Author's note: Here's the second and final chapter for you all. I was going to split it but in the end I decided against it. I apologise for the slight shift in style towards the conclusion; hopefully you won't find it too jarring :)


The knowledge that she wants him, needs him, proves a greater distraction than the dreams ever did. Lizzie tracks his movements every time he's in the room, misses him when he isn't. It's pathetic, she thinks, to want a man that has proved so dangerous. But then, she'd been married to a murderer for over 2 years so there shouldn't be any surprise that she has a type.

Red says nothing on the topic of her distraction; he is preoccupied with tracking Berlin, helping Naomi Hyland, dealing with his own personal issues; Lizzie is sure he wouldn't appreciate having to deal with whatever confused feelings she might throw his way. It is her burden to bear, of that she's sure.

Their relationship is more on edge than ever, her distraction clear for everyone to see; she's surprised Cooper hasn't confronted her about it yet. She's grateful; she wouldn't know what to say to him once the accusations start flying.

Xx~xX

In the end, it isn't Cooper who confronts her, but Ressler. It's not surprising really, her partner's being eyeing her suspiciously for too long not to break down and corner her eventually.

It's a few days after she's accepted the truth about her feelings for Red, and Lizzie's emotions are still feeling raw and painful; she's not in the mood to be prodded and poked and accused of things she can't control. She watches as Ressler wanders into their office and he stops suddenly by her side. He leans casually against her desk, folds his arms across his chest and waits, watches. He's eyeing her warily and Lizzie wonders if he's been talking to others about her, gossiping, spreading rumors. It wouldn't surprise her; her partnership with Red has always been an easy target, open to interpretation, undefinable by everyone and anyone who is witness to it, including herself. Lizzie has long suspected that people have been taking notes about the two of them, ready to blackmail and discredit her at a moment's notice; she works for the FBI, she wouldn't put it past them.

Eventually he breaks the silence.

"What's going on with you Keen?"

She's mid-report, her focus on remembering exactly what it was Red had done to warrant two helicopters to be called in for backup earlier that afternoon. Lizzie finds she's in no mood to pander to Ressler's blatant attempts to dig into her personal life.

"There's nothing going on with me," she replies quickly, and she can tell by her partner's raised eyebrow that he doesn't believe her.

"Keen, you've been staring at that screen not writing anything for twenty minutes. Something's bothering you."

She doesn't dignify him with an answer, instead choosing to pretend to drink from the long empty cup of coffee by her side.

Ressler sighs heavily and shifts his approach, going for the more friendly tone that he usually breaks out for the more sympathetic suspects they detain; she isn't sure whether to be grateful or insulted.

"Look," he starts again, waving at her vaguely. His eyes narrow slightly in accusation and Lizzie has to hold back the urge to push past him and get as far away as possible. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, but people are worried, Cooper especially. You've become distracted on the job, your standards are slipping..." he pauses as he spots her attempting to deny the claims. "There's not enough evidence to get you transferred or fired, but you need to be careful. Is it Reddington?"

The speed with which he changes subject throws her for a loop, and she glares at him. Ressler doesn't back down. Instead, he sees her anger as confirmation of his own suspicions.

"I know he pisses everyone off from time to time, but you've got to deal with it Keen; you've got to deal with him."

Lizzie doesn't know how to reply because when it comes down to it, Red isn't to blame at all; not really.

Xx~xX

Ressler's warning sticks with her in the days that follow, the accusations niggling away at her waking thoughts. The dreams persist, but since she's faced up to her feelings they're worse (better), harder to explain. She wakes up most mornings reaching for a man who isn't there, the space beside her filled not by Red but by the ever faithful Hudson.

