I own nothing to do with the Blacklist. I am just incredibly touched by Red and Liz, and how flawed and real they are. I was thinking of turning this into more than a one-chapter. I would love to hear your thoughts, if you think I should.

It's happening all over again.

As she pulls up the car in front of the gate to the house Red is staying in, she hears the wailing of a smoke detector going off. She can't see that Red has exited the house, he isn't standing around anywhere outside, but maybe she's overreacting. Maybe it's just a false alarm. Unclicking her seatbelt, she reaches over and opens the glove compartment, pulling out a spare rag she has in it. Using it to cover her face and mouth, she slides out of the car, gets inside through the gate, and tries to open the front door. It's locked. She has to figure out another way of breaking inside.

Following the structure of the house, she tramples through a garden area, coming to the backyard. A large rectangular pool and lounge chaises line the yard, but Red is nowhere to be found. As she finds the back door, she starts to panic. There is visible signs of forced entry. The window pane from near the doorknob is shattered, glass littering the ground and the plank of wood that made up the back door is now hanging left ajar with smashed in wood fragments. Through the broken window and the door, she hears the smoke alarm grow louder and piercing.

"Red?" She tries to call through it; Her voice mingling in with the harsh, blaring alarm. "Red, are you in there?"

Sliding her hand down while fixing the rag over her face, she pulls her Glock free and holds it to the ground in front of her. If whoever started the fire is still inside, it will be easier to get to him with her gun ready. Bracing herself, she inches closer towards the back door, the soles of her boots crunching against glass, gun pointed in front of her and at the ready, while her other hand tightens the rag over her face to mask the stench of fire-smoke.

Liz knows it is a horrible idea and that she ought to wait for the fire brigade- someone better qualified to do the job to arrive- and it isn't the time to be a hero, yet waiting seems the worst thing she could do. Red could still be inside, and given the obvious signs of forced entry, she finds herself dreading what she'll find of him.

Using her shoulder to nudge the door open, she slips inside, listening carefully. She hears no movement in the heavily decorated hallway below the sounds of the smoke alarm system ringing, but she catches sight of a fallen pot plant on the marbled floor. Fled. Whoever started the fire, had fled in a panic. But where was Reddington?

"Red?" She cries again, tightening her grip on her Glock. "Red, are you in here? Answer me!"

No answer comes to her, and she grinds her teeth in frustration. As she follows along the hallway, the sudden wave of heat and deadly fumes causes her entire body to break out in a sweat.

It's bad. So very bad. Possibly even worse than the fire she had endured as a child.

Two thousand degrees. The room temperature feels as if it reached two thousand degrees and its so very overwhelming and claustrophobic on her. She can't see anything, as the smoke is too thick for her to see through. It irritates her eyes and she blinks heavily. The heat causes destruction everywhere in the old house; destroying luscious fabrics, the blinds. Melting everything plastic. Beyond all the destruction, she can't find Reddington anywhere.

Then as she hears a movement from behind her, she whips around, Glock raised in the air. She finds Red huddled by the wall, dry coagulated blood staining his nose and around his temples. For a moment she is rendered immobile as overwhelming relief fills her. Then she immediately brings herself into action. She has to get him out before the fire worsens and he becomes another casualty to the flames. Problem is that he appears unconscious, his entire face and neck glowing in a sheen of sweat. Sliding her gun back in her belt, she races over to him, falling to her knees in front of him.

"Red?" She touches his shoulder, asserting pressure with her fingertips to arouse him, giving him a shake. "Red, please. Wake up. We have to get you out of here, and I don't think I'm capable of doing it on my own. You need to help me."

His eyes open at the sound of her voice and his breathes come out wheezing and uneven. "Lizzie?" His voice is rough as sandpaper, but despite how terrible he looks and sounds, Liz can't deny she's relieved.

"Yes, it's me. Come on. Help me get you up and out of here."

He looks disorientated and confused as he blinks heavily and turns his head, searching their surroundings. "What are you doing here, Lizzie?"

"I'll answer that question later. Just come on." Twisting her body up against the wall, she takes his right arm and lifts it, placing it around her shoulders, then she has to work hard to get him to stand upright. It's a challenge, and Red doesn't seem to want to move anytime soon. "Red, come on," she begs him. "Help me out here. You have to stand, get up, use your feet and legs. Please."

Liz has to support all his weight as she manages to guide him up onto his feet, and with the extra weight she staggers, crashing against the wall. Suddenly Red is coughing hard at all the smoke.

"Move it," she says in a hoarse voice. "I'm not going to let you die. Now move."

"Lizzie, I don't think I can..."

"You can and you will. Move it, Reddington. Now."

Liz takes charge, bringing her hand up to clutch onto his wrist of the arm hanging around her shoulder, and she forces them to move. Red obeys, slowly and passively, wheezing and coughing. Finally they reach the door of the house and the instance the sun light and fresh, unpolluted air hits them, Liz drops the rag to the ground and twists her arm around, grasping him firmly by the waist with all the strength she can muster to hold him upright. He sags against her, and with all the weight, she staggers to the side before forcing her legs to remain steady.

