The cool morning air felt good on her face as she pounded lightly along the pavement. The past few days had been good ones — really good, like they had been before…before everything changed. She and Tom were back on track and closer than ever, and work had been quiet and routine — not a word from Reddington, and the reprieve had been a welcome one.

Even her ever-present headache was gone. She felt strong and refreshed, normal even, as if she was ready to face whatever the world had in store for her next. She was taking time to enjoy the simple things, and when she let herself back into the house and heard the shower running, her face lit up with a grin.

Later, she moved swiftly through the house, running late now. It had been worth it though, she thought with a small smile. Tom was lingering over breakfast in the kitchen, watching a news report about a plane crash — how awful, she thought absently, heading for coffee.

Then her phone rang, and things changed. Her father — and despite his assurances, it wasn't normal for him to call first thing on a weekday morning. Just tests, he assured her, don't worry, it's nothing.

Not nothing enough, if he was phoning her like this.

"If it's serious, I want to be there," she insisted, frightened, frightened.

"It's not." Gruff and grumpy, just like always.

"Don't say that just 'cause you don't want to bother me. You're my dad. You're allowed to bother me."

"It's just a test, Lizzy."

"Okay. Leave your phone on and call me as soon as it's done, okay?"

"All right."

"Dad, I love you."

"I love you, too."

She went to work — what else could she do? — worrying in the back of her mind through the drive, the morning chit-chat with Aram, worrying until she found herself standing beside Reddington in Cooper's office, listening to them argue.

"Absolutely not." Cooper's voice, firm, commanding, assured. "I'm not giving you access to the FBI's ViCAP system."

"Then you'll just have to find another criminal to talk to Elizabeth Keen and make fun of Agent Ressler." Reddington was no less sure, no less commanding, despite being sarcastic about it.

It was handy that he kept reminding her — Reddington was no altruist. Whatever his reasons were for this bizarre game he had started, they were his own and they were selfish. If a greater good was served, it was mere coincidence.

Remember that, she told herself fiercely.

And when Reddington won the squabble — as he always did — he gave them their hint and put them on the right path. General Ludd.

More than just one man, but every monster had a face. Who was at the head of this snarling crowd? Reddington named him as Nathaniel Wolff, but where was he? His known face was nowhere near the current crime. It must be someone else. They got names — Roger Gard; Arthur Denning.

She worked the case, thinking it through, but she couldn't dedicate herself to it. Couldn't shake the worry nagging at the back of her mind. How long did a few tests take, anyway? Where was her father? All she got was his voicemail.

"Hey. I know you don't want to call me because you don't want to freak me out, but FYI, not calling me freaks me out, so call me. Uh, I–I just want to know about the tests. I love you."

When it came down to it, when she had to, she could think through the case. She saw the link, cleared the way. Not a different man at all, but the same man, with a new face. Just the sort of thing, coincidentally, that the Concierge of Crime would know all about.

And if he or his people would answer the phone, maybe she'd know all about it, too. Damn it, this had better not be some kind of payback or… Well, there was more than one way to track down a criminal. Aram had his location for her quickly enough.

Admittedly, she wasn't expecting a suburban counterfeiting operation, and might not have covered as well as she could have. She did wonder when she'd stop being shocked, and what would have happened to her by then. She supposed she'd better hope that the surprises kept coming.

She got another one when he hopped cheerfully onto the swingset in the yard.

"We searched the home address listed for both suspects and were able to pull some prints. They belong to Nathaniel Wolff."

He laughed. "I never tire of being correct."

His words were intolerably smug, but the smile on his face was so genuine and contagious that she had to bite back her own as she answered.

"Someone changed his face."

"I understand your father is not well."

This was not the right response; in fact, it was so unexpected it took her a beat to mentally catch up. "Excuse me?" was all she could come up with.

"The cancer. It's come back?"

"My father's fine, he's just…" The cancer. He'd mentioned the oncologist on the phone this morning. Surely he'd have said something to her, surely this wasn't…oh god, what was this? "Who the hell told you that?"

"You should be there," he said, and his concern seemed real. "With him."

She couldn't, she just couldn't. Even Reddington must understand how much this hurt, how afraid it made her, how frustrating it was.

"I'm not doing this. Playing this game, guessing what you know or how you know it." She tried so hard to make her voice firm, authoritative. Professional distance, Liz.

"Dr. Maltz."

