June 23, 2012.

Why did it sound familiar? Her mind raced as she slipped out of the lock up and made her way to the office. Angel Station. She wrote down both before they disappeared from her mind, troubled, when Ressler appeared, chatting, challenging, ruining her train of thought.

So, they were still watching her, still didn't trust her. Could she blame them, when it was true enough that she was keeping secrets? From them. From her not/husband. From Reddington; maybe most of all, from Reddington.

Then, it was off to answer to the man himself. Yet another dictator in her life. How long could she spend at the beck and call of…basically everyone? It was hard; it hurt. To keep running and chasing and searching, while everyone around her just sat and watched with suspicious eyes.

Whatever her doubts about Tom, at least he still looked at her like he loved her.

Her stomach tightened as she approached Reddington on his bench; couldn't help remembering his soft words. You can hold onto me, Elizabeth. She kept her head down; didn't look at him.

And he was…simply himself. His voice warm and gentle as he congratulated her on her work; then both cheery and brusque in that complicated way he had of imparting bad news. This time, news of Lorca, finagling behind the scenes; news she most assuredly did not want.

She didn't believe it, refused to believe it. Until she had to. Until once again, she was left behind with the dead, and no answers.

Always left alone.

Infuriated, frustrated, she dialed Red. And got Dembe.

"Put him on."

"Mr Reddington is not avai–"

"Now."

A murmur of voices in the background, Red's rich laugh.

"Sweetheart, it's not really the most convenient time for me."

She knew it was just for cover, she knew it was meaningless, and still her treacherous heart gave an eager, thrilled little thump at the endearment. Still wished, for a flicker of a moment, that it was real.

It was easy to channel her anger at herself into her anger at him.

"I don't give a rat's ass," she snapped. "Where are you?"

Anger would keep her going through the futility and frustration. And she had plenty to go around — anger at the case going sideways, at yet another senseless death; anger at Red's flippancy and disregard, anger at his absence. How could she hold onto him if he wasn't there?

With nothing else to do, she took his advice and went home, a quiet place to rest after a filthy day. She looked at her laptop, at her notes. Maybe if she…

Then Tom was there, smiling, charming, loving. She scribbled carefully over her notes, hiding, while he talked, soothing her as he did so well. It didn't work quite as well as it used to, though.

"…I can always tell when you're lying."

Oh, can you now.

But then. Sweet relief, so much relief. June 23, 2012, they'd been together. Together. Impossible for him to have been doing something awful and criminal and unknown. She rested her head against his, practically limp with the sudden loss of stress. He kissed her, and she loved him then.

Even if he didn't really know all her tells. Even if there were still so many unanswered questions. For herself, for a moment of peace, she let herself forget the money, the passports, the fear.

And took refuge in love.

But love couldn't keep her safe when the world erupted into fire and pain.

He couldn't quite figure out why he found her anger so engaging. Why the snap and lash of her temper was a stimulating enticement rather than a repulsion. Why the sharp angles of her voice made it so much easier to picture her, flushed and yearning against him.

Perhaps it was simply that any strong emotion was better than none. After all, anger was passion in its own right.

She lingered in his thoughts, an ephemeral haunting to accompany him through his day.

And it wasn't just Elizabeth herself — there was something about her case that nagged at him as he smiled and charmed, as he completed his business. He regretted having to brush her aside, as necessary as it had been; thought now, as he sat on his jet, that it may have been a bit hasty to do so.

He called her, still thinking, quick and calculating.

"What do you want?"

He couldn't help but grin at the whip of her voice, but kept his own smooth and even, gathering the facts that confirmed his thoughts.

"You see, Lizzy, now I'm interested. The Stewmaker is in town."

Things took on momentum after that — the breakdown of the case, the necessary information imparted. His eager hounds let loose on the trail, seeking their quarry.

He could never have imagined how sorry he would be to have set her on this particular path, and how quickly. How desperate he could become, in the blink of an eye, in the flash and burn of an explosion.

Lizzy.

