49. boss/intern au

Ring, ring.

"Go away, I'm not here right now."

Agent Elizabeth Scott mutters to herself at her desk, glaring at her office phone on the other side of her small cubicle, a thick manila file folder in one hand and a half-eaten piece of buttered toast in the other. Completely overrun with work, with at least twenty different case files spread haphazardly across her work surface, the last thing she wants to do right now is answer the damn phone.

Especially considering that it's probably her boss calling with even more work for her to do.

Liz is a government psychologist and she would absolutely love her job if it involved a little less filing and a little more profiling. Although she's proved herself countless times to be a hard worker and a competent psychologist, she has been told time and time again by her boss, Harold, that she's simply too beneficial to their department to be promoted to things like treating actual patients and having an office.

So, Liz has been working for over three years now in this tiny cubicle, powering through more paperwork than one woman should be responsible for, all because she's too successful to succeed.

It's exhausting.

But she has always been driven to do her best at whatever task she is given, hence the ten additional files in her bag that she took home to read through last night and the bags under her eyes, evidence of no caffeine in over twenty-four hours.

Unacceptable.

But her boss won't see unintentional caffeine withdrawal as a reasonable excuse for not answering her phone so, with a pained sigh, Liz tosses her toast onto the small remaining piece of clean desk space and wheels herself across the short length of her cubicle and grab her phone in the middle of its fifth ring.

"Scott."

"Agent Scott, good to know your phone still works, I was getting worried," the vaguely amused tones of Harold Cooper sound in Liz's ear and she gives a little sigh, knowing that the kindly father-figure is not to blame for her unfulfilling career situation.

"Sorry about that, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Well, you can start by being an adult about this."

Liz freezes in her seat.

"Sir?"

"Look, Scott, I know how much you hate them but everyone has to do their part at some point."

Oh no.

"Sir, please –"

"I like you, Scott, and I know how hard you work so I've put this off for as long as possible."

"Sir, you don't –"

"I knew you wouldn't like it, Scott, which is why I'm not giving you a choice in the matter."

No.

"What?"

"He's on his way to you now. And be nice to him, Scott, he's just doing his job."

"But sir –"

And her boss hangs up on her.

Liz slams her phone down with a frustrated growl. Despite how reluctant Harold was to say the word, she knows exactly what he's referring to.

She has just been assigned a temporary employee.

Liz has worked here for three and a half years and has always refused temps. She has nothing against them specifically – they're usually just bespectacled high school teenagers looking to get something meaningful on their resume – but she simply works better alone. She's always been that way and frankly doesn't trust anyone else to do her job to her standards. That's how she's gotten this far in her career.

And she truly doesn't have anything for a temp to do, being such a control freak, and has always used that argument with Harold. What's the point of giving her a temp when they would just sit around for the whole summer in her cubicle with nothing to do? What's the point of that when the temp agency assigns them here to learn things? And, unlike some of her colleagues, Liz won't keep a temp around simply to fetch her coffee.

Even though she desperately needs some right now.

Liz groans, slumping forward to rest her head on her folded arms, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow her.

This will be horrible.

Maybe she can plead with Harold one last time, put in a last-ditch effort, she might be able to beat the temp here, maybe she can –

She hears a knock on her cubicle wall.

"Hello?"

Apparently not.

Liz quickly sits up straight, whirling around in her desk chair to face the newcomer.

Her eyes land on a man standing in the doorway of her cubicle, hand still raised in mid-knock, looking at her with a little concern. She was just collapsed on her desk in defeat, after all. Liz feels her cheeks start to heat in a blush at being caught in such a show of unprofessionalism but then she takes a second to actually look at the man.

He's of average height, fit and firm, slightly older, early fifties perhaps, closely shorn hair, warm green eyes, lightly tanned skin, and impeccably dressed in a brown, three-piece suit.

(And Liz starts to blush for a completely different reason. He's handsome.)

This can't possibly be her temp. He's an older, professional looking man. Not a nervous, babbling teenager.

And he's starting to look concerned for her sanity.

Liz tries to pull herself together, clearing her throat and quickly running a hand through her hair.

"Uh, sorry, yes, how can I help you?"

(Smooth.)

"Agent Scott?" he asks tentatively.

"Yes?" she phrases it like a question, still unsure who this attractive man is, but he seems to see it as a confirmation, smiling broadly and stepping forward into her small cubicle.

"I'm your assigned temporary employee, Raymond Reddington. You can call me Red, if you like," he offers her a hand and she shakes it mechanically, still seated in her office chair, thoroughly confused.

