Antsy. That's really the only word for it, he thinks, for the constant sense of unease, of not-right, that has been shadowing him since he last saw her. He has stayed away a week, waiting for her, for her to come to him when she is ready.

If it isn't soon, he'll have to lose the battle — though hopefully not the war — and go to her, just so he can focus again. This separation, right on the heels of the previous two weeks, is making him edgy and irritable. His mask fits poorly these days.

Suddenly aware that the room is waiting for him to speak, he looks up from where he lounges easily against the cage of the stairwell and shrugs.

"I've given you everything you need to find the Korrigan," he says coolly. "If you still can't...lay your hands on her, Donald, that's your problem, not mine.

"Now, I really must be off; I have a million better things to do than sit here chatting with you."

He's on his feet and at the elevator before Ressler has gathered his wits enough to call out. He turns, one eyebrow raised, and waits.

"Is she really not coming back?" Ressler asks quietly. "Keen, is she gone for good?"

Red shrugs in return. "That's what she said," he answers. "It's not like she worked here anymore anyway."

The other man's face is a study of resentment, but he turns his back without another word, and Red has to admire his restraint.

He winks at Samar to make her scowl, and then strides into the elevator, eager to be above ground again and free of the dim weight of the Post Office.

He has grown to truly despise its confines, particularly in the last few months. As they rise to ground level, he toys absently with the thought of disappearing, and wonders if she'd go with him. The realist within laughs at him, and the rain that greets him suits his heaviness of spirit.

Dembe tucks a phone away inside his jacket and opens the car door for him silently. He slides in and settles with a sigh, mind searching to occupy itself with something other than the elusive Elizabeth.

He thinks instead of Dembe, of how angry the other man had been — and how fortunate he is to have this one person he can trust absolutely, that he can show all his weaknesses to without fear.

Raymond, what happened? What were you thinking?

It's not what it looked like.. (A feeble response, but the only one he had.)

Isn't it? You weren't punishing her, for allowing Jacob Phelps to remain in her life?

I… (Was that it, after all?) I can't let her go, especially to him. I love her, Dembe. What can I do?

That hadn't been the end of it, of course, but it had been a bridge to understanding — love, after all, is the great mediator. It had been helpful to have Dembe's dispassionate view of things to ameliorate his own, to have a sounding board here, as in all other things.

He tips his head back and lets his eyes droop, savouring the second rush of cool air as the other door opens...but a shock of alertness spears through him with the fresh scent of her and he turns in surprise to meet her solemn blue gaze.

The hot tea isn't helping to keep her warm, as she wraps and unwraps her fingers around the paper cup. She stares absently out the window from her counter perch, not that there's anything to look at — by necessity, the Post Office is in a quiet industrial neighbourhood with nothing at all interesting about it.

She rethinks her decision to come here again, for the umpteenth time — maybe things are better as they are, maybe she can really have a true fresh start now, if she leaves it all behind her. But her walls have stayed broken and scattered since that last revealing kiss, and Red's absence has left an aching empty space in her life that she doesn't want to keep.

Finally, Dembe's text comes, and she slips out of the near-empty café and around the corner to spot him across the alley, behind the ubiquitous black Mercedes, just shutting the door behind Red.

As she dashes across the narrow street, he straightens and watches her, face still and expressionless. She knows Red spoke to him, finally, about their relationship; she had too, in furious embarrassment. He gave her a quiet acceptance that meant everything, although she knows he doesn't fully approve.

"Thanks for this," she says quietly, one hand lightly gripping the roof of the car. "How much time can you give me?"

"My errand should take about 45 minutes," Dembe answers. "Do you want the keys?"

She shakes her head. "I just need to get back on track with him, and we don't need to go anywhere for that." She doesn't want to anyway, she's all nerves and the privacy of the car offers a small comfort. "See you in a bit then?"

He inclines his head, then hesitates. "I know you see Raymond as a hard man," he says quietly. "And in many ways he is, has had to be. But in his heart… Please, tread carefully, Elizabeth."

Startled, she just stares at him for a blank moment, then manages a nod. He smiles faintly, then disappears around the corner with long, purposeful strides.

She takes a deep breath to reorient herself, then opens the rear door and slips inside the car, warmth rising to greet her. She just has time to start to think how tired he looks before his head rises in a snap to stare at her with shocked grey eyes.

"Hi," she says, a little stupidly, somehow unprepared although this was her idea.

"Elizabeth," he says gravely, expression calm and smooth again, eyes gone flat, hiding. "What brings you here?"

"I got tired of waiting for you," she says, and smiles at him, absurdly happy just to be with him again. "I thought…" She had thought over what to say and do so carefully, and now it all flies out the window in the face of her need. "You said that you weren't walking away, but…you stayed away after all."

She trails off, wanting him to say something, to do something other than watch her inscrutably. He just closes his eyes briefly in that pained way he has, as if he is willing reality to be different when he opens them again. But then his expression breaks.

"I wanted you to come to me," he admits, looking away, his voice low and heavy. "So I'd know that you really wanted me here, in your life."

