Notes: So after a fair bout of the block, this has fallen out of my head. It's brief and admittedly not up to my usual standard. I just needed this thing out of my head after 2x14.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Blacklist or any of the characters contained in this work of fanfiction. Also making no profit. Lyrics are from 'Baptisms' by Radical Face – originally used in Luther Braxton: Conclusion (2x10)

UNTITLED

"There is only what you want and what happens. There is only grabbing on and holding tight in the darkness." – Lauren Oliver, Hana

Hold me to the light, let me shine

It was a fact that Raymond Reddington had been prepared to meet his end at any moment for years, and no secret that he had technically died for all of two minutes in Marrakech. He hadn't been truly aware of just how differently he would feel when presented with his own demise until he found himself kneeling on unforgiving white tile, cold dread sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach, squeezing at his heart and stopping at the lump in his throat. There was nothing he could offer Yaabari, considering he had essentially been hired to do a job he would likely have done for free. Red considered the Hellfire missiles were probably a little over the top, though they had been the key to discovering Lord Baltimore's involvement with Berlin. A couple of years back he would have likely talked at Yaabari until the vengeful little militant put a bullet in his brain, knowing that Fitch's crew would have been running around in the shadows losing it over the information they had believed he had. Now, with all the evidence pointing to the fact he didn't have the Fulcrum in his possession, his worry was for Lizzie; somebody somewhere had figured out what he was doing with her, as Braxton had proven, and Red couldn't face his own death with the knowledge that she would be left to fend for herself without him. She wouldn't last five minutes.

Every pleasant memory he had of her played behind his closed eyelids, affording him a measure of peace before the inevitable, and he tasted her name on his lips for what was surely the final time, uttering it like a benediction. When the shot did finally come, he opened his eyes and stared at the tiles, blinking rapidly as he attempted to process what was happening; whirling around as quickly as he could in the position he was in, he stared open-mouthed at his rescuer. Of course she had come for him. He fought to keep his emotions at bay as relief warred with anger, so he focused instead on getting her out of there and finding Earl King.

In the back of the car, hidden behind blacked out windows, Red dispassionately observed as his hands shook as the adrenaline coursed through his system; he hadn't felt quite so acutely alive in years, and it wasn't an enjoyable experience. Dembe indicated Lizzie's imminent arrival as he engaged the partition to afford them some privacy and Red stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide his weakness from her. She'd be fragile enough as it was.

Bundled in an oversized fleece and practically buzzing with adrenaline, Lizzie finally achieved her first profiling bulls-eye with him, not that he would ever confirm it. He thought she might have understood it after the ugly fish story, as she had come to refer to it, but apparently it had taken him trying to stop her rushing headlong into future dangerous situations – of which there would likely be many – for her to finally understand that his life was not, contrary to popular belief, the thing he held most dear. Still, if her manner was anything to go by, she hadn't worked out that it was her life that he cared most deeply about; he wondered how many arguments he would need to weather before she finally came around to the reality of his feelings on the matter.

"Deal with that." She looked away from him as he watched her with watery eyes. She appeared to be gathering herself for one last attack on his hastily erected defences. "And when someone does something nice, you're supposed to say thank you."

If the situation weren't so tense and the conversation so loaded he might have laughed. Or cried. Instead, it was all he could do to look her in the eye, considering the weight his next words would carry. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she answered, appeased temporarily as she battled with her own emotional turmoil.

"But never do it again," he added grimly. He watched the tear roll down her face, committed it to memory as evidence that she cared. She had said as much, but her actions spoke volumes to him. She cared for him. They were a team. If he went anywhere she would be lost, although she didn't know that if she went anywhere he would be the one useless and without hope. One day she would be in a position to grasp that fact, he hoped.

Dembe pulled away from the King's estate into the night and the pair in the back sat staring out of their windows, both lost in thought. In hindsight Red would claim to have been in some sort of shock, however at the time he could think of nothing but the pressing need to continue to talk to her in an attempt to make her understand what she meant to him. It became so paramount that he rapped on the partition to get Dembe's attention before rattling off the address he wished to go to. At his friend's nod and the closing of the partition he slumped back in his seat once more, quietly releasing a long breath as he began the process of collecting himself and plotting his conversation, mapping out each possible outcome to ensure he wouldn't be caught at a loss.

