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: I have a plan this time! I'm not just writing whatever pops into my head next! This is a big step for me. ;) I've got 5-6 chapters all planned out. There are notes and bullet points and everything. I feel very adult about this. It's weird. (Despite the fact that I *am* an actual adult.) - - - - This was written when I actually wrote this chapter several weeks ago. Keep reading the a/n at the start of chapters to see how things actually ended up. ;)

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Chapter 3

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Dembe let Liz into Red's hotel suite before excusing himself, stating he would be in his room if they needed him, and left the two of them alone.

"Why did you refuse to give us a name at the office today?" Liz asked, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want a name."

"Lizzie, I'm trying to give you what you need, not what you ask for." Reddington folded the newspaper he was reading and placed it on the table in front of him, leaning forward briefly from his position on the couch to do so before he settled back again into the deep cushions.

"I need a name. We're stalled—we need the next step in this puzzle, and one of the names on that client list has information. You know which one is the most likely. So stop being so stubborn, and just help for once," Liz demanded.

"As I told you this afternoon, and as I will tell you again now, the list you have is a waste of your time; you're getting bogged down in the minutiae, and if I—"

Red stopped talking as Liz peeled off her jacket and tossed it challengingly on a nearby chair. "The main reason I came here tonight was for information, Reddington," she said, walking slowly toward where Red sat.

"'The main reason'," he repeated, watching her progress across the room. "So am I to assume there's a secondary purpose to this visit as well?"

Liz began to unbutton her blouse, revealing a tight white tank underneath. The blouse was discarded in the same fashion as her jacket had been. Reddington uncrossed his legs as Liz approached.

"I'm not leaving without the information I want," she said, coming to a stop between his knees and looking down at him with resolve. Reddington said nothing, his face a mask.

Liz reached out and grabbed Reddington's tie, pulling it from beneath his vest and gently tugging him forward by it until he leaned toward her enough that she had him comfortably within reach. She slowly worked the knot loose, and pulled his tie free, tossing it to the side as she quietly, but matter-of-factly, said, "After the last time, I made up my mind not to do this again."

"Really? And why is that?" Reddington asked, tilting his head to one side as he looked up at her.

"Because I don't actually think this is fair to either one of us. Or necessarily healthy."

"As I've said before, I didn't think 'fair' was something you were shooting for with this arrangement, and as for 'healthy'… well—" Reddington cocked an eyebrow. "—it's always good to get the blood pumping, isn't it?"

Liz let her eyes rove over Reddington's face, drop to his shoulders, and slide down his arms to where he had his hands resting on his thighs. She bit her lip, and didn't respond to his rhetorical question.

Reddington studied her silence for a moment before continuing in a less jovial tone, "That said… if this is something you regret each time, then no: we shouldn't keep doing this."

Liz's eyes snapped back up to his, and she gave him a withering look mixed with a touch of anger. "I'm not an impressionable coed under the spell of her professor," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I may not have my life completely in the order I'd like at this particular moment in time, but don't paint me as some teenager who has sex because she's bored and doesn't understand the consequences."

"I think you're dismissing the coed/professor scenario a little quickly, Lizzie, that sounds like it could actually be quite a bit of f—"

Liz leaned forward, placing a knee deep on the couch, next to Reddington's hip. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she brought her other knee up on to the couch on the other side of him, and he unconsciously lifted his hands into the air, drawing his shoulders back, as if he didn't have permission to touch her yet, despite her being the one to climb into his lap.

"Tell me who to talk to, Reddington," Liz instructed, splaying her knees a bit wider to settle herself more firmly in his lap.

Reddington's jaw worked, and he pursed his lips. "No."

Liz took one of Reddington's hands in both of hers, and without breaking eye contact with him, lifted the hem of her shirt to place his palm against her side, high under the fabric. "I want a name," she said.

"While I'm not in any way complaining about…this behavior…" Reddington motioned with his free hand, indicating the woman in his lap. "…what you're currently doing will not loosen my lips on the subject of that list, Lizzie," Reddington said, his voice low.

