"Elizabeth Keen," Samar says. "Are you. . . drunk?"

"Who me? No. Well, a little buzzed maybe." Liz has opened the door for Samar in naught but her cami and underpants. She slurs her words ever so slightly. If Samar wasn't such a slave to details, she might not even notice the miniscule shift of balance in Liz's posture. Liz's cheeks are flushed from whatever she's been drinking. She opens the door a bit wider for Samar, "Come on in. Ignore the mess."

Samar walks past Liz into the motel room. Liz has been staying in this pit since she was discharged from the hospital. It serves a dual purpose, or so she thinks. First, she couldn't bear to go back to the apartment where she and Tom had reunited, planned their wedding, and nurtured the dreams of their family, so she is avoiding the memories and pain, or at least she is attempting to.

Second, she is eluding Reddington. She doesn't want him watching her, stalking her, protecting her. So, she is hiding herself away from him, or so she thinks.

"Would you like a glass of wine? Or a plastic cup, really. I haven't bought any stemware yet," Liz mutters as she walks over to the mini fridge.

"Ok," says Samar. "What are we drinking?"

"There is red wine, white wine, and also a case of champagne that was supposed to be for the wedding. I'm consuming it as part of my therapeutic closure." She says the last word- closure- with her fingers making air quotes, and a bitter face, her lips curled around the cruelness of it.

"Champagne?" Samar says, understanding the terrible irony. Liz was supposed to have so much to celebrate, and yet here she is in this dismal place, all alone. Reddington would throw a fit if he could see this. Samar pictures him throwing Liz over his shoulder and carrying her out of the motel in her underwear, not caring that she is kicking and screaming in protest. She makes a mental note to work on getting Liz out of this room and into a brighter habitat.

"Champagne it is," Liz says cheerily enough and reaches into the fridge for a bottle.

"No, Liz. That's not what I meant. I don't want to drink your champagne. It was just surprising, or strange to imagine you drinking your wedding champagne alone in here."

"Then let's not drink alone," she says. She starts to peel the foil off of the cork. She struggles with the cork for a bit. Samar takes off her coat and looks for a place to put it down. She drapes it next to Liz's jeans on the arm of the crude, wooden chair. Liz grunts and bites her lip.

"Can I help you with that, Keen?"

"Ok. Sure," Liz hands the bottle to Samar, and trips over her own feet as she does so.

"You sure you're not drunk enough already?"

Liz looks up under the dark fringe of her lashes. She smiles and says, "I dunno. Maybe?" Samar smiles back at her as the cork pops. If it all wasn't so desperately sad, it would be adorable and hilarious. She pours frothy bubbles into two plastic cups. Liz takes a big gulp and hiccups. "I did have a few glasses of wine earlier," Liz concedes. "I guess maybe I lost track. I find that's what happens when you drink alone."

"You don't have to be alone," Samar says, her voice even and low. "There are people who care very much about you." Samar considers the safe in her apartment, and the package from Reddington. For as much damage as he has wrought in the past two years, there is nothing he would not do for Elizabeth. "Take care of my Lizzie," she hears Reddington growl, even now.

"Do you want to watch a movie? I think there is a Hitchcock marathon on some channel here," Liz fiddles with the TV remote and accidentally spills some of her champagne. Samar can't help but laugh as Liz helplessly swipes at the drops that have fallen on her cami.

"We can watch TV if you want," Samar says.

"See? Rebecca is on. Have you ever seen it? I love this movie. Joan Fontaine is flawless. I always wanted to be a blonde like her. But then when I was a blonde I found out it really wasn't that much fun."

"I never figured you for a classic movie buff, Keen."

"My adoptive father, Sam, and I used to watch them every weekend. I wouldn't call myself a buff. I'm actually not even sure if I enjoy them all that much, but they bring me a weird comfort. I think maybe it's the familiarity."

"Makes sense," Samar says. She looks around her for some place to sit and ends up sitting down next to Liz on the end of the bed. "How are you? Really?"

"I'm furious. Frustrated. Devastated. Bored out of my mind. A little bit of everything really," she looks down and suddenly seems to notice she's sitting there in only her underwear. She grabs a pair of pajama pants from their crumpled nest on the floor and pulls them over her lean legs. Samar notices how thin and pale Liz looks. She's lost the pregnancy weight that had made her look so soft and given her a glow, and now looks almost translucent and angular, though no less beautiful. "I'm dying to go back to work," Liz continues. "I need something to do."

