AN: Title shamelessly stolen from The Pretender: Island of the Haunted. Gotta love game-changing conversations in the back seats of cars.

When the knock came, the sky had already begun to lighten in anticipation of morning. Liz grabbed her gun from under her pillow and thumbed off the safety, tiptoeing silently over to her motel room door.

For a brief, terrifying moment, she thought she would see Tom's face on the other side of the door. Talking to him over the phone was one thing. There was security in the distance, she could handle that. Face to face without some kind of restraints between them? She didn't want to think about it.

It wasn't Tom at the door, however. Of course it wasn't. Liz was kidding herself if she pretended she didn't know who it would be. The chances it was anyone but Red at this godawful hour were slim to none.

After all, it's what he did, wasn't it? Show up out of the blue and turn your life upside down. Forces of nature don't run on a schedule.

She sighed when she saw his weary face through the peephole. He looked subdued, and his eyes were red-rimmed under the sickly glow from the bare lightbulb that served as an outdoor wall sconce. He'd been crying, then. Well, fine. So had she.

She pulled open the door and he looked up at her, almost surprised to see her there. Did he really think she would ignore him? Now? It took her a full fifteen minutes to climb out of the backseat when Dembe dropped her off earlier, her anxiety at letting Red out of her sight was so strong.

When he finally spoke, his voice was raw, rough. "I couldn't sleep," he said.

No 'Hello.' No 'May I come in?' Just 'I couldn't sleep.'

"So you decided to make sure I couldn't either?"

"Did I wake you?" he asked. He didn't sound terribly concerned, like somehow he even knew her sleeping habits. She briefly considered playing on his sympathies and claiming that he had woken her, but, really, what was the use? This past month had been hell for her, for both of them, and she had no desire anymore to add to the strife.

She was tired, all right. Exhausted, even. She just wasn't drowsy.

Liz looked away and shook her head. "No."

She stepped aside to let him walk past, not quite far enough for him to do so without brushing against her. A test. She wasn't sure what she wanted the outcome to be, but he didn't skirt around her in any exaggerated way and she felt satisfied with that, with the contrast of the heat from his body against the chilly air outside.

Red walked over to the chair by the mirror like he had the other morning, the morning he almost signed his own death warrant, and sat. He didn't speak again.

He seemed perfectly content just to sit and watch her. The notion should have been disconcerting. It should have been. But, truth be told, if she could manage sleep right now, she wouldn't mind one whit if he sat there and watched her all night. Simply having him there, feeling his presence, it wasn't… it was…

Well, she didn't really know what it was. It was something, though, wasn't it?

Liz perched herself on the edge of her bed closest to him, one leg folded under her. She hadn't tied her robe closed this time and his eyes skimmed down her chest so quickly she might have missed it if she wasn't so aware of him at the moment. He'd been doing that more often lately. Either that or she was becoming more in tune with it.

The silence in the motel room was only broken by the ticking of his watch, the distant electronic hum of the ice machine in the parking lot. She stared up at the ceiling and blinked rapidly to stave off the tears that threatened to form in her eyes.

"I heard you," she whispered.

"Excuse me?" he asked. Not confused. Wary.

He had to be wondering, somewhere in the back of his mind. She didn't want him to wonder. She didn't want more secrets. Not now. Not after she knew. She wanted the air clear between them, even if it was still heavy with tension.

"I heard what you said, Red. When he had the gun to your head. I heard you. You thought you were gonna die and you said…" She swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry it took that to convince me that you… that this… this isn't just some—"

"Don't."

She flinched. "Wh—"

"Don't apologize."

"Why? Because you think you don't deserve it? That's gonna get old real fast."

Red exhaled roughly through nose and pursed his lips, just this side of annoyed.

Liz sighed, snatched up her old stuffed bunny from the bed and picked absently at the singed fur. He didn't comment on it, didn't comment but he saw it, he recognized it. A chill ran through her at the expression on his face.

"At this point, I just need you to know that whatever you did, whatever you didn't do, I still care. I was furious with you about The Fulcrum because I care, Red. You might not understand that, but…" She shook her head, blinking back frustrated tears. "Tom nearly destroyed me. Thinking I didn't mean anything to you? It was worse. Because I couldn't bear it if this was just another lie. I couldn't let myself get hurt like that again."

Clutching at the ratty old toy, she felt like a kid at a sleepover dealing with the fallout from discovering that her best friend had feelings for her, feelings she reciprocated fiercely, but had been trying to deny for the sake of the friendship.

She hadn't felt this angry about having feelings for someone since she was twelve. She thought she was more mature than that. For god's sake, he should be, even if she wasn't.

"Why? Why did you choose me? If it was just for The Fulcrum, you could have tried to extract that information from me years ago without all of… this."

"You saved me."

"We've been over this—"

"No." His gaze dropped to the bunny and back up to meet her eyes. "You saved me. I would have died that night if not for you. You would have, too."

Liz froze, some of her jumbled memories untangling themselves at last. "It was you on the floor. Not my father."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Red held her gaze for a moment before he spat, "Because I'm an emotionally stunted asshole who speaks in metaphors and I don't deserve your gratitude for what happened that night."

She recoiled at the venom in his voice, self-directed though it was.

"You were burned, weren't you? I want to see." He opened his mouth but she cut him off. "Not now. Someday. Promise me. I think you owe me that. A scar for a scar."

He considered for a moment before offering her an uncomfortable half-smile and a nod.

"Good."

Liz's fingers found the tear in the seam of her bunny and she worked the concealed object out through the hole. Red's eyes lit on the little box and his face fell. He looked ill.

She was on her feet and across the room in a few quick steps. Standing over him as he sat in that chair, somehow looking as pitiful and small as he was miserable—it felt wrong. It felt…

Her knees bent almost of their own volition and she lowered herself to kneel on the dingy motel carpet at his feet. A wave of déjà vu washed over her—strong, painful, and heavy—when she placed the tiny box in his hand and closed his fingers around it. The perspective was different, though. God, she could barely breathe.

It was done. He had The Fulcrum, now. He didn't move for the door, however. He didn't move from the chair. He didn't move at all.

"I gonna try to get some sleep now," she said. She squeezed his hand when he still didn't say anything. "OK?"

His jaw clenched and he nodded, stiff and sharp.

He waited until her back was turned, until she tucked herself under the covers and curled on her side before he spoke. "I'm not going anywhere."