His fear, his fury, were cold and fierce, a wave of frost that propelled him forward. He already had the meeting; he would get the information he needed out of that distasteful ruffian one way or another. He met Ressler's accusations with a brisk and icy disdain.

"Your witness is dead, you lost Lorca, and he took Agent Keen. I'd say my meeting with Lorca might be the equivalent of you falling on your ass and landing in a pile of Christmas."

He chafed at the ensuing back-and-forth; wished fervently that he could have just walked away, and taken care of things in his customary fashion. Couldn't help but slice out in his anger, at them, at himself.

"You lost her. I can find her. It's that simple."

Instead, he found himself encumbered with Ressler. More unnecessary complications, more obfuscating, more work. Although, he had to admit, it went better than he'd imagined it would. And it was always entertaining to watch Donald sweat.

When Lorca spoke of Elizabeth with venom and hate, he wanted to snap the man's neck. Could easily have killed him then and there. Years of practiced control stood him in good stead, however, and he kept the game going. Kept all the balls in the air with a spin spin spin.

Kept himself talking, in charge, slick and easy, ever the Concierge. And got what he wanted, like he always did. The only rule that mattered in any negotiation — always be ready to walk away.

The opposition would fold, every time.

He left the company of the FBI as soon as possible, knowing he'd do better now on his own. With Dembe to keep him centred, and Luli to keep him check. While she could, at least.

He would take care of Lorca in due time. Elizabeth was the priority now.

And, of course, getting to her, to Stanley Kornish, before Ressler and his team.

It was key that he get there first.

She woke to such darkness that at first she was afraid her sight was gone, destroyed somehow by the blast, by the blow that had knocked her senseless. It took only seconds to realize that she was merely blindfolded, but those seconds felt like a lifetime.

Her head thumped painfully, her bones ached from slamming into the ground. A few more seconds to gather herself, and she knew she was in a car. Which meant travel, who knew how far or how long. How distant safety might be, or how impossible rescue.

The light, when it came, was a shock rather than a relief. Her muscles cramped from her stint in the trunk, she stumbled on rough ground. When she could focus again, the utter banality of her captor somehow made him that much more frightening.

She did her job though, face to face with danger; remembered what to do, followed her training as best she could.

Talk to him. Make him see you as a person, try to identify with him. Make it as hard as possible for him to hurt you.

"I was asked to make you suffer," he said, frighteningly calm. She was suddenly glad that she could no longer see his expression. "I'm…I'm sorry. It's my job."

Her job was to think her way out of this horrific situation, but when the pain came, sudden, sharp, excruciating, she couldn't do anything but scream.

It didn't seem hard for him at all.

Her whole world was a bright shriek of agony, and her torturer remained as placid as a still pool. The nerve cluster in her shoulder. Another just below her elbow — the funny bone turned out to not be very funny, at all. The back of her jaw, in the soft hollow behind her ear. The meat of her inner thigh, with his hand on her leg making her afraid, so afraid.

But there was only pain.

It wasn't her team she thought of then, weak and gasping and hurting, drooping in her bonds. It wasn't Tom she longed for, whom she pictured walking through the door to stop her suffering. Not even faceless rescuers, friendly emergency responders who would somehow discover this cabin of horrors, deep in the woods.

It was Red she wanted, with every last piece of her soul that remained intact. Red that she yearned for, to come into this dank room and punish and destroy; to take her out of this nightmare.

It was Red who was her talisman against the dark that hovered, enticingly, just out of reach. Who kept her struggling, long after she thought she could, to free herself and fight. To run, and keep running, even when she could only stumble, even when every step was a fresh torture.

And in the end, as if she had conjured him with the depth of her need, it was Red who stood waiting, to stand as her shield against evil.

The weary resignation on her tearstained face was somehow worse than the blood, the bruises, the shaking limbs. She had accepted the inevitability of her death, and it was that he would never forgive.

He took the time to resettle her, to try and make her more comfortable. To turn her away, so she would be protected from the sights to come. To reassure her that she was safe. To give her a touch that was gentle.

