I have a fair handle on the pace and breadth of this thing and this is your friendly reminder that my firmly held belief is that Slow Burn = Exquisite Payoff. Just. You know. For reference. ;)

She met with Samar the next day, discreetly at a cafe, just two women getting expensive coffee. Samar said that Ressler was sullen and unpleasant company and she meant to send him back to DC if he didn't perk up in a few days, no matter what their orders were.

Samar, Ressler, and Aram had moved into an FBI safe house in the area to be on hand to coordinate extraction if necessary, although Red had protested vigorously that not only would the team be bored and annoyed with nothing to do for weeks on end, they would also be surplus to requirements. He trusted his own people far more in the event an immediate response was necessary, and the FBI team had a tendency to make clumsy mistakes and get noticed. Liz had secretly agreed and she hoped the team would lose interest in a week or two with nothing to do and leave Red's team to it. She knew better than to voice that opinion though, to the FBI or to Red.

"So what's it like," asked Samar with a teasing look, "playing Reddington's doting wife?"

Liz shook her head, dismissing the idea. "We're not playing anything yet, just getting ready. There will be no doting, though, I can promise you that."

"No, you're right. Reddington doesn't seem to like the submissive type. No one who actually knew him would believe in you two if you played it that way."

"What would you know about what type he prefers?"

"Don't worry, Liz, our little flirtation is long over, and was never very successful in any case."

"I didn't know that you and he— No, I didn't mean that, Samar. I just wondered how you heard anything about his past relationships. Unless it's related to a case, he seems to go out of his way to keep those things intensely private."

"I suppose so," said Samar thoughtfully, "Well, he would with you, wouldn't he?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Liz protested, blustering

"Liz," Samar said, giving her a look that was equal parts sympathy and disbelief, "We are none of us children in this."

Liz blushed hot and ducked her head. Samar was right, the time for pretending ignorance was long passed. "Yeah," she said, "sorry."

"I tracked Reddington down, remember. And I'm afraid I found out more about him than his preferences in neckwear. I could tell you about it sometime, if you're interested," offered Samar.

Liz looked for further teasing in Samar's face, but didn't see it. She could see it was meant a means of truce, of amends for how Samar seemed to think she knew more about Red than Liz did, in spite of being the one to whom it mattered less. She considered accepting for a moment or two, but decided it didn't seem right. She wasn't at all sure that Samar did know him better in any case, not in the ways that didn't have to do with facts and third-hand anecdotes.

"No," she said, "I want him to tell me. I want him to want to tell me. Otherwise, considering the circumstances, I don't think I should know."

"Fair enough."

"I'm sorry about this, you know," she said, leaning back in her chair and moving on from the sensitive subject, "You guys are going to be bored out of your minds. This isn't even the dangerous part, and for that part you can't even follow us. I hope you brought some good books or something."

"I don't mind. It's almost like a vacation, although a particularly dull one," Samar said, "And it's not your fault, Liz. We're only here because Harold Cooper worries like a mother hen and because Ressler is even better at whining to get his way then my seven year old cousin."

"Wait, seven year old Cousin?"

"My uncle got remarried," said Samar with a wicked, teasing look, "to a pretty woman twenty years his junior and produced more offspring. It's a very familiar story, I'm sure you know."

Liz scowled at her but took her point. She was about to walk into a situation where a great many people would be thinking the same sort of less than charitable thoughts about her and Red that she had just entertained about Samar's uncle. How easy it was to be cynical, she thought, when you weren't personally involved.

They were moving her to the apartment that evening. Red didn't know what to do with himself. It wasn't as though he'd never spent significant amounts of time alone with Lizzy before, but this would be entirely different. Possibly disastrously different.

There were two bedrooms in the apartment, at least. Two bedrooms and two large bathrooms, although one was meant for guests, as well as a large formal sitting room, a long, narrow dining room, a chef's kitchen, a well outfitted den-with-library, as well as a tightly turning wrought-iron stair that lead to a large, private solarium and access to a roof terrace. The solarium leaked, he'd been warned, but it was plush with enormous potted plants and hanging baskets with flowers and boasted a large glass table and comfortable rattan chairs where he'd taken breakfast that morning.

He hoped Lizzy would like it. He suspected she would. He'd pictured her there across from him half the morning, how well she would look among all that greenery, the natural light on her pale skin, her dark hair, perhaps warmed to a faint flush by an amplified beam of sunlight through the glass roof. He'd pictured her quiet and solemn as she perused the paper, or that difficult novel of hers, and then he'd realized the unlikeliness of such a thing and pictured her instead frowning at him in her interrogatory way, pinning him with her avid eyes and asking him questions in her wonderfully bold way.

