Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or its characters. You'd know, if I did.

She'd become a wild animal in a single, wretched beat. Not a graceful cheetah whose untamed nature granted it instant forgiveness, after each kill. That was a privilege of the innocent and the beautiful; those who did not know any better. Elizabeth was not a beast of innocence or beauty. She was nothing more than an ugly, kicking shrew.

Her anger was ugly, too. It made the unfortunate souls in that diner cry and weep. It reduced them to a handful of begging mice, wishing they were small enough to hide in cracks and holes that she could not reach. They weren't mice. They were human beings. She was not.

The screams of those men and women had become white noise. It was the background for the unmistakable sound of ribs breaking and crashing into lungs. That man, that nasty little rat, was going to die. His ribs were submitting to the force of her foot so obediently, unable to withstand her terrifying wrath. There was no taming this shrew.

Through the haze of breaking bones and screaming mice, she registered the voice of reason. "That's enough!" She was an unruly dog and her master was telling her to drop her prey. To leave it. She listened. She stopped kicking the unsightly rat and gave him a chance to breathe, regardless of how miniscule that chance was.

Even though she'd let her prey live, forgiveness was out of her reach. Because she was no cheetah. She was only a nasty human.

She did not want to face him. She was a guilty dog, after all, and she knew her master would scold and punish her. His eyes were stern. He was not going to negotiate with her. He was not going to grant her the benefit of the doubt. Her ferocity left no room for doubts anyway. She had to learn. He reached for her gun. Not for her and not because he wished to soothe her. He wanted her gun. It was not a toy a dog could play with. She surrendered it but his usual inclination to excuse all her mistakes was nowhere to be found. There was no pat on the head for that dog's blind obedience. Perhaps he'd expected her to know better. Perhaps she'd never been as good as he wanted her to be. And maybe he was starting to realize how flawed she was by nature.

He took the gun away from her and did not give it back. She was the teenage daughter who'd lost her phone privileges. And in one brief, desperate moment, she wished she were his child, wrapped in the soft cocoon of unconditional, all-forgiving love.

The return to her pathetic human nature brought a cruel series of well-deserved punishments. The adrenaline was vacating her body; it could no longer shield her from those she'd reduced to collateral damage. She'd made those people beg and kneel. She'd made them crawl. They were back on their feet, ready to judge her. And they did. It was their revenge for being treated like cockroaches that had to beg for the gift of life.

Elizabeth watched as Red bid Marvin Gerard and his girlfriend farewell. His sense of humor had made a return; he'd moved on from her previous monstrosity. He had the enviable ability to keep on living regardless of all things ugly and animalistic. In spite of his own monstrosities he was forever untainted. Did he want to clean himself from her and her deadly filth? Did he want to simply erase what'd taken place in that diner from his life history and hers? He didn't have to love a murderer just because he was one. He'd relished in the illusion of her purity but the deceiving haze of it was wearing off. It was possible that his love had its limitations after all. Unfortunately for her wrecked emotional wellbeing, she was resolved to test those limitations. If the truth didn't kill her, the sick compulsion to discover it was going to be the true death of her.

He'd informed her they were going to be at sea for a day or two. She nodded, accepting whatever the future had in store for the two of them. They were going to travel in a ship; a glorious ship, he told her, with magnificent furniture. She'd feel so comfortable there, so refreshed, he assured. Promises of working showers and soft beds nestled themselves in the silence between them, filling it whole. He'd been driving for over forty minutes now. They had to get to the magnificent ship before sunset; they couldn't afford to be late.

"Give me my gun back," she ordered. She'd lost control and she'd gain it back. She needed proof of her stability, of his trust in her. How long did a dog's punishment last, anyway?

"Now? Do you need to shoot someone right this minute?" he teased and afforded a quick look at her, then focused his eyes back on the road ahead of them.

"It's not safe for me to be without my gun, Red. Give it back," she insisted, unwilling to play the game of wits. He gave her another look, more considerable in length.

"The compartment to your left," he announced. He wasn't playing the game of wits either. She opened the compartment and saw their two guns there, then closed it.

"I would've killed that man, if you hadn't stopped me, you know. I didn't want to stop kicking," she told him. It was the truth and she wanted him to know it. She wanted to see how he'd cope with the ugliness of it and whether he'd regret taking her, along with her heavy, nasty baggage under his forgiving wing.

"But you didn't," he reasoned. "Lizzie, look at me," he urged when he realized her gaze was set on the road ahead. She looked at him immediately, the obedient hound that she was. "He deserved to die. But you didn't kill him. Don't dwell on what could've been. Let go," he soothed – or at least he tried. Only, there was no cure for the disease that was destroying her. It was how truth worked; once it surfaced, it could not be drowned again. It could not die.