And then he told the story that he knew, watching the face of depravity. It didn't look so very different than his own, really. He comforted himself with the thought that he had never purposely harmed the innocent.

Until now, he supposed, seeing again her limp form and empty eyes. He had, if not directly, harmed the one he treasured most, simply by being a part of her life. By bringing her into his dark and terrible world.

And yet somehow, even with her body still seized in the agony this man had caused, she had it in her to plead for him.

Any such mercy within himself had been burned away long ago. It was simple to end this particular life — every single person on this earth would be better off. Despite her horrified gasp of sobbing breath, he thought that she knew it, too.

It was easy to distract the hounds, to take what he needed without being noticed. The long neat lines of small jars told a story beyond the one he had told, one of suffering and misery, wreckage and slaughter. It was…reassuring, to know he had done the right thing.

More difficult was listening to her break, at last, giving in only now that she was safe. To watch her weep out her fear and pain, in the arms of another. To know that a small part of her was gone forever, and that he was the one responsible.

Knowing that, ultimately, that loss would make her stronger was of little comfort.

He missed her anger now, as he looked into her tragic eyes, gone grey with exhaustion and torment. He gave her the record book, though he wished he didn't have to. Tried to rouse her spirit with sharp and prodding words.

"You're a monster," was her sole response, and her voice was calm and still and cut like a knife.

"Yes," he agreed, without hesitation, though he bled and hurt, because it was true.

Because it was worth it, to keep her safe. Because if he played the monster, she could stay clean. He could live with the beast inside, wear its mantle without complaint, as long as it kept her alive.

Red had made his peace with his monster long ago.

Every part of her body ached, even after a warm bath. She wished she could forget, forget everything that had happened over the past two days. She wished she could focus on a vacation with her husband, and look forward to having a break. To curl up in his arms and sleep, free and simple.

But that had already been ruined with the flash of a name. Angel Station.

Was she never to have peace? Was she always to be locked in this teetering place of uncertainty? And with the resurgence of doubt to keep her from settling, she was stuck.

Stuck in that dim little room with its chemical stench and damp chill. Stuck with the lingering horror, the pain, the misery.

With the feeling of overwhelming relief that had swept her when she saw Reddington's face; when she felt his hands on her, soothing, caring.

She desperately needed to talk about what had happened, and couldn't. She couldn't talk to Tom, who knew nothing about any of it. Couldn't talk to anyone on the team; didn't know any of them well enough to trust with her tangled feelings, her agony.

She needed Reddington.

She was texting before she could think too hard about it. Where are you tonight? she asked Dembe, thudding down the stairs as she typed. An address back, relatively quickly; We'll be there in 20 minutes or so.

"Liz? Is everything okay?" Tom looked at her curiously from the couch. "I thought you were going to bed after your bath."

Please, she typed, ask him to wait for me.

"I have to go back to work for a bit," she said, making sure to roll her eyes. "Loose ends to tie up."

"It's nine-thirty, babe," he answered, annoyed. "What on earth is there that can't wait until tomorrow?"

She shrugged and offered a rueful smile. "My new boss is a real stickler, and I can't afford to tick him off. I'll be home late — don't wait up, okay? You need your rest."

He sighed. "So do you, you know," he said gently. "I don't know what happened today, but…you aren't yourself."

Maybe she was an open book. "I'll be fine," she said, trying on a smile. "Just a little tired."

He smiled back, and reached out. She took his hand and squeezed; let him tug her close and kiss her. "Be safe," he said. "I love you."

"You too," she said; it was all she could manage.

And then she fled the place that should have been home, that should have been sanctuary. And headed toward the closest thing to safety she had left.

He didn't look surprised to see her, when Dembe let her in without a word. But then, he never did. She would never understand how he seemed to know her so well, when she knew next to nothing about him.

Except what she learned in dreams.

His expression, in fact, was impassive, his eyes still and unreadable. But when her leg shook as she tried to take the seat he offered, his arm came around her, warm and strong; took her weight and lowered her gently.

