The Very Definition Of Complicated

Disclaimer: I do not own her, or him, or the show. I make no money from this.

Author's Note: This was supposed to be a one-shot, and then when Hestia read the first chapter, she said something to the effect of, "Okay, so this is just the start of a steamy affair between them, right? You're writing another chapter. There's more. ...Right?" So…here's the 'more'. :)

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Chapter 2

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Sitting on an expensive couch in his newest borrowed residence, Reddington stared at the large, custom-built wall of heavy wood bookshelves in front of him and wondered how many of the leather-bound volumes had been read or referenced by the owner of the house, and how many had been bought simply for the aesthetic. He decided he didn't care.

On the small end table beside him, his phone began to buzz.

Reddington picked up his phone, fixed a smile on his face, and answered cheerfully, "Lizzie! What can I do for you?"

There was a pause before her voice came over the line, low and serious. "…funny you should choose that phrasing."

Reddington's careful smile vanished as he did the mental math. It had been almost six weeks, and neither had spoken about it. He thought he'd done an excellent job of maintaining his customary business-as-usual mix of flamboyance, disrespect of authority, and occasional scary severity while continuing to work with the task force on cases, and while he could tell Liz had been uncomfortable for a week or so afterward, she'd snapped back to her usual, only slightly sour temperament relatively quickly after that.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen. Additional encounters, following closely on the heels of the first? A refusal to work with him? Her arriving, tearful, on his doorstep, apologizing and claiming she'd made a mistake?

More than a month and three Blacklisters later, and none of the above had happened. A more melodramatic man might have started to doubt the encounter had ever occurred, but Reddington held fiercely to the fact that it had been real. He had become adept at editing the scene in his mind, imagining her touch had meant more, and concentrating on how her face had felt, cupped in his hands.

Reddington proceeded cautiously, choosing his words carefully. "Lizzie, based on your complete avoidance of certain subjects over the last six weeks, I hesitate to ask with any specificity what it is you're looking for from me tonight. I'm going to do my best not to assume anything, but you should probably clarify what—"

"Where are you?" she interrupted.

"I'm at what passes for my home this week."

"Give me an address."

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Reddington met her at the front door, his shirtsleeves rolled up, tie missing but vest still in place, and glass of scotch in hand. Liz didn't bother to wait to be invited in, and pushed past him into the foyer as soon as he opened the door.

Liz looked him up and down somewhat suspiciously. "Where's Dembe? You don't usually answer your own door."

"After your phone call I asked him to run a few errands for me," Reddington answered smoothly.

"Errands?" she repeated, some of her stoicism lifting to be replaced by a note of disbelief. "This late in the evening?"

"It's hardly the strangest order I've ever given him. The sum total of my requests over the years have secured my reputation with the man as a fairly mercurial eccentric. I have to work hard these days to get him to even bat an eye."

"And he'll be gone until…?"

"…I tell him to come back," Reddington answered, his voice low.

Liz narrowed her eyes and studied Reddington's face for a moment before nodding. She looked up and down the hallways that extended in either direction off the foyer where they stood. Immediately in front of her was a large, open, high glass-ceilinged room with no furniture, just plants and tiles that looked like it led directly to the pool and patio she assumed a residence like this would have.

Reddington watched Liz carefully as she took in the immediately visible layout of the house. "Are you looking for a couch? Or a bed?" Reddington took a sip of his scotch, regarding her over the top of his glass as her eyes flicked quickly to his face. "Or perhaps just another wall?" he added bluntly.

"The kitchen, actually," Liz said, looking at him evenly.

Reddington cocked an eyebrow and gestured with his scotch glass down the hallway to her left. She set off in that direction without looking back.

By the time Reddington joined her in the modern, black and white tiled kitchen, she had already found and pulled the one remaining chocolate mousse from the refrigerator, and was opening drawers in search of a spoon.

"To your right," Reddington instructed. Liz found the correct drawer, grabbed a spoon, and picked up the dessert, bumping the drawer closed with her hip. She took an initial bite, and licked the spoon after she swallowed, not looking at Reddington.

"How do you know someone wasn't saving that?" he asked.

"Were you saving this?" she asked, still not looking at him.

"No."

Liz nodded, taking another bite. She took a moment to look around the kitchen, which was quite large, with dark marble counter tops. She was standing at a massive center island, and found herself wondering again what kind of garden or pool area was hidden by the late hour behind the house: the wall across from her was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, but the dark night beyond them caused the glass to turn into a surface that merely reflected her own image back at her.

Liz bent forward, leaning her weight on her elbows on the cold counter top. "I've been thinking…" She took another bite of the mousse. "Things were awfully one-sided last time," she said around her mouthful. "Not exactly… 'fair'."

"The way you outlined what you were looking for at the time didn't make it seem like 'fairness' was something you found necessary in the arrangement," Reddington replied, making his way into the kitchen to place his now empty glass in the deep sink just to Liz's right. He leaned casually against the counter next to her, studying her. "Is that what you're here for tonight? Repayment?"

Liz took another bite of the chocolate. "Come on, Reddington. Don't tell me you've never arrived at someone's house late at night with little-to-no warning in order to collect on a debt." She paused to look up at Reddington, a very slight note of a challenge in her otherwise stoic expression.

Reddington didn't move for a long moment. He let his eyes wander over Liz's form, elbows on the marble surface in front of her, bent at the waist, weight shifted to one foot. Very slowly, he made his way around until he stood directly behind her, and as she took another bite of the mousse, he placed the flat of his palm under her torso and pulled her upright, taking a single step forward to bring her closer again to the edge of the counter.