Hold me against the floor and say it's alright

Liz glowered at the illuminated signage as soon as she recognised The Audrey. She hadn't expected him to take her there, especially after the events at the King family's auction. She was too drained to argue as Dembe opened the door for her, instead allowing Red to lead her from the underground car park to the elevator. Dembe remained with the car, so they spent the journey to the top floor in awkward silence. On their arrival at the floor, he gestured for her to exit first before walking beside her to the door of the apartment, fishing a key out of his pocket.

It was furnished. That was the first surprise. The second was that it was warm; he had the heating on for her, even though she wasn't living there. It was as though he was keeping it ready for the time she finally relented and agreed to take the place. Presumptuous wasn't the right word, she realised as she stood in the centre of the living room to take it all in; calculating and manipulative, yes, but never presumptuous. He had given her the key; he hadn't presumed she would accept, hadn't argued the point with her until she gave in to him, he had just let it be until the day she tired of living in motels. Despite his near-death experience and the stifling atmosphere in the car Red was back in character as surely as he was back in his own suit, swanning around the room, observing her as he reeled off facts about the place.

"There's a balcony from the bedroom. Oh, and you must see the kitchen – not that you're the biggest fan of cooking, I know, but it really is something." His words fell on deaf ears as she approached the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the room. Pulling the voile panel aside she gazed out at the Potomac, the lights of the Arlington Memorial Bridge dancing on the water; he had been right, it was a beautiful view, and her shabby motel paled in comparison.

She had acted terribly towards him, she knew. As much as he had started it, Liz had hardly reacted in a way befitting a grown woman in many situations. The pair of them were both utterly useless when it came to just talking their problems out, with so many secrets forming an almost tangible divide between them. She closed her eyes to the view of the river and was assaulted by flashes of Yaabari holding a pistol at Red's head, the defeated slump of his shoulders as he awaited his end, and the weight of the events bore down on her at last. She couldn't lose him, not yet. She had come to rely on Red so much, yet he expected her to use him more; he would have helped with Tom, and she wouldn't be in the terrible position she was in because of the harbour master if she had just gone to him in the first place and admitted she was too weak to put her husband down. She needed answers about Sam and about the fire, where she had come from and why the Fulcrum had come into play now, but above all she wanted the answer to the riddle that was Raymond Reddington.

High above the Potomac, Elizabeth Keen broke. At first she thought Red hadn't noticed, however the apartment's sudden silence indicated the opposite and the scent of him – not his usual, and likely not his own, she realised – alerted her to his proximity. She didn't fight the arms that encircled her as her knees gave out and he lowered her to the floor with the utmost care, joining her on creaking knees. Liz wanted to say something, to tell him to get off the cold floor at the very least, but she found she could do nothing but sob; though silent at first, her cries quickly escalated and echoed in the high-ceilinged space before she buried her face in his chest, her hands clutching at him as her grief overcame her completely. Somewhere at the back of her mind she was aware that he was shaking under her grip as she held on to him, though she was in no position to question him, it was undeniable proof that he was affected by everything they had been through; he was just as human as she, and was well entitled to a breakdown of his own, if not more so. As she quietened and her grip on him slackened, Liz felt him stiffen and assumed he was getting himself under control; a sadness made itself known in her heart as she realised that, after everything she had said, Red would never allow her to see him more vulnerable that he was now. Rather than pull away from her, his arm slid around to her back and began to rub soothing circles as he dropped his head beside hers, his smooth cheek brushing against her temple.

"This floor is killing my knees," he murmured, voice rougher than usual. "There's a perfectly good couch over there."