This gift of vulnerability means more to her than the words, and warms her, reassures her that she was right to seek him out. She slides along the seat so she's close enough to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Here I am, then," she says softly. "Wanting you."

His expression doesn't change, but his face, his bearing seem somehow lighter.

"Oh, Lizzie," voice softer now, "have you forgiven me, then?"

"Didn't we settle this already? I told you that you didn't hurt me."

"Didn't I?" He reaches out and traces the faint discolouration staining her cheekbone, not quite touching her.

"I think that happened when we fell." She runs her thumb lightly over the fading welt on his neck with a small smile. "It's incredibly intense between us, fierce and powerful…and it's wonderful. Isn't it?" He can only nod, overwhelmed. "I wouldn't change it. And you know I don't mind a little…I mean, rough's okay, it's good, but…I'm concerned about what was behind it, this time. It wasn't part of the game, Red."

He hesitates, wants to lie, to pretend — but he can't. He promised he'd never lie to her, and he can't start with this.

"You're right," he says. "I was jealous, I was blind with it. Mad, lost. Aside from the danger of it — and Lizzie, there is danger, whatever you think — it's that after everything that's happened between the two of you, the things he represents are such a temptation for you. But they aren't real." I'm real, he wants to say, this, between us, is real.

"I don't need you to tell me that — I haven't forgotten what he did. Although, if I decided he was what I wanted, it would be my decision. But Red, just as I don't owe him anything because we used to be married; I don't owe you anything because we're lovers. You don't own me, not like that — nobody does."

She hesitates, then continues, picking her way carefully. "I used to believe that two people could belong to each other, and maybe it's true. But it hasn't been for me, won't ever be when there's no one I can trust."

"You know that you can trust me, Lizzie." He sounds insulted, and she wants to laugh.

"In some ways," she agrees. "Not in others. Not enough. Not lying isn't the same as honesty, and you keep too many secrets. But I…I need you, Red." It's all she can bring herself to say. And she hopes that it's enough.

He looks at her somberly. "Will you break my heart, Lizzie?"

Her own heart gives a treacherous thump. "I don't want to. I care for you, you know that. But we're so many things to each other, Red, and I don't want to lose any of them. The friendship, the partnership, all of it — it's important to me. If we can't have this too, if it's too much, just tell me."

She forces the words to come, although they suddenly seem terrible. She tries not to think about never feeling his touch again, and takes a deep breath. "So, I guess it's up to you. Will you still be with me, as we have been? Do you…do you still want me?"

He almost laughs aloud, it's so ridiculous, and reaches out to tangle his fingers with hers. "With every breath, sweetheart." Any way I can have you, he thinks, but has enough sense left to keep that to himself.

She's nearly shaking with the relief of it, with the security of the one person she has come to rely on still being there, a stable place. She kisses him impulsively, the sudden absence of the tension that has plagued her as good as an adrenaline rush.

The sweet, wild heat kindles between them in a flash, as if it's been waiting, just out of sight.

She hadn't realized how cold she has been until life is flooding her again, and she lets herself bask in it, just for a moment.

That moment stretches out and turns into minutes; she's pressed against him greedily, one hand curled around his neck and the other gripping his lapel. He has his arms around her, hands pressed flat and hard against her back, pulling her ever closer. It's as safe as it is enticing; the taste of him welcomes her like home.

"Don't leave like that again," she says, pulling slightly back to watch his face. "Don't."

His world has a centre again, just like that, with the taste of her on his lips, with the lush softness of her against him, in his arms. How could he have ever thought he could walk away? He no longer cares if he's right for her, if he belongs in her life; if she's lying through her teeth and she's only using him to fill the well of loneliness inside her. All that matters is the time they have together.

"Don't leave like that again," she says, her skin flushed, her eyes bright, voice husky. "Don't."

These words give him a stronger hope than anything else she's said — they show him a vulnerability similar to his own, that her need is more than she's willing to admit.

"I'm here, Lizzie," he answers, shifting to run his fingers over her cheek, through her silky hair. "Until you don't want me here; until this is done."

I'll never be done, he thinks ruefully.

She lets out a sigh of breath. "Promise me," she says insistently. "Promise me that we'll talk, that you won't just decide for both of us."

He hesitates, then nods. "All right, Lizzie." He kisses her again, because he can, because she's here, with him. He soaks in the loveliness of it, and his mind floods with enticing images, with a wealth of possibilities. Even as his hands start to move over her, though, he remembers where they are — and how odd it is that they're alone.

"Is Dembe waiting outside?"

She shakes her head, her smile carrying a little edge. "He's running an errand," she says. "He'll be a little while yet."

He rumbles approval low in his throat, and tightens his arms around her again. She comes willingly, her mouth soft and yielding. She tastes faintly of tea and lemon; he savours it, sinking in deep. He runs a hand over her sleek lines, under her sweater to rest against the silk of her skin, familiar and beautiful.

