A/N: Apologies for this being such a long time arriving — but it's here now! Many thanks to everyone who took the time to comment and check on me, and be generally lovely:) Further apologies for the weirdness, as I wrote this in chunks over the last however many months, and it's kind of mess. I hope it's even partially worth the wait…

Awakened with a start, heart pounding furiously, breath short and choking. She willed it to still, to calm; willed herself back to sleep with a crushing sense of despair. And it must have worked, because he woke her a second time, later, and the brief glimpse of his face on waking had her turning into the pillow. Just a moment, just to marshal her nerves and put a normal expression back on her face.

As he talked to her with a glowing light in his eyes, so happy, so enthusiastic, she wondered again how this could all be a lie. How this man, the man she loved, could live his entire life, plan a family, all as a deception. Could anyone really be so thoroughly convincing, so real, with no tells at all? For years. She remembered the darkness that had swept over his face in her dream, and shivered, inside.

As she sat in her office, sparring distractingly with Ressler, she couldn't quite shake the nightmare. These black thoughts had begun to taint her days relentlessly, until she could barely look at her own husband without shuddering. Without fear.

As she still told herself firmly, It's all nonsense, somehow, it's lies.

As she still wished fervently that she could believe it.

She was absurdly grateful for Reddington's call. The last thing she needed was more confusion, but…somehow, somewhen, he had come to represent safety. And the cluttered house, with stack after stack of books and papers and not-quite-hidden bottles of mystery hooch, was somehow so very like him that her chest finally, finally, eased.

"Would you like me to pour you a few fingers?" he asked, rich voice amused, that sensual twist in his lip.

"Why am I here?" she snapped, reprieve gone in a flash, far too quickly. Keep him on the case; don't think about his fingers, working magic on your skin.

With a smile that told her he knew exactly what she was doing, he broke it down for her, giving her the facts in his testing, searching way that made her think. She welcomed the call to action, the manic pressure of a case. The distraction, the intense focus it required allowed her to shuffle the entire mess to the back of her mind — the horror and the temptation both.

For now, anyway.

And running was better — running toward, running away, running, running, running. The movement was what mattered, mind and body both spinning furiously through the day. The pain of the small accident—throbbing in her head, sharp in her shoulder—was nothing compared to the driving need to escape her own thoughts.

The Courier, caught, was so calm as to be almost placid. She wondered if he cared about anything at all; wondered how he found that sweet and quiet place. It was as if he felt nothing, as if he didn't care.

She envied him, and was horrified by it.

When the time came to see Reddington again, she only wished for it to be finished.

Time weighed heavily on him, with nothing to do but wait. Wait and read, and briefly distract himself with Frederick's nonsense. He missed Frederick, he thought, laughing aloud at a letter even as Lizzy arrived again.

He'd know by the change in the scent of the air, even without the tell-tale sound of her boots.

She'd changed for her trip to the farmer's market, and looked younger, somehow, more vulnerable. She was angry again, and he thought it must be utterly exhausting to feel at such extremes, all the time.

Lulli swept through, bringing him tea, a kind gesture. Wearing nothing but her sleek black underthings and one of his shirts, which was not. She winked at him even as he watched Lizzy's face darken — jealousy? Perhaps. The thought made him smile again.

Despite her pique, it didn't take much effort to get her to release some of what had been bothering her; he thought she must have been suffering over it a great deal. And who wouldn't, imagining their husband a murderer? Everything about her changed as she gave her small confession — her expression softening from anger into worry, her voice turning light and questioning, like a child's.

Tell me I'm wrong, her unspoken words begged. Tell me it's a lie.

He wanted to hold her, to soothe her fears away and give her the peace she so clearly needed, but such a thing was impossible. Instead, he gave her what she'd asked for, and then thanked her.

That surprised her, her whole body stiffening with it as she turned back to look at him. He smiled, almost wistful.

"For being honest with me," he said, his voice as dark and deep as his thoughts. "In my life, I don't encounter that frequently."

She was smiling as she left, and he counted that a win. Of course, things never stayed simple.

"Her name is Laurence Dechambou," he said, admiring the photo on the screen. "Ex-French intelligence."

And the back-and-forth began all over again, frustratingly onerous. It would be so much easier if they would just do as he said the first time, instead of insisting on screwing it all up first. He didn't get what he wanted from them either — of course — but they'd come around after their way had failed as spectacularly as he knew it would.

"Or just bend over any available piece of furniture and let her slap you on the ass," he said cheerfully to Ressler. "She loves that."

He did enjoy the black look he got from Lizzy in return for that glib remark. Rather than finding it petty or ridiculous, her jealousy satisfied him in a way he couldn't quite identify. It…soothed him.

He should have probably been more worried about that than he was.

And of course, the FBI failed and he had to do all the work, again. Just the right mixture of sweet talking, promises, and veiled threats got what they needed from Laurence. And eventually, he got what he needed from young Seth, as well.

If only everything could fall into place so neatly.