Then he'd remembered that the next morning she would be there, in fact and not in fantasy, and that such imaginings were not only absurd but inappropriate. She was no sweet, abiding figment and she wouldn't thank him for the way he pictured her, wished her up in quiet moments from time to time. It seemed to him a trespass to dream of things for which he had no right to expect.

They'd had a lovely time at dinner though, the other night. She'd been tired and a little shellshocked after her day with Jeanne and Rhys, and she was a stronger person than he was for being only that, after nine hours with them. She'd been patient with him, accommodating of his strange, wistful mood that night.

She'd worn soft, pajama-like clothes and let her hair dry slowly so that it looked like he'd caught her woken and rumpled. She'd sat with him at the little table in her room, which was obviously meant for one person to take their morning coffee and not for two people to share a meal, for a long, long time after they'd finished eating and sent away the dishes because it was still more comfortable than that awful sofa. Lizzy had lounged forward, leaning one elbow lightly on the linen-covered table and fiddled with her coffee cup and her discarded napkin in such a way that her fingers brushed his hand, which also rested on the table, from time to time. He'd watched the subtle shift of her shoulders as she talked, the glossy dark hair that kept falling forward over her brow, and pretended that he was not resting his hand nearer and nearer towards hers.

They'd hashed out more small details of their cover. They'd talked out the broad strokes of their hypothetical romance like it was a battle plan, in carefully impersonal terms, at the beginning. That would be enough to hold them for the explanation of their pretend marriage. People were too fond of seeming polite and too afraid of awkwardness to pry closely into what would have every appearance of being a very seedy whirlwind romance, and wouldn't question them too closely as a couple or individually. Too-careful details would in fact do more harm than good, when it came to a natural portrayal.

However, Lizzy's background needed to be more precise. She was the oddity, and the newcomer. She was the one who would take the brunt of scrutiny, by virtue of her age and her sex, and the untarnished shine of kindness and hope in her that would set her apart. He didn't want to see that shine corroded away by the grim realities of the life they lead, though he suspected it would happen in time, but that brightness, that freshness in her would make her an oddity in his circle of affluent criminals, and would certainly occasion comment, perhaps even scorn.

"You'll be an outsider, there's nothing we can do about that. But I feel that there is a lot we can do is use it in our favor, make it a feature of your cover."

"I can bluff, Red. I can play a part as well as anyone."

"Yes, Lizzy, you're quite adept, I assure you I've noticed. But you will be unknown to them no matter how you play your role, so we might as well use that to our advantage. I think it would be better for you in the long run if we allow them to underestimate you for a while."

"Jeanne said something very similar, earlier. I agreed with her, too, but given how much you're both obsessed with tricking them, I'm beginning to think less and less of these friends of your we'll be meeting."

"Good," he'd said, "They aren't people I would choose for you to know. They aren't people I would have chosen to know, either, if my my life had allowed for such luxuries. I only hope that… that you won't judge me too badly by the company I keep."

"Jesus, Red, do you really think I would?"

He'd only shrugged, not wanting to remind her that she certainly had in the past. He didn't blame her for that, though, as she was right to judge. He judged himself by that company, the way he found ways to accommodate and excuse, to do business with and humor, and he, too found himself lacking.

"You don't judge me by your opinion of Ressler, do you? Or Cooper?" she'd asked, staring at him with an earnest frown.

"I find Ressler and Cooper rather admirable, in their own way," he'd hedged.

"Red…"

"No, Lizzy. No of course I don't. You are your own person and you make your own actions. Sometimes I think you want to fit in among your FBI colleagues a little too much, but you aren't fooled by the same delusions they are. I have never judged you by their conduct."

"Well, there you are then," she'd said, smiling in quiet triumph, "You are not the same as the people you have to deal with. Give me a little credit, will you?"

They talked it over and decided to stick very close to Elizabeth's true life story, excising only her association with law enforcement. It was a fine pedigree, truly, and would suit them beautifully. She'd been the adopted child of a notorious spy who had retired from service to his country and turned notorious thief. All of this was already true. It was also already true that this spy-turned-thief had been mentor and great friend to Red. And also true that she had dabbled in both academia and her father's world, straying more and more into her study of psychology as she grew up and became more interested in stability, though she'd never turned against the nature of her father's profession.

They'd also keep the fact of her previous marriage, though, should anybody ask, she would say its dissolution came about due to her husband's infidelity. In all likelihood no one would ask, but it was a simplified version of the truth and infinitely easier to explain. Without saying so to one another, he was sure they both knew that his associates would find it easier to believe he'd been tempted by an angry, rebellious divorcee than an isolated, single academic. His reputation, as ever, cut with both edges.