Another caress, fleeting, over her hair, and she closed her eyes to absorb the simple pleasure of it. It brought relief, just as it had earlier, the knowledge that he cared for her, that she was safe. She fought to keep from collapsing in a trembling heap at his feet, and not just to prevent the pain it would cause.

"What brings you here so late, Agent Keen?" His voice was as dispassionate as his face, cool and distant.

"I…" She wasn't sure what to say, how to explain why she had needed him.

Why she had hurt him.

"You must be tired," he said.

"Yes," she agreed. "I…" What was she to say?

His eyes gentled a little, a slight relief. "Why aren't you at home in your bed, where you belong?"

"Because I don't belong there." A truth that cut on its way out. "Because I have nowhere to belong, anymore."

He sighed heavily, as if letting go of something, then moved to sit beside her on the soft couch. "You always have a place with me," he said quietly. "If you want it."

"I shouldn't have said it." Her words were louder than she'd meant them to be, and hung in the air between them. "I shouldn't have…I just wanted it to be true. Because…because when I heard that splash, when I knew he would die, it wasn't horror I felt."

She looked at him, pleading for understanding. "It was relief; it was joy. I was glad he was dead, that he felt something of the pain and suffering he'd caused, that he was gone from the world. If I was sorry for anything, it was that I hadn't been the one to kill him." Tears ran down her face, unheeded, unnoticed. "A-And that thought, that feeling, that was the monstrous thing. I didn't want to claim it for my own; I wanted you to carry it for me."

He closed his eyes briefly; bit the inside of his cheek, pained. He'd never intended this torment for her. "I don't mind sharing your burdens, sweetheart," he said quietly. The endearment slipped out easily, too easily.

He should have stuck with "Agent Keen."

"Oh, Red."

Her lip quivered, and he wanted nothing more than to take the stricken look from her face. He reached for her, and gathered her gently to him; held her as she wept. He ran his fingers through her hair — or tried to.

"Lizzy, there's still dirt in your hair. And…" A small smart in the tip of a finger. "Pine needles?"

"I fell," she mumbled, her voice muffled against his chest. "And I hid behind a tree when I ran from him."

"But didn't you…"

"I had a bath," she said, pulling away a little and rubbing at her eyes. "But I…I couldn't…" Tears ran faster again, as if she couldn't help it. "Even with the painkillers the EMTs gave me, I couldn't lift my left arm. My–my shoulder just…"

His eyes were kind again, looking into hers as he smiled with a tilt of his head. "I'm sorry, Lizzy, so sorry," he said, wiping her cheek with his broad thumb. "Let me help you, care for you."

She gave a shuddering sigh and sniffed a little. "Please," she said, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, wrapping a hand around his tie and tugging gently.

He kissed the top of her head, solid and real, then tightened his arms around her and stood. As if she weighed nothing. As if it was the easiest thing in the world.

She felt dangerously home, finally, in his arms.

Despite the risk of it, she let the feeling overtake her and breathed at last, as the pain lessened. It didn't really make sense; it didn't matter. The relief of it felt too good to worry about; his hands on her, his scent in her lungs, were the remedy she had needed.

She didn't bother lifting her head from his sturdy shoulder until he was setting her on her feet, careful, delicate. Her eyes were still damp and blurry, but they were clearly in a bathroom, sumptuous as always. She just stood where he'd put her, as if in a trance, while he started the water in a shower wide and deep enough to be a room by itself.

She blinked, aware now of her bone-deep tiredness. When her vision cleared again, steam was already starting to cloud the air, and Red was standing in front of her, a hesitant look on his face.

"Is something wrong?" She felt so heavy.

"Would you like something more for your pain?"

She did still ache, with a deeper throbbing every place the Stewmaker had probed with his wicked needle. But…

"Better not," she answered. "I'm tired enough, and I'll have to drive again, eventually."

"All right," he said. "If you're sure." He hesitated again, then ran a gentle hand over her cheek.

