A/N: Thanks to everyone who has stayed with me so far for this crazy ride. This one has been a challenge, hope you find it entertaining. Also, the poem quoted herein is "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop. Un-beta'd and of course, disclaimed.

"The art of losing isn't hard to master…" Red's voice was a graveled lullaby in her ears as she lay curled on her couch, her head resting on his thigh. He stroked her hair absently as he read aloud to her from what looked like an old college literature textbook. She really should see about cleaning off her book shelves. The last bitter storm of tears had subsided at last and Lizzie was exhausted. She'd half-heartedly suggested that Red might find better company elsewhere as her instinct was always to crawl inside herself rather than fully express her grief and confusion, especially when it could be seen by others. Reddington had merely looked at her and sipped his tea, pulling her into his chest and shoulder when the sobs finally emerged from her throat, although she nearly strangled herself trying to quiet them. Eventually he had taken both her hands in his larger one and cupped her face with the other.

"You are allowed to feel something, Lizzie. No matter what it may be."

Her tenuous control shattered and she wept as she hadn't since she was a young child, waking from terrible nightmares in the dark. Her eyes grew tired as she listened to Red reading softly and she slipped into a dreamless sleep.

"Then practice losing further, losing faster…"

She woke to the sound of her alarm, with a head that felt stuffed full of cotton wool; she tried to shake off the last of the crying jag. She couldn't recall going to bed, but she knew that she must have done so, there was no way Reddington had carried her upstairs. She was wearing her bra and underwear from yesterday, and at that point Lizzie decided that trying to remember the intricate details was a lost cause. She turned on the shower and stepped beneath the pounding spray.

The Post Office was the same as it ever was; ugly yellow freight elevator and all. But Lizzie felt lighter walking in today than she had in weeks, even with the weight of loss still upon her. She paused in front of the clear pin boards where all the information on Berlin was displayed, her eyes traveling over the data they'd gathered. She saw Reddington approach her in the plexiglass reflection. He was all sharp creases and crisp lines; you would never know he spent most of the evening reading to a sleeping woman on an uncomfortable couch. He stood close behind her and she felt him slip something into her hand. A paper bag from a bakery. She turned to him in question and his smile was a ghost across his lips.

"Just a bagel. You should eat more. You need fuel." She smiled her thanks as she made her way to her office, with him on her heels. The bagel was still warm when she pulled it out of the bag, blueberry with cream cheese and she was suddenly ravenous. Red dropped his hat on her desk and seated himself in the only other chair in the room. He looked even more pleased with himself than usual, a feat Lizzie would have sworn was impossible.

"Berlin is a puppet, Lizzie."

She frowned at him as she finished the bite of breakfast. She had suspected he knew more than he was telling the task force, but her personal drama had quickly eclipsed the case she was supposed to be working. There was a twinge of guilt for letting that happen, but she set it aside to deal with later.

"What does Berlin want?"

"He wants me. Preferably dead, if I had to guess. Someone has been telling tales out of school, you see, whispering rumors designed to bait an already-rabid dog."

Lizzie reached for a napkin in the drawer of her desk. Her mind already chasing a dozen ideas of what Red could possibly have done to Berlin to warrant this kind of response.

"Do you know the source of these whispers, Red? You say Berlin is a puppet, so who's pulling the strings?"

"Nothing certain yet, but I have several very good ideas."

She sat back in her desk chair, swiveling slowly as she always did when she was thinking.

"I lost two cities, lovely ones…" she glanced up to find him watching her intently, and realized she must have spoken aloud.

"What? It's from that poem you were reading last night. Must've got stuck in my head." Red merely arched an eyebrow, smiling.

"Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love)…" he let the quote linger in the stale air of her office. Lizzie was uncertain what to make of him when they were alone like this. He seemed like his usual self on the surface, but when he looked at her, she could see the heat below the casual façade. Like a banked fire, embers glowing red in the darkness. She didn't understand, and right now, she didn't want to.

Whatever Red was thinking, he evidently put it out of his mind, as he stood abruptly, palming his hat back onto his head, straightening the brim as was his habit.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find out what Berlin has lost."

Lizzie tried to focus her attention on the reports she was trying to catch up on. She'd let so many things slide for the last month. Her rage and guilt and grief had almost consumed her, so having something else to focus on was a welcome respite. She knew that her involvement with Reddington was a dangerous game, of course. But the reality she faced was that there was little else in her life. Even her dog was gone.

An hour later she gave it up as a bad job. Time to go find Red. She waved to Aram and Ressler as she stepped into the elevator and listened to the ancient machinery grind as she descended slowly. The doors opened and Lizzie grabbed her keys and cell phone from her bag, she was flipping through the contacts to find Red's number when she heard the screech of tires. The keys fell to the ground unheeded, as she fumbled for her weapon at her hip, turning slowly, trying to locate the source of the danger she could feel. There were no further sounds though, no doors slamming, no voices. Her eyes were still adjusting to the lower light level, but she thought she saw a movement near the stairs. The thought that it could be a trap wasn't even fully formed when another shadow slipped from behind a vehicle.

Lizzie's shout of alarm was cut off abruptly by the butt of a gun. She collapsed to the concrete floor of the underground parking garage. Her cell phone lay smashed where she'd dropped it. Men in black hooded sweatshirts loaded her limp body into the waiting van. They drove away quickly with their prize.

"Though it may look like (Write it) a disaster."