Anyone else excitedly dreading the Season 4 premiere? Fingers crossed, kids!

Liz stayed in the bathroom for almost two hours. Ate her cake slowly, methodically, because it was rich, chocolatey-thick, and worth savoring—she would thank Eli tomorrow—leaning against the sink with her back to the mirror.

She set her dishes in the little sink and turned on the shower. She didn't know what kind of hot water heater Eli had installed in this place, but it was scalding and there was plenty of it—a luxury for which she was grateful.

She undressed quickly and stepped under the spray that was scalding hot as she could possibly stand.

Cleansing by fire was the phrase that came to her mind. She would burn the memory of his touch away as best as she could.

Liz lathered, washed, repeated. Scrubbed hard until every part of her was shiny, pink, and raw to the touch, as chafed on the outside as she was on the inside.

Then she cried. Crouched down in the shower, and cried in humiliation and anger. How had she been so naive? So stupid? So foolish to let her guard down with him?

She was cringing again. Deep, clenching cringes that screwed up her face under the boiling spray.

He had started this whole entire thing. He had started this whole entire thing when he kissed her. Her half-asleep pawing of him was completely accidental—he'd chosen to push her up against that wall and kiss her. She flinched at the thought of it. What a hypocrite he was.

She had kissed him out there and blissfully anticipated the moment she would tell him she loved him. The memory of it turned her stomach now, and she gagged once, twice in the safety of the shower stall.

Liz turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a towel.

The closed toilet lid was a solid seat. She stared into the distance and tried to imagine once again how the rest of this evening would go between them. She thought of how they'd so optimistically pushed their beds together that morning and found herself laughing aloud. She tried to stifle herself, but it was no use. How was Red going to handle that? She certainly wasn't going to help him put them back…

Still laughing a little, she found the strength to dress and apply the basic toiletries. She pondered her appearance in the mirror and splashed some cold water onto her face.

She brushed her long brown hair until it was smooth as silk and only a little damp.

Red would either have to sleep in the bed with her—something she knew would be torture for him—or he would have to sleep on the dirty concrete floor under the table. Either option was acceptable to her. She grinned evilly to herself. It would be interesting to see which one he chose.

She opened the bathroom door, dressed, clean, calm, collected.

He was slumped in his chair at the table, quite disheveled. He perked up slightly when he saw her, though, and waved his glass in her direction. She could see he was drunk. Really drunk. The entire bottle of scotch next to him was almost gone.

"Lizzie," he sighed. "How…how are you?"

She paused on her way to their bed and met his gaze, took in the picture he presented her; he was sad, haggard, like maybe he had the same sick feeling swimming around inside him.

However, liquor didn't seem as effective a coping mechanism as crying until one was limp in the bathroom. Red seemed upset, unsettled. He was staring at her, but seemed unable to speak.

Too bad for him. She was simply too empty to care.

Liz stowed her bag away under the bed, turned and made her way back to the table.

Red watched her approach with some trepidation.

"I'm tired," she replied, taking the scotch bottle from his grasp and putting it to her mouth. Three swallows and it was gone. She set the empty bottle down into his hand, picked up her half-empty wineglass and took a swallow of it for a chaser. She looked at him blankly. "…and I just want to go to sleep."

Everything burned for a moment, then felt wonderfully warm and fuzzy. She grabbed a bottle of water from the shelf next to her and turned back towards the bed. Lifting the covers, she crawled inside and across to the far side.

"Where would you like me to sleep?" Red cleared his throat behind her wearily.

"Wherever the hell you want," she muttered back, wrapping her arms around her pillow and clutching it to her chest with her water.

She heard him wince.

She settled on her side, facing away from him. Overhead, the bar was in full gear, and Liz was grateful for the various thumps, clumps and scrapes of chairs across the floor to break up the silence.

For awhile she went away in her head. At first, she tried to simply relive fond memories in her mind, but everything was tainted now. She had a second, parallel life—she was now aware of a whole alternative history to her existence. Red was a part of her in so many inextricable, extremely important ways. He had burned himself almost to death to rescue her from that fire, literally scarred himself for life. He had brought her to Sam when her mother committed suicide and she was orphaned. He'd committed himself to protecting her—made her a sheep in his fold. He knew the daughter of the infamous Katerina Rostova would always be in danger of being discovered…

He also knew she had the Fulcrum.

