They leave Siena and depart for Iceland only a few days later. Liz has finally recovered from her overindulgence, but the embarrassment still lingers. Liz had been drunk, but not blind drunk. She remembers her touch wandering over Red as they sat in the car together; sitting so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him. A shudder runs through her as she remembers his breath on the inside of her thigh, his fingertips grazing her skin as he undid the strapping that held her weapon in place.

He sits across from her now, those same fingertips holding a newspaper before him. He is in one of his white suits, jacket discarded on the couch beside him and tie slightly loosened. Apart from their conversation that first morning, they had not mentioned the incident again, but Liz notices the way Red has distanced himself, even if his gaze settles on her more often than not when he believes she's not looking.

Liz isn't sure why she says it; she supposes she's hoping for a reaction of some sort, a way to determine what thoughts are rolling through his head.

"Do you think we'll get to see Giovanni again?"

He lifts his gaze from the paper, tilting his head slightly but his expression gives nothing away, impassive. The paper crinkles as he folds it and places it on the table separating them.

"I do not have any intentions of returning to Italy unless necessary, but I am sure once all this nasty business is over Giovanni would be more than happy to see you," he says nonchalantly, leaning over and taking a sip of his scotch, "I must admit that he probably won't be able to cater to the criminal class you are now used to, however."

She laughs lightly and he offers her a soft smile in return. Liz turns back to the worn novel in her hand, a book that Red had just insisted upon, but the pilot interrupts over the speakers, telling them that they will soon be descending. Red stands, slipping his jacket on before opening a compartment above his head and pulling out a large and very soft looking overcoat. He then grabs another and tosses one over to Liz; it's one of his own.

"Apologises, Lizzie, I didn't have time to get you one of your own," he tells her, as she slides the thick material between her fingers. It smells like his cologne and his cigars. "We can invest in a new one for you when we arrive, if you like?"

"Oh, I'm sure you have plenty of these to spare," she teases before thanking him and sliding it over her jumper and jeans. He merely regards her with a flicker of his eyes and a slight nod of his head.

Liz is extremely thankful for the coat when they exit the jet, the bitter and icy wind biting at her exposed skin. She shoves her hands into her pockets as Red slips on his gloves. Thick clouds hang above them, mountains in the sky, ominous and looming. It looks as if it's about to snow. Red says as much when they get into their hire car.

"Does this car have keys, Red?" Liz laughs, revelling in the way he grins back at her before turning the ignition and the car rumbles to life. They glide away from the airstrip, Liz's phone once again hooked up to the stereo system; Red doesn't seem to mind ever since they took the simcard out, the phone was basically an Ipod now.

Liz has been too many beautiful places in her lifetime, has seen so many incredible and memorable things, mostly courtesy of Red as well, but Iceland is an entirely different experience. The landscape looks as if it is a painting that has come to life; the rolling vibrant green hills coated with white, the abundance of wildlife moving through the planes, the roaring rivers and waterfalls tumbling through the land. Liz is in awe and Red seems to notice because he has a soft smile on his features, looking slightly proud of himself.

The lack of human activity, or evidence of human life, is incredible. There are no other cars on the road, and Liz has only seen a scattering of small cottages far off into the distance.

"We could stay here, Red," she murmurs, briefly meeting his eyes as they flicker off the road and onto her. "There is no possibility that the Cabal have any contacts over here, what's the point? There is no one here. We could stay and be safe."

His face flashes with emotion, the slight downturn of his lips, remorse bleeding into his eyes. He fidgets in his seat slightly, grip shifting on the steering wheel.

"We have unfinished business, Lizzie."

Neither of them speaks again, sliding back into silence until Red turns them on to a dirt driveway. They make their way up the track, Liz letting a gasp escape her as she spots a herd of reindeer. She watches them with interest, the way they calmly regard the car and do not flee like she had expected. They had no reason to fear them.

The car rounds a bend, moving the reindeer out of sight and revealing a wooden cottage, rectangular and painted blue. It has a sweet little front garden, overcrowded and colourful; blue, purple and red flowers all battling for space amongst the green of their leaves. Two square windows, framed by white timber, looking down upon it and Liz can easily imagine herself curled up with a book before them, bathing in the sunlight.

When they come to a stop and Red shuts off the engine Liz practically bounds out the car, rushing towards the house, and ignoring Red shouting out,

"I'll get your luggage then?"

She charges through the door, figuring and understanding that there would be no need to have it locked. They couldn't be more isolated if they tried. She steps into an open lounge room, chocolate leather lounges are pushed against the far wall, to the side another window, and before them hangs the TV. A large oak coffee table separates them, upon a rug patterned with deep reds. Closer to where Liz is standing, still in the threshold of the door, a small chest of drawers is shoved against the wall, a large vase overflowing with flowers atop it. There is a coat stand positioned next to it, so Liz sheds Red's overcoat and hangs it up, feeling the heat of the room. She heads into the kitchen, noticing the hearth in the corner. A large island bench sits in the center, the walls lined with slate counters and oak doors. The fridge is large, stainless steel and stocked full of food after Liz peeks inside. She makes her way through the cupboards, noting all the food in the pantry that she wants dibs on. In the background she can hear Red talking to someone, most likely on the phone. Then she hears the distinct creak of the front door and the crunch of gravel underfoot.

Liz moves over to the window looking out on to the garden, