For disclaimer see chapter one. Okay I wasn't going to do another chapter but...I just started writing and what started as more for my other stories, morphed into more for this supposed one-shot. Hope you like it! The song I used for this chapter was "I Found" by Amber Run. Y'all should check this band out, too, if you haven't. They're fantastic.

Watching Red get his feet back under him is a special kind of torture. He'd milled around the house all night, silent, always keeping her and Kaplan in the corner of his eye; awake still in spite of, clearly, not getting enough sleep. She sees the signs of that awful restlessness; how having stayed up too long becomes a compulsion, as though he's missed his window, that exhausted two or three hours early in the evening when you know you should sleep but it's far too early, and it doesn't feel normal. Especially when normal requires the routine wrestling of the demons that flare up in the dead hours of the night.

She has Agnes in her arms when she wanders into the study that Red had resigned himself to an hour ago. Dembe had suggested a break after Red and Kaplan had begun a silent battle of wills not long after Liz had kissed him. He'd seemed in such a state of shock that she was afraid to let go of him when Agnes had started to fuss. She finds him pacing, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping a mostly full glass of amber liquid.

He's changed. The bloodied shirt from before has been switched out for a crisp, white replica under an unbuttoned vest that leaves her a little disappointed. Still hiding. A small part of her concedes to the fact that she deserves his wariness. He's been running himself ragged ever since. She looks to the tumbler on the coffee table, stopper in place, and he takes note of her scrutiny with a hoarse,

"Habit," as if it's funny, as if it's comforting, as if this whole night isn't out of the ordinary. We've dragged this on for too long, I didn't expect him to-. She hadn't been privy to Mr. Kaplan's plan, but she'd understood the woman. For the first week or two, though secluded, she lived in the relative safety of someone who knew normalcy; away from Tom, from Reddington, from the task force, from the name Rostova.

I'm afraid for my baby.

She lets him fidget under her scrutiny until he sets the full glass down on top of the desk near the window. She hoists her daughter into her arms a little more, with the slightest movement of careful consideration for the little one's head; she's finally, blessedly asleep. Motherhood had come naturally to Liz, who wondered if she'd have it in her, if she would fail like her mother, her father, like Red had with his family. But when she'd awoken and Agnes was placed back in her arms, everything had fallen into place. She'd had help, of course, but, like most things in her life, she'd been a quick study.

"Come on," she turns her head over her shoulder a little to motion in the direction she wants him to follow her, and she slowly makes her way from the study as if he might not come with her. But having her out of sight again seems to be the last thing on his mind, and he follows her with a cloud of apprehension settling over his features. He looks drawn by the time they make it to his bedroom; aged years and years from the small trip. Perhaps the knife wound had been more serious than she'd assumed, and this fatigue wasn't just from emotional turmoil and upheaval.

Her things are cluttered near the end of the bed, a crib set up just a little ways from the window, an eastern facing room where the sunlight might filter in and warm the space. But Liz doesn't move to settle Agnes into the crib. She looks to Red, whose hands have remained in his pockets, his eyes roaming over her and Agnes's things as though his brain won't quite allow him to put two and two together.

God, he looks tired. And while faking her death hadn't been her idea, Liz was still complicit in Red's suffering, and her heart aches imagining the feeling of betrayal he might be experiencing tonight. How could we do this to him? She'd tried to tell herself two days ago, when Kaplan had come to her with a broken resolve, that he brought this upon himself. I keep my promises, dearie.

That his refusal to share her own life's story with her would still be there. That his protectiveness would still know little in the way of boundaries. That Agnes would be brought into the very thing Liz had wanted to get so far away from. That his brand of danger was too much for anyone to handle. And yet, the more she watched Mr. Kaplan's steady conviction in their plan die as the weight of keeping their secret grew, she knew he didn't deserve this. How dare we… and the fact that he hadn't even spoken against the decision, yet, means he believes he deserved it on some level; that it was somehow a just punishment for what he's done in his life.

"Hold her while I change?" Her voice falls into a question because commanding him to do it rang of her callous and misplaced cruelty after Agnes had been delivered. She can still picture how his face had fallen, but now it seems in stark contrast to that. His lips twitch with a smile, and she swears she sees his breath catch. Liz thinks it's going to be awkward, handing Agnes over without waking her, but Red steps forward, and before Liz can move to meet him in the middle, he has lifted her baby girl into his arms with practiced ease.

Agnes seems to fit there, her face turned into his unbuttoned vest. I forgot he- She has to turn away from him when she watches the look on his face as he beholds Agnes asleep in his arms; vision blurring and throat clogging with guilt. Walking to the bathroom, she thinks that her life's memoir could be dedicated to explaining the many ways in which one might break a monster into a thousand tiny pieces.

I'll use you as a warning sign
That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
And I'll use you as a focal point
So I don't lose sight of what I want
And I've moved further than I thought I could
But I miss you more than I thought I would
And I'll use you as a warning sign
That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind

This is not a monster.

This man who has fallen asleep in the plush armchair in the corner of the bedroom with Agnes asleep on his chest.

His right hand resting just a bit on her back.

This infamous criminal lulled to vulnerability by the peaceful solace of a baby trusting him to hold her while she sleeps.

This protector of hers whose armor has slipped away to reveal a sort of dinged up caretaker with soft eyes and a quiet adoration for that which he holds.

You think your life is too dangerous for a baby, but what is your life without one?

The closer she gets, the more aware she is of the silence in the room: the soft sounds of her bare feet against the hardwood floor, her breathing mingling with the steadiness of Red's and her daughter's. Just when she's, maybe, three steps from him, wondering how to wake him or if she should, the floor creaks beneath her and Red's uninjured arm wraps just a little tighter around Agnes's back; his body drawing in on itself as if he's ready to jump up in a way that will accommodate the baby he's guarding.

"Sorry," She whispers as she closes the distance between them. He blinks at her with bloodshot eyes and she tilts her head, trying to read him and failing miserably. If anything, he seems startled and disoriented, as though his brain weighs ten-thousand pounds.

"Lizzie?" The word is garbled by what appears to be a dry mouth, his eyes widening just a little as he takes in Agnes asleep on his chest; finally grounding himself in what appears to be a sleepy confusion. His face has paled enough to make him look as haggard as he appeared to her when she walked in that first time. Alarmed by his glassy stare, the slight hitch to his breathing, Liz takes another step forward to bring herself just to the right of the chair.

"It's okay," She's lowered her voice, a suggestion to him by way of example as she watches Agnes's face scrunch up a little. A sentiment for the both of them. She crouches down beside him, reaching to smooth the back of her fingers against the wrinkle in her daughter's brow; a method of hush and soothing. It's after the baby calms, face falling lax as she resumes her peaceful slumbering, that she notices the slight jostling of Agnes's head on his chest. She lets her hand fall so that it's resting over Red's pounding heart above her daughter's head. Its furious rhythm only further indicates the emotions she'd seen a few moments ago, and Liz lifts her eyes to his.

He's drowsy, and horribly wilted from her vantage point, but she sees all the things she knows about him in his expression, and also a few newer, starker traits. Staring at her, as though he is watching a conversation they aren't having unfold, she finds something fragile about him that makes it hard to breathe. How many apologies will be enough?

Between the both of them, he's always been better at apologizing. He's better at knowing when to say it, when to remedy what he's done, when speaking is appropriate. At times, he's infuriatingly good at withholding pertinent information when he deems it too much for her. When to be selfish and when to give and how much. She watches him blink and his heartbeat hasn't slowed beneath her touch.

She stands, her hand trailing to his left on the way up to give it a little squeeze. He leans his head back against the chair and she can't say how long the two of them stare at one another; letting themselves wade in the quiet of the moment. There will be time to clutter the space between us with words. In the morning, when reality has truly set in for him and he has questions, when he decides how to feel anything other than the continued mesh of shock, joy, and sorrow.

The silence follows after him as he rises, a wince pulling at his features that makes her place a steadying hand on his back; conscious of the stitches on his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. She feels a shiver tense his muscles beneath her hand, and she remains rooted beside the chair as she watches him make his way to the bed with Agnes.

