When Raymond returned to her side, he sat on the loveseat. Liz could see he remianed upset about the phone call, and he attempted to pull himself together.

There was an awkward pause after he'd dropped his phone facedown onto the coffee table.

"What was that about?" she asked in a small voice, unsure if she should address the issue at all. "Are you ok?"

He eyed her for a moment, silent and pensive.

"I'm sorry for this…" he pointed to his phone. "Just my partner's usual objections regarding my work."

"Partner?"

What an odd term to describe the person you're with, Liz thought. The way he said it felt cold and detached.

"Well, my girlfriend …"

He gesticulated helplessly with his hand.

"Significant other? We're together for more than 10 years now, but not married," he explained at her confused expression.

Before he could say anything more his phone rang again. Instantly they both knew who it was.

Raymond frowned, grabbed the phone and abruptly stood, taking the call.

Liz heard a strident female voice over the phone but could not distinguish the words.

He tried to remain calm until a nerve twitched under his left eye at her words and the muscle in his jaw worked furiously, betraying his bravado.

"You were the one who hung up on me," he reminded her, then sighed in defeat.

"I know the situation is unfortunate, but there is nothing I can do about it. I'm stuck here for an undefined amount of time. I'm sorry."

His apology didn't seem to appease her. Liz watched how the voice fussed at him for a few more minutes, but his casual manner made her angrier and her behavior deteriorated even more than it already had.

"For God's sake, Madeline," he finally hissed in a low voice. "You're completely unreasonable and over-reacting. I'll talk to you when you've calmed down and aren't so irrational anymore. Until then, goodbye."

He hung up and muted the phone to stop the harassment, swallowing back the knot of frustration.

The situation was awful and extremely embarrassing, but a sideward glance at Liz offered him a compassionate smile.

"I'm sorry." He softly repeated his earlier words.

"Don't be. She was making quite a scene. If anyone feels sorry it's me. I shouldn't have called for help, not in this weather anyway."

"You're sick. You need help. Madeline is completely out of line."

Before she could say anything more, he turned away, thereby ending the conversation on that topic and walked off into the kitchen.

"Would you like some soup? I brought some chicken noodle soup from the store."

"That's kind of you, but no, thanks. I'm not hungry."

"Well, at least drink some more, will you?"

Liz felt biting heat swirling around her, growing. Faster and faster the flames grew, multiplying, each new flame burning brighter and hotter.

The roaring fire greedily consumed everything, trying to claim her too – a prize that had been denied years ago. Like a shadow demon, the smoke tried to choke her as she desperately searched for a way out.

The flames burned higher and wider still until she was surrounded by the inferno.

"No… please…" she cried out.

The flames lunged at her, withdrew, then lunged again. Heat seared her hand. She looked down and watched in horror as her skin dissolved into a mass of bloated blisters, then melted.

The unmistakable stench of burning flesh filled her nostrils as she fought back the urge to vomit.

Gasping for breath, she jolted upright, her eyes snapped open. She trembled, reeling from the flames that haunted her.

"Shh, it's over..."

She blinked.

Above her Dr. Reddington's face came into focus, his gentle hands guiding her to lay back down.

A cool rag touched her forehead and the fire retreated, then disappeared.

"You had a nightmare, and judging by your screams of terror, it was a bad one."

Raymond dunked the cloth into a bowl of water, wrung it out and again, tenderly dabbed her face.

"It's the fever that gives you nightmares."

He held a cup up to her lips. "I need you to drink."

Herb tea slid down her throat and she began to feel the soothing effects immediately.

"I was in a fire. I lost everything."

Raymond instantly knew she wasn't talking about her nightmare.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Raymond asked, tender concern etching his voice.

She shook her head weakly, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on her wrist in distress. "It's the last thing I want to talk about."

"Okay."

He hated the haunted look in her eyes, the obvious years of sadness leaving its mark. He desperately wished she would open up to him, tell him what happened, but he knew she was in no condition to do so. She needed to rest, trouble free if possible.

He was quiet for a minute, made her drink more tea before he spoke again:

"Just know you're safe, safe with me. I won't let anything happen to you."

Liz drifted in and out of sleep, probably through the worst night of her life, her fever flaring up again and again, hovering in the vicinity of 104.

He watched her closely, tried to lower the fever with the cool washcloth, bathing her arms, legs and feet. He refrained from giving her stronger medicine, not wanting to suppress her body's own mechanism to fight the viral infection.

He made sure to keep her hydrated, with water and more herb tea. He even persuaded her to sip a few spoons of the soup she refused earlier, but otherwise she stayed anorexic.

