Anslo Garrick.

At Ressler's words, Red's stomach lurched; then came the frustration and the fury in a tangled mess.

He'd known that this…pact with the FBI would have its difficulties, its challenges, but he certainly hadn't anticipated this particular trap. Sprung by the foolishness of those who believed what they were told; who took information at face value because they didn't know the intricacies of the world he lived in.

Or didn't care to discover them.

"Listen to me. If this intel was disseminated, it was done so directly to you. It's canned, which means Anslo Garrick intends to attack this facility."

"Oh, you think he wanted us to bring you here?" Ressler's cool disdain just infuriates him further.

"What do I think? I think we have a songbird in our midst, and until I find out who's singing, I don't trust anyone, because someone helped to bring him here."

Anslo needed him contained, and here he was, trapped, in an FBI black site. It would be funny if it wasn't so dangerous. Not that he was afraid…in particular.

He could only thank the stars that Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. Would not be harmed by this colossal boondoggle.

He didn't even want to think about Anslo and Elizabeth at the same time.

Of course, by the time they believed him, it was too late, the trap sprung. He consoled himself with the not-very-comforting thought that it had likely been too late from the moment Ressler had appeared in Munich.

All his thoughts were bent to getting these ridiculous handcuffs off and escaping, finding his people and fleeing this black hole of a black site. The shotgun blast to Ressler's leg put paid to whatever half-formed plans he had.

They made it into the Box by the skin of his teeth…and now, now it was a standoff.

He couldn't even begin to imagine who would come out the winner.

Her hand was bleeding.

The weight of her father's death was still black and heavy on her back, and here she was, creeping through the depths of the Post Office like a thief. She didn't have a good hold on what was happening here, but she did know that it pissed her off.

Almost as much as it frightened her.

From the moment she'd heard the shots firing from inside the elevator, she'd moved quickly and with an assurance she didn't quite feel. She knew what she had to do, but it didn't come completely naturally to her.

Not yet.

She found a first aid kit easily enough and clumsily wrapped her hand where the metal of the elevator trap door had sliced into her skin. Then, a sign of life, of sanity — Cooper, on a radio. She grabbed the unit off the body it was attached to without so much as a grimace and the madness began in earnest.

The black site, breached. Danger everywhere, and Ressler and Reddington…presumed down.

She knew what that meant. It didn't mean injured, or in trouble. Not really. It meant dead.

Red, shot, bleeding, helpless.

Red, gone.

A lurch of nausea; a tremble in the heart. Her face faltered; she was still angry, but…she couldn't lose someone else so soon, certainly not someone…

Well. Not Red.

She wouldn't believe it, wouldn't even think it until circumstances forced her hand. She wouldn't believe it so fiercely, she'd make it the truth.

In the meantime, she had things to do.

Of all the unimaginable situations, here he was, in the mother of them all. Trapped in a glass box, under the twisted eye of an enemy. Saving Donald Ressler's life.

Of all people.

He could see even as he wiped and bandaged that it wasn't going to be enough. At least one of the pellets must have nicked the femoral artery — there was just too much blood.

A quick decision had to be made.

"Donald, never let it be said that I valued a Zegna Venticinque tie over a human life, even yours. Take up a handful of your own tie.

"This is going to be hugely unpleasant and very painful."

And if that yell was anything to go by, he'd been right.

Ressler in hand for now, he started sparring with Garrick. It passed the time, at least, and if he taunted the other man enough, he'd give something away. Something Red needed desperately to know — such as who it was wielding the blunt instrument that was the Wild Bunch. Who had leaked the necessary information. Were they the same person, or were there several fronts to be faced?

So many questions, so little time.

He wished he could foresee an end to this in which everyone came out unscathed. Well, at least everyone but Donald.

And thanked the powers one more time that Elizabeth wasn't here. Didn't want to imagine the havoc that a man like Garrick could wreak upon her.