Even more gently, he began to undress her, peeling off her layers with infinite care. He folded her things neatly onto the long counter, making her smile. When she was down to just her utilitarian black bra and panties, even her socks tucked neatly into her discarded boots, he curved his hands lightly around her upper arms and looked the question he needed answered.

"It's not as if I have a change with me," she said. "And it's nothing you haven't seen before."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything; responded instead by deftly and impersonally removing her underthings and helping her step into the shower. Rather than watch him undress — there was such a thing as too much, after all — she stepped under the spray and let the heat soak into her.

It wasn't long before his hands were on her again, cool in the hot water, tucking her hair over her shoulder so her back was bare. Soft, sweeping movements over her skin, soap that smelled of orange peel and herbs. It was easy to relax into his sure touch, to let him wipe away everything that clung, all the inky dark things that no one could see.

He ran his hands down her body, over her sleek curves, savouring without guilt. Although she stayed almost unnaturally still, he could feel her tension dissipating in his wake. He crouched to reach her calves, to lift her feet one by one, letting the water run over his face.

Finished, he wiped his forearm over his eyes as he stood again. Her head was bent forward under the steady spray. He reached to turn her; paused to press his lips to the nape of her neck, just a taste, though he couldn't help but linger a bit. She eased a little more under the intimate touch; sighed with a little hum of sound. When she turned in response to the gentle pressure of his hands, she was almost completely loose in relaxation.

She thought vaguely that it was odd to be so relaxed, and yet less tired than she had been. The light touch of his mouth had stirred the simmering inside her, a heat that stretched through her limbs. Turning to face him, she saw that he had made an attempt at modesty, at propriety, by leaving on his boxer briefs. She thought idly that the wet, clinging fabric was almost more enticing than nudity.

She would have touched him if she could have moved, the warm gold of his skin, spotted with water droplets, ridiculously appealing. But his hands had anchored her; she felt weighted down, rooted in place under the pattering water. She let out another long breath, a faint smile. And just let him care for her as he would.

He rearranged her hair again, now soaking wet and heavy, then bent back for more soap. He rubbed his hands over her shoulders with the utmost care; was pleased with himself when she didn't even wince. Slid over her collarbones, traced down the midline of her body. He watched her eyes flutter closed as he followed the swell of her breasts, cupping her gently in tender hands.

He tried not to take advantage, but he couldn't help but let his palms circle once, twice, indulging himself in the feel of her, enjoying the way her breath quickened. He moved fluidly over her ribcage, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips. Down her slim legs, feeling her muscles quiver under his touch.

Shifting his right hand to her left leg, he slid inward as he straightened again, watching her. He let his long fingers slip over her, the lightest of contact. She let out a sound that intensified the heat inside him, that made him cup his hand and stroke more firmly.

Red, a faint whisper of sound in the air. Her head was tipped back slightly to keep the water from her eyes; he bent his head and kissed her, a move of instinct, of need. A hot hand on his arm, the soft give of lips.

He withdrew almost immediately, and she felt the loss like another throb of pain. He smiled at her, the real smile that made his eyes bright and the corners of his mouth crinkle. He turned away again, coming back to her with another liquid handful.

Then his hands were in her hair, running through the thick strands, firm against her scalp. He used his fingers deftly, working loose all the knots and tangles, stroking in smooth movements. It was more than a cleansing; she felt almost remade by his hands, a little bit closer to the stronger, surer Elizabeth he wanted her to be.

Conditioner, then, and he ran his hands through her hair over and over, like he couldn't stop. Until the strands felt like silk against her back, and she was so relaxed she felt almost dizzy. She reached out and hooked her fingers over his waistband, just so she didn't fall over.

He tipped her head back to rinse the front of her hair, resulting in a long lovely line from the tip of her chin to the hollow of her throat that called out to him. He leaned in, stilling his hands to cradle the back of her head, then kissed his way gently down the enticing column bit by bit. He shifted his feet to try and ease the ache in his groin; licked up the drops of water beading on her jawline.

"Can you stand alone for a minute?" His voice was a low rumble in her ear.