Suddenly reminded that Red was never completely genuine or entirely sincere—how had she forgotten that?—Liz breathed an angry sigh and tried vindictively fantasizing about a future without Raymond Reddington in it.

Except that was impossible.

No matter what she imagined, Red appeared, Red was there. She wanted him there. She wanted him there very, very much.

In the end, she could only lie awake, mind wearily working the issues at hand over and over, with no resolutions, until exhaustion overtook her.

Hours later she awoke in the semi-darkness as Red crawled into bed next to her, reeking of scotch and toothpaste. He seemed determined to occupy only the smallest edge of the mattress as far from her as possible and was taking great care not to disturb her.

Good, she thought meanly, yawning, spreading out and staking her claim to her side of the mattress space. She shifted into a more comfortable position and fell instantly back asleep.

Red was completely out cold the next morning. Liz awoke to find him facedown on the pillow next to her, snoring lightly. His breathing didn't even hitch as she climbed indelicately out of their bed and made her way to the bathroom.

He still hadn't awakened, or even moved, when she exited after washing and brushing her teeth. She imagined he must be terribly hungover.

Her own nightcap had been quite effective. She hadn't dreamt at all. Had barely been aware of his presence in the bed next to her. It could have been a completely miserable night, but it hadn't been, thank whiskey.

Should she have mercy on him? She wondered. She slid into her chair at the table and observed him. She could be quiet. She could let him sleep. She could bring him water and aspirin and be sweet to him when he woke. Hadn't he done the same for her just a few days before? It might be nice if she chose to be nice.

Or, she could be mean. Bang around, crash about—punish him for humiliating her and leaving her to burn in this uncertain space. She could have him cowering in the bathroom before lunch. An evil smirk crossed her lips. It was certainly an option.

But it was the obvious play. Revenge was a dish best served cold—Red had exemplified this tautology repeatedly. It would be far more twisted and effective to kill him with kindness. It would put him completely off-balance. She would let their enclosed circumstances and his own desire for her do the work—He would eventually relent. She had to be patient if she was going to break him. She had to be patient and control her anger and frustration with him.

It was time to act.

She was a ghost as she tidied up their space, silent and efficient. She cleared the plates and food from the night before and wiped down each surface. She organized their bags, taking her time to throughly familiarize herself with the small arsenal inside Red's fun new black bag of guns and bullets. She threw a few disposable cell phones into her own personal bag, then proceeded to stow everything away within easy reach. She would be prepared next time.

Red still did not move, still snoring, still face-down in the pillow. She placed a bottle of water and some ibuprofen on one of their chairs and moved it bedside for his easy reach.

She moved her mission into the bathroom, wiping down surfaces and arranging their toiletries. She swapped out their towels and compiled all their soiled laundry into the laundry bag, graceful and silent as a ninja.

Red was still unconscious when she came out. It was a surprise to see him so continuously inert. He never stopped moving or talking. What was he thinking, getting this drunk? Hadn't he berated himself furiously for doing the exact same thing just two nights before? After trying to push her away the first time? He was the one being the total hypocrite—what did he have to be upset about?

She wouldn't know until he decided to wake up. And even then, he probably still wouldn't tell her. Maybe he was even faking it right now…maybe he was trying to avoid that exact conversation with her…

She was giving some serious thought to dropping something heavy on the floor when he suddenly stirred. She turned to the shelf, startled, not ready to make eye contact, realizing that she was definitely in need of some coffee.

Red grunted and rolled over. As she took down the French press and bag of ground beans, Liz saw him reach out into the empty space of the bed, as though he were looking for her. Finding nothing, he opened his eyes and immediately winced.

"Lizzie?" he croaked.

"Here," she called softly, nicely.

He rolled over gingerly and caught sight of her, his eyes glassy. Liz met his gaze briefly and nodded an acknowledgement. Having ascertained her whereabouts, Red could focus on his demon of a hangover. He struggled to sit up, groaning and muttering to himself, then spotted the water and pills she'd left in the chair next to to the bed.

Liz was watching him secretly, furiously out of the corner of one eye as she deftly made them both coffee. The second he spotted the pills, she focused on her task nonchalantly. She could feel his eyes boring holes into her, watching, assessing her mood, attempting to create a game plan. But he was so hungover—Liz could almost feel his agony radiating from across the room—the only thing he could focus on was easing the pain.

