A/N: Written in response to an anon Tumblr request for something based on "…that moment in the Floriana Campo ep where Red is sitting at the table in the hotel room and Liz walks up to him and they stare at each other in exasperation and smug defiance and that tension that has been there between them since DAY ONE?" Here's what I came up with…

He looked up at her, everything about him smiling except his mouth, parted slightly in exertion. She rose over him, certain of nothing at all. Nothing but the simple fact that if she didn't have him inside her right now, the heat that shimmered between them would consume them both. They were creatures of want and need, lost in each other.

He said her name in a broken voice, then shouted as her hand wrapped around his hot length. His hands were bruisingly tight on her hips as she slid over him; her cry of completion almost a scream…

It was loud enough, in fact, to startle her awake, sweat soaked and gasping, halfway to orgasm with her own hand tangled in her shorts. In despair and shame, she kept her eyes screwed shut as she finished — she couldn't possible get through the day with such a painful, yearning ache haunting her.

But that didn't mean she could face it honestly, either.

She scrubbed herself nearly raw in the shower, water as hot as she could stand. Unfortunately, she couldn't scrub her mind clean too. The dreams had come every night since she'd first met Reddington, beaming at her like she was the answer to every question he'd ever ask; like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Since his hand on her back had sent an entirely inappropriate thrill through her; since watching him cuffed and subdued had made her flush with what could only be sheer lust.

Every. Night.

And so, shame was also her constant companion — dreaming of another man, especially that man, while her own beloved husband lay comatose in the hospital, barely breathing. Then, she'd remember the box in her dining room, and that her husband wasn't her husband at all, but a complete stranger. Or was he? Was he both her husband and a stranger?

How could her life have become such a complete and utter shambles in such a short time?

Then her phone rang, and she was moving again, distracted (thank god) by a new case. And, of course, not distracted at all, because here he was again. Smiling at her. Telling stories and swanning around with absolutely no concept of personal space. And somehow, in front of everyone, inviting her…to dinner?

She felt oddly as if she had entered another dimension; as if the world around her wasn't quite real. She maintained her grip only by keeping herself strictly brusque and business-like, as abrasive as possible without alienating him.

If anyone asks, you're my girlfriend from Ann Arbor, he'd said cheerfully, as if that was a completely rational thing to say. She took quick refuge in denial, only to have him call her daughter.

Which was so, so very much worse.

She couldn't do this; she had to do it. He chatted at her amiably, smiling just like he had in her dream — with his entire body, while his mouth stayed serious. He looked at her like a starving man; like she was the first human contact he'd had in decades.

He looked at her like he loved her.

He asked her to profile him, to give him insight into her mind. Afraid, terribly afraid of giving something away, she did. She was unable to resist taunting him with his own clear need for her, whatever it might mean. He merely smiled at her, sleek and even, and ordered a bottle of wine.

The dream she had that night was so intense that she woke still tired, panting and satisfied and astonished.

And so, so ashamed of herself.

She found it difficult to meet his eye, the next day, but forced herself to — show no weakness. And somehow, they were together again, and oh my, didn't he fill out a tux? She hated herself even as she snuck glances at him. She felt beautiful and sophisticated being swept into a gala on his arm.

Then, at the last, furious at being fooled yet again, facing him down in a dim hotel room, she suddenly thought perhaps, just perhaps, she wasn't the only one. Because when their eyes met, hers were angry and okay, maybe a little frightened. But his burned, flashing green, as if he would swallow her whole. Her entire body burst to life, yearning, as he looked up at her, just as he had in the heat of a dream.

A single moment; a hundred years.

She looked down at him, the light making shadows play over her face; god, she was beautiful, and this wasn't what he'd expected. It hit him anew each time he saw her. He'd seen plenty of pictures of her, over the years; had seen her in life at her at her graduation, her farcical wedding. And certainly it had occurred to him that she had grown up into a lovely woman, but…

But.

But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of her. From the first moment he saw her again, striding toward him across the barren concrete floor, clad in her battle armor of stark business suit and heels, he was lost.

At the same time, he admired her strength, bravery, curiosity, her quick and nimble mind. He was thrilled to watch her work with such a fierce determination to prove herself. Even as she fought against him — stubborn, so stubborn — she was beautiful. He was terribly afraid that he had made a mistake starting them on this course; he couldn't stop thinking about her.

He dreamt of her. Nebulous, sweaty dreams, full of tangled limbs and moans of pleasure. Dreams in which he made all his most illicit thoughts reality.

After Montreal, the dream was torturous. After Montreal, he knew too well what her legs looked like, long and creamy and muscled. Could trace the curves of her in his mind in meticulous detail — the simple little black dress she'd worn, with its slim lines and square neckline, had concealed everything and nothing all at once.

He accepted the haunting as a natural outlet of a lonely life, and tried not to let his attraction show.

And now, she stood before him, fury making her eyes bright, the tension of her body only making it more enticing. Every line of her stood out clean and clear, all of her nearly pulsing with agitation. Breathing fast from her rush back to the room, flushed pink and pretty. How far did that attractive blush spread? He couldn't help the lust that flashed over his face; he honestly could not control his expression.

He was quite certain she'd seen it. He took a split second to wonder, what if. If they had met each other in another life, if she'd…

Ridiculous.

He hated what he had to do, but he did it anyway. Hated the desolation that swept over her, as he once again, with delicate surgical precision, stripped away another of life's illusions.

A necessary lesson, but a cruel one.

He was surprised when she wanted to meet on the pier. He supposed she had been ordered to debrief him. But when he sat, facing away from her on the opposite side of the bench, she said nothing. She was watching the water, her hair tangled and coming down, still wearing her sparkly dress just as he still wore his tuxedo.

When he glanced over, she looked…defeated. Drained. Exhausted. He ached for her.

"You look tired," he said, his voice harsh in the still air. "Go home, get some sleep." He hesitated, thinking he should leave it at that; should get up and leave before she could bring herself to speak.

"Unless you're avoiding your home," he heard himself say instead.

She turned then, and caught him looking at her with that soft expression that gave away too much.

"Of course I'm avoiding my home," she said, voice caught between tears, anger, bitterness. "It doesn't even feel like home anymore. Every time I walk in the door, all I can see is blood, blood everywhere, Tom's blood.

And then I remember that my entire life is a lie."

"Oh, Lizzy."

"Don't," she snapped, outraged, leaping to her feet. "Don't talk to me as if you care about me. If you cared about me, you'd have stayed away. You'd have left me in peace; I was happy, we were happy, why? And now I can't even sleep without you following me, haunting me, making me–"

She cut herself off abruptly, her hand coming to her mouth as if to stop the words that were tumbling out. He would have paid a great deal of his ill-gotten gains to know what she'd been about to say.

Even furious, he thought, she was beautiful. "I wish things were different," he said softly, meaning it with his whole being. "But I can…I can at least offer you a safe place to sleep, Elizabeth." He stood too, and offered her his arm as he had earlier that evening, hoping she would take it, as she had then. "Come with me, and rest a while."

And to his surprise, she did.

She couldn't imagine what had come over her. So tired and alone, so sad and angry that she'd nearly revealed the worst of herself. And then he'd offered her solace, and she had just…taken it. Taken his arm and let him tuck her into the back of a shiny black Mercedes, his man Dembe at the wheel and Luli beside him in the passenger seat. They sat in silence — strangely, not an uncomfortable one — while they whisked through the city in the early morning light.

He helped her out of the car on a shady, tree-lined street in front of a discreet hotel awning that spoke of money. Stuck his head back in the window to quietly confer with his people — Raymond, are you sure you… A protest from the woman, quickly silenced. He turned back to Liz with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Shall we?"

She felt almost like she was in one of her own dreams. Surely nothing that happened in this hazy light, this insubstantial state, could be real. She ignored his cocked elbow this time, and took his hand instead, interlacing her fingers with his. She felt the start of surprise that jolted through him, then he squeezed her hand lightly and led her inside.

All the way up — of course, he had the penthouse, and had to swipe his keycard to even push the button — she remained silent. Afraid that if she spoke, she would shatter the misty bubble that surrounded them; afraid that reality would intrude. If she didn't speak, she could stay in this dreamlike otherwhere, and find something to hold on to. To her surprise, he stayed equally silent, leaning comfortably against the back wall with her hand still in his.

The elevator deposited them directly into the sumptuous suite, which appeared at a glance to be significantly larger and lusher than her house. Her heels made little divots in the plush carpet as he led her to one of the bedrooms. When they entered, she knew immediately it was his — it smelled like him, and it shocked her that she recognized it so easily.

"This room is the nicest," he said, stopping by the end of the bed and offering her a wink.

"You don't have to–"

"Don't worry — there isn't an uncomfortable surface in this entire place." He hesitated briefly. "I can get some things of Luli's for you to wear."

Everything in her recoiled at the thought, the image of the lavish kiss he'd shared with Luli — was it only a day ago? — tugging nastily at her mind.

"No," she said quickly, words tumbling. "No, it's okay, I…I'll just…"

The sympathetic understanding on his face almost broke her.

"There are clean undershirts in the top drawer of the dresser," he said quietly. "If you'd prefer."

She nodded, and he reached out and gently tucked a stray tangle of hair behind her ear. She shivered involuntarily at his touch, and he took his hand back — not exactly a snatch, but a quick retreat. She wanted to grasp his hand, to correct the misconception; she didn't know how.

"Sleep well, then," he said, and headed for the door.

All she could think was that she didn't want him to leave.

She wanted to dream.

"Could–could you unzip me?" Her voice wavered a little, but she gathered herself to meet his surprised eyes with a direct look.

He walked back to her in slow, measured steps. His face was carefully passive, but his eyes were burning again. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. The graze of his fingers against her neck, as he swept her hair over her shoulder, sent another shiver through her. She wasn't sure if she could keep breathing.

He tried not to touch her as he lowered the zipper, slowly and carefully. But oh, as more and more of her was revealed in the deep vee made by the fabric, it became too much of a struggle. The contrast of the inky black fabric against ivory skin was too enticing; he had to, had to touch, just once, and see if it was as velvet as it appeared.

He found himself holding his breath as he let his free hand follow the path the zipper had taken, stopping to rest lightly in the warm, soft hollow of her lower back. What a terrible mistake, was all he could think, because she was, of course, as silky and tempting as he'd thought she might be, and now what was he to do?

His hand on her skin was a revelation, it made her want, just that slight tracing down her spine had her eager for more — anything more. When he stilled his palm just above the folds of fabric, her heart skipped. Entirely outside of her own control, a small sound escaped her — a whimpering sound of need.

"Lizzy," he said, and his voice was hoarse and trembling.

"I–I…" Good god, had she lost the power of speech entirely? Was it so difficult to be honest? She didn't even know what to call him. "I dream of you," she blurted, glad he couldn't see her face. "Every night, you're there, in my dreams."

His mind, which had been scrambling for a reason to keep his hands on her, for even just a moment more, stopped working entirely. Did he dare imagine her dreams akin to his? That she woke, sweaty and unfulfilled, dizzy with a desire so unsuitable she couldn't even think about it in the light of day and stay sane?

"I can hardly look at you, some days," she said, her voice small. "Remembering the things you did inside my head."

He drew a deep, shuddering breath — wasn't that just fascinating? His mind howled at him to remember his plans, to be rational, to think of her safety. But his body burned and shook with reckless need.

Abandoning all pretence of sensibility, he let his hand slide around the slim curve of her waist, under her dress, to rest on her ribcage. Her heart thumped against his thumb like a frightened rabbit; he pulled her close and reveled in her heat.

His hand on her skin was warm and enticing; when he pulled her back, she could feel him already hardening against her.

Her mind scrambled — she had to stop this, stop it now. But then, his mouth was on her neck, tasting her ever so gently, and she gave herself up to madness, arching into his touch. Her clear response made his grip tighten, his teeth grazing her throat.

She curved herself back into him; one of her hands came up to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. He growled a little into the column of her throat, and she shuddered in his hands. He suddenly needed to see her, to know that she was with him in this — he lifted his head so he could spin her to face him.

When he freed his mouth, a flutter of panic went through her, but he turned her around, the look of raw hunger on his face reassured her; emboldened her. She took a step back and, keeping her eyes locked on his, pulled the dress from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

He had turned her only to ensure her consent, her involvement — and had been instantly relieved by the need in her darkened eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the part in her trembling lips. Then, in a few smooth movements, she stripped off her dress and stood watching him, red lace bright against rich cream.

He thought the bolt of lust would fell him where he stood.

A breath in, and he was still standing; a breath out, and he reached for her. A mere second passed, and she was kissing him, or he was kissing her, or… It was a madness of lips and tongues and teeth, hands grasping and roaming and taking. She yanked impatiently at his shirt, eager for skin — when she met only another layer, she ripped herself free, panting for breath.

He stared at her, eyes turbulent as a stormy sea, his chest heaving as hard as her own. His loose shirtfront and the distortion in his finely tailored slacks were the only other signs of distress — even his bow tie was still straight. It maddened her, made her want to mess him up.

But before she could move, his hands were at her breasts, tugging the filmy lace down to free her to his gaze. A sharp intake of breath, a lick of the lips; then he was feasting, mouth and hands, rough and urgent, and every touch made her hotter and wetter.

She was a vision, and he was lost; frantic with need, wild with desire. Framed by red, her breasts presented an irresistible temptation that he didn't even try to resist. Instead, he gorged himself with a complete lack of grace. She tasted as bright and clean as summertime, her skin impossibly soft; she moaned above him as he sucked her nipple to a taut peak, moulding the other with deft fingers.

Frustrated, she wormed her hands between them and ripped at his shirt; she heard the fabric tear in a long shrusssh of sound that just made everything better. She pushed up his undershirt, and finally found skin.

Her hands on him threatened to drive him mad. Hot fingers dragging through the curling hair on his chest, making patterns on his side; nails scraping at his back when he used his teeth on her. He couldn't seem to pace himself, to entice, to seduce — he was desperate with a bone-deep yearning that hurt. Her mouth found his neck with fierce suction, and an arc of fire went straight to his cock.

He picked her up and swung around to drop her on the bed; stretched over her to take her mouth once more. She seemed as frantic as he; she kicked off her heels and wrapped her long legs around his hips so she could rub against him shamelessly. He managed to get a hand between them and ripped away the barrier of lace with an impatient twist of his fingers.

He slid his hand further down; she cried out as he found the swollen nub of her clit, wet and waiting. He wanted to learn each and every inch of her; not now, not now, he cannot wait. He pushed up, drawing in a deep breath of air while he yanked impatiently at his zipper and pulled himself free. Had just enough control left to rasp at her breathlessly.

"Lizzy, are you…should I–"

When his fingers left her she wanted to scream, but his body was still hot and heavy over hers, and the line of his throat was so tense she could see his heartbeat. The sound of his zipper brought another well of moisture and then he was gasping out words and it took her moment to make sense of them.

"It's okay," she panted back, her own voice hoarse and strange in her ears. "It's okay, I'm safe–" She gave up any last vestige of pride or self respect. "Please, Red, please, come inside me."

With a groan from his very depths, he dropped back into her and covered her mouth with his, demanding. Even as relief flooded her, he was inside her in one long push that made her body bow under his. He clasped her hands in his and slammed them down beside her head; then just let himself go, utterly and completely.

He moved fast and hard, driven by something furious; it was thrilling. She took everything he gave and gave it right back, night after fruitless night fuelling her. He was thick and so hard inside her that it bordered on painful; she loved it. She was right at the edge of the bed, only his body keeping her there; the precarious angle meant that with every thrust, he rubbed over her clit. With her hands trapped, she arched into him to get closer, tightening her legs around his ass, delighting in the feel of his muscles flexing, flexing against her calves.

His senses were saturated with Elizabeth, and his mind had enough strength left to take note of things he would want to remember.

The scent of her, sharp and clean as warm citrus.

The hoarse rasps of her voice, spurring him, faster, harder, more.

Her hand tangled in his, holding on so tight her knuckles shone white.

The taste of her, sweet and fresh, a tang of mint.

The way she felt — skin like velvet to touch, cunt like a hot silken vise.

The sound she made with his every thrust, somewhere between and cry and a moan and a word.

He thought if only he knew what that word was, he would unlock the mystery of her.

He was a talker.

She knew enough about him to know that words were a tool he was expert with — wielding them with a confident aplomb. Charismatic, confident, clever. But she could never have imagined this, this litany of deliciously filthy comments and suggestions. Things he liked, things he wanted, everything he would do to and with her given the time.

It made her crazy, tied her in knots; she's never, honestly never, been so aroused. The pressure builds in an agony of pleasure.

Wound as tightly as she was, it didn't take long for her to splinter apart, her release nearly a sob of relief. The feel of her pulsing around him, inner muscles working his cock, pushed him over the brink.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck and moved, shaking the bed with the force of it, making her shake along with it. With a shuddering groan, he came, hard and hot and his vision went black as he emptied himself.

He couldn't remember ever feeling so gloriously good in his entire life.

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She couldn't move — her limbs heavy and mind empty. She felt utterly replete, the weight on her a warm comfort. There was some sort of reason she shouldn't feel so good, but she couldn't seem to bring it to mind. She was on the edge of contented sleep when the weight atop her shifted slightly.

Then, a smart on her ribcage where a remaining button had been pressed, leaving its imprint in her skin.

Then, a gentle mouth on the soft hollow behind her ear, tenderness.

Her name, but not hers, whispered low and deep, Lizzy.

Oh. There it was, the reason she shouldn't feel good, not at all. Oh no.

Oh god, oh god what have they– What has she done?

"L-let me up," she managed. "Please."

There was a pause, his breath tickling her neck. "Lizzy," he started, his tone very difficult to read.

"Please," she repeated, suddenly close to tears. "Just let me up."

He rolled to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. She lay still for a moment longer, trying vainly to collect herself, then pushed herself off the bed and fled into the bathroom without looking at him.

She thought she heard him sigh as she passed by, but couldn't be sure. Locked away in a ridiculous luxurious washroom, she leaned on the counter in front of the sink and took a few deep breaths. Then, steeling herself, she looked up at the mirror.

