They stand there, facing each other, just on opposite sides of the room, but somehow it feels as though the whole world is in between them.

Lizzie is standing there, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, staring at him with an inscrutable expression on her face. He can't tell what she's thinking by looking at her so he just stares back, terrified. He feels as though his whole heart is there on the floor in front of her, the poor shriveled, battered thing.

It might as well be.

He had opened his hotel door just minutes ago, about to leave for her apartment, to see if there was anything he could do for her in the wake of Tom's death, and instead he had found her there, sitting on the floor in the hallway outside his door, back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly at nothing.

"Lizzie!" he'd gasped, quickly crouching down next to her and reaching out to touch her arm, something that had become quite commonplace between them recently.

But she'd jerked away from his touch like it burned her.

His heart had stuttered in his chest.

Tom told her.

Earlier today, when Red had confronted Tom for the last time, Tom had arrogantly told him that he had figured out the contents of the suitcase and, given that Lizzie's real father was stuffed in there, then the Red he was talking to must be hiding something decidedly non-paternal. Red was furious and threatened and bribed and begged Tom to keep the information to himself, for Lizzie's sake, if nothing else. But Tom had simply smirked and slipped away like the vile snake that he is. And the next time Red saw Tom, he was dead from his injuries, afflicted by the very people Red was trying to protect Lizzie from. But Lizzie had seen him before he died.

And judging by the look on her face, Tom told Lizzie.

Tom told Lizzie everything.

Oh, God.

Lizzie knows. Lizzie knows how he feels. His deepest, darkest secret in now out in the open, known by the very object of his feelings.

So, it makes sense that it feels like his heart is now existing outside of his body.

It has always been Lizzie's anyway.

She stares at him now, inside his hotel room, her face pale and drawn and her eyes big and blue.

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?" he croaks. He's so scared.

"About my father? That you took his identity and his bones are in a suitcase?"

"Yes."

She makes an awful wheezing sound, a shaking hand coming up to cover her face, and he takes a step towards her in concern. But she takes two steps back.

She's afraid of him.

God, this is excruciating.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me believe…" she trails off helplessly and he hurries to answer her, strangely relieved now that he can.

"I couldn't, you couldn't know your father's true identity, it was too dangerous for you. I was trying to protect you, Lizzie."

"So, you took his name." she looks vaguely horrified at the thought.

He can certainly relate.

"It was best if your enemies thought your father was still alive somewhere. Then you would be of no interest to them."

"But why?" she gasps. "You had a family of your own, why would you give your whole life up for me, a child?"

"I didn't have a family, not then." Red murmurs, desperate to explain, feeling twenty pounds lighter already. "They were already gone, murdered, as I thought, by the Cabal. I had nothing left in life, no wife, no child, no nothing. And there you were, both parents dead, or as good as, an orphan, alone, with nothing and no one. I…related to you. We were both alone. In a way, all we had was each other. And, after all, your parents were gone ultimately because of me. I felt responsible. So, I decided to take you to Sam and I would fight the Cabal, those people that changed both our lives forever, and try to keep you happy and healthy and safe for as long as I was alive. It…didn't turn out the way I expected."

"No," she breathes and that look is back in her eyes, that awful fear and wariness and panic. "Tom said…He said that you have…feelings."

He almost laughs out loud, that simple word sounding nothing like the viscous emotions that course through his veins whenever she is near.

"Yes," he whispers, unable to elaborate, his stomach in knots, his heart pounding, the stupid useless thing.

"And how long have you…had those?"

How long? Does he even know when it really started? Perhaps when he attended her college graduation ceremony, high up in the bleachers, a fedora pulled low over his eyes, and was completely stunned by her, her beauty, her intelligence, her demeanor. Perhaps it had been the surveillance photos Tom had obtained in the early days, showing her going about her life, happy and ordinary. Perhaps it was the wedding photos that sent him stumbling into the desert, high off his ass, searching for something, anything that wasn't as sick and twisted as he felt. And perhaps it had been when she had walked down the stairs in an FBI blacksite, glowing like an angel, that he had truly fallen for her.

He works his mouth.

"A while."

Liz blanches. "But how long?" she presses. "Like…since I was young?"

"No!" he spits, disgusted, and making her jump. He bites his cheek, fighting to stay calm and not start yelling or burst into tears or kiss her. He's not sure which one is more likely.

"No, nothing like that," he says, quieter. "It was a process…But around when we started working together. Maybe a little before," he mumbles.

Why is it so hard to define love? Wouldn't it be so much easier if he could give her a date and time? Why, yes, Lizzie, I fell in love with you at exactly 3:57pm on December 3, 2001, when you were 27 years old. See, not creepy at all.

God. He's losing his mind.

Meanwhile, she's still looking small and afraid on the other side of the room. He can't stand this.

"Lizzie…" he tries to take another step forward but she takes three more back immediately and would have taken more if her back hadn't hit the wall with a dull thud.

She's killing him. He always knew she would.

"Lizzie, please…" he murmurs, desperately. "I never meant to, that is, you were never supposed to know. It's my burden, not yours. I would never presume, or ask, or suggest that, oh, Lizzie, please…"

And her eyes are welling with tears and they're spilling over onto her cheeks and, oh god, he's just making it worse, he can't do this, his heart is aching, out there on the floor, and his throat is tightening and, Jesus, is he going to cry too?

"Lizzie…I should have told you a long time ago but I just couldn't bear for you to look at me the way you're looking at me right now, it's too much and I can't…"

And now tears are slipping down his cheeks and for some reason that seems to undo her and she's openly sobbing now, hands pressed over her face and she'll never come back after this, he'll never see her again, he'll die alone and pathetic as he's always suspected and if this is his last chance, then he has to tell her now. He is suddenly certain of it. If he feels lighter now, then he'll feel completely unburdened if he tells her and that would be nice, wouldn't it? Yes, he must.

"Lizzie…I might never get another chance to say this."

And she's ripping her hands away from her face and shaking her head frantically, gasping for air in between sobs, pressing herself back against the wall as if that's the only thing keeping her up. He thinks he hears the word "don't" a few times, her eyes pleading with him, but he has to tell her, he has to, he can't do without, she has to know, he –

"Lizzie, I love you."

She goes curiously silent at his words, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her hands to her mouth once again.

He wonders blankly what she's trying to hold in.

And then she's moving, running for the door, desperate to get out, get away from him, and he can't blame her, doesn't move to stop her, doesn't speak.

He doesn't do anything but drop to his knees on the hardwood floor right as the door slams shut behind her for the last time, tears streaming down his face, pain radiating through his entire body.

He was wrong. He doesn't feel better, lighter, not at all. In fact, he's never felt worse in his whole life, never felt so completely empty and cold. But he supposes it makes sense.

She took his heart with her.