The water was starting to boil.

Liz saw Red shake a few pills into his hand and put it to his mouth. She poured the water smoothly over the coffee grounds, agitating them gently as she did so. Red was watching her again as he drank his water. Liz proceeded to place the lid on the french press. She glanced up at him, met his eyes squarely.

"Thank you," he held up the empty water bottle in a small salute.

She nodded in thanks. Seeing that he was out of water, she went to the shelf and grabbed two more bottles for him.

His eyes followed her as she approached. She smiled at him sympathetically and placed one water bottle on the chair and the other in his hand.

"So, you're hurting pretty bad, huh?" she leaned against the edge of their bed, trying not to chuckle.

"My head is splitting," he groaned.

"Can I make you something to eat?" she offered. "Maybe some of the instant oatmeal?"

"Lizzie…" he started, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he paused, unsure of how to continue next. "Please stop…You don't have to do that."

"Do what?" she balked, her face suddenly closed.

"I just mean," he hastily tried to qualify. "You don't have to feel sorry for me. This isn't my first hangover…" he trailed off as though unsure of what he was saying or why. "I don't need your help!" he finally snapped.

She flashed hot. "I forgot how much you enjoy making me regret caring for you," she scowled, then pulled away from his bedside and stood up straight.

He flinched and she felt sick for a moment.

"Do we have to do this now?" his toned was pained.

"Apparently we do—you won't even let me pour you corn flakes," she rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself," she laughed bitterly.

She moved back to the table and finished with the coffee, carefully pressing the ground beans to the bottom. So much for trying to be nice—she felt furiously naive for thinking that would ever be the right approach.

She fumed as she poured herself a mug. She did not look at him and she did not offer to pour him one. She settled into the remaining chair, turning it so that her back was to him. She crossed her legs and prepared to spend the next hour or so staring at the wall in deep caffeine-fueled meditation.

After a minute, she heard Red leave the bed and approach the table. She heard him pick up the empty mug that she'd initially been kind enough to get out for him. It was like a game, sitting here, trying to figure out what he was doing behind her by sound alone. She heard liquid being poured and smelled the fresh coffee in the air. She heard him blow into the cup to cool the liquid, heard him drink…

She did not hear him approach her. He put his hand on her shoulder and she squeaked and flinched spastically in surprise.

"Thank you for making coffee, Lizzie," he rumbled behind her.

"Yeah, okay," she muttered, shaking her head. He sighed a deep, bone-weary sigh in response, his hand still gripping her shoulder.

"I know I haven't explained myself…" he started. "I understand why you're upset with me," he ground out.

She rolled her eyes at his classic deflection.

"Empathizing with me won't make me forget that you're the cause of all this drama," she snapped. "I see what you're doing…I see you."

She pulled her shoulder from beneath his hand and stood to face him. His eyes were bloodshot and wary. He was unsteady on his feet and immediately reached for the back of her chair when she pulled her shoulder away. He still reeked of scotch—it was coming out of his pores.

"You're equivocating," she sneered "What you mean to say is that you owe me an explanation and an apology, but I know better than to hope," she shook her head at him in annoyance.

"Liz—," he started to say.

"Nope," she cut him off. "No. Shut it. That's enough for now. Try again when you're ready to be genuine with me."

She ducked away from him, turned away from his response, and moved to the chair she'd placed next to the bed for him. She picked it up and turned to push it back in at the table.

"In the meantime, do us both a favor and take a shower, hmm?" she braced both hands on the back of the chair and eyed him cooly. "I'm drunk just off the smell of you."

He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, staring at her, mind whirring away behind intense green eyes.

"Very well," he replied, his tone clipped. "Excuse me."

He brushed past her briskly, took up his bag of clothes, and made his way to the bathroom. He paused in the threshold of the door and looked back over at her.

"Elizabeth," he blurted, then proceeded to stare at her momentarily as he gnawed at the inside of his cheek, his expression perplexed.

"Yes?" she hesitated. There was a long pause while they simply locked gazes.

"When I'm done," he nodded to the bathroom. "Let's talk then."

She raised an eyebrow in surprise and disbelief.

"I would like that," she replied evenly.

He gave her a curt nod, then disappeared behind the door.

He emerged about forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and dressed. He seemed somewhat recovered from his hangover, though he was moving slowly.