Or, his brain whispered insidiously, maybe she was here. Maybe she was one of the first gunned down. Maybe even now, she's lying somewhere, bleeding just like the man beside you, dying, alone…

He clamped down firmly on his thoughts. It wasn't acceptable, and therefore, was not possible.

If he didn't believe it, it wouldn't be true.

He wouldn't let it be true.

She'd shot a man point blank in the head.

She hadn't even hesitated.

What did that say about her? What was she becoming? What was the difference between a well-trained field agent and a criminal like Reddington, who she'd named monster? Really, it was only a matter of your point of view, wasn't it?

Neither hesitated when something needed to be done; each abided by their own strict rules and codes of conduct.

Each killed without mercy.

Don't think about it, Liz, as bile rose again, thick and hot. Don't think about anything. And whatever you do, don't look down.

She yanked the dead man's gear off him efficiently and pulled it onto her own body; following her training, breathing through the smells, listening, listening for any signs of danger. And a sign came, almost immediately, via the dead man's radio — they were on their way to the armoury.

What should she do? What could she do? Was it too late to save anyone? To save Reddington? Herself?

An inward shake — now certainly wasn't the time for self-doubt. Now was the time to be a field agent. You can do this. Just keep moving, keep working, don't stop — like a shark, she was sure she'd die if she stopped moving.

And she could do this, apparently. Swept neatly through the armoury, handing another man over to the slaughter without a qualm, pistol whipping his buddy like she'd been doing it all her life. Damp with perspiration and a fear she couldn't admit to, not if she wanted to keep going, she found herself face-to-face with Aram.

Poor, sweet, bumbling Aram, even more unsuited to this situation than she was. Her only ally in the battle.

Her unlikely saviour — at least emotionally — because there was Red on Aram's laptop, safe in the Box with a grievously wounded Ressler by his side. Bloody and looking tired and drawn, but safe. Probably safer than any of them, secure in his DARPA prison.

Thank god.

Everything in her settled, rooted firmly within. Her heart took up a steadier beat; her stomach calmed. She didn't stop to wonder at that, to think about it too much. She simply welcomed it, and told Aram what they had to do.

"We are the calvary," she said to him simply, because it was true. For now, the two of them were all that stood between the team and destruction. They were the way to safety.

"I've only shot at paper," he admitted, voice quavering, sweat beading on his temples.

It was easier to be brave, to be self assured and confident, when putting on a face for someone else. She handed back his weapon, and wished she didn't have to do this to him.

"Pretend they're paper," she said softly, a little of her regret seeping into her tone.

And off they went, to save the day.

She hoped.

Red was losing him.

Despite the tourniquet, the bandages, the field transfusion. For all his quips, he was afraid Donald wouldn't make it through this. Donald certainly didn't think he would. And if you didn't believe that you would live, believe it with all your strength, well…

So, as much for himself as the other man, he started to talk.

Listed off life's beauties, the gorgeous things that made life worth living. The places, the people…a warm woman…Elizabeth, he thought, holding her memory close. Beautiful, intelligent, fierce. Sleek beneath him, glorious rising over him. Lips lush and wet. Arms twined around him; voice soft in his ear.

Things to live for, indeed.

"Most of all, I want to sleep," he said finally, meaning it with all his heart and soul. "I want to sleep like I slept when I was a boy."

Formless and sound, without one ear open for potential threat. Sleep, without alcohol or drug, simple and easy and careless. He closed his eyes and lost himself briefly in the halcyon thought of it. God.

But there was no time, no time to luxuriate in dreams of the past, future, possibilities, because here came Harold, and the game was starting again.

And Donald was running out of time. It was time for more extreme measures, and it was certain to be extremely unpleasant for the both of them.

Desperate times.

Luckily, Ressler did them both a favour and passed out from the pain. A blessing really. He lit the match and then lit up Ressler's leg, leaning back, just in case.

But then, oh then. He'd been too absorbed to pay attention to the happenings outside the box and oh shit, shit, Luli.