Again, she'd reacted visibly, given him the advantage. It was ridiculous to be possessive of Reddington, anyway — and she wasn't, she wasn't — when she had– Her phone buzzed, shaking her out of her thoughts.

"Oh, my God, Tom. Oh God, he's going to kill me." (Metaphorically, she insisted inwardly.)

"I'm so sorry," she said, real contriteness in her voice. She'd wanted to go to the ultrasound, she really had, for that first sight of their new baby, that precious promise.

"You need to come home," he snapped in reply, and his voice was the cold and angry voice of her nightmares. "I canceled the ultrasound, okay?"

She couldn't speak, just couldn't, her voice stolen by the shock of that icy sound.

"Liz?"

"I can't do this right now," she managed, because it was the solid truth.

"Look, I don't care what's going on at work, okay? You and I need to talk."

His anger, his demands, her own fear — it exhausted her. Keep calm, just be rational.

"Something incredibly important came up." She often thought he forgot that her work involved actual lives.

"I don't care!" His voice was rising now, anger transformed to rage. She was horribly certain she knew exactly what his face looked like. "You and I need to talk about something, and it's more important."

She drew a breath, calm. "I promise we'll talk as long as you like, but later. This is an emerg–"

A dial tone in her ear, sullen and droning. He'd hung up on her. She couldn't quite believe it. She had just a moment to wonder what had really gotten him so very angry, and then the race was on again.

She'd not imagined her day would end with Reddington and Dembe, searching a junkyard for young Seth Nelson.

"He's in the dirt," Red said suddenly, certainty ringing.

"What?"

"The refrigerator, it's a coffin. The Courier buries things under his skin. He's in the dirt…right here."

And then they were all scrabbling desperately in the dirt for what was hopefully not a body.

And they found him. Somehow, against all odds, they found him, and Dembe brought him back to life.

She thought she should feel happier about it all.

Wrapping up the paperwork at her desk, ready to go home but reluctant to do so, when it came.

The file.

The truth.

Victor Fokin, a dead Russian tourist, but a suspected mole…possibly ready to defect…white male suspect… Her vision started to blur as she read. The photo, oh God, the photo, a low-res surveillance photo of the suspected killer.

Was Tom.

Was clearly Tom, her husband. Or not, if she wanted to believe Reddington. Which would be better? Did it even matter?

Thoughts tumbling, confused, angry, sad — oh, so sad, oh, for her pretty life, gone forever now — she turned toward Reddington like the needle of a compass.

He'd forgotten how truly stupendous the sunsets were, here at this cluttered little house on the hill. Newton's presence by his shoulder was a vague irritation, easy enough to ignore.

"This man, the young NSA agent... He allowed you access to the classified networks?" A conversation that couldn't be as easily ignored.

"He did."

"And I understand this was a one-time offer."

"Yes." He sighed inwardly. Newton would never understand, couldn't understand.

"The right question, and we could've made the world tremble. Finally found our adversary. Why did you waste it on the girl?"

"Not 'wasted,' my friend. Circumstances are far more complex than we ever imagined. I'm betting on the long play...the future."

The quiet sound of a car engine. "Your future's arriving now."

The petulant displeasure in the other man's voice just made him smile. And the smile lingered as Elizabeth entered the room.

Conflict raged as he looked at her, standing there in the dimming light. The slim curves of her, her porcelain beauty, spurred him, made him want to take and ravage and tear down her stalwart walls. The shadows under her eyes, the sadness carved into her every line, gentled him, made him want to wrap his arms around her and cuddle her back to herself.

The track of a single tear on her cheek was heartbreaking.

She took the drink he offered without comment, her slender fingers brushing against his, and stared ahead as if she could see something that he could not.

"Funny... all these wonderful manuscripts, and my favorite thing about this place is still the view from the sofa. I love how the light breaks through the trees." He gestured with a half-smile and looked away, out at the setting sun.

"I don't even know why I'm here," she said quietly. She took a sip from her glass and choked over it a little. "God, that's awful stuff."

Her head ached abominably, and she longed to rest against his sturdy shoulder, feel his strong arm around her. He's always so warm, she thought, drifting. It was addictive.

It was dangerous.

But she couldn't seem to stop herself from turning to him, sidling a little closer over the worn cushions, letting her shoulder rub against his in a friendly sort of way. He wrapped an arm around her, as she'd known he would, pulling her into warm comfort. She shuddered all over, once, and sank into him, the tension in her body seeping away like water down a drain.

They sat for long minutes, drinking together in companionable silence. Her sorrow had faded into the background, like an unpleasant hum she couldn't not hear, but could ignore.

"Be with me," she said suddenly into the quiet, surprising even herself. "Help me forget this wretched day."

He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. "Am I merely a panacea to your poor work day, then, Elizabeth?"

She scowled at him, leaping to anger as her defence, her only defence. "What, you'll sleep with every other woman you meet, but not me? Have you forgotten that you already did? Or are you a one-time-only ride?"

Her words were sharp and cutting, but her tone shook, betraying her. She honestly wasn't sure that he wanted her, and it was mystifying. He was both enticed by her uncertainty and annoyed by her rudeness — an unusual combination, even for him.