She made the bed as soon as the bathroom door closed. Since doing that, she had not left her seat at the table. She had only been able to sit, sip her coffee, and anticipate what to say to him. The tiny French press barely held four cups—even less with their preferred ratio of grounds to water. Liz drank two big mugs, then set about making a fresh pot. Surely Red would appreciate another cup, and she needed to be on her game.

She silently watched him make his way to their bed and stow his bag away. He turned and smiled down at her, almost pityingly. Her heart froze in her chest. What was about to happen here? It had been a gamble to draw a hard line with him, she knew. She could never predict how he would respond to her anger.

Red approached the table and pulled his chair up right next to her. He sat, put his coffee cup to his mouth and drained the dregs. He poured a fresh cup from the press, offered her a polite "Thank you," and proceeded to drink. He smelled wonderful and warm. As wary as she was of him, she still had to resist the urge to reach for him, to pull him close to her.

She waited patiently, though her heart was pounding, until he lowered his mug. He set it down finally, sighing, and looked up at the the concrete wall before them.

"Elizabeth, I deeply…regret…" he ground out, working his mouth furiously in between each syllable. "You were absolutely right—I am being a terrible hypocrite, and completely unfair…I'm so very sorry for hurting you," he turned finally to look at her.

"Thank you," she murmured, moving her gaze to the wall in front of her and blinking until until her eyes stopped stinging.

"I know that's not enough," he continued, looking down at the floor and reaching for his mug. "I owe you an explanation and I reassure you one is forthcoming—along with what I'm certain will be a healthy debate and lengthy discussion," he muttered ruefully to himself, chuckling a little. "But right now…" he looked up at her, wincing and cradling the side of his head. "I'm afraid I'm a foolish old man with a massive hangover. Please, sweetheart…"

Her stupid chest tightened at the way he called her 'sweetheart,' and reflexively curled his mouth into a small smile. Her stupid brain remembered exactly what his mouth had done to her the day before, and her stupid body betrayed her with a responding flush of arousal.

"…Show me a tender mercy and grant me a small extension?" he was teasing her ever-so-slightly, but his eyes were pleading and his skin was sallow.

She nodded, agreeing for more reasons than one, "Okay." She looked over at him and offered up a small smile. "Granted."

"Oh thank you," he groaned, relaxing at once and putting his head down on the table. "I'm a wreck," he sighed. After a beat he spoke again. "I don't suppose you would still be willing to make me a small bowl of oatmeal?" he turned his head to the side and looked up at her hopefully, eyes huge and pitiful.

"You're ridiculous," she snorted. She rose gracefully and made her way around him.

"What are you doing?" he murmured behind her. She could tell from the sound that he hadn't looked up to see. His head must be killing him.

"Making you some breakfast," she sighed in acceptance. "Manipulation or not," she added with a chuckle. "Besides, there's raisins and brown sugar…starch, sugar and fiber, by their powers combined, might help you feel better," she grinned as she pulled out a small pot and the hot plate.

Red managed to raise his head and watch her at she prepared their food. He nodded in unspoken approval as she added a pinch of salt to the water to boil and competently poured just the right amount of oats into the pot once it was boiling.

"You can cook some things," he muttered, holding his forehead in his hand and his empty coffee mug in the other. She smirked.

"Here," Liz picked up the French press and refilled his mug. "But also…" she was quick to procure another bottled water and pass it to him.

He opened it and sipped lightly. "Thank you."

Liz focused her attention firmly on completing the preparation of their breakfast. He could be so pleasant when he wasn't constantly fighting her. She was slightly ashamed of how badly she wanted to be back on good terms with him. Maybe this was his new strategy—apologize so that she would forgive him, then play the invalid until all of her anger was gone and she softened up enough to forget the mortification he'd delivered to her the night before.

She winced at the memory as she scooped the hot oats into two bowls for each of them. She hid it well and proceeded to load up her bowl with brown sugar, raisins and evaporated milk. At the last minute she remembered their new box of fruit and proceeded to snag them each an apple.

"I wish we had some cinnamon," she sighed. "But this will have to do."

"It's perfect," he beamed at her as she took her seat. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she managed to reply. Since when was he so polite to her? Something was definitely up. She ate slowly, saying nothing, waiting.