"You're the temp?" she blurts without thinking. "That can't be right."

He blinks and steps back a little, apparently trying giving her physical space to work things out. He chuckles a little when she just continues to frown at him, her hand still floating in the air front of her.

(Come on, Liz.)

Liz blinks and shakes her head a little, regaining control of her limbs to rub her face with both hands.

"I'm sorry," she mutters. "It's been a rough morning and I'm a little confused. You're saying you're my temp?"

"That's right," he confirms easily, leaning against her wrap-around desk on the far side of the cubicle, being careful not to sit on any file folders. "I know, not what you expected. I threw off the average age in the temp agency by about thirty years."

Liz cracks a smile. Well, she doesn't feel so bad now.

"No," she hurries to assure him. "No, that's all right, just took me by surprise a little, that's all. Usually they're in their teens, you know, not – um –"

He smiles good-naturedly at her fumbling.

"Old? It's okay, you can say it."

"No! No, that's not what I meant! I just, um, I, well, what brings you, uh, here?" she asks stupidly, trying to be tactful and failing spectacularly.

"Mid-life career change," he answers pleasantly. "I was a practicing lawyer for twenty years and, well, I got tired of it. Wanted a change."

Liz blinks. "So, you picked overworked government psychologist?"

The man, Red, laughs out loud. "Well, technically, I picked detail-oriented and challenging and this is what they gave me. I think it'll suit me just fine."

He gives her an admiring smile that is just a little too much to handle on only half a piece of toast and no coffee.

(She doesn't think he's referring to the job.)

"Well, then. It's nice to meet you," she says sincerely. He seems like a nice man, certainly complementary, and definitely better than what she was expecting. "But I'm afraid I don't really have anything for you to do."

Red blinks. "Well, what exactly do you do here? You mentioned you're overworked. Surely there must be something I can help with."

Liz sighs, preparing to try and explain her boring job in a way that won't immediately send him running for the hills. "Basically, I take these patient files," she says, becoming monotone out of habit and pointing around her cubicle to the mentioned objects like a flight attendant. "From practicing government psychologists, write a summary profile of the patients based on their notes, and then enter everything all into the computer system."

Red hums in thought. "That sounds…time consuming and…tedious."

Liz smiles ruefully. "It is."

"Aren't you qualified to practice?"

"I am," says Liz. "And that's what I'd rather be doing. But apparently I'm too good at filing."

Red frowns. "That's ridiculous. Have you put in for a promotion?"

"Repeatedly."

"And?"

"Denied. Repeatedly."

Red scoffs. She appreciates his frustration on her behalf, especially considering they've just met.

(It's rather endearing.)

"Well, the least I can do is help with the filing, right?"

Liz sighs, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. "Well, I'm the only one qualified to write up the final psych profiles."

"Okay," Red nods easily, not offended. "What about the computer entry? That sounds easy enough."

Liz grimaces. "It's a complicated system. And as irritating as it is, I actually prefer to do it myself. I'm a bit of a perfectionist. That's why I avoid temps at all costs, because I can't give you any work."

Red nods, thinking to himself. "All right, then."

"I'm sorry," Liz offers and she really is. She watches him push off from her desk, expecting him to bid her a good day and go back to Harold for a new assignment. She can expect a phone call about that and it won't be pleasant, that's for sure, she hopes that –

"Have you eaten yet today, Agent Scott?"

Except he's still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking at her with bright eyes, as though he's just gotten an idea.

"Excuse me?"

"Well," he says, stepping forward eagerly. "If I can't help you with your professional tasks, perhaps I can help you with your personal ones. You're overworked and I am here to help, after all. I get the feeling that you're so dedicated to your job, as unsatisfying as it is, that you tend to neglect yourself in the process."

(He's smart too.)

Liz gapes at him. "Uh, who's the profiler here again?" she says with a breathless laugh.

Red chuckles back. "Well, the stray piece of toast was a bit of a give-away, to be honest. But you also look exhausted. Would you like some real breakfast? With coffee?"

A coffee-fetcher? That's exactly what she didn't want.

"Look, I don't want to demean you to getting coffee, that's not fair, I –"

"Well, I defy all other temp stereotypes, shouldn't I try to do at least one thing right?"

And he gives her a crooked smile that shouldn't be nearly as comforting as it is.

(Maybe he can help her.)

He seems to sense her relent.

"How do you take your coffee, Agent Scott?" he asks gently.

