many crimes, so many atrocities. He had no right to judge her for this. And why did he care so much anyway?

It wasn't worth it. Not if the cause was you here in this…filth.

She's close to coming undone and she thinks he can sense it, too. With every word he steps closer, moves closer towards her, looks around almost dramatically. Just to emphasize that he doesn't want her here. That she shouldn't find herself in this environment under these circumstances.

She's still in control and she takes a deep breath to calm herself, to calm her nerves. Something wells up inside her, words and panic and fear, all on the tip of her tongue now, ready to be released. A step in the desired direction, towards honesty, leveling the playing field somewhat, going back to the way they were before if that was even an option right now. It's her choice to make. He's just a spectator. Surprisingly passive.

I couldn't do it.

It doesn't take an FBI profiler to interpret his expression. He doesn't try to conceal his emotions. His brows are furrowed; his gaze intense and focused and invariably fixed on her. It seems like the words out of her mouth are physically hurting him and she can't help the tears in her eyes. But she goes on and offers an explanation and somehow knows he'll understand.

And when she retreats, when silence once again settles between them, it is he who takes the initiative. Who offers wisdom.

When you love someone you have no control. That's what love is. Being powerless.

The sincerity in his voice causes something inside her to break. She hears someone speaking- I don't know what's wrong with me- but the voice sounds foreign and suddenly he is so close, an almost shocked look gracing his features, and she can feel his lips against her temple and his hand in her hair and a soft, vulnerable whisper, like a verbal remedy, that enlaces her entire being. There's nothing wrong with you. It all happens too quickly to process, all in the blink of an eye, but it's everything. It's all that matters.

There's nothing wrong with you.

With his arm around her she closes her eyes. Temporary exile from the darkness she's faced.

He hopes she believes him. No, he needs her to believe him. Because he can't stand to see her suffer. And she has gone through so much.

He's not sure she realizes this is as cathartic to him as it is to her. The unexpected physical closeness he has been craving for so long. The restored trust and familiarity. A connection beyond Agent Keen or Elizabeth. Just Lizzie.

There's a distance that remains between them because he is insecure. Because he is unwilling to take risks. Because she is still holding back and he is aware of that crucial fact.

Her warm breath seeps through the layers of his clothing and brushes the skin on his shoulder and he can't help but notice the weirdly steady pattern. Characteristic of someone who is trying desperately not to lose control and he wishes she would allow herself this moment of comfort while he is here to hold her. While she is safe.

He waits, one minute, maybe two, and he wonders if he should be the one to break the spell, but it's her racing heartbeat that makes the decision for him and he leans in, his lips barely touching her ears, and he whispers.

„Let go."

Still nothing.

„Lizzie, I'm here. Let go."

And then she does. With almost violent urgency she collapses against him and he tightens his grip around her immediately, encircling her with both arms now, his fedora dropping to the floor with a faint thud. He feels shivers running through her body, feels her hands clutch the back of his jacket despairingly, grasping for fabric and something to hold on to, something to hold on to while all the lies and the deception and the pressure flow out of her with every ragged breath. "I'm sorry," he hears her murmur against his shoulder, and he moves his hand up to smooth her hair and tells her there's no reason to apologize.

His eyes are still closed which makes the sensation of her proximity almost intoxicating. He has to be careful, he knows. His earlier comment on love was reckless but she needed some kind of assurance, something that would help her to make sense of the situation and he couldn't stop himself. Deep down he hopes she understood the implications. The severity of loving someone. Just how powerless love can render a person. How powerless she could make him. Yet how strong.

Minutes pass and her grip on him loosens and he pulls back to look at her. To see if she's okay. But her eyes are stubbornly staring at the floor in what seems to be a gesture of embarrassment, even shame. He's aching with her.

"Lizzie, look at me."

She thinks she must look like a madwoman, all smeared mascara and dark circles and irrationality.

"There is nothing wrong with you."

It's the third time she's heard this phrase from him tonight, but his voice is stronger now, deeper and slightly raspy and drenched in insistence.

It covers her like an invisible blanket and his calloused hands delicately cup her face and they gaze at each other with an intensity that leaves her breathless. Something transpires between them in that very instant. Some unspoken agreement. And she nods and he traces his thumb over her eyebrow and down her temple, the very spot where his lips had come into contact with her skin moments earlier. He smiles and presses one final kiss to her forehead before grabbing his fedora off the floor.

„Let's go home."

It sounds like a promise.