Liz leaned forward, placing her mouth at Reddington's ear as his other hand found her waist; it too slipped under the tank to smooth across her skin. "Give me a name," she breathed.

Reddington made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. "I'm not—"

"A name," she demanded in a firm whisper, rolling her hips.

Reddington dropped his hands from her ribs to her hips to still them. "Stop asking me for a name," he said, his voice tight.

"Why?" she asked, still at his ear.

"You're not going to get the answer you want at this particular moment," Red warned.

"Mmm. And why not?" Liz pulled back, running her hands up over his shoulders, smoothing them along the sides of his neck, and stretching her fingers to scratch lightly at the short hair at the back of his head.

Reddington's eyes slipped closed, his brow slightly worried. "Because…right now? The only name I can think of is 'Elizabeth Keen'."

Liz pushed backwards, and slid off of Reddington's lap to sit on the coffee table directly behind her. She crossed her legs and leaned back on her hands, tilting her head to watch the man in front of her as he sighed in frustration and opened his eyes.

"I signed up to be used for sex; I don't remember agreeing to torture."

"I'm sure you've been through worse; this isn't that bad," Liz replied mildly.

"I'm sure you don't understand how I feel about you; this is that bad," Reddington fired back evenly.

Liz narrowed her eyes. "See, now that tip-toes us close to something other than…what you 'signed up for'." She paused before adding, "Don't do that."

Reddington leaned forward and grabbed one of Liz's ankles, pulling her foot up into his lap, where he quickly unlaced the utilitarian boot she'd made a staple in her wardrobe of late. "What are you doing?" Liz asked, frowning at his methodical actions as he replaced her foot on the floor and tossed her boot to the side of the couch.

Reddington grasped her other boot and set to work on it, tugging it from her foot and placing it next to the first on the floor before answering, "It's typically easier to take your pants off if your shoes have already been removed."

Liz opened her mouth to reply, but it took her a moment too long to formulate an answer, and Reddington tilted his head and stared at her evenly, as if to confirm he wasn't backing down from today's particular game of 'Chicken'.

"Who says my pants are coming off tonight?" Liz asked, standing and walking around the back of the couch to the dining table, which stood in front of an impressive marble fireplace. She was aware that the distance she'd just put between Reddington and herself meant he'd won that round. She grabbed the decanter in the center of the table and one of the four tumblers that surrounded it on a decorative silver tray, splashing a small amount into the glass. She swallowed the one mouthful she'd poured, and picked up the decanter again to refill. Without looking back at Reddington, she asked, "You're not drinking tonight?"

"You should probably put that down." Reddington's voice was low, and close, and Liz didn't have time to turn around before his hands circled her waist.

"Really? Why is that?" Liz asked argumentatively, even as she obediently replaced the decanter on the silver tray.

Reddington had the clasp of her pants undone before she realized his hands had moved, and his right slid down under the fabric as he murmured in her ear, "Because I learned what you like last time."

He wasn't wrong. Liz drew in a shuddering breath and immediately laid her head back on Reddington's shoulder behind her, biting her lip to keep from making any noise.

"You've been very quiet; every time," Reddington noted, his lips at her ear. "Don't hold back on my account."

"You make a lot of assumptions about me, Reddington," Liz breathed, her eyes closed. She'd moved her right hand to grab his wrist, holding it in place, as if she thought he planned on removing it from its current position sometime soon. "How do you know that I'm—" Liz gasped as he adjusted his movements. "—a vocal person in these type of situations?"

Reddington lifted his left hand and laid it gently around the front of Liz's neck, her chin still high with her head thrown back on his shoulder. Liz thought absently that she should probably be more concerned that one of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted had his hand wrapped around her throat, but she found that his right hand made it difficult to care about what his left was doing. He ghosted his hand up the length of her neck to her chin, and used his thumb to pull down on her lower lip, freeing it from between her teeth.