Her face was so terrorized it broke his heart. She wasn't meant for this side of things. Panicking, he ordered Cooper to open the Box, demanded Anslo stop and think for once; stood helpless while the gun went off.

And he was staring at the world through a haze of blood and brain matter.

But it got worse, quickly, so much worse. Brother, son, family, Dembe. He is reduced to begging; to shaking the hell out of an unconscious man, to beseeching Harold to help him, help him.

Didn't they see who this man was? Didn't they care?

Stalwart as always, accepting whatever fate might bring, and Red could do nothing but honour him. Nothing but pray with him, and hope for better in another life.

"Open the Box!" Anslo screamed, as if Red wouldn't if he could, as this was easy for him.

A gunshot rang out, loud, blaring, horrific…but…but it wasn't Anslo, it was someone else, thank god, thank god. His brother stared back at him, unblinking, safe.

If only he'd stopped to think who else might be out there, trying to reach the Box.

Elizabeth.

Don't let it show, don't let him see. If he does…

But it was too late, because even the tightening of his jaw was enough for Anslo, who nudged her to her knees almost politely. They had to drag poor Luli's body out of the way to make room for her.

Looking at the pistol at the back of her head made him physically ill.

Not her.

He wanted to scream it, to burst the walls of his cage with the sheer force of his impotent rage. Instead, he returned to Ressler's side and woke him with a savage thrust into his open wound.

Whatever it took, anything, anything, to not see Lizzy's blood dripping in front of him.

She looked at him like she knew death stood beside her, and it nearly broke him. Her eyes beseeched — she looked at him like he was her saviour, him of all people, god — but she stayed silent, stoic. He admired her even as he panicked, staying on his feet through strength of will alone. She even shook her head at Ressler — would she sacrifice herself to save him?

He desperately wished he knew which of them she wanted to save.

Ressler or Reddington; angel or devil?

An incredibly timely phone call changed all the stakes in a flash. He was proud of her all over again — not losing focus, not breaking at the sound of her husband's voice. She stayed strong, tried, tried to get the message out.

But Anslo was too quick — and Tom not the saviour she thought he might be. Out of time, Red reassembled his gun and pressed it to Donald's temple.

"What are you gonna do? You gonna kill me?" the other man managed to gasp. "You just saved my life."

"Circumstances have changed, Donald. If you can't save her, you're of no use whatsoever." And honestly, he'd never meant anything quite so much in all his long life. "Look at me. Look at me!

"Agent Keen will die," he said. "Now is the time."

And something in his face must have finally convinced Ressler of his sincerity, because the other man gasped out a word, just five brief letters.

"R-O-M-E-O," he snapped at Anslo, inwardly appreciating the irony. "Romeo."

He found it in himself to smile at Elizabeth as Anslo dragged her back; as she looked at him plaintively, still frightened.

Was it for him? Did she fear for him, and what they might lose?

And he had clearly given away too much, somehow, because they were dragging Lizzy along with them, as if they knew how important she was, how crucial to his own survival. To his heart.

"She was unexpected," Anslo was saying, and at last, he was right about something. Red had been astonished, gratified, blindsided. Entranced and entangled. Lizzy. Quickly becoming all too important to him.

He could kill Anslo simply for laying a hand on her, nevermind putting that look in her eye. Fear, determination, confusion, desperation. She was trying not to look at him, clearly not wanting to give anything away herself, despite Anslo's ugly words.

"Old boy's still got the touch, does he?" A sneer. "Well, whatever blows up your skirt."

He might as well have invited Red to kill him. His death was a certainty, now.

They were hustled into an ambulance, of all things, but a moment's thought told her that it made sense, would make it easy for them to blend seamlessly into the city.

Red was covered with blood, but reassuringly, none of it seemed to be his own. Yet.

Cramped beside the gurney they forced him onto, she stared at him, needing guidance, needing a plan. And as always, he knew, knew just what she needed, because his eyes flicked to the defibrillator beside her.

And that was all she needed from him, and she'd thrill to it later, the ease of their unspoken communication, the seamless way they worked together as if they had been partners for long years instead of mere weeks.

"The Emissary Hotel in Chicago. Mr Kaplan."

She made the mental note, and then the squeal of the defibrillator signalled to her. It worked, as Red's plans always seemed to, one way or another. A short but vicious struggle, and she was free and armed once more.

But she lost him, anyway.

Standing in the street with nothing but a bloody microchip, her mind raced. Could she find him without it, with virtually no direction at all? Could she save him?

There really wasn't another option. Not letting herself think about why, she knew that he had to be saved.

And if she had to do it on the sly, without the full support of the FBI, well, she would. How could they just abandon him, like all the work the Task Force had done meant nothing, as if Red meant nothing?

It didn't occur to her that it was more expedient to leave a criminal to his own devices; it didn't resonate that she'd long stopped thinking of him that way.

She had no time to examine her own feelings; because all that was important was the race.

The call Red wanted her to make led nowhere, but maybe…maybe it would bear fruit in the future.

Home, quick, to reassure Tom, and take a moment, just a moment to regroup. It felt good, to be held, to feel the warmth of another person, just for that moment.

"What happened to your face?"

She'd honestly forgotten, all her focus on Red, the butt of the pistol hitting her head; the way her body ached, the cut in her hand throbbing, her knees bruised and sore.

She didn't have time to think about it now, either. Tried to explain to Tom why she couldn't just leave, that this wasn't the kind of job you could just quit, even if you wanted to.

Did she want to?

And then, all time for thinking was gone, because Aram's lead, his solid lead, was the house across the street.

It was almost like a bad horror film — the call is coming from inside the house.

And it just got worse, because there was her house, on camera, all around her. Someone had been watching her, watching her and Tom live their lives, all unawares.

Watching Red, using her to do it.

It was time to call Mr Kaplan again.

But maybe that had been a mistake, because the diminutive woman who answered the call was not what she had expected.

Not that she knew what to expect, at all.

A whirlwind of activity, of going against all her instincts, left her nowhere — no answers, no Garrick, no Red.

She didn't know how much longer her body could sustain this level of panic, this continual pulse of adrenalin.

And she doesn't have time to wonder, because there, there it is, the clue she needed. Needed to find him.

But she was too late, too late again. All she had to show for it was Garrick's bloody body.

A new day brought no comfort.

Tom, angry — justifiably, of course — but so much more angry than upset. She wondered at it, even as it unnerved her. We need to leave this place, he said, and it sounded more like a threat than anything else.

But she had no time to listen, no time for conversation.

Another call came through.

Mr Kaplan, confirming that the man she'd killed was gone, cleaned, disappeared.

What was she becoming, she asked herself again, and had no answer. No answer to any of the questions that plagued her, that had tortured her since the FBI's fourth most wanted had sauntered so casually into her life.

And her father was still dead. Left alone at last, she sat among the relics of her childhood and wondered. Looked at the char on her bunny and the scar on her wrist, flames flickering hot in her memories, and wondered.

What did it all mean?

And then, then, finally, there he was, calling her.

"Lizzy."

She thought she'd never heard a more welcome sound in her life.

"Lizzy...I want you to know, wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, if you are in need, I will be there," he said, and she wanted to weep.

I need you now. But he was going, leaving, leaving her alone.

"Wait. One question, please. It's about my father.

"Growing up, Sam...He raised me like his own. He was...my whole world. But he wasn't my father."

"What is the question, Lizzy?"

"Are you my father?" Shaky, voice trembling, not even sure what she wanted to hear.

She hadn't even known that the question was there, inside her, just waiting to be asked. How could she ask such a thing? She fought back thoughts of him, gentle hands touching, lips warm and soft, and had never wanted to be wrong quite so much.