"And you will come back. When you are ready," Samar says. Liz rolls her eyes. "You've been through a lot. We wouldn't want you to come back before you're ready."

"Yeah," she snaps. "I get it." She tosses back the rest of the champagne in her cup. She hops up from the bed and shuffles over to grab the bottle of champagne. She refills both their cups and sits back down on the bed next to Samar. "Anyway, I'm sick of talking about it. I'm sick of people not knowing how to talk to me about it. That's one of the worst parts, you know, how people have completely lost their ability to talk with me in a normal way. I feel like a circus freak or some other oddity in a dark tent in the back of a carnival that people come by to gawk at. So my weird and obsessive benefactor murdered my ex-husband-fiancee? So I gave birth to a baby at 19 weeks who died after only a couple breaths in my arms? So what? Get over it and stop staring."

"You are not a circus freak," Samar sighs. She places a hand on Liz's arm that is meant to be reassuring, but when Liz turns to look back at her, Samar notices her hands tremble on Liz's soft skin.

"Thank you, Samar." Liz exhales gratefully. She takes Samar's hand in her own and squeezes it, bringing it up over her heart and pressing it to her. "You have no clue how much that means to me. It's like you're the only person I can really talk to."

Samar clears her throat and takes an indulgent sip of her champagne. "Anytime. Really."

"Well, enough about me," Liz says and releases Samar's hand. She scampers back on the bed so she is lying propped up by pillows. She pats the space next to her, and Samar toes off her shoes before climbing up to the head of the bed. "How are things with you? How are things with Ressler?"

"Ugh," groans Samar, rolling her eyes and head back. "There is nothing going on with Ressler. That was a one-time mistake, not to be repeated."

"I'm sorry," Liz offers.

"Oh don't be. We got caught up in a moment and it happened, but it really shouldn't have."

"I feel like it is partially, or entirely, my fault. If I hadn't called and asked you to help me that morning. . . "

"Not at all. Having you call me that morning was one of the best things that happened for me. I was happy to help you. It meant a lot, you know, that you called me. That you trusted me."

"I did," Liz says quietly. "And I do." For a while they do not talk as they watch Laurence Olivier drive Joan Fontaine down the coast of Monte Carlo. "I'm afraid you broke poor Aram's heart, though," Liz says finally.

"Yes. I do feel sorry about Aram being hurt. But truth be told, neither Aram nor Ressler are my type."

"Oh yeah?" Liz yawns. Her eyes are half closed and her lashes cast a shadow under her eyes, making the purple shadows even deeper. She looks like she is about to pass out. It wouldn't be the worst thing for her, Samar thinks. She needs sleep. Samar watches as her breath slows and deepens, but then Liz has a reflexive jerk and she is wide awake again.

"Liz, you should get some sleep." Samar takes both of their cups and places them on the night stand. "I can get out of your way."

"Please don't leave yet, Samar. Just a little longer?"

"Of course. But you need your rest to gather your strength. Look at you. You're frail as a doll."

Liz laughs sleepily at this. "Yes. I'm a doll. Or a puppet more like. At least that's what Reddington thought I was."

"Have you heard from him?"

"Reddington? God no." In her current state of mild inebriation, Liz does not think to ask Samar why she would ask her about Red. Samar bites her lip, wondering if she should tell Liz about the meeting and the package. But then Liz's hand is reaching out for Samar's, and it is a welcome distraction from thoughts of Reddington. Anyway, Liz is drunk and it is not the time. Not yet. Samar clutches Liz's hand, and feels a swelling of emotions in her chest that she has not felt in well over a decade.

"I'll stay as long as you like," Samar sighs.

"Mmmm, thanks," Liz says. "So, if Aram and Ressler aren't your type, who is?"

Samar feels her breath catch in her throat and she turns to answer Liz, but finds she has drifted off to sleep. Samar reaches up with the unheld hand and brushes the hair off of Liz's forehead. And almost without even realizing she is doing it, she brings Liz's fingers to her lips and kisses them before she takes her leave of the tiny motel room.