"I'm sure you didn't mean to be unkind," he replied, his tone deceptively mild. "But I'm not a toy, to be picked up and discarded at whim. And I won't apologize for living my life before you came into it. I learned long ago to take pleasure where I could find it."

She flushed, uncomfortable and embarrassed. "I didn't mean…I just…" She sighed heavily, suddenly tired of pretenses and longing for an escape from herself. She didn't know who she was anymore. "I didn't like it," she admitted, keeping her head down. "Hearing you talk about that woman, thinking about you with her. It bothered me, a lot more than it should." She couldn't mention Lulli, couldn't think about anything that immediate.

He smiled at that, since she couldn't see him. "Possessive, are we, Lizzy?"

That smarted. She exerted herself to keep her tone even. "Of course not," she said, as coolly as she could. "I hardly have any right to be, do I?"

"You don't, no. Perhaps just a little reassurance?"

"I'm not just another conquest, am I?" God, she felt stupid.

He wanted to laugh, triumphant, but didn't. He shifted them both so they were facing each other, and cupped her face so that she had to meet his eyes.

"Oh, Agent Keen," he said, warm and rich, an echo of their first meeting. "I think you're very special."

She remembered, he could tell by the way she smiled. By the way her gaze lingered on his lips. He leaned closer, let his hand trail down her arm.

"Still having those dreams, sweetheart?"

To his surprise, she shuddered, her expression withdrawing to one of cold unhappiness.

"No," she said quietly, "I wish I was. I'd give anything to have you back in my dreams, instead of the fear. Take them away?" she asked impulsively, searching his face again. Looking at him now, she was suddenly certain there was nothing between him and his attractive accountant. "Fill my head with you and take away the rest?"

She closed the remaining inches between them, and pressed her lips softly to his. He hesitated then — to be used was a different matter than to be desired — but instead of making her pause in turn, it seemed to make her more determined. She wrapped herself around him, supple limbs and tempting heat, swinging over his lap, swift and sure.

"Lizzy." A murmur against her mouth that tantalized. "I don't think–"

"Don't," she interrupted, wanting, wanting , "don't think. Just be."

She felt him sigh, a capitulation. Then everything in him relaxed against her, and wasn't that a marvel? It was both strange and arousing to have this man, polished and urbane, hard and ruthless, a monster her brain whispered, soften at her touch. Soften for her, while her hands roamed and her body warmed; while she nipped and teased and did as she would.

Now this was a dream worth having. She pushed down all the sour notes and unpleasantness of the day and just lost herself in him. The scent of his skin, the sharp tang of his mouth, the crisp folds of his shirt. The way he sighed against her lips and touched her with such delicacy, fingers wrapping into her hair. She kissed him, long and lazy, to suit herself.

He tugged her closer and she let herself press into him, as much safety as sensuality. Even as she once more did the most foolish thing possible, his arms around her made her feel safe, secure. She let the heat build slowly, almost leisurely, as she unbuttoned his vest and ran her hands around his back.

Her mind was hazy, deep in the dream of touch, exploration, when his hands found their way to her skin, rough and hurried. His fingers danced over her body, his lips an intoxication. The blissful fog disappeared, replaced by things sharp and urgent. A blur of touch and taste — of his mouth hot on her breast, of the bright taste of liquor, of all the hard and soft places.

Clothes were torn off in a hurried tussle, and he was inside her with no thought for preparation, no thought for Grey or Lulli or Dembe. No thought for anything but quenching the terrible need that tangled between them. She made a small, surprised sound, and then a moan of satisfaction as he started to move.

Too fast. The thought struggled to the front of his awareness, too fast, too frantic, but he couldn't listen, didn't care, couldn't slow the fevered pump of his hips. She matched him, anyway, thrust for thrust, nails pricking as she held on. Urged him on, even, an eager cry, her teeth in his throat. He swelled, impossibly, and the sun burst behind his eyes.

He actually felt a little faint.

He held her as best as he could as she curled into him, warm and damp and panting. She thought, somewhat smugly, that she'd driven him to extremes. He smelled so good; his heart beat hard against her cheek. She pressed her lips to the spot, almost absently, still floating in a pool of pleasure.

He murmured her name into her hair, Lizzy, and she remembered with a start where she was. And exactly who her sweaty, naked body was pressed up against. She stiffened, couldn't help it. He sighed again, a much more familiar one this time.

"Don't panic," he said. "Just…let it be, for now. For a few minutes."

And with his arms around her, in a musty old room gone to twilight, she found that she could.

The house was quiet and still when she walked in — not even that late, by her current standard.

"Tom?" she called hesitantly, unsure if he was even there.

But then, there he was, sitting and waiting for her, looking at her with an expression utterly unfamiliar in its coldness.

"We need to talk," she said, thoughts whirling. About her job, about the baby, about…

But then, "That's funny," he replied. "I was just gonna say the same thing to you."

And the chill invaded her bones as he dragged a familiar wooden box between them.

And the nightmare took her over once more.