Wait. "What?" She couldn't keep up. She rather thought he did it on purpose.

"Abraham Maltz. The best surgeon for this sort of business."

He started to swing, enthusiastically enough that she had to step back out of the way of his feet. Swinging, for the love of…

"Maltz," he barked.

And then, instead of Nebraska — where she agreed, she should be going — she found herself on the way to Miami.

The second they were in the air, she started pacing like a caged cat.

"Why do you do it?" she demanded. "Why do you keep pretending you know me? Know things about me? Are you trying to have some sort of relationship?"

He sighed. "We do have a relationship, Elizabeth. We're…partners, of a sort. Co-workers, if you will." He should have left it at that, but, "And I know you better than you think."

She snarled at that. "I know you want me to think you do. What I can't figure out is why? Is it some sort of power play? I can't possibly have anything you want. Maybe you just get off on it. On holding all the cards, even if they're fake."

She sat across from him with a cross huff of breath.

"Everything I tell you is real," he said, and wished she could know how much he meant it. How much more he wanted to say. "You just have to trust me."

"How can I?" she asked, a snap of words. "After everything that happened with Tom, how can you expect me to believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?"

"Just because his girlfriend got him out of trouble one time, doesn't mean the trouble isn't there," he said coolly.

Her face went pink. "He doesn't have a 'girlfriend'. That whole thing was just some…some story you made up to…to…" She trailed off, furious but with nothing to say.

"That's right. To do what? To what end," he snapped back, "would I invent such a ridiculous tale of false identities and assassinations and covert women?"

"To isolate me. So I'd have no choice but to trust you," she answered, but didn't sound as if she herself even really believed it.

"There are a number of simpler ways I could have gotten you to trust me," he said, gently now. "Most of which probably would have been much easier for you to accept. Maybe I chose this way because it's the truth."

She shook her head mutely, but her face was stubbornly closed. "No," she said, "it was just another one of your games. Just like this new one, asking about my father, like you know him, too. Like you care about me."

He softened, of course he did. "Lizzy, I do care about you," he tried. "You matter a great deal to me."

"Except that you barely know me," she pointed out. "Unless there's something you're not telling me."

He laughed; couldn't help it. "Oh, sweetheart, there are innumerable things I'm not telling you at any given time. But the things I do tell you are true."

"Do you know my father?" she demanded, quick and sharp.

He blinked, slowly, mostly just to annoy her. "I wonder what the weather will be like in South Beach," he said.

"Ugh!" A short shriek of frustration. "How can I trust you when you avoid all the questions that matter?"

"I've kept your secrets, Lizzy," he answered. "That should count for something."

"I don't have any secrets," she retorted.

He just stared at her. Aside from certain…peccadillos in her past, there were several recent incidents he could think of that would raise an eyebrow or two at the FBI.

She had the grace to look away, embarrassed. "It's as much in your own interest to keep that a secret as it is for my benefit. Do you think Cooper would keep your deal if he knew you'd been…messing around with me?"

He laughed again. "'Messing around?' This isn't high school, Elizabeth, and Cooper isn't the principal. I'm sure he'd have plenty to say to us both if he knew we'd…been together. But I think that out of the two of us, you care a lot more what the outcome would be."

Her hands clenched and her jawline tightened. "You just love holding all the cards, don't you?" she repeated. "And you still expect people to trust you?" She snorted and looked away.

And refused to speak to him again for the rest of the flight, looking out the window and fidgeting with her cell phone. Worried about Sam, he knew, and wished she would, she could, talk to him about it. He left her to her silent vigil and got a little work done, but the heavy atmosphere made even the relatively short flight fairly unpleasant.

A short drive to the medical centre, and then it was time to remind her that he was here as a favour, and not as part of his "deal."

"Before we do this, let me be clear — I have business that requires further travel today, so this needs to happen quickly; you need to follow my lead. Dr. Maltz is not on the blacklist. He's an asset I need to protect."

"You want me to protect some plastic surgeon who might be linked to a terrorist organization?"

Her face said it all, but he was in a hurry. "Yes," he said shortly, and pushed open the door. "Abraham!"

"Raymond, what brings you in?" Maltz was mid-pedicure, but was good enough at what he did not to betray any particular surprise.