The first, instant thought was how well-pleasured she looked. The second was horror — at herself, at what she has done, at the entire situation. Her hair was an impossible, tangled mess; her face flushed, her eyes dark; what she could see of her body was rosy and spotted with love bites. Her bra was still twisted around her breasts and she fumbled with the clasp, suddenly desperate to be rid of it.

She found a comb in the sleek display of hotel toiletries and took it into the shower stall along with her handful of bottles. She let the water cook her clean as she soaked her knotted hair with conditioner and then started pulling the comb through, trying to somehow be gentle and fast both.

She let the tears come while she tugged and fiddled, and pretended it was the smaller pain.

He heard the water start shortly after the door slammed; only then did he stand up and stretch reluctantly, visions of a long, lazy day in bed shattered into pieces. He supposed he should have known she would immediately start second-guessing herself, let fear guide her.

It was still a little disappointing.

He looked at himself in the mirror over the low dresser and laughed aloud. What a ridiculous figure he cut, still more than half-dressed — pants still on but undone, cock curled loose and sticky against his flies; his finely tailored shirt ripped open at the bottom, buttons missing and placket torn; undershirt rucked up over his belly, a few long red scratches curving around out of sight; collar and bow tie, however, were incongruously only a little crooked.

He scrubbed his hands over his face; rubbed them roughly over his scalp. In a series of deft, efficient movements, he stripped himself bare, tossing the ruined shirt into the wastebasket in the corner and folding the rest of the tuxedo into a dry cleaning bag.

He pulled clean clothes out of the drawers and nipped into the room Dembe was using to have a quick clean up. Despite Elizabeth's earlier reluctance, he strolled over to Luli's room for a pair of soft yoga pants and a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt; found a pair of subtle-enough grey flip flops provided by the hotel.

When he went back to his own room the shower was off, so he took a chance and knocked lightly on the door.

No response.

He sighed again. "I have fresh clothes for you, Elizabeth — I assumed that you'd rather not make your way home in your evening dress."

Still silence, then the click of the door lock, and the door opened a crack. Steam billowed out below her outstretched hand. He gave her the small pile of garments and the door slammed again.

He still felt extravagantly good, and sat in the easy chair by the window to wait for her, legs stretched out before him.

She thanked her stars for Reddington's self-indulgence in choice of accommodation as she tied her wet hair back quickly with a tie she'd found, made further use of the luxury toiletries, as she slipped her feet into the provided sandals. She wouldn't normally go out without a bra, but the thought of putting the damp red lace back on made her shudder.

She took a final breath, straightened her spine, and stepped back into the bedroom. He was waiting for her, in a clean undershirt and grey cotton pants that he must sleep in. He looked so relaxed and at ease that she wanted to slap him.

"This never happened," she said, her voice harsh in the large, quiet room. "I'm going to leave here now, and it never happened."

"But it did happen, Lizzy," he pointed out, cool and matter-of-fact. "I believe you enjoyed yourself."

She felt herself blush furiously. "That's not– This isn't– That is not the point. If anyone found out–"

"So, you did have an acceptable time, then?"

His voice was still infuriatingly calm, but his eyes were shadowed. She dug her toe into the carpet, torn and miserable.

"Of course I did," she muttered finally. He smiled at her, like a beam of sunlight. "But that hardly matters," she went on, digging for anger, anger that would keep her safe. "It was a terrible mistake and we both have to forget it. You're an FBI asset, for god's sake, and I'm your…I don't even know what I am. Except married." And now the nausea is back.

"Not really," he replied mildly.

"What?" she snapped, almost at the end of her tether.

"If someone got married under a false identity, that marriage wouldn't have standing in the eyes of the law."

Tears hover again, and she knows she's done. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she cried. "My whole life is in pieces and I've only made it worse. Promise me, Reddington, promise me, this goes nowhere outside this room. Please."

She sounded so terribly sad and distraught, the plea so different from her earlier one that he gave in — for now. "If that's really what you want, Elizabeth."

"I–Thank you," she said, her voice small and choked.

And then she was gone, in an herbal-scented whirl, snatching her little evening bag up from the floor and tumbling out of the room in a noisy dash. He looked around the room at the few bits and pieces of her clothing, and thought he could bide his time for a little while. He thought she would come to him again, and then they'd see.

Because he wasn't done with her, with this; not with any of it.

Not even close.

A/N: The title is part of a line from the poem Quiet Waiter–Blue Forever by Lana Del Ray. There's a tiny bit of dialogue borrowed from the show, which of course, belongs to the writers of The Blacklist.