She nips at his lip and he growls again, lets his mouth roam down to her throat…but hesitates, remembering the way indigo bloomed on her pale face. She curves herself in an arch against him, reading him easily.

"Mark me," she says, breath teasing in his ear. "I like it."

Another small victory, that she wants a reminder of him left behind. He fastens his mouth on her, elated, sucking a stain of colour into the side of her neck then pulling free to feather a breath of air over the damp skin. She shivers, a small moan, nails scratching at the back of his head.

He shifts a bit so that her body is tucked into one arm, so that he has a hand free to cup the weight of her breast. They're kissing again, a merging that stokes the heat inside. He rolls the tight peak of her nipple between thumb and finger in a way he knows she likes.

She hums against him, a pleasure sound like a gift; but then she braces a hand against his chest and pushes gently so he lets go of her.

"Lizzie?" She's only inches away, but it's much too far.

Her eyes are hot now, blue like the heart of a flame, and he wants her with an urgency that burns with the same heat. She must see it in his face, because she smiles, slow and wicked, and slips away to kneel in front of him. Her hands slide firmly up his thighs and his breath stops in his chest.

He's staring at her, gaze intent, the need so clear on his face that her muscles clench in response. She focuses with only small difficulty, eager now for a taste of him. Belt and buttons managed, she unzips him carefully and slides the waistband of his boxers down so she can free him.

"Look at you," she murmurs in appreciation, wrapping her fingers around the thick length of his cock.

"Lizzie," he says again, but his voice is strained this time, and it pleases her.

"I want you to remember this conversation," she says quietly. "I want you to think of this moment every time you sit here, and remember how it felt."

She leans in and traces a delicate line with her tongue, from root to tip. He makes an incoherent noise, and she smiles inwardly as she slips her mouth over the head in a sucking kiss. She thinks she can hear him swallow another sound, then takes as much of him as she can.

"Christ," he says on a gasp, "Lizzie."

Instead of releasing him so she can speak an answer, she starts to move, mouth and hand working together. He tastes of that particular masculine musk, but also of himself, spicy and sharp. She explores with her tongue, circling under the head, laving the sensitive underside in long swipes. It's easy to judge what he likes best by the noises he makes, by the tension in his thighs against her.

His hands are on her head now, encouraging but gentle — she thinks that he is still treading very carefully. She doesn't care for it, particularly; she loves the unrestrained way he approaches sex, giving and taking with a passionate abandon that's both euphoric and contagious.

She wants it back.

She tightens her grip and lets her teeth draw along the soft skin ever so slightly as she draws her head back, her hand following so it gets slick from her mouth. He grunts, surprised, his fingers winding into her hair in reflex.

She hums around him in gratification; his hands fist tight. That's it, that's it, and she moans thickly and then everything becomes a blur of touch and taste, push and pull. His hips flex under her, moving with her, thrusting deep so that she has to swallow against him. He swears inventively as his hands tighten further in reaction, and everything starts getting faster, harder. She sucks him in eagerly now, harder, working to keep up as he moves.

She lets her eyes flick up, and is caught by the piercing glow of his gaze as he watches her. She lets her knees push her up a little so the angle changes, and he throbs against her tongue. Words stumble from his mouth — God, yes and like that and harder, Lizzie, and then just a hoarse moan.

Then the hot pulses of his release are filling her; she swallows it all, savouring in a way she hasn't before. As he goes limp around her, softening in her mouth, she lets herself sink back onto her folded legs. She tucks him away gently, licking her lips and then resting her head on his leg with a sigh.

It's only a minute before he's alert again, pulling her off the floorboards and over his lap, cradling her close for a kiss. He doesn't shy away from his own flavour on her, and it's a long moment before she drops her head to rest her cheek on his shoulder. She soaks in his warmth, feeling his rapid breaths gradually calm under her hand.

"Honestly, Elizabeth," he says, mock scolding. "How can I ever go anywhere in this car again?"

She grins. "Thinking of me, of course."

He tucks his face into the crook of her neck and breathes in. "Of course," he murmurs, loving her. "Come home with me."

He can feel her stiffen slightly, and his mind clicks over, working fast and nimble. "You asked me not to leave," he says quietly, a rumble she can feel in her skin. "But it was you that left me behind in Venice, Lizzie."

Her skin chills a little, then burrows a little, so that she doesn't have to look at him.

"You're the one who's always leaving," he says, then kisses her neck, soft and warm. "Running from even the possibility of feeling something." His hands make patterns on her back, easing her tension, even as his voice lures her in. "But you already do, and we both know it. Just let yourself be open, that's all I ask. Be with me."

She shivers, curling into him, wanting it, wanting it. She's so tired of being afraid.

"Don't be afraid," a whisper that makes her skin prickle, lips moving against her. "Let me in."

She lets herself look, really look at the tummult within. You're already here, she thinks but can't say, you're already here inside me. Then she's kissing him, over and over, the sandy remains of her walls shifting away.

"I'll try," she says, because she will, because she needs him so. "Red, I'll try."