But he was eating even more slowly than she, his movements dull and heavy. His face was pale and drawn, his expression miserable. He set down his spoon for just a moment and appeared to be concentrating intently.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Not quite," he muttered, rising and striding quickly to the bathroom. "Pardon me."

He closed the door and left Liz alarmed, uncertain of what to do.

Moments later, he emerged looking somewhat relieved. Liz had listened for sounds of distress, but heard nothing. Clearly, Reddington could vomit like a ninja. She added it her mental list of his talents.

He took his seat at the table once again. She met his gaze, silently attempting to convey her sympathy. He was obviously disabled—possibly still even drunk. There was no point in being resentful or sour with him. He was too pitiful.

"I'm going to try this once more," he smiled at her. "Let's see what happens."

"Would some other food be better? We must have some crackers down here…" Liz started to rise, but Red motioned for her to sit.

"This really is perfect, Lizzie. Don't fuss. I did this to myself," he sighed ruefully before practically throwing another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. She watched him swallow determinedly and then take another spoonful, and another. At one point he caught her watching him and winked at her. She managed to shake her head disapprovingly, but she wanted to laugh.

She finished her own breakfast and stowed the bowl away. Red was finishing his last spoonful as she returned to the table.

"What's the verdict?" she smiled down at him.

"Jury's still out," he sighed, forlorn. She took his bowl and wiped it out. "Thank you," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. She nodded and stowed it away quickly with the other dirty dishes in the bin. When she turned around, he had moved to the edge of the bed. "Don't mind me," he grumbled. He lay down, put a hand over his eyes, and groaned. "Oh, Lizzie. I don't suppose you would perform a small act of mercy and club me unconscious?" he chuckled.

"Unfortunate dearth of clubs down here," she snickered. "I could pistol whip you…" she helpfully deadpanned.

There was contemplative silence.

"You're considering it, aren't you?" she quipped as she moved to his bedside.

"Yes," Red smirked beneath the hand over his face. She laughed softly at him.

Liz set up a makeshift nightstand for him again with water and pain relievers.

"You can probably take two more of these," she murmured. "I doubt you got the full dose."

He nodded in agreement. She shook out a couple more pills into Red's waiting palm. He swallowed them dry, then chased them down with a few sips of water. She set the pill bottle down onto the chair, and Red suddenly reached for her hand.

Her heart stopped. She couldn't look at him, afraid he would see how his touch affected her. She looked down only at the sight of her hand in his. He pulled her ever so gently to the side of the bed.

"Lizzie," he whispered. "Look at me."

She did. His expression was bewildered and anxious. He patted the edge of the mattress, and she sat, her hipbone tucked against his.

"I…" he started, then trailed off. "I don't know how I even have the gall to ask you this, but…oh dear," he sighed. "I am going to do it anyway."

"Red," she started, warningly.

"Oh feel free to tell me to go to Hell, if you like," he chirped, a ghost of his usual candor. "Because I fully recognize the hypocrisy of this request, especially given that we aren't formally reconciled…" he smoothed down the front of his clothing nervously.

"Jeez, what?" she groaned. "What is it?"

"Well, I would really like to sleep a bit more…and I was hoping you would…join me," he bit out, putting on his best poker face as he awaited her response.

"What? Why?" she was quick to ask, even as the warmth crept into her cheeks.

"Because last night was miserable. I'm completely ashamed of myself, and honestly," he paused, mouth pursed in thought, chewing on the inside of his cheeks. "I just want to hold you, Elizabeth. Just please lay here with me?"

She managed not to leap on top of him, but only just. He watched her warily as she stood, walked around the foot of the bed, and casually got in the other side. She lay down, settled herself next to him and looked over at him nonchalantly. He smiled at the ceiling, rolled to his side and wrapped his arms around her.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," she grumbled into his shirt chest. She slung one arm over his waist and tucked the other one up against her stomach.

"Understood," he breathed into her hair at the top of her head, pulling her close.

"Still very mad," she muttered.

"Mm-Hmm," he acknowledged, adjusting their pillows and settling in.

Had these beds always been this comfy? Or was she really this relieved to be back in his arms? Either way, the idea of a little more sleep curled up with him—the way she'd wanted to be—was too good to pass up. She relented, relaxed. Red did the same. After a few moments, quietly breathing together, she heard a soft snore above her. She smiled and curled against his chest. In a few more minutes, Liz also slept.

I can haz reviews?!