With the manicurist gone, they got down to business quickly — Maltz was reluctant, of course, but Red was talking him around when Elizabeth just butted in with the truth, of all ridiculous things. And for shame, it worked. Okay, good, he could work with this. He'd even enjoy it.

"Abraham! I refer important clients to you!" He let his voice get gradually higher, tenser, snippier. "People who are vital to my business, people whose livelihood depends on your confidentiality, and you roll over like a cockapoo wanting his belly scratched?"

To her credit, Lizzy caught on mid-rant, and joined right in, with a bit of Jersey attitude. "You said this guy was solid!" Delightful. He loved the seamless way they worked together when she let herself go.

"What? Wait a minute…"

Poor Abraham didn't have a chance, and Red just talked right over him. "Some woman who claims to be an FBI agent makes a few ham-fisted threats, and you hand over one of your own clients? That's dirty pool. God forbid this little incident ever gets back to poor Nathaniel Wolff."

A little more back and forth, and gosh, he did love a good hissy fit. Just a wonderful release of tension, better than a massage any day. Well…almost. Lizzy played along beautifully, all astonished disgust, and they stormed out together in an exit worthy of Elizabeth Taylor herself.

He even threw a clue in there for her, but he was pretty sure she'd missed it. Well, he had put on a fine performance, if he did say so himself. And it had put some sparkle back in Lizzy's eyes, so all around it had been worth it. He'd make it up with Abraham another time.

She was quiet on the way back, and he let her alone. Things would get harder again soon enough. And he was running late.

They saw Elizabeth off the plane and on her way, and left again. It was a good thing, he thought, stretching out his legs comfortably, that he had his own jet.

He hated hospitals, but it was such a delight to see Sam again, even under these circumstances. He let himself spend a little time reminiscing; sharing stories and laughing with an old friend. A real friend. Such opportunities didn't come his way all that often, these days.

But the truth was undeniable. He took Sam's hand, sorrow heavy in his heart.

"You look like hell." The other man just smiled, and sighed a little.

"I finally got a chance to see her, Sam."

Images of her face filled his mind — set in anger when she stabbed him in the neck; intent and thoughtful as she worked her way through a problem; sublime and beautiful as she took her pleasure from him; drawn and exhausted as she called him monster.

Such a woman, he thought, as Sam raised a querying eyebrow. He smiled broadly.

"There's a…fire inside she got from you. She's volatile…unpredictable…" So many memories of her, already locked in his mind. "She's soft, then hard, then…" he laughed, remembering, remembering. "Soft again. Stronger than she knows.

"You gave her an incredible gift, Sam. Taking her in and loving her as your own."

Sam didn't answer, and Red worried briefly that he'd given too much away, that his voice or his words had betrayed him. But it was something else, something harder. Sam was dying, and there was no escaping from that truth. His heart cracked in his chest with the hard despair of it, then his entire system froze in horror.

"I need to tell Lizzy."

"No." Flat denial; it was impossible.

"I know what we agreed, but before I go, I have to tell her." Sam's voice was weak, but insistent.

"I can't let you do that," Red said, heart breaking all over again.

Sam's face showed he understood the unspoken threat, and Red almost took it back. Almost. This would be one of the most difficult things he had ever done, to protect the numerous secrets of his life; to protect himself.

To protect her.

To protect her, he would wear the mantle of the monster again. He hoped that someone, somewhere, someday, would forgive him.

"I need…I need to say goodbye," Sam said, pleading a little, coughing harshly. "Just let me talk to her one more time. I won't…I won't say anything."

It was only right. Red handed him the cell, and the warning was clear in his face. Sam nodded; he understood this, as well. They had a short conversation — he couldn't decipher what Lizzy was saying, but the resigned sadness in Sam's voice made him ache for what he had to do.

"I love you, too, Butterball," Sam said, and hung up, glanced at Red. "Thank you."

Thank you, Red thought, the guilt piercing him and twisting like the sharpest knife. Thanking him for allowing a meagre phone call before…before… He braced himself with one hand beside the other man's head, leaning over him.

"You will always be her father, Sam," he said heavily. "I can only hope to…love her…protect her…as you have."

Sam looked afraid, afraid, but he nodded slightly, and Red inclined his head in return. Then, in swift, sure movements, the pillow was out and over Sam's face, and Red wrapped his arms around them both. Sam struggled weakly — had to, Red supposed, survival instinct too strong in all of us — but he might as well have not bothered. Red shut his eyes tightly, so he couldn't see the terrible deed he did; so the tears wouldn't escape.