Liz smiles at him, suddenly shy. "Two creams, one sugar. And it's Liz."

Red nods easily. "Then I'll be back soon…Lizzie."

And he's out the door before she can say anything else.

Well. That's something.


He's back within the hour with some delicious pastries and coffee so good it should be illegal.

"My god, this is heaven," Liz sighs after stuffing two mini muffins and a bear claw in her mouth in quick succession and washing it all down with perfectly prepared coffee.

She hears Red chuckle softly. He's sitting in a chair stolen from a nearby conference room and squeezed into her cubicle and has been slowly eating a turnover while watching her inhale her breakfast in a mixture of disbelief and awe.

"Well, I'm glad you like everything," he says happily. "I went to my favorite pastry place. It's not far from here, just a few blocks down the street."

Liz sighs contentedly, drinking her coffee slower now, feeling it absorb into the pastries in her stomach, making her feel pleasantly full. Hopefully she won't be asleep on her desk by noon.

"Well, I'll definitely have to stop by there sometime," she smiles at him, marveling at how much her mood has improved with some delicious food and pleasant company.

(Very pleasant.)

"So," starts Red after an appropriate pause. "I suppose my next assignment is lunch. What do you feel like?"

Liz laughs out loud, setting her coffee carefully on her desk. "Slow down, there, Red. I hardly ever have a breakfast like this. I may have to skip lunch altogether."

Instead of laughing at she expected, Red frowns at her. "You shouldn't skip meals, Lizzie, that's not good. At least have something light, like a salad."

Liz blinks, taken aback by his sudden concern. "It's okay, Red, I'll have something later," she smiles reassuringly at this strangely caring man.

(She's known him for less than a day and he's already fed her more than she's eaten in the past three days combined.)

Liz straightens up in her chair. "In the meantime, I have to get back to work," she informs him regretfully.

"Okay," he says, immediately gathering the pastry wrappers and his empty coffee cup to toss in the trash. "Would you like me to leave?"

Liz blinks. "Leave?" For some reason, she can't fathom an empty cubicle now. "No, no, that's okay. It's just data entry. Why don't you stay and keep me company? Tell me about yourself."

"Oh, all right," says Red, sounding pleasantly surprised at the idea. "What would you like to know?"

"Well, I must confess, I am curious as to how one receives a color for a nickname…"

And so, he talks and she types and it's not nearly as horrible as she thought having a temp would be. Although, she gets the feeling that Red is not a normal temp.

(And she's glad.)


This goes on for the next week, Red bringing her breakfasts of varying types, pastries, eggs, pancakes, all in convenient take-out containers with all the proper sides and utensils. And coffee. He never forgets her coffee. And it's always perfect.

(Rather like him.)

"You're spoiling me, Red," she tells him morning after morning. "How in the world will I fend for myself when the summer's over?"

He simply smiles and tells her she'll get by.

(She's not so sure.)

He always eats with her and when she's done and ready to start work, he cleans up and takes his place in the chair by her desk, telling her stories about himself and his previous job while she types up patient files. Somehow, the work goes quicker with someone at her side. His chatter keeps her focused and moving forward and, while it is still tedious, frustrating work, he makes it bearable.

(Company goes a long way.)

The more days that go by, the more coffee he brings her, the more stories he tells her, she starts to frown at the thought of him leaving, not there to welcome her in the mornings and stay late after work to hand her file after file as she types, trying to prolong her time with him.

(The thought of an empty cubicle seems even worse than before.)

He does occasionally ask to help her with her files, citing his boredom and lack of things to do with his hands. She always politely refuses and he relents and moves on, knowing not to push her and her perfectionist tendencies.

(But they both know he's wearing her down.)

And it's one quiet rainy afternoon that she finally gives in. She's not sure why. Perhaps it's the comfortable silence in her cubicle today. He's not talking as much, leaving them both to listen to the rain pattering on the building's roof and their respective breathing. It's not at all unpleasant and he hasn't asked yet today but the thought occurs to Liz and, for the first time, she doesn't immediately reject it.

(That's been happening with a lot of things lately.)

"Um, Red?" she asks tentatively, spinning a little in her chair to face him.

"Yes?" he responds right away. He was paying attention even though they weren't talking.

(And he was already staring at her.)

"Uh, would you consider helping me out today?"

His eyebrows raise but he knows better than to question it. "Of course!" he says eagerly. "What would you like me to do?"

"Well," Liz says, picking up the next file from her unending pile. "Can you read me this information in the order it's listed on the page? That might make the inputting process a little quicker, you know, if I don't have to keep looking down to read."