She swallowed, then laughed a little. "I honestly don't know."

He laughed too, then eased back, holding onto her arms until she was steady on her feet. He slipped out of the shower and grabbed a towel from the generous stack; drying himself with efficient economy.

Snagging a fresh towel, he beckoned her out then, slipping an arm around her when she was close enough, to help her over the step. He wrapped her up, then leaned in to turn off the water; grabbed yet another towel that he rubbed gently over her hair, squeezing out the excess moisture and tucking the ends under. He paid much more attention to her body than he had to his own, the towel more like a caress than anything else. Yet she still hissed out a sharp breath when he reached the tender spot on her shoulder.

He frowned at her. "Still hurting, Lizzy? Let's see," and his voice dropped to a low, rich drawl, "if we can do something about the rest of that pain."

He tugged her gently into the bedroom; she stumbled foggily after him. He pulled the covers back with one hand, then helped her to lie down, right in the middle of the bed. He looked at her with gleaming, hooded eyes and a wide, wide smile. She blinked up at him, feeling the familiar quiver start deep within.

He sat beside her on the bed, tucked her hair back. "Just lie very still," voice so low it was barely audible, "and let me take care of you, sweetheart."

She started to say something, but stopped when he stretched out beside her and pulled away her towel. He leaned on one elbow, head propped on his hand so he could watch her face; drew the other hand down her body with the palm flat against her damp skin, leaving behind a trail of bright awareness. He teased briefly at her thatch of curls, then nudged her legs apart to slide his fingers along the soft warmth between them.

She hummed in pleasure, her eyes closing as he parted her folds to find her center. When he brushed her clit, deliberately light and fleeting, she came alive with sensation. It felt as if every stroke of his hands, washing her, had left a mark, an imprint on her skin that came bursting awake with this new touch. It felt as if he touched her, not just in the one, most delicate and sensitive place, but everywhere, all at once.

Her breath quickened, her body curved toward his, almost of its own volition.

"Ah ah," he murmured, shifting his hand to her leg; she whimpered at the loss of contact. "Stay still now, Lizzy."

"Red."

"Stay still," he repeated, and then stroked her again, slow and deliberate.

His attention was a new torture, every touch measured and even — it would have been peaceful if it wasn't so distractingly stimulating. It surprised her to realize how lying still, as he continued to explore with clever, meticulous fingers, made the sensations so much more intense.

He delighted in her — in the rosy colour that spread over her, in the small sounds she made to relieve her tension, in the slick heat that beckoned him ever closer. When he finally slid inside her, just one careful digit, the look that swept over her face made him lean in to press his lips to hers.

He wanted her with an ache in his bones and a fierce, hot yearning in his gut. But this, this was just for her, to ease her suffering, and the thought helped him temper himself. She met his kiss eagerly; he could feel her fingers twitching against his side as if she wanted desperately to touch him, but wanted equally to remain still and quiet.

"That's it," he whispered, making a path down her neck with soft, soft kisses. "Just absorb it, all the sensation; let it wash through you and take the pain away with it."

His hand was moving again, working gently in and out of her, a slow, easy rhythm that seemed like it could go on for hours. Maybe it already had. Heat pooled inside her, simmering quietly. She lost awareness of everything but that hand, his mouth on her skin, the cool whisper of his breath.

He let another finger join the first as he reached her breast and ran his tongue delicately around her taut nipple. A gentle suck, another, and her breath started to stutter. He thought he might never get enough of her, of this, sweet and lovely. He pressed in with his teeth, ever so slightly, simultaneously pressing his thumb against her clit and his fingers against the front of her.

She cried out, a deep, shivering call — one of the most alluring noises he'd ever heard — then she was pulsing around him, hot, wet, clutching.

"Breathe," he murmured, and she gasped hard, as if she really had forgotten.

He let his hand keep moving, soothing, as his mouth made its way back to hers. It was a pleasure and a comfort both, as she came out of ecstasy and back to herself. She was limp as a rag and utterly exhausted, but he'd been right.

The pain was gone.