It didn't take long.

He tucked the pillow back behind Sam's head gently, smoothed back his hair. He kissed Sam's forehead; rested against him briefly, wishing that things could have been different. That he could have been a different man. He let the tragedy fill him for one long moment; then left the room behind.

He phoned Lizzy, just to hear her voice. He knew she wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't take help, and he was right, but… It gave him some comfort, to hear her, vibrant and alive. To remind him why he acted as he did.

He only did what he had to do, always. What no one else could.

And how interesting — there was Tom Keen, sitting at a table looking pensive and drinking coffee. Red wondered if he cared about the loss of his father-in-law at all, or if he was thinking about something else. The hypocrisy of it all was too much, in that moment, and without really thinking, he was sitting down beside the younger man.

They had a strange, veiled conversation in which no one gave away anything at all. As if they really were perfect strangers. But Red delivered his warning, one which he had been itching to issue for weeks now.

Lizzy wasn't alone, wasn't unprotected and vulnerable. And Tom Keen would do well to remember it.

That done, everything done now and taken care of, he had to get back to business. He felt about a thousand years old — his whole body ached and his heart was tired. Sadness dragged at him like the outgoing tide, threatening to pull him under.

He'd fight it, for now. So he could be there, when she needed him.

They said that grief came like a wave, a gradual sweeping under. To Liz, it felt like a brick wall, plowing into her with immediate brutality. Her body betrayed her, knees folding and stomach rebelling, so she had to lean against the car just to stay on her feet. The cool metal felt good on her forehead as she attempted to process what she was hearing.

Daddy.

She'd never see him again; never hear his rough laugh or feel his steady hand. He'd never ruffle her hair or call her Butterball. No more movie nights, watching the same old noir classics again and again. No more card games, where he always cheated just to see if she'd catch him at it. No more practical advice, no more bad jokes, no more… No more.

No more Sam, and she hadn't even been able to say goodbye. At least one of the last things she'd said to him was that she loved him.

Her heart hurt; she couldn't breathe right. The stone that had taken residence in her chest was so heavy, she didn't know how on earth she would carry it. She'd always felt somewhat rootless, roaming alone in a confusing world, but now…now she was utterly adrift. It made her panic — what would she do?

She clung to the phone as an anchor, her eyes dry and burning, her throat aching. Tom spoke to her gently, and she focused on his voice rather than his words. Thank god, he was there, comforting her, guiding her. Thank goodness that part of her life was stable and real.

And he was there, making sure that she had a flight as soon as was possible, that someone would take her to the airport. You shouldn't drive, he said, and he was clearly right, because she could still barely stand. Ressler took her — home first to pick up her things, then to Dulles — shrugging off her thanks, and she'd owe him for it, later. When she got to Nebraska, Tom was waiting for her, warm arms encircling her, and keeping her upright.

He'd been helping Aunt June with the funeral arrangements — it was only a day away. Everything was taken care of so quickly and efficiently, all she really had to do was sit in the living room of her childhood home and wonder what the hell had happened. The whole house still smelt of Sam's aftershave, and her heart broke again and again and again.

How could one day have changed her entire life so thoroughly? So irrevocably?

The day of the funeral was bright and warm and felt all wrong. It should be raining, teeming, tearing the world apart. The reverend's words flowed over her, a meaningless hum that she couldn't comprehend.

A quiet tear; another; another.

Nothing seemed quite real — how could this be real? When she stood and placed her small bouquet on the coffin — her father's coffin — she shattered, the tears came in full.

And Tom was still there, to hold her tight and shelter her; to soak up her sorrow and whisper that it would be okay, eventually. One day. That they would weather this storm together. That he loved her.

There was family, too — Aunt June and her children and grandchildren, and there was further solace in that. In the continuation of life, despite the endings.

There were more hard things — packing up her old room, Sam's things, all the bits and pieces of her life. Aunt June was going to sell the house, and that made sense. It did. It was another ending, though, another kind of death, to put their whole life into a few cardboard boxes and shut it all away. She packed in a vague daze, not paying attention to much. She'd sort through it all later, when it wasn't so fresh. When the stone in her chest had finally broken and washed away.

It wasn't until they were headed home that she thought of Reddington, and the bits of the case that hadn't sat quite right. She spent the flight puzzling it out — it was better to have something else to think about. When she understood it all, she decided to seek him out, confront him with the truth. (Maybe it was just an excuse.)

Would he deny it? Could he, if he always told her the truth? It would be an interesting test.

He was in the suburbs again — playing counterfeiter, making money. And wasn't that just so neat and tidy?

He actually looked a little surprised to see her.

"I should've known when you agreed to help us catch Wolff that you would take something for yourself. We didn't think he could access the safe on the truck, but he did. And he swapped the original drive for a counterfeit, and when we arrested him, he didn't have it." They were all just facts, and she stated them like they were. She didn't have it in her to get upset or yell or question.

Not today.

He looked for a second like he might answer her, but of course, of course, he didn't. He sidestepped right back into her personal life, like he had a right, like he belonged there.

Like he cared.

Maybe, just maybe, he did.

"I'm sorry about your father." He sounded like he meant it. She shook her head — that wasn't what she'd come for. Was it?

"How was the funeral?" She lowered her eyes, biting her lip to keep the tears back. She wouldn't cry, not anymore. She was so tired.

"This is going to be a difficult time. The best way to keep the memory of your father alive is to talk about him." She finally met his gaze and he smiled at her, friendly, a little sad.

"Tell me some stories."

Somehow, it was exactly the right thing to say, and somehow, he was exactly the right person. She ended up sitting on a swing beside him, pushing her feet so she swayed a little, talking and talking and talking.

Sam, patiently teaching her to ride a bike, no matter how many times she fell. Sam, learning how to braid hair from Aunt June, so she would have perfect pigtails on picture day. Sam, burning innumerable dinners until they both decided to just survive on takeout and Aunt June's casseroles.

Teaching her — it seemed as if he was always teaching her something, from multiplication tables, to how to memorize facts and faces, to how to stand up for herself. What to say to a bully — and how to punch, just in case. (How to pick a lock and lift a wallet, but she kept those to herself.)

Sam, gruffly interrogating the first boy she'd brought home. Sam, trying to give her "the talk", beet red in the face and stumbling over it. Sam, helping her pack for college, and pretending not to cry as he waved her off at the airport. Sam, giving her away at her wedding, radiant with pride.

Tears ran down her face silently now, as she talked and Red listened. Faster and harder, as she kept on, as she shared her life with him.

"I didn't visit enough, the past few years," she wept, finally. "I was so busy with the Mobile Psych unit, and then going to Quantico, and there was Tom, and then we were talking about a baby, and I just…I just…"

"Oh Lizzy," Red said, and his voice was soft and tender, like he cared as deeply as she did. "The man you've described to me understood that. Children grow, they move away, build lives. It's what parents want for them.

"And Sam, the father you remember, he would have been so proud, so proud of you, Elizabeth."

He used the rope of the swing to pull her close and wrapped his arms around her, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

It was too much, too much, and she buried her face in his broad shoulder and sobbed. She thought he rested his cheek on the top of her head; he rubbed her back and murmured quiet nothing words meant to soothe.

But he didn't tell her not to cry; didn't tell her everything would be okay. In fact, he'd started the conversation recognizing how hard a loss this was. He understood, she thought, and was glad suddenly, immensely glad to have him there.

To have someone just hold her, and let her bleed out her sorrow; to share it with her, take a part of the burden just by understanding it.

"I–I'm all alone," she managed at last. "Tom is all I have left." Please, she couldn't say out loud. Please, don't take him from me, too.

"I know it feels that way," he answered, kissing her again, soft against her hair. "But you are not alone. There's Sam's family — they're your family, too. You have friends in your life.

"And…you have me, Lizzy. For whatever it's worth, I'm here."

"It…it's worth a lot," she admitted, sitting back. "Thank you, for listening. For just…being here." She wiped at her eyes, a little embarrassed now, and he offered her his pristine handkerchief.

"Thank you," he said seriously. "For sharing your father with me, Elizabeth."

She looked so forlorn, sitting on her swing, that he couldn't quite stand it. He tugged her rope again, and kissed her, just once, soft and sweet, on the mouth. Her eyes flashed as she looked at him, and he offered a wry smile.

"Friends," he said. "I care about you, Lizzy, and I'll be here for you, if you'll let me."

She opened her mouth and then just sighed, long and windy and sad. "Friends, then," she replied.

And they sat together a while longer, swinging quietly in the dusk.