"You're biting your lip quite a bit. That's not one of your usual habits—you're trying to stay silent." His thumb ran across her lip again, and his voice dropped. "Don't."

Liz shuddered and let out a ragged breath before she angled her head forward, enveloping Red's thumb in her mouth, causing him to make a short, swallowed noise midway between a moan and a whine.

The noise was ultimately what did it. Liz yanked back on the wrist she had her hand around, and spun to face him, suddenly desperate for more contact. She shoved her pants down over her hips, stepping on them to remove them completely as she reached forward for Reddington's belt. When she fumbled with it, he pushed her hands away and took care of the belt, button, and zipper himself as Liz scooted back onto the edge of the table. She reached forward immediately, grabbing Reddington by the shirt collar on either side, and dragged him forward to stand between her legs. He wasted no time, and pushed forward into her. She drew in a quick breath, her hands moving from his collar up to either side of his face.

They both stilled, their eyes locked, the sudden lack of movement in sharp contrast to their frantic scramble a second before to arrive in the position they now found themselves. Reddington thought Liz looked almost surprised, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, though no air passed between them as she held the breath she'd drawn in.

Reddington began to move, but Liz's hands tightened, one moving around to the back of his neck, and she shook her head, whispering, "Stay! Please, just… stay… just…" Words failed her, and she raised her eyebrows slightly, pleading with him to understand. Reddington nodded dutifully, his fingers digging into her hips where he held her to him.

After a long moment, just when Reddington thought he was about to go mad, Liz closed her eyes briefly and gave a small nod, flexing her hips slightly in encouragement. She wrapped her legs around him as he began to move.

They held each other's gaze, moving against each other slowly. Liz had never been one to keep her eyes open during this type of activity; she'd always preferred the lights out, or her eyes closed or directed, unfocused, at the ceiling or somewhere equally unimportant. It wasn't that she didn't want to see who she was with, she'd just felt that staring your partner down during sex was a little too aggressive, and not at all romantic. But now, this—looking unflinchingly into Reddington's eyes, aware of how his brow furrowed as he thrust forward, seeing the different ways his face twisted with desire, watching as his lips pulled back over his teeth as he hissed—was one of the most powerfully erotic things Liz had ever experienced.

Reddington leaned forward, just barely, bringing his face closer to hers. When she didn't look away or object, he dropped his gaze to her lips, and she unconsciously licked them, biting her bottom lip briefly. His intent was clear, and Liz suddenly felt a swell of simultaneous panic and desire. She felt drunk, like her decisions couldn't be trusted in the current haze of their fervor, and she had serious doubts when it came to her initial instinct to pull him to her and close the gap between their lips.

She wasn't thinking clearly. This wasn't a decision she should make right now.

She'd distanced herself so well the first night. He'd barely touched her, and she'd made it clear it wasn't personal. She'd been in control the whole time.

And while he definitely touched her the second time, it was after her unspoken but very obvious invitation—a silent instruction, even—and had again been on her terms, for her purpose. He'd gotten nothing that night. While her flight from the premises could have been handled in a more dignified fashion, she'd still been in control of the events.

Tonight had very quickly spiraled way out of control.

Liz let her eyes slip closed and she felt his breath on her lips, his nose brushing hers. His right hand moved from her hip to the middle of her back, applying pressure to arch her into him, before he moved it to the back of her head, steadying her for a kiss as he angled his head to one side.

"No." The word ripped from her mouth just as his lips brushed hers, and Liz pulled back, catching at his forearm and tugging his hand away from her head. With her eyes still closed, she missed the anguished wince Reddington gave at her word.

"May I ask why not?" he inquired, his voice quiet and tight as he stilled his movements, placing his admonished hand flat on the table next to Liz's hip.

"It'll complicate things," she panted, opening her eyes and focusing her gaze over his left shoulder at nothing in particular.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but this," he said, raising an eyebrow, "is already complicated."