Unable to speak, Liz nodded against him and allowed him to guide her to stand. He stood slightly behind her, and on turning to look at him her question as to why died in her throat; his eyes, while giving nothing away in his gaze, were rimmed red. She halted their journey to the loveseat with a hand on his arm, turning him to face her completely. He dropped his gaze to focus on something just over her shoulder, seemingly lost for what to say to her, the muscle in his jaw clenching. She put all of her effort into calming herself and wiped her nose on the sleeve of the fleece she still wore, sniffling unbecomingly as she wracked her brain to think of something to say to him, some conversation starter that would move them past the point they found themselves at.

"Take this place, Lizzie," he said in a voice low and quiet, a demand in the guise of a request.

"Why?" she asked feebly.

"So I know where you are."

She snorted. "If you think I don't know that you always know where I am-"

"So I know that you are safe, Lizzie," he expanded, his eyes softening. "Living out of that suitcase…" He looked to the window and shook his head, likely calling up the memory of the places she had been inhabiting – spirit crushing and soul smothering, indeed. "You deserve better." He was right.

Hold me 'neath the water's skin 'til I'm new again

Red sat on the bed, his fingers entwined loosely with Lizzie's – a subconscious effort to keep him from leaving, he surmised when she had grabbed his hand without offering any explanation other than a deep blush. He had intended to show her the apartment in less fraught circumstances; in hindsight he might claim to have been in some sort of shock to have taken her there after coming so close to his end, though he hoped it had given her the space to release some of her frustrations and fully appreciate the events at King's auction. After fighting another losing battle against a yawn he figured it was time to go to the couch for some much needed shuteye; the adrenaline had left his system, leaving him drained and unable to hold on to any train of thought. Carefully, he began to extricate himself from Lizzie's grasp, only for her to stir.

"No," she mumbled insistently, sidling closer to him in her sleep, her grip tightening on his hand. He looked to the ceiling and cursed his luck. Awkwardly, he slid down on the bed until the pillows he propped at his back could support his head, dreading the moment she would wake to find him beside her. He loosened then pulled off his tie and tossed it on the dresser with his jacket before undoing the top couple of buttons on his shirt in an attempt to make himself more comfortable; he then toed off his shoes and managed to manoeuvre them into grabbing distance so he could lower them to the floor beside the bed without making a sound, stretching his toes within the confines of his dress socks. Finally, he reached for the lamp, fingers just reaching the switch as he doused the room in darkness. He was hardly comfortable, but sleep was already approaching as he sensed his limbs grow heavy as his breathing evened out and deepened. He was disturbed by Lizzie moving beside him again, her other hand coming to rest on his chest; he held his breath for a few seconds until he determined she still slept on, though his belief that staying in the same room was a terrible idea increased tenfold.

"Ray," she sighed, and he froze, his mind whirring into action. She had never called him that. Something constricted around his heart and his throat and he took a deep breath, releasing it in a shudder. He ran his free hand over his tired face before turning his head to peer at the sleeping woman clinging to him, unsure of how to feel about her using his name. 'Ray'. He had loathed Fitch's use of it, and the man had known as much; it reminded him of the life he had before, of paying bills and home-cooked meals, nights in and bedtime stories. Ray had become little more than an echo, like a distant relative, and Lizzie had brought it all back with that single utterance. He didn't know what he was doing; lying on the bed with her was one thing, as was entertaining the occasional flight of fancy involving the two of them, but the reality if she felt anything for him as he did for her could only end badly.

She had been right in the car, he was damaged, stained with no hope of ever being clean again, with a habit of tainting anything he came into contact with. Of course she cared, he had known as much for longer than she would admit she felt anything other than professional loathing for him, but the last thing he needed was for her to launch into some misguided attempt to fix him. As though she could sense his turmoil, the hand at his chest curled and her fingers gathered his shirt into their grip. The tightness in his chest came back at her subconscious actions and he fought against the rising panic they stirred in him, focusing on his breathing until the anxiety passed. Eventually, he slipped into a fitful slumber plagued by callous words, too much blood, death, men in shadows, and a single ray of light in the darkness; in his sleep, his grip on her hand tightened as blue eyes observed him in the dark.