Lizzie focuses on making a conscious effort to appear alert, on task, despite the turmoil that roils through her brain every waking hour. She's determined to ensure that Cooper and Ressler and everyone else at the damn Post Office have nothing to complain about, nothing to use against her. She tries to ignore the way that Red smiles at her when he enters the room, ignores the way he finds any excuse to touch her. The feel of his hand on the small of her back or his fingers slipping over her wrist wreak havoc on her senses, overloading and overwhelming her. With each touch in the waking world she feels her defenses crumbling until she feels like sharing her secret with anyone who'll listen and damning the consequences.

Xx~xX

Her attempts at ignoring Red and the overarching issue of her confusing feelings are so poor that Lizzie lasts barely a week before she feels the urgent need to re-evaluate her whole outlook on the situation. She decides that, instead of awkwardly trying to ignore him, she should embrace the circumstances; savor Red's touch in reality as much as she does in her continuing dreams, if only to find a semblance of peace as she struggles to get through each working day. Lizzie resolves, late one night when she awakens, frustrated and on edge from her most vivid dream to date, to confront her feelings, refuse to allow them to dictate her actions at work. She figures that if she tries hard enough she might just get over this, over him.

It backfires horrifically.

Xx~xX

Red seems to sense the moment when she's back to her 'usual' self, and he doesn't hesitate to immediate ramp up his efforts to play the ever attentive figure that she's missed over the last few weeks. Having him closer to her has the opposite effect that Lizzie wanted; his nearby presence only heightens her awareness of him, despite her pleas with her body to ignore him, to place her focus on something else; on work, on anything that isn't him.

(Deep down she knows this was inevitable, that she stood no chance of moving on. Lizzie thinks her mind has done it all on purpose, to add fuel to the raging fire of want that seems to burn her every night…)

Xx~xX

Still, she manages, slowly but surely, to place most thoughts of herself and Red aside while they're at work. He seems to be aware that she occasionally needs space, doesn't argue when she withdraws to her office with the pretense of completing a stack of imaginary paperwork. The relationship improves gradually; it's like they're right back at the beginning again, the first tentative steps towards a partnership they hadn't needed to work on before Berlin arrived on the scene.

Lizzie copes, compartmentalizes, adapts. The dreams persist, but she ignores the loneliness, the ache when she wakes and focuses the energy on improving her standing at work and with her FBI colleagues once more.

It works, for the most part.

Until everything goes terribly wrong.

Xx~xX

It all comes to a head on a cold, drizzly morning in November. She ducks when she should have dodged and nearly ends up in the morgue rather than the ICU when she pays more attention to Red's position than her own during a shootout with the latest blacklister. The fall to the road seems to go in slow motion, the pain as the bullet rips through the flesh of her side excruciating.

Red is next to her in an instant, eyes searching hers to find a reason for her almost fatal distraction on the job, while he shouts for Dembe to call the paramedics.

His fingers tightly press his handkerchief to the wound in her side; the tips brush against her ribs, rhythmic and soothing as her blood seeps through the expensive silk. Lizzie almost spills her secret to him then, as she lies bleeding and cold in the middle of the street. When she feels his fingers link slowly through hers she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and slips into unconsciousness.

Xx~xX

Hours later, when she's discharged from the hospital with clear instructions to rest for the remainder of the week, she finds Dembe waiting for her outside. He's leaning almost casually against the familiar Mercedes, seemingly unconcerned by the light shower that scatters rain across the parking lot. He doesn't say a word, just eyes her with concern and opens the back door of the car. Red isn't inside and Lizzie is immediately thankful for his temporary absence; as least she'll have some precious time to attempt to compose herself before their inevitable confrontation.

The drive to Red's latest safe house seems to take hours, but when Lizzie checks the watch on her wrist the journey has only taken 20 minutes. The light shower has gotten heavier in the meantime, the constant sway of the windscreen wipers hypnotic in the quiet of the car and she feels the pull of the man waiting in the modest (for him at least) townhouse they pull up to. Lizzie wonders what will happen in this quiet little building in the middle of nowhere.