"I don't want complicated," she said desperately, applying pressure with her heels, indicating she was displeased with the sudden lack of movement. Reddington didn't move. "Tom was complicated. I want simple." She moved her hips, again trying to coax Reddington back into motion. Still nothing. She pulled back and fixed him with an impatient glare. "But you're shaping up to be just as bad as my ex-husband," she finished in a frustrated voice.

Reddington's jaw clenched, and she noticed his left eye twitch. After a moment, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, his brow furrowed. "Lizzie…" he murmured, shaking his head gently, "if you can't say something nice… for God's sake… don't say anything at all."

"You asked me—"

"And now I see the error in that decision, so please… do us both a favor and stop talking so I can close my eyes and pretend you just said something kind to me instead."

Liz immediately felt a flash of regret, and took a breath, ready to respond, but Reddington moved a hand up to cover her mouth. "I said stop talking," he ground out, moving faster. After a moment he released her mouth, dropping his hand between their bodies, and she grasped at his shirt, unable to continue thinking logically about what she'd just said.

Several minutes later, Reddington had Liz gasping and clutching at his shoulders, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she shuddered in his arms. He held her tightly to him, and finished fast after her, his left arm wrapped around her waist, his right hand tangled in her hair.

Liz almost thought she heard her name on one of his short, harsh exhalations, but dismissed it when he pulled away from her quickly, leaving her to slide off the table and pull on the discarded clothing at her feet.

He'd only moved a few feet away, but had kept his back to her. She moved slowly to the couch, where she leaned down to shove her feet into her boots. Once she finished replacing her second shoe, she straightened and crossed back to Reddington, who had turned to face the table again, and was now pouring additional alcohol into Liz's abandoned tumbler. She reached out and gently pinched the fabric of the back of his vest and gave it a light tug. When he didn't turn or respond to her, she asked hesitantly, "What do you wish I'd said? Reddington? What… 'kind thing'… did you imagine me saying to you?" No response. "Do you wish I'd said this meant something to me?" Liz prompted. "That I want more? That I trust you?"

"Lizzie—" Reddington warned.

"That I love you?" Liz pushed.

Reddington look over his shoulder at her and gave her a stern, cold look. "Don't."

"You're mad at me," she said, thinking again how badly tonight had gone off the rails.

"No. I'm not mad. I'm furious." Reddington swallowed a mouthful of his scotch, and peered down at the level that was left in his glass. "But not with you." He paused another moment before continuing, "Over the last two years I've often found myself thinking of the story of the disfigured man who lived beneath the opera house in Paris. Watching the young singer—helping her… pushing her toward what she needed to know, pushing her to succeed. His all-consuming love for his muse makes him a sympathetic character in the context of the story, but…" Reddington put the glass down and turned to face Liz, leaning back against the table. "…I never thought he had any right to touch her."

"Reddington, you're not—"

"A murderer? Existing in self-imposed near-solitude? Living off of ill-gotten money; surrounding himself with finery? Scarred and… disfigured?" Reddington tilted his head to one side and gave Liz a miserable smile that came off as more of a grimace. "I think the description is quite fitting."

Liz opened her mouth, scrambling for a rebuttal, but Reddington cut her off, turning back to his drink. Without looking at her, he commanded softly, "Go home, Lizzie."

"Red—"

He swallowed his sip of scotch. "Go home. And think about finding someone less like your ex-husband to do this with next time." Refilling his glass, and still without so much as a glance in her direction, Reddington moved around the table to the bedroom and closed the large door behind him.

Liz waited a full minute, frozen in place, before turning toward the exit, scooping up her blouse and blazer on the way.

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TBC.

I wrote this basically because… I've read so many fics where they're both so happy to have sex, like it fixes things immediately, and they realize they've been wrong, and everything is glorious. I wanted to see a story where sex didn't fix their relationship. Because nothing—not near-death experiences, or extravagant gifts, or declarations of 'caring'—seemed to fix their relationship this past season.