"How are you feeling?" she asks him nervously.

He huffs out a laugh. "Like death, Lizzie."

"You look it, too. What happened?"

"Too... exhausted," he whispers. "Explain... later, Lizzie."

She gets him near a chaise around the pool and helps him sit. The instance she takes his arm from around her neck, he collapses on the chair, his breathing still labored and fast.

"The... the fire brigade, Lizzie?"

"I'm sure they're on their way." She spends a good few minutes massaging around his shoulders and knees with her hands, trying to keep him conscious. Even then, she didn't think it was doing any good in stopping him from drifting.

"Such... such a coincidence." She thinks she hears him murmur quietly. "Imitating the past, but the... roles in reversal."

"What?" She stares at him in confusion. "What are you talking about, Red? I think all that smoke inhalation has turned you delirious."

"The... fire," he wheezes, opening and closing his mouth. "The..."

Liz thinks she knows what he is trying to say, and she lifts a hand to rest it on his shoulder gently. She squeezes down, flexing her fingers, feeling his solid flesh. "I know, Red. I was thinking the exact same thing. Like the fire when... when I was a little girl." Her brows furrow as her throat compresses, suffocating her with fear. "It was like when I was a little girl all over again. Like all the... nightmares. The smoke. All that smoke. And the... destruction. Everything... melting. The.. the heat. All that terrible, hot heat."

"Lizzie," Red mumbles. His mouth pulls back into a tight grimace, and she recognizes it as impatience, the need to say something, yet not being able to.

"I know. I'm here. I won't leave your side. Your fine now."

"The... the fire, Lizzie. The... fire when you were a...a child."

"Yes, it was... like that. Only, this time, I wasn't the helpless child in need of saving. I was my... my father." Her stomach twists into a knot of tenderness as she smiles ruefully at the only memory she has of that terrible event. She only remembers one thing, aside from all the smoke and destruction: Someone taking her in their arms, and carrying her away. Carrying her away from all the smoke and pain, into safety. Her father. "I never told you that, did I? It's the only memory I have of my father. Even if he... he left me, he still showed me his love that day, in taking me away from the fire. In... saving my life."

Red's trembling arms lift slightly at his sides as she recognizes that as a sign to come closer, a sign for comfort. She steps closer to where he is slumped on the chair and he brings his arms tightly around her waist, holding her close, firmly, resting his forehead on her hip. She hears a strange sound from him, muffled in the material of her shirt, and she feels his entire body shake and convulse against her. She realizes he is crying and it takes her completely by shock.

Seeing Reddington cry hasn't been something Liz has ever had to experience before, and the fact that he is now in front of her... it is both unnerving and heartbreaking. She sucks in a deep breath and then, not really knowing why, she starts to cry herself. Leaning down, she carefully slips her arms around his shoulders and embraces him, holding her warm cheek against his. Everything is wet, but she's not sure if it's from her tears or from his.

"You are my father, aren't you?" she cries, her voice breaking.

"No, Lizzie," he breathes, his voice soft. "I'm... I'm not."

"Then what are you to me?" she mumbles, closing her eyes tightly. She feels her tears trickling down her cheeks as she turns her mouth into his skin. "Why?"

Red's arms tighten around her to the point of panic, holding her and keeping where she was, with nowhere to go. He raises his chin and she feels his lips over her earlobe. "I was your only memory at the fire. I was the one who... saved your life."

Her heart opens up in understanding and she wraps her arms more securely around his neck, breathing deep. "It was... you. You were the one that saved me when I was a little girl." She lifts her head and leans back slightly to peer at him, his eyes shining with unfallen tears.

"Yes, Lizzie. It was... all me."

"I... I don't understand. Why didn't you just tell me right from the very start?"

As if unable to answer that himself, Red lifts an arm and she feels his hand stroking her hair gently. "Ssh, Lizzie. Everything is... fine. We are going to be fine. You didn't need to know."

"But I did..." Leaning down, she wraps herself around him again. "I did need to know," she whispers into the creases of his warm neck. "All the time I spent thinking it was my father, when it was... you. You were the one, and I was thanking the wrong person all along. Thank you."

"No, Lizzie, no-" Red's arms go around her again and he pulls back, twisting his head up and around, touching his lips to her nose. "Thank you."

"But that night, my father- no, you- were hurt. I heard it."

"Yes, and I do have the scars, Lizzie. Despite all that- all the pain and the... physical scars- it was worth it for sparing a child's life."

She feels his hand slipping over hers, and she watches as he turns her wrist over carefully with his fingers to inspect her burn. Her heart aches and she feels light as air as he bends down and kisses the blistered, scaly scar on her wrist.

"Thank you," she whispers again deeply, and he says, "It was my pleasure."

Hoping you enjoyed it and it wasn't too out of character (New person here!)