"All these years. It's just been one lie after the other," Liz stated, her stone cold gaze merciless, her expression full of disgust, brows drawn tightly together in disbelief. Disappointed would have been the nicest way of putting it. She was far past the point of being just disappointed, she was hurt, and, even more so, she was upset with herself for being so foolish. It's mortifying to realize you don't really know the person in which you had put so much faith. She had trusted him, believing that he truly wanted to keep her safe, turned a blind eye to every misstep, forgiven past confessions of deceit, but this was the last straw. Shame on her for giving him so many chances. "I know you're not who you say you are. You're not Raymond Reddington. And you're sure as hell not my father." The strength in her voice gave her the conviction to press onward with her verbal attack, despite the exhaustion in her bones and the ache in her heart, "You tell me who the fuck you are right now or I'm done."

Or.

Why was she so weak? There shouldn't have been an option for repentance, no offer of forgiveness. She should have been done. She should have been done a long time ago. But here she was, still standing there, pleading with him behind a sturdy shield of anger, begging for him to make a good case for himself. If you overlooked the fire in her eyes, you could see that she still wanted him, still clung to the idea of unconditional devotion. She'd never felt more desperate, it made her sick.

Raymond's hand shook as he poured himself a glass of burgundy liquid, not caring to note which bottle he'd reached for; what he had intended to be an evening refreshment had quickly turned into a much needed boost in courage. Licking his lips, he shakily set the bottle aside, pausing a moment, his hand lingering on the dusty glass, to gather his thoughts, sifting through potential responses. None of them felt appropriate. It wasn't until he had come to the conclusion that he was absolutely fucked that he swiftly lifted the tumbler up to his mouth, taking three large gulps of the, what he came to find, bitter alcohol. Campari.

Wincing, he turned, glass in hand, mouth falling agape, his gaze downcast, landing on the carpet. One deep breath in, and out. "I wanted to tell you." Of course that was the first thing to leave his mouth, it always was, just the same old story. He wanted to tell her. Well, then, why hadn't he? He felt his lips quiver. How pathetic. And, god be damned, he even felt his eyes beginning to brim with unshed tears. Another shaky sip from the glass and a shake of his head, "This whole time, I was worried about losing you. All I did was end up hurting you more than I could've possibly imagined."

Elizabeth tried, with all her might, to not allow that statement to pull her in, in to what she knew was a subconscious trap set to wean her of her lament; a ploy to bring her focus toward his grief, as opposed to her own. But he looked so sincere, so much that it immediately crushed her resolve, though, her stoicism remained. Rushing forward, she grabbed the tumbler from his hand and set it down, albeit a bit more harshly than she had intended, on the surface behind him. Looking into his downcast eyes, she questioned, "Why do you care?" And when he didn't meet her gaze with his, she straightened up, bringing her fist up to pound on his chest with each following word, "Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?" Now there were tears in her eyes, and she'd scorn herself if she were to allow them to fall.

The concierge accepted the crude assault, wracking his brain once again for a decent response, and, once more, came up short-handed. A beat passed before he finally looked into her eyes and spoke the utter truth, "When you came to me, having just found out I was your father... that would've been the opportune moment." He couldn't find it in himself to keep his hand from going up to cup her cheek, the desire to touch her too strong, causing her to flinch, yet she didn't pull away. The tears in her eyes didn't go unnoticed, it was clear she was feeling just as much as he was, and that encouraged him, "I should have said it then." He didn't know why, even now, it was so hard to say. It should have been simple. Just say it.

Liz felt her grip on the glass tighten, to the point that she feared it breaking. Letting go, she replaced her grip onto the side of Raymond's jacket, crumpling the fabric within her fingers and pulling. "Say what?" she pressed through gritted teeth.

Red now lifted his other hand, placing it on her other cheek, locking his gaze fully with hers, and said what he'd thought he'd never have to say, "Raymond Reddington was my brother."

The shock in her eyes couldn't have been more crystal clear. She opened her mouth but nothing came out for a good two seconds before she uttered, "You're my uncle?" She felt her heart skip a beat, somehow the betrayal didn't seem as serious, despite the fact that there was still the case of her father's skeleton being carried around like a sack of potatoes. Why was her father dead? The internal question made her blood boil again, it was simply disturbing, as it should be. "You killed him, didn't you?" It was now that she let a tear fall, her fiery gaze back in full swing, her chest seizing with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Frustration? Despair? Before rising and falling in a state of frenzy. Raymond's confessions always had a way of blindsiding her. She'd certainly not been expecting this one. Raymond... that wasn't even his name. Life with this man was a rollercoaster she never planned on riding, but the surprising truth, that she had to accept, was that she didn't exactly want off. She knew now that she'd stick it out to the end, otherwise she wouldn't be standing before him, willing to hear him out.

Reddington swallowed, his lips parting as he watched the tear stream downward until it hit his thumb. "Yes," he breathed before looking back into her eyes, "Yes, Lizzie, I killed him." He swiped his tongue across his lips, seemingly unable to keep them from going dry, "I had to." He brushed a thumb along a cheekbone, "For you."

Something in her snapped, literally, for it was the only way she could explain the laugh that broke from her as she pulled his hands away, "For me? Really? You had to kill my father, for me?" She looked at him in astonishment, "Everything in your life has been for me? Well, I guess I should be grateful, then. Huh?" And just like that, she was crying, hanging her head as she sobbed. He was too much. First he says he's there to protect her, allotting her time to fall for him, then he says he's her father, just to throw her for a loop and admit, a bit too late, that he's her uncle. Why she couldn't let him go, she'd never really know. Perhaps it was, and always had been, because she loved him.

Red broke from her grip, pulling her to him, and wrapped his arms around her, a hand stroking the back of her head in an attempt to soothe, "He wanted to kill your mother, Masha. And the thoughts that ran through my head..." he took a shuddering breath in, "If he had killed you..." He buried his face into her hair before whispering, "I wouldn't have been able to live with myself."

She released a loud sob into his chest, her fingers clawing at his back; it was natural to show remorse for a family member lost, but Elizabeth honestly didn't know why she cared so much, she never knew the man. She chalked it up to how reaching this point with Reddington had felt like a wild goose chase.

Once her sobs began to reside, Red kissed the top of her head before gently pulling back, "Please believe me, Liz, I had no choice."

"I believe you."

She almost couldn't believe that statement. It should have been hard to ever believe him again, but something told her this was truly the end. The end of all the lies, of the running, of the hiding. This was it. They were both open, they were both exposed. Reddington was her blood, and she was irrevocably in love with him, something she was ashamed of, but he already knew that. Still, she felt that familiar spark when he placed another kiss to her forehead. It was then that she finally smiled, a small chuckle emanating past her lips, "So, you're still a Reddington, but what's your real name?"

He gave a chuckle in return, "Would you still believe me if I said my name is Bart?"

Liz rose an eyebrow, "Short for Bartlett?"

He smirked, "Bartholomew."