Dembe shows her in, careful to keep her under the umbrella he has procured from the trunk of the car. He nods once as she crosses the threshold of the house and he leaves the building again, muttering a quiet remark about a "security check." Lizzie realizes that he's leaving Red and herself alone to deal with the fallout of today – she isn't sure whether she appreciates the privacy or not.

Red is standing with his back to her as she enters the main room of the house, tumbler of scotch in one hand, the other resting limply by his side. His fingers, however, tap rhythmically against his thigh and Lizzie suddenly pictures him playing the piano. Her thoughts drift back to her dreams; would his fingers glide across the keys of a piano as gracefully as they do across her skin? The dreams have become so vivid that she struggles to differentiate between fantasy and reality. Lizzie feels a shiver run through her as she imagines his fingers playing invisible melodies across her skin. She shakes her head to clear the image of Red's fingers upon her body and looks at the man himself before carrying on further into the room. He finally acknowledges her approach and turns to look at her, a concerned look on his face.

"Lizzie," he starts, placing the small glass on the mantelpiece and moving slowly towards her. "How are you feeling?"

He gestures vaguely towards her ribs, where the dressing tugs at her skin making movement uncomfortable, the jolt of pain a reminder of just why she is here. Lizzie has a suspicion that he doesn't mean her side at all; that his concern is for her overall health not just the wound that mars her skin.

She wants to tell him she's absolutely fine, that there's no need for concern, but when she looks at him, really looks at him she breaks, just a little. She's not seen this level of worry on his face for months. She's spent so long concentrating on dealing with her own feelings that she'd forgotten that he had so many of his own…

"I could have died today…" she states simply after several long moments of silence. Lizzie looks him in the eye, knowing that she's set off on a path that she can't turn back from. Her wound hadn't been fatal, but it could have been, if not for her instincts…

Red looks slightly startled at her admission, and he nods, once simply to acknowledge her words.

"Yes. You nearly did." His voice is hoarse, as if voicing the words causes him pain; she knows him well enough to think that it probably does. She wonders just how close she'd come to bleeding out in the street…

"I'm sorry," she says then, feeling the urge to apologize, for worrying him, for adding to the burdens he already carries on his laden shoulders.

He shakes his head, dismissing her words in the casual manner that he usually does.

"There's no need to apologize to me Lizzie. I am just… thankful… that you're ok." She senses he isn't just thankful, that he's relieved or overjoyed. She knows she would be if the roles had been reversed. Lizzie feels a tug in her stomach when she imagines Red, bleeding and prone on the cold wet road; she shakes her head once more to rid herself of the troubling image.

"I do…" she starts, then pauses, not knowing how to voice her worries, her secrets, her fears. "I do need to apologize. I was reckless today, distracted."

He nods in agreement then, and Lizzie worries that he knows, knows her biggest secret without her saying a word, that he's been able to read her as easily with this as he's been able to read everything about her since he came charging into her life.

"I sensed your focus wasn't entirely on the job today," Red confesses, tilting his head to observe her. "It worried me but I didn't comment. And then… well…" he gestures to her side again as if to prove his point. Raymond Reddington rarely needs to say the words "I told you so"; his actions are often enough to voice the phrase on his behalf.

"Can we sit?" Lizzie utters quietly, waving her arm in the direction of the small couch that lies between her position at the door and his at the fire. Red nods and moves slowly to sit on the piece of furniture. His eyes never leave her as she moves.

"Would you like a drink Lizzie?" he asks out of the blue, once they are both settled and as comfortable as they can be. He has brought his own drink with him, the tumbler resting on his thigh.

"No, thank you," she answers, though her throat is dry and her fingers ache for something to hold just to keep her occupied. She makes do with picking at a frayed thread at the hem of her blouse.

They slip into silence again, Red watching her and Lizzie watching the flames flicker in the hearth.

"I've been distracted for a while," Lizzie eventually confesses, returning her gaze to his.

"Mmm, I've noticed."

His tone isn't accusing, instead concerned.