"How are supposed to have met," she'd asked him, "if not through the FBI?"

"Sam," he'd said simply.

"What, he would have set us up? I don't think so," she'd said and laughed.

"If I'd known that he was sick… if I'd known earlier, I would have been to see him, spent time… I would have arranged for the best treatment… It was too late for that by the time he— but I would have, and if you'd known you would have been there, too."

"Meeting at his bedside? I don't know, Red. Isn't that kind of…?"

"I would have been there for you if I could have, Lizzy, I would have tried to make your burdens in that time easier in any way I could. For you and for Sam. And I would have been impressed with you, captivated. It's not so far outside the realm of possibility, at least. Even those that know us would find it eminently believable," he'd said. And if I had met you then, I would have needed you, he thought to himself, to show me that not every good thing was gone from the world. If I'd walked into your world then, I wouldn't have been any more able to want to want to walk out of it than I am now.

"You're right, it does sound pretty convincing," she'd softly, and met his eyes with a truly inscrutable expression on her face.

He'd withdrawn his hand after that and sat back, steering their talk to lighter things. He'd felt her attention on him and fought the urge to fidget, but before long the thick atmosphere subsided. It had grown late as they talked, the great city quieting down to it's midnight murmuring. Lizzy had drooped with tiredness but her mood had lightened. It had seemed casual enough in a little while that he didn't feel at all awkward about bustling around her room, helping her stow away all her new wardrobe in the hotel dresser so that she would have a place to sleep.

As he was about to take his leave, though, she stopped him with a quick touch of her hand on his arm. She'd peered up at him with urgent concern. He'd estimated the danger passed a little too soon.

"Are you going to be alright doing this, Red?" she'd asked him, sounding resigned more than accusatory. Her brows were drawn together and her face looked taut with avoided emotion in the low light."

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he'd said, stalling for time.

"Maybe, but… It seems like you don't seem very comfortable with the idea. I don't know. I guess it's just that lately I've been getting the feeling that you don't like me as much as you used to." she'd said and looked down, away, crossed her arms like she was protecting herself against him.

He'd felt winded, as though she'd hit him, as though he couldn't quite make sense of the words she'd just said. He'd shaken his head blankly, at a loss. "I don't understand this, Lizzy… How did you come to this conclusion?"

"I don't know, it's just a sense I get. You seem to tense up around me lately, it's been happening more and more. Sometimes it's like you're looking for the escape hatch to the conversation, not just about the past. I'm used to that. This is different. You did it just tonight. And then there was yesterday…" she'd trailed off, her mouth all pinched and unhappy.

"Yesterday?"

She'd just shrugged, a sharp, angry gesture and shifted impatiently on her feet. He'd wanted to put his arms around her, smooth away the tension between her shoulder-blades, hold her till she melted into him with a soft sigh. He didn't. He'd looked up at the hotel ceiling until the urge dissipated.

He'd been cold to her the day before and he knew it. She'd been staggeringly beautiful in her wedding gown, and he'd felt so in awe he been hardly able look at her. He'd had to glance at her carefully and fleetingly to keep his composure, to keep breathing, to not feel that he was in some way breaking their trust. It was absolutely impossible to tell her so.

"You are infinitely precious to me, Lizzy," he'd said haltingly, "Please don't doubt that."

"That's not quite the same thing, though, is it," she'd said, unimpressed.

"We're going to be fine," he'd said, managing a painful smile, "I am perfectly able and willing to continue, I promise you, Lizzy."

She'd looked skeptical, but she'd nodded her acquiescence. She'd told him that, as they'd come this far, they might as well continue. She'd bid him goodnight with a sad smile that had made his heart ache and let the door close between them.

He hadn't seen her in two days, as he oversaw the final touches on the penthouse and put out feelers to old acquaintances who would be vital to their plan. It had been a painful, necessary break from her company, time to settle his thoughts away from her sweet, disruptive influence.

Now she was going to be moving in with him, in less than an hour. The apartment was ready. Her room was ready, her bedside table set with fresh flowers. The kitchen was stocked, and his menu for the night planned. He was not ready, however. But as he couldn't imagine that he ever could be, he resigned himself to his nerves.

He wasn't sure whether he would show her their wedding pictures specifically, in their pride of place on the mantle, or let her notice or not as she chose. The'd come out beautifully. He'd been taken aback when he saw them, not by how they'd looked but by how real the illusion seemed. The photographs were like artefacts from a different reality, like mementos from a life that someone had lead, even if it hadn't been him.

He wondered what she would think when she saw them. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see her face when she did. It would likely tell him things he wasn't sure he wanted to know.