"Certainly," he says, taking the file from her and flipping it open. "So, I just start with the name and go on down?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind," she murmurs.

He glances up at her over the top of the folder, giving her a steady, patient look. "That's what I'm here for, remember, Lizzie?"

Liz smiles shyly and nods. "Yes."

"And you're in luck."

(She knows.)

"Why's that?"

"I'm an excellent reader."

She can't help a giggle at that. Silly man.

(But he's right. His voice is delightful to listen to, especially when he's spouting words like "schizophrenia" and "apraxia".)

They get into a system, Red reading and Liz typing, and it goes even quicker than before. Liz is happy to still be in charge of the main elements of her job and able to supervise the information going into the system and Red is happy to have something helpful to do. Plus, the rate they're getting through the files can't be beat.

(She just needed to trust him a bit.)

And the fact that Harold stops by to dump twenty more files on her desk, giving her and Red a curious look as he does so, doesn't bother her nearly as much as it used to.


It's a few weeks after that, about halfway through the summer, that something changes. They've been going on with their routine (eating, talking, reading, typing) when Liz has to take a sick day. It's only a stupid doctor's check-up that she completely forgot about but it's the first work day since Red came knocking on her cubicle and for some reason that means something to her.

She calls him as early as she dares, not wanting to wake him, but he sounds perfectly awake when he picks up the phone at seven in the morning.

"And I just completely forgot about the appointment, Red," she's telling him, speaking fast. "I can't believe it, thank god the doctor's office called yesterday to remind me otherwise that would have been awkward, but –"

"Really, Lizzie, it'll be fine, I'm sure the government will continue to function while its best psychologist has a check-up. Relax."

"I mean, maybe I should come in for a half day after lunch, the appointment won't take long, I wonder –"

"Lizzie, no."

She is surprised by the firmness of his voice. After all, Liz is used to being in charge in the office. This is…different. Her stunned silence gives him a chance to speak.

"Don't come in, Lizzie, take the day. You deserve it, no one works harder in that department than you. So, please, I don't want to see you until tomorrow."

Since when did he become her boss? He's her temp, for god's sake. And the amount of times Harold has tried to tell her to take vacation like that is simply laughable.

(And Liz would be lying to herself if his words "I don't want to see you" didn't hurt her a little, despite the fact that she can hear the teasing note in his voice and knows it's all in jest. How completely irrational of her.)

"But, Red," she protests weakly, already mostly convinced. "What will you do today?"

"Oh, I'll go into the office, of course," he says, as if it's obvious. "I have to cover for my boss, you know. You owe me one, by the way."

She lets out a laugh despite herself. "But, Red, I won't be there. What will you do?"

"Well, Agent Scott," he says patiently. "You have spent a month and a half training me to input psych data into the most redundant computer system known to man. How about you let me give you a true day off and I'll tackle a file or two?"

"But –" Liz blusters, completely taken aback. She thought he'd been satisfied with reading her the material to type. She thought he'd given up trying to do her work for her.

(She wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed.)

"Red, I haven't been training you, not really –"

"I've been observing, Lizzie."

(Oh, she knows that. She can feel the heat of his gaze on the side of her face even now, with him on the other side of town.)

"Are – are you sure?" Liz stutters, feeling at once wildly uncomfortable with letting someone else do her work and somehow completely confident that Red will do just fine. Odd.

"Absolutely, Lizzie," Red assures her, a little bit of that firmness coming back into his voice. "Enjoy your day off and I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay," she mumbles weakly.

"And Lizzie?"

"Yes?"

"I promise I'll let you check all my work when you get back."

She's still laughing when they hang up.


Liz spends the day trying to ignore her completely illogical unease over letting Red do something for her that she knows he's completely capable of. And she mostly succeeds.

It's not that she doesn't trust Red to do the files. In reality, it's ridiculously easy work. She just isn't used to letting anyone else do her job for her. But, she supposes, that comes from being alone and responsible for so much for as long as she has been. She is wary of trust. But she knows Red can do it. And, worse comes to worse, she can correct his work, just like he said.

(And somewhere in the back of her mind, she marvels at how understanding and patient Red is with her picky tendencies. A lesser man would have lost patience with her long ago. Which is probably why she's still single. She supposes she is a certain breed of workaholic. But Red is teaching her to loosen up. Besides, there's nothing wrong with letting a willing man help to lighten the load.

… And she thinks there's a valuable life lesson in there somewhere.)

Her morning doctor's appointment flies by easily, completely routine, and she attempts to make the most of her afternoon off, her first in quite a long while. She unplugs her headphones and turns her speakers up for once while giving her house a thorough cleaning. Perhaps not the most exciting task for the first day off she's had in ages but housework is something that unfortunately gets ignored when she comes home late at night with a bag full of files and takeout. And cleaning is organized work, something she enjoys and takes pleasure in the mindlessness of.

(And maybe she sings a little louder than she normally would and that's fine. She wonders if Red would join in.

She misses him.)


Liz wakes up early the next day, eager to get into the office to see what Red managed to accomplish while she was gone.

She's only a little nervous.

She beats him there, as she usually does, since he's the one that stops for their breakfast, and tries not to panic when she steps into her cubicle, turns on her light, and sees –

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Her whole wraparound desk is completely empty, no trace of the disorganized clutter of files that have covered the surface for the majority of the last three years. What happened here yesterday? Did Red steal her files and commit some weird form of corporate espionage? Because there's no way that he got them all into –

Liz rushes to her computer and turns it on – noting offhand that the screen has been polished – quickly pulling up the psych documentation program and –

They're all here. All the files. Well, most of them. There's about twenty that she doesn't see, where –

"They're in the drawer to your right."

Liz whips around, a hand clutching her chest, heart hammering a mile a minute, to see Red standing in the doorway to her cubicle with breakfast containers in hand.

"Sorry," he murmurs, smiling gently. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Liz breaths heavily, blinking at him.

"How – how did you –"

"I'm a fast typist," he shrugs, seemingly thinking nothing of it, moving into the cubicle to set up their breakfast, just like he does every morning. "I didn't get all of them done, unfortunately, Harold told me to go home. But I spent the lunch break cleaning up your desk space a little. Because let me tell you, there were paper clips everywhere once all those folders were moved, so I re-organized a little, I hope you don't mind. This system might be a little easier for you now, we'll have to see. If you don't like it, I can easily change some things around, I –"

But then he stops talking because suddenly her arms are wrapped around him in a hug and his nose is in her hair and she feels him take a sharp breath inward but she doesn't care because she just can't believe it.

(And she's wanted to hug him since long before he gathered her paper clips.)

It only takes a second for Red to wrap his arms around her in return and they just stand there for a while, Liz feeling so grateful for this man, this temp, who invaded her cubicle and her life and somehow made everything better.

"Thank you, Red," she murmurs into his shoulder. And his face is pressed into her hair so she feels his next words, both in the movement of his lips and in the rumble in his chest.

(It's delightful.)

"You're welcome, Lizzie."


Things are different after that. They share duties, some days Red types and some days it's Liz. She welcomes the arrival of more files in her incoming box (courtesy of Red, a habit from his lawyer days, as well as her new outgoing box, perfect for the files already inputted) and she starts to look forward to them instead. Because it means more time with Red.

(And she enjoys being with him very much.)

They work faster when Liz sits in Red's old seat, scanning the file and quickly developing a profile on the patient, dictating while Red types. And Red is a very quick typist, much faster than Liz, if he doesn't stop to ask Liz questions. Which he usually does.

He's a naturally curious person.

Liz doesn't mind. She enjoys explaining the ins and outs of profiling to him. And she gets a chance to show off a little, flexing her psychologist muscles in a way that her current job doesn't allow.

(And she can't help but notice the way he's seems endlessly impressed with her knowledge. It's very flattering.)

They spend many a late night discussing the many patients that cross her desk, debating the merits of the human mind.

(It's some of the most stimulating conversation Liz has had since she was in a classroom full of like-minded peers. That shouldn't be surprising though. She and Red are startlingly similar.)

It's one of these late nights, the rest of the cubicles empty, that they find themselves deep in discussion about one particular patient.

"He's obsessive compulsive."

"How do you know that?" Red asks, sounding a little in awe.

"It's very clear in his habits," Liz states simply.

"Oh, please," scoffs Red. "You didn't say anything about repeated hand-washing or anything like that."

Liz chuckles. Sometimes Red likes to pick a fight even though he knows she's right. She tries not to find it cute. "OCD doesn't always manifest in fear of contamination. It can be represented in more subtle ways."

"Like what?"

Liz looks up from the case file. "Well, in this man's case, it reflects in his relationships."

"His relationships?" Red turns away from the computer screen, the file completely typed up in record time.