Liz has experienced so much of Red this last year, as a man, that she catches herself staring too long; forging old memories, confirming her knowledge of him. It hasn't been so long that she's forgotten, but the comfort of his familiar is overwhelming. How many writers in history have said that one of the most profound ways people can know one another is by looking? How many songs? How many artists? And in knowing him, she knows that this slightly hunched man sitting at the edge of the bed with her baby against his chest, glancing at her with uncertainty and expectation, has not stopped grieving since she left his side.

By my estimations, he's lost too much weight too fast, he isn't sleeping, his habits have gotten substantially worse, he's…

Violent.

Unstable.

Broken.

Lost…

That's what I see when I look at you: my way home.

Criticizing the way he grieves is the last thing on her mind, but that question she'd posed silently to him earlier, that moment when she'd taken his face in her hands and quieted him in the dining room, is back. What have you done to yourself, Raymond? Mr. Kaplan had painted a bleak picture of who he'd been in the weeks since her magic trick, and seeing him in this setting only confirms it. There's an immense tidal wave of sorrow between them, pushing against her, distancing her, and she doesn't know how to act. Where do I put my hands, my eyes, my feet, my lips… He tilts his head at her, and she shakes her head, unable to handle the concern blooming on his face.

"Don't you want to change?" The question brings a smile to his face that whispers of every moment he's ever reassured her, and he leans his body in a way that will allow him to prop himself up against the pillows while keeping Agnes comfortable. She moves to the end of the bed, watching him for any sign that he might be in pain, that he might need help, or that Agnes is waking. He settles back, crosses his ankles out in front of him with a barely suppressed groan, and fixes her with a steady look of exhaustion.

"I have other suits." She thinks it's a handy quip to hide the fact that he can barely keep his eyes open, that he's actually too tired to bother. She grips the intricate rail that serves as the foot of the bed, and wonders if it will really be this easy. If she'll just climb into the other side of the bed, let Agnes sleep for as long as she can, and settle into the night like she hasn't played a part in Red's anguish, betrayal, grief…she can't imagine mourning someone who was never dead in the first place.

"She'll be up in," Desperate for a distraction, to stall, to…feel less like she's throwing dirt in all of his wounds, she looks to the clock on the nightstand. 2 a.m. "Maybe two or three hours." His eyes have slipped closed and he simply hums to acknowledge the information. At this point, their sleep schedules probably match his own. She watches him from the foot of the bed for signs that he'll wake up again, that he'll finally unleash some sort of pent up frustration with what Mr. Kaplan has done, that he'll confide something ground-breaking to her now that they're alone, but, instead, his breathing evens out and his face grows a little more relaxed.

They're asleep, the pair of them, and Liz feels like she's intruding, which makes no sense to her as she shuts all the lights off, except the one in the bathroom, and moves to climb into bed. When she gets comfortable, she's close enough to see the slight glint of stubble growing on Red's face, to hear the near-silent huff of his breath, to see that Agnes has gathered a tiny bit of the fabric of his shirt in her tiny fist. She adores this image before her, the softness of it, the peace that rests in her when she looks between the man she had been determined to escape and the daughter that rests under his protection like she was meant to be there.

She looks at Red's still face, the apologies welling up within her as the insurmountable compassion for him tries to overwhelm her. All irrational desires, all useless, desperate needs pile up, and in those tense moments of her turmoil and his sleeping, Red is transformed into a victim. A heartbroken, self-loathing, deeply flawed man who has been tricked in one of the worst ways possible. Were things so horrible? Was I just panicking? Is it really him that I needed to escape?

Liz moves closer, careful of his injured body, and presses her forehead to the space just above his elbow, her hands seeking to hold onto his forearm, to cling to him in the only way she thinks she can without disturbing Agnes and hurting him further. She feels him tense, just the slightest indication that he's awakened, but then there's the feeble, exhausted calm from before; shock and awe without digestion.

And in the minutes before falling asleep, she recites a whisper, a breath of indiscernible air, a prayer and shameful plea: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm…

And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be
Right in front of me
Talk some sense to me

Okay. That might be a bad place to cut it off, but this chapter was turning out to be like...6,000 words so I chopped it off from a reasonable ending point. I have the third and final chapter done, so I'll post that, probably tomorrow after I edit it for mistakes and what not. Hope you enjoyed it!