Home.

What a strange concept that was.

At this point in Liz's life, it was almost completely foreign to her. Her father was dead, whatever little extended family she had left probably believed she was a terrorist, she'd been living out of various motel rooms for a year, and shared a brownstone with a stranger before that. None of this was conducive to feeling like she had a home. In fact, at the moment she was quite literally homeless, adrift on a container ship heading towards Spain with her partner in crime.

To be someone's way home… She couldn't even fathom it. Just the thought took her breath away.

Red told Liz the day they met that he thought she was special. She had thought he was either manipulating her or lying or was at the very least deluding himself—she hadn't even considered the possibility that he truly meant it. But Red never lied to her, she knew that now.

She felt like she was floating on the breeze whipping through her hair. All she'd been hoping for from Red when she told him how she was feeling was some commiseration and advice, perhaps in the form of a relatively straightforward and easily digestible parable to suit her fragile mental state.

After all, twenty-some-odd years ago, Red had been exactly where she was. He'd been set up, probably by the very same people who set her up. He knew this life. He knew how it could wear on you.

Liz just wanted him to say something to make her feel a little bit better about herself. Of course he had to go above and beyond that and shoot straight for making her feel needed, wanted, loved. In spite everything she'd done.

Or maybe—probably—because of it.

He knew very well what she was capable of, probably better than anyone else in her life. He just might be the only person in her life who was willing to let the image he held of her change to better align with who she really was, the only one who took the bad with the good and was still able to, well…

To look at her the way he looked at her.

And when he looked at her, it showed, really. That he saw his way home. She'd been trying to puzzle it out for so long now to little avail, but once he explained it, she kicked herself for not recognizing it sooner. Although, she couldn't help being blind to it, really. No one ever looked at her like that before.

She wasn't Tom's home. She hadn't been Nick's. They hadn't been hers. Tom came the closest, but Tom wasn't real.

This was real. Red was real.

Against all evidence to the contrary, past all the smoke and mirrors, all the mysteries and deceptions, all the posturing and bravado, Red was, at his core, a simple man with a simple truth.

He cared about her. He… He loved her.

When all else failed, he hoped there was a part of her that could find solace in that.

And there was. His opinion, what he thought of her… It mattered a great deal. It mattered long before it logically should have mattered, when he shouldn't have been anything more than her CI. It had frightened her, how much he mattered. She pushed him away because of it, tried so hard to shove him into that 'this is strictly professional' box she carried around with her, but he never, ever fit.

She wanted to tell him that, to give him something in return, but the words wouldn't come. All she could do was stare at him while he stared up at the stars, and feel wind-whipped and breathless.

Maybe this was how he felt when he tried to share parts of himself with her but came up short. He used his stories bridged to the gap. She wasn't so good with stories. Actions were more her speed.

"Red?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you look at me, please?" she asked. "Or at least in my general direction?"

With great effort, he lowered his head and met her eyes, a sheepish expression on his face. Like she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.

She took said hand in hers and words failed her yet again. Damn it. Now that she had his attention, what the hell was she going to do?

"Lizzy?"

"Dance with me?" she blurted. Red blinked in surprise and she gave a little shrug. "What can I say? Dinner, drinks, music… I feel like dancing. Who knows the next time that'll happen?"

"Sure. Of course. That's a wonderful idea. Just let me…" He gestured toward the record player and his small collection of records. She nodded.

He picked something slow and vaguely familiar and came to stand in front of her again while it started to play, wiping his hands on his thighs and bouncing just slightly on the balls of his feet.

He was nervous. Around her.

It was adorable.

Oh, she was in so much trouble…

He looked around, taking in the corrugated metal at their feet and the open sea surrounding them, and cleared his throat. "You know, as… picturesque… as it would be to dance under the stars, perhaps it would be wise to move this inside?"

(The odd hesitation before he said picturesque made her sure he had almost chosen another word. Romantic, maybe. She would've chosen romantic. But maybe that was a little too on the nose for a man who leaned so heavily on metaphors to get his point across.)

Liz allowed him to usher her back onto the smooth, carpeted floor inside the container.

He must have screwed up some courage while he punched in the code on the keypad to shut the door, because when he turned back to her, he took her into his arms without much hesitation at all, much closer than the last time they danced.

There was no finesse to it this time, no art, mostly just gentle swaying along with the music. But he was warm and close and comfortable—exactly what she needed.

Butterflies danced in Liz's stomach in time with their swaying and her breath stuttered in her chest. That was it, wasn't it? He really was exactly what she needed, wasn't he?

"Do you think we'll ever manage to do it?" she asked, partly to cover up her faltering steps.

Red pulled back far enough to search her face. "What? Exonerate you?"

"No," she said. His curious gaze weighed heavily on her, so she ducked her head, resting it against his shoulder. "Do you think we'll ever manage to find our way home?"

Liz felt the slightest hitch in his breathing and the hand he had splayed at the small of her back pulled her a little closer, his fingers catching a bit in the fabric of her shirt. Sneaking a glance at him, she realized he had closed his eyes.

"'All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by,'" he said, quiet and thoughtful, like he was reliving a fond memory.

"John Masefield?"

"Willy Wonka," he explained. "I mean, you're technically right, but that particular misquote is courtesy of Mr. Wonka. I heard it that way when I was 11 and it stuck, even after I learned the correct version."

"As adorable as that is, it's not really an answer."

Red gave a feeble little huff of a laugh that petered out into a sigh. "I don't know, Lizzy. There are moments when it feels so unlikely, it seems foolish to even try. But then there are moments like this…" Nuzzling his face against hers, he spoke softly into her ear, "and I can believe anything is possible."

Liz let out a heavy sigh of her own and pressed herself closer to the sturdy wall of his chest. That was… the best she could hope for, really. The best either of them could hope for. Being adrift with Red was far better than going at it alone. Or with anyone else, for that matter. He knew how to navigate these treacherous waters better than anybody.

Someday, hopefully soon, she would feel like she was standing on solid ground again.

For now, she would let him lead.