Are you my father? she asked, and for a moment, the world disappeared. He swallowed thickly. He knew what he should say, what his role demanded of him…but god, god, it was too late for that, far too late.

Her mouth, desperate against his own; her body, sleek and cream and lovely, wrapped around him. Her voice, soft in love.

"No." As firm and final and deliberate as he possibly could make it. It was the truth, after all.

He swallowed again, started to say something, stopped; started to ask how, how could she think such a thing of him, but cannot. Wanted her to be there, so he could somehow reassure her in a way that words could not.

Wanted to touch her, just once, to know that she was safe, and whole.

Wanted to take her with him, to keep her that way.

"Lizzy," he said finally, out of options, out of time. "Be careful of your husband."

She didn't reply, not that he expected her to. He listened to her breathe for another long minute, just because it soothed him.

Then it was time to disappear into the crowd, to become faceless once more. To track down the leak, and deal with it the way only he could.

The way he had to.

He made it a whole day before he called her again.

"Red." He couldn't tell if she was glad to hear from him, or angry — still, again, perpetually.

"Lizzy, I…are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, although she didn't really sound it. "At least the surveillance cameras are out of my house."

Rage bubbled at the thought of it; of nameless thugs, watching her.

"I will find them, Lizzy." It was a vow, made now as much for her as for himself.

"I should be contacting the Post Office right now," she answered. "Cooper wants to talk to you."

"Harold can wait — forever, if need be," he said brusquely. "I'm asking about you."

"I'm…I'm not fine," she admitted. "I'm angry and I'm scared. My head still hurts and my hand hasn't closed up yet. Cooper's pissed and Tom is furious. He wants us to move, as if that would really make a difference. What has happened to my life?"

"It's going to be okay," he said. "One day, it will be."

She laughed unhappily. "One day," she said. "Wonderful."

"LIzzy, I–"

"Don't hang up," she said. "Don't, please. I just…I want to see you."

"It's not a good idea," he answered. "I need to stay off the radar until it's safe again."

"Anywhere," she begged, shocking him. "Please, you must be somewhere. I'll come to you, I'll take three taxis, a bus, wear a disguise."

He laughed, imagining her attempts at spycraft. Made a snap decision, a foolish one, because he wanted to see her safe as much as she seemed to want to see him.

"I'm in Baltimore," he said. "A condo in Fells Point."

He gave her concise directions, then went back himself, to wait, and pace, until she got there.

It seemed like much longer than it probably was, the minutes weighing heavily on him, doubting his decision, deriding himself for a fool.

Wouldn't it be just perfect for sentimentality to get him killed now, after everything.

Her light knock made him jump, even though he'd been waiting for it so anxiously.

"Come in," he said, moving toward the door as he said it, not wanting to wait.

And there she was, breathless and flushed, whole, real, in front of him. He pushed the door shut behind her, and just drank her in. The abrasion on her head looked a little swollen and her eyes were tired.

Unable to stop himself — fool — he cupped her face in gentle hands and kissed her, just beside the angry slash, for comfort, for them both.

"Oh, Red." So quiet it was barely a sound; if their faces hadn't been so close together, he wouldn't have heard her.

She reached out and pulled him in, tucking her head over his shoulder and wrapping him tight. His arms slipped around her slim form, and they stood there, just inside his front door, rocking slightly and holding one another safe.

He kissed her again, the top of her head, breathing in the light scent of her shampoo, savouring her soft warmth. She sighed, relaxing into him, their bodies fitting neatly together.

"Red," she murmured, hot on his neck. "Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

He wanted to laugh. Aside from the wound on his neck from the removal of his chip, he'd been beaten and punished profoundly. His head had bled from almost the same spot as her own, a mirror image he could most certainly have lived without.

And then there was the drug. His skin shivered, just thinking about the agony of it, the twinges he still had where it lingered, and she stepped back, concerned.

"Red? What don't I know?"