Lizzie takes a deep breath, and sighs. This is it, she knows; the point of no return. But she understands, deep down, that if she doesn't air this secret, if she doesn't share its heavy burden with him, she'll sink under its weight and he might not be there to stop the bleeding hole in her body next time.

"I've… I've been having dreams…" she starts, voice wavering. Red's gaze doesn't falter though, and he just tilts his head slightly. His face remains neutral, but she knows him well enough to sense that he has questions. Sure enough, he asks one after a couple of quiet seconds, the only other noise the pattering of rain on the old windows.

"Nightmares?" he asks, worry crossing his face again.

Lizzie shakes her head, a rueful smile gracing her lips. I wish, she thinks, it'd be so much easier.

"No," she continues. Now or never Lizzie… "Dreams… about us. You. And me."

He raises his eyebrow, the only indication that he is surprised by her confession. She expects a lascivious comment, a smirk or maybe innuendo. She gets none of that; just his silence and the urge to reveal everything all at once.

"You save me… in the dreams," she clarifies, leaning over to take his tumbler from his hand and sip at the strong scotch. He doesn't comment. "I'm in my motel room, and I'm woken… attacked, threatened. Normally by Tom. But sometimes it's Garrick, or Zanatakos. Occasionally Berlin. But it's always the same; you save me."

"I sense my heroic endeavors in your subconscious aren't the reason for your distraction?" He knows that they aren't, she can tell, but he isn't going to force a confession out of her; even in this he is allowing her the time to deal with her thoughts.

Again, Lizzie shakes her head.

"No, it's what happens afterwards, between the two of us…we…" she lets her statement hang in the air, willing him to get the idea without her voicing the words. Her heart is beating against her chest and she closes her eyes, breathes in once, twice, in a bid to calm her fraying nerves.

"I see," Red comments, nodding in understanding. His voice is quiet in the large room and Lizzie suddenly feels safe, confident, like everything is going to be ok. "And you're… conflicted… about your feelings, about our actions?" He gestures between them, and Lizzie watches as his fingers flex towards her, as if his own subconscious wants to make a connection, to touch her. It's strange how he's so bold when she sleeps and suddenly so hesitant to reach for her when she is most desperate for his touch.

"That's the thing," Lizzie says, grateful that he gets it, that he isn't mocking her. "I'm not, I'm really not. I just… I don't know how…"

He pauses, eyes her carefully. Because this is it, the point where they're either both on the same wavelength, or they're not; either they do this together or she ruins whatever tentative friendship that they have worked so hard to re-establish between them. Lizzie senses something in Red's eyes, a look of almost relief, and a smile slowly spread across his face.

"What do you want Lizzie?"

And she laughs then, loud and long, because of course he'd use that phrase, of course that's how he'll pull the last of her confession from her. Maybe he has known her secret all along, has guarded it like every other piece of information he knows of her.

He eyes her as she laughs, and waits, patiently, for her to finish, to be ready. Because that's what he always does.

Eventually she manages to calm herself down and turns to look at him, her previous joviality forgotten as she catches his eye. She sighs again, and reaches out to tentatively take his hand in hers. It's a bold move she realizes, this whole thing could still backfire, leave her with no allies in the world; she is risking everything for this, for him.

Red, however, practically grins as her and laces his fingers through her own. He gives her palm a light squeeze as he does so. Still he waits; it's her move to make, it always has been.

There is a pause, a long one, as she glances between their interlinked fingers and his face. She smiles back at him, returning his calming gesture and finally, eventually, speaks…

"You Red, I just want you."

He doesn't move initially, just remains still. Lizzie suspects he's savoring the moment, similar to the way he savors the fine wines he's prone to drinking. Eventually he squeezes her hand again, and she finds the touch so reassuring that she can ignore the way her heart is beating seemingly too fast in her chest.

"Well then, I'm sure I can oblige you Lizzie," he says, before he leans in and captures her lips with his own.

Lizzie thinks, as she pulls him closer, that reality is definitely better than fantasy…