They were both exhausted in the morning after a sleepless night. He had to help her to her feet and guide her into the small guest bathroom at her request to freshen up.

She pulled down her panties and he seated her on the toilet so that she could do her business. Then he walked out, leaving the door open enough to give her privacy.

"Call me when you're done, I'll help you get back."

"Thank you," she murmured softly.

She winced from a sudden burning sensation. Spreading her legs apart, her fingers carefully examined what she already suspected: the spots had spread to her most private area.

She resisted the urge to cry. If kids survived chicken pox, so could she.

She took several sheets of toilet tissue to clean herself, then rose, pulled her panties back up and dragged herself to the sink.

Washing her hands in the white basin, she raised her eyes to the mirror above and almost fainted when she viewed her reflection.

She looked even worse than she felt. Red spots covered her face and neck, a particularly big and nasty one had infested her upper lip and itched like the devil. A pair of dark-ringed eyes gazed back at her and the ghostly pale skin of her face reminded her of death itself.

Her hair was a mess and she just knew she smelled like hell too, but she didn't have the strength to freshen up.

The hair brush felt heavy in her hands and her arms hurt from the strain, even raising the tooth brush took too much of an effort. She had to face it. She was too sick and too weak to care for herself.

Leaning back heavily against the vanity top, she held her aching head in her hands and started to cry as if her heart had just shattered into broken pieces. This was all just too much.

Raymond had just finished changing the linen on her sofa when he heard her hushed sobbing.

He ran over to the bathroom door and listened. He didn't want to disturb her, but on the other hand he needed to reassure himself that she was ok.

He knocked gently. She didn't answer, just kept crying as if someone or something had physically harmed her.

"Miss Keen? Are you okay? Can I come in?"

His kind voice received no answer and when he opened the door, he was disturbed by how she was visibly shaking.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Tenderly and with extreme care, he put his arm around her small shoulder, trying to comfort her.

"I'm a monster!" she choked in an attempt to speak.

More tears ran down her distorted face.

"I look and feel like a monster. There isn't a single part of my body left that isn't covered by these germs. They're even …"

She couldn't continue. The tears she had tried to hold back in order to speak gushed forth at the memory of her discovery.

He pulled her into his arms while her cries turned into heart-breaking sobs, prompting him to cradle her against his chest.

"What's wrong with me?"

He patted her back and made soothing noises.

"There's nothing wrong with you. You're very sick, sweetheart, not a monster. The spots and the itching will go away in time, I promise."

Sweetheart? Where did that come from? He hoped in her distress she hadn't noticed.

When she finally stopped weeping, he leaned back slightly and smoothed her hair away from her tear-streaked face.

"Feel a little better now?"

He knew he had crossed all sorts of lines with her again, didn't maintain his professional distance as he should.

She nodded but felt embarrassed by her outburst.

"I'm sorry about that. I usually don't fall apart like this."

"It's absolutely fine. I can only imagine how miserable you must feel."

He handed her a tissue from a nearby box which she thankfully took.

"My nose is all red," she muttered and glanced at the mirror again, then blew into the tissue. "I look like Rudolph."

He chuckled and grinned, tugging on his ear.

"Yes, that seems a bit more accurate."

Liz smiled back at him. Suddenly she was immensely glad he was with her. She wasn't sure how she would have handled the situation if she'd been alone.

"Come on, let's get you back onto the couch."

"Wait!" She grabbed his arm.

"I need you to…"

She stopped, searching for words.

"I need you to have a look…"

She closed her eyes in despair, breathing a shuddering sigh.

" … between my legs."

Tears pooled in her beautiful blue eyes again when she opened them.

"Okay," he nodded. "But not here, let's go back."

Back on the sofa, she bared herself to him while he put on another pair of medical gloves and knelt at her side.

Hesitantly, she opened her legs while shame and humiliation ripped through her already fragile being and made her look away.

His hand slowly approached her, two fingers carefully spreading open her labia so he could see.

He gasped at the horrendous amounts of chicken pox inside her vagina and all around on the outside.

"Is it infected?"

"No, it's not, but …"

When he didn't continue, she couldn't help but to start crying all over again and the sight of the tears running down her cheeks made his stomach drop.

How much more could she endure?

He covered her with the blanket and took off the gloves.

Helplessly he took her hand and held it, his thumb soothingly drawing circles on her skin. The gesture felt inadequate for the depth of her suffering and he wished there was something, anything he could do to free her of her discomfort.

And then he had an idea.

"How do you feel about an oatmeal bath?"

TBC