The magnificent ship was everything Reddington had promised it would be. He was a man of his word; when he promised impeccable bathrooms, he delivered. Sadly, he couldn't promise her she'd ever feel clean again. Purity had given up on her because she'd chosen to become an animal. Because she enjoyed it. She was strong enough a beast to kill another beast. She'd never be clean again. Several hours ago, her sole craving involved clean water and cheap soap. It was a simple life – she was nothing but an innocent person on the run.

She cleansed her body, the only part of herself she could clean. Sweat and grime were so agreeable. They slid down her body with ease and accepted to be swallowed by the shower drain. Gone.

She'd considered asking him that question over dinner. But he was so happy to be eating again she decided not to disturb his happy oblivion. Like every other aspect of his elusive life, food, too, was something he preferred to be immersed in. She'd allow him that brief escape. He deserved as much.

"Come eat, Lizzie. You haven't had a proper meal in over 48 hours," he implored.

"I'm not hungry," she told him from her spot on the surprisingly comfortable sofa. She was telling him the truth, like she had been all day. He was seeing her at her roughest and most hideous. She couldn't afford to be reeled in by the smell of tasty food and Reddington's inviting warmth. She couldn't get used to luxuries that weren't hers. They were conditional. And if she'd become a murderer of the weak, his love would've been forever lost. She could've become a stray dog whose master had been unprepared for how deadly she was. She'd killed for him, mere days ago. But that was different. Her mind and heart were in the right place when she took Connolly's life. She had no regrets. She'd do it again, without a shred of hesitation. It happened when she was still a human. When she still knew better.

He'd served her rum. To relax her tortured muscles and, with some luck, her mind too. She took a sip, then two. She gave up at the third swig and left her glass on the coffee table in front of her. She was going to face the truth sober, with nothing to dull the pain that was coming her way.

But she had to wait. Not only was she about to face her own beheading but she also had to be patient about the agony of it all. Because her all-forgiving partner in literal crime was busy salvaging the life of an actual moth that was about to lose its life to its natural craving for bright light. The fools, both of them; the moth because of its in-born stupidity and fondness for death and Reddington for preventing it from succumbing to its nature. His two palms were on each side of the unsightly animal that failed at becoming a beautiful butterfly and settled for a pair of murky wings instead. A single beat and a life was saved.

"Open this door for me, please, Lizzie," he asked. "Well?" he tried when she did nothing to speed the rescue mission along. Liz stood up then, choosing to do the right thing for once. She stayed inside once she opened the cabin door for him. He was crooning; comforting the stupid insect that was going to find its death anyway. He did not croon when she was about to kick the life out of the man in the diner. He didn't praise her when she stopped. Insects lived with more integrity.

"You should've let that moth die, you know? It's going to die anyway. Maybe a seagull is snatching it away as we speak," she spit out when he returned to their cabin.

"Watching a living creature burn is beyond cruel, Lizzie," he announced.

"Just like breaking someone's ribs is?" Liz challenged. She was all in.

"What is this about?" he asked her. She watched him as he made his swift way to the sofa. He sat down and allowed his entire body to face her. Always so willing to save her from any turmoil.

"Will you love me, if I kill a man? Out of spite and anger?" she asked him. She was a stupid moth, too. And she was going to burn; there was no doubt about it. "I saw you and the way you looked at me today. You were looking at me like I was a wild animal. I wouldn't have stopped, if you hadn't shouted at me," she made a lethal case for herself. He couldn't charm his way out of the grasp of truth.

"Your father once called me at four o'clock in the morning," Red started. So, there was going to be a story; yet another delay before her inevitable execution. "You were twelve at the time and he was so angry. He'd told you not to take your bike to the off-road area of town but you'd done it anyway. 'Her entire body is covered in cuts!' he told me. He was screeching, really." Reddington was doing a terrifyingly accurate impersonation of Sam when he was distraught. It made her smile against her will. His own smile disappeared from his face and she knew it was time. The prologue of yet another story was over and the big reveal was near. "You could've chosen not to listen to me, Elizabeth. But you did. Because you always do what you want to do," he concluded.

It was truly tempting, the idea of letting her fears go and simply accepting that she was better than she thought. Her eyes were filled with tears; they were full to the brink. Because his beautiful words, while truthful, were not what she asked of him. She knew it and so did he.

"That sweet story of yours doesn't answer my question, Red," she told him in a shaky voice. "Would you have loved me as much, if I'd killed that man in the diner?" she asked one last time.

He took his time. And then, he was ready.

"I don't know."

The End

Author's Note: Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).