They stood, staring at their reflection in the glass in front of them, his face just over her right shoulder, his hand still flat across her abdomen, bracing her back against him. Reddington's fingers moved slightly, dropped just an inch, and stilled. Liz didn't move to correct him, and didn't speak. Slowly, he eased his hand down until his fingers brushed the top of her pants, and stopped again, still staring at her reflection in the window. She said nothing, but Reddington was acutely aware of how fast her breaths were coming, the muscles of her abdomen tensing under his hand.

His other hand joined the first at her waist, and paused—waiting again for an objection that didn't come—before popping open the top button of her pants.

As if to underscore how little sentimentality she had for the events occurring, Liz reached forward and picked up the mousse, spooning another bite into her mouth.

Reddington didn't wait for her to swallow before dropping his right hand lower under the edge of her pants, stretching his fingers down.

The sound of the glass dish holding the remaining mousse clattering against the marble as Liz roughly set it down echoed in the quiet kitchen. She didn't drop the spoon, but wrapped it tightly in the fist she pressed into the counter surface, while her left hand clutched at the rounded edge. Reddington watched her reflection in the dark window in front of them as she bit down on her lip and closed her eyes. She didn't make a sound.

"It's been six weeks," Reddington whispered in her ear, using his left hand to grip her hip, holding her steady against him. "You haven't mentioned what happened. Not once. So why now? Why today?"

"I don't know… I guess I just didn't feel like—" her breath caught, and she pushed back into him. "—going to the gym."

"Have some stress to work off, hmm? Bad day?" he breathed in her ear.

"Today was fine," Liz ground out, gripping the counter harder.

"But three years ago….that was a bad day?"

Liz opened her eyes and found him still staring intently at her in the window's reflection. She glared back. "I didn't come here to talk about Tom," she said, her breath hitching. Of course he knew what today was.

"But that is why you're here," Reddington continued. "You want to mark this date with something else. Give it a different flavor, a different color. So next year you can remember this—chocolate mousse and my hand in this kitchen, instead of white cake, champagne, and your husband."

Liz braced a palm flat on the marble counter in front of her and arched her back as she closed her eyes again. "There's a knife block within reach, Reddington. I suggest you stop talking."

Reddington pushed forward and adjusted his hand, and was rewarded with an audible gasp and what he thought would have been a whimper if she hadn't so stubbornly clamped down on it. Her fingers scratched for purchase on the smooth edge of the counter, and she turned her head to the right, her forehead brushing against his cheek. She opened her eyes and looked up to find him staring down at her with such intensity that even though his hand movements didn't change, she inexplicably felt them more powerfully, and a twisting ache she hadn't felt before shot through her chest.

Neither one looked away for a long moment, their eyes locked as she panted and twisted in his arms, but Reddington blinked first, finally dropping his eyes to her lips with a sharp, quick exhalation, and Liz immediately turned her face away, her gaze falling to the marble expanse to her left, her brow furrowed.

"He never deserved you, Lizzie; even the man he pretended to be didn't deserve you. And now he doesn't deserve a single second of your concentration or concern, ever again. The best revenge in a situation like this is to continue, with the knowledge that the loss of him in your life was not a loss, and show him that your life is unquestionably improved by his absence—"

"Reddington, I swear to God, if you don't shut up—"

Liz's voice cut off abruptly and Reddington heard the dropped spoon clatter across the marble counter top as she splayed both palms flat on the surface in front of her. Her knees bent, giving out underneath her, but Reddington wound his left arm around her waist, pulling her back against him tightly. She arched, and her head dropped back onto his shoulder.

Reddington was torn. Half of him wanted to close his eyes and just commit the feel of her shaking in his arms to memory. The other half—the half that won—couldn't tear his eyes away from their reflection in the window in front of him: the way her chest rose and fell with each huffed breath, and the way her brow creased and her eyebrows worried together almost as if she were in pain. Almost the way she looked when she cried.

Liz didn't make a sound, save for the noise of her breaths, which were still coming hard and fast, and while she was aware of the fact that Reddington was supporting almost her entire weight, she couldn't bring herself to care. His left arm held her tightly, and even through her haze she could tell his breaths were almost as ragged as hers. After a long minute, once she'd come back down from her momentary high, she finally got her feet back under her. Biting her bottom lip, she slipped out of Reddington's embrace and took several steps away down the length of the counter, her back to him.

"Lizzie…?" Reddington asked quietly after a long silence.

She shook her head, and turned to look at him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm—" she broke off, and swallowed, her eyes skipping around the room, lighting on everything but him. She shook her head again, and turned to leave.

"Lizzie, I need to know you're okay before you go get behind the wheel of a car," Reddington's voice followed her down the hallway as she made her way toward the entrance of the house. She pulled open the ornate door and walked swiftly down the steps toward her car, ignoring the sound of her name as Reddington sternly called after her again from the doorstep.

As she started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, Reddington removed his phone from his pocket and dialed. Holding it to his ear, he waited. "Are you near?" he asked when Dembe answered. "Drop what you're doing. Agent Keen just left; please confirm she gets home safely." Reddington moved to end the call, but paused first to add, "From a distance. If at all possible." He watched the red of her taillights disappear through the gate, counted to ten, and turned back inside.

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M again. Am I still doing it right…? This is my first attempt at this rating, so please let me know how I'm doing.