Liz nods, closing the folder with finality. "Yes. His sessions indicate the same repeated tendencies in all his long-term relationships. He is repeatedly accused by his partners of being overwhelming and controlling. But according to his session notes, he doesn't feel he is. In some cases, he is unsure about his partner's feelings, despite the duration and strength of the relationship. At the best of times, he feels he is merely being protective and attentive but, in reality, he's smothering. The fact that this behavior is unintentionally repeated is a clear sign of relationship OCD."

"I had no idea that could happen," murmurs Red.

Liz nods calmly. "It's more common than you'd think."

Red frowns. "Well, what if it's not OCD? Maybe people like that are just misunderstood."

"Maybe," allows Liz, getting up and crossing her cubicle to put the file in her outgoing box. She stays there, tired of sitting, and turns to look at Red, leaning against her desk. "Though that kind of behavior is a little worrying."

"You think so?" questions Red idly, following her lead by standing from his seat at her computer and stretching a little. "If his only symptoms are wanting to be around his partner, is that really a symptom? Maybe he just experiences his relationships very intensely."

"It's possible," Liz says, nodding. "I think we've all felt a little obsessive in our relationships at one time or another. Especially in the early stages."

Red nods thoughtfully and steps closer to her, the atmosphere seeming to thicken in the room as he does so. "Yes, some people have that effect on you."

(They're not talking about the patient anymore.)

Liz watches him approach her, her heart fluttering a little. "What kind of effect?"

"Oh, you know the kind," Red murmurs, looking into her eyes now, his gaze dark and warm and affectionate. "It draws you in, it's very inviting. The kind of person that keeps you interested and compelled and engaged even after a long time of knowing one another. You start to wonder at all the little things and everything they do seems extraordinary."

He stops very close to her, looking at her meaningfully, his eyes starting to burn a little with a feeling, a message for her. She stares back, breathless and excited.

"I think I know that kind of person," she murmurs back to him. "Absolutely devoted to their partner, helpful, loving, caring. Very attractive qualities."

"Hmm, you think so?" his voice is deep and she sees his hands raise very slowly, coming up to cradle her face oh so gently.

"Mhm…" she hums as they lean in together, the most natural thing in the world, and when their lips touch it's so easy and right. Liz's hands slide up Red's chest and over his shoulders to cup the back of his head, sighing happily into his mouth as their lips slide over one another's. He hums deep in his chest and the feeling makes Liz press closer and it's wonderful.

(It's never felt so good to trust someone.)

When he pulls away, it's far too soon and she feels cold so she presses closer to him, tucking her head under his chin and he rubs her back lovingly.

(She's never been more comfortable.)

"Lizzie," he whispers after a minute. "Can I ask you a question?"

She just hums, no real words involved, her fingers still caressing his neck.

"Will you go out with me?"

Her eyes open slowly and her mouth curls into a smile before a sobering thought occurs to her. She pulls back from him reluctantly with a grimace.

"Actually, um, there's kind of a strict policy on inter-office dating," she mumbles

Red frowns. "Well, I'm a temp, so technically we're not co-workers," he reasons. "So, this doesn't count, does it?"

Liz frowns. "Honestly, it's probably close enough."

"Oh," Red mutters, frowning. "Well, then, what –"

But then an idea occurs to Liz and it will fix everything and it's honestly perfect so she takes a step away from Red to flatten her hair and straighten her blouse and altogether look somewhat like she wasn't just making out with her temp.

(She feels like giggling.)

"Mr. Reddington," she starts formally, seeing his immediate frown at her usage of his surname. "I'm sorry to say that I have some bad news for you."

"Oh?"

"You're fired."

Liz manages to keep a straight face as she watches his eyebrows raise in surprise and then furrow in confusion.

(He's adorable.)

He stands there, frowning, until she gives him a meaningful look and then comprehension dawns in his eyes.

"Oh, I see. That is unfortunate," he rumbles, a smile slowly spreading across his face as he looks at her, his eyes dancing. "But, in that case, Agent Scott, as an unemployed man not at all associated with this office, can I ask you a question?"

Liz just beams at him.

(She knew he'd get it.)

"Will you go out with me?"

And she throws herself across her cubicle and into his arms, kissing him enthusiastically.

(Oh, this is definitely her new favorite thing to do.)

After a moment, she pulls back from him a scant inch to murmur a quick sentence.

"By the way, breakfast is on me tomorrow."

He quirks an eyebrow, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Oh, yes? And where should I meet you?"

Liz darts forward to steal one more quick kiss.

"My place."