The real concern on her face meant more to him than he could ever explain; soothed the remains of the hurt inside.

"Don't worry about it," he said, an attempt at cheer. He touched her face again, just to feel her skin under his fingertips. "Are you really okay? Your head looks a bit irritated."

"It's fine," she assured him with a small smile. "Just healing. It's itchy."

"That's a good sign," he said, and wanted to laugh at the inanity. "I…I was worried about you."

"I worry about you, too, you know," she said, and then her hand was on his cheek, tentative, unsure. "I don't think I took a deep breath until I heard your voice on that first call. I thought…I thought Garrick would kill you."

"It would be a sad day indeed, if a thug like Anslo Garrick got the better of me," he scoffed mildly. "I was…" But she was looking at him with big, sad eyes, and he couldn't say it, couldn't just brush off the real peril he'd been in with his usual panache. "I won't try and say there weren't a few worrying moments," he admitted. "But we're both safe and sound now, and that's all that matters."

"I don't know if I can keep doing this," she said softly. "I'm not cut out for it."

"You're capable of much more than you know," he assured her. "You can do anything you put your mind to, Elizabeth."

"You just want things from me that I don't know that I have to give," she answered. "I don't know what to do any more."

"You just keep going, day by day, step by step," he told her. "Take things as they come, the best you can. That will be good enough."

And because she looked so sad, so bewildered at her own fate, so lost and alone, he bent his head and kissed her again. Touched his lips lightly to hers, for comfort as much as anything.

When he pulled back, her eyes were even more lost, pleading, so similar to before…to when Anslo's gun was pressed to her head, and Red looked at her through a mist of blood and brains, and god, he could see it again, coating her, a miasma of horror and misery…

He traced the lines of her face with shaking fingers. Strong bones, her solemn brow, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Safe; not blown apart, not gone forever.

"Lizzy," he murmured, "I thought…" But there was no point in saying it, in giving the thoughts any more life than they already had. Because they hadn't come true, and never would, if he had anything to say about it.

He rubbed his thumb anxiously over her mouth, and she hummed quietly, her eyes fluttering closed.

What else could he do?

He kissed her again, harder, firmer, one hand sliding along her neck to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her silky hair. Her arms came around him once more, pulling him close, hands fisting in his shirt.

He let himself taste her, sweet and cool to his tongue; she parted her lips on a sigh and let him in. His whole body shivered with quiet pleasure, his free hand kneading her waist, his mouth moving easily with hers.

They met so well here, he thought absently, questions and recriminations forgotten, just touch and taste and the reality of one another. When she let go of all her preconceptions and just let herself be; when he forgot who he was and just let himself have.

Her breath was quickening, her hands tightening. He loosened the hand at the back of her head and ran it down the length of her hair, stroking down her back in a long line. He wanted her closer, but it didn't seem possible; slipped the hand at her waist under the hem of her sweater to brush against her skin.

He loved how she felt, soft, velvet, silk; everything rich and luxurious; everything he shouldn't have but tried to surround himself with. Just as he began to truly lose himself in her, the kiss, the rush of sensation, she pulled away with a gasp.

"Shit, how does this keep happening?" She was distraught, suddenly, angry again. "I can't do this, I just…"

"Your husband–" he started, but that's all he managed.

"Exactly!" She was yelling, now, furious, flushed, beautiful. "My husband. I am not this person! I love Tom, I love him."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Cool and dispassionate now, because he had to be.

"Ugh," she snapped a sound of frustration, disgust. "I'm not trying to convince anybody. It's a fact, that's all. Whatever you say, whatever seeds you try to plant, he's my husband. I'm glad you're safe, I really am," she added, more quietly now. "But this has to stop. I just…I can't."

And then she was gone, in a whirl of scent that he breathed in like it was oxygen. The door slammed behind her, and he knew he wouldn't see her again until all his questions were answered and his vengeance was had.

But it would be easier, now, to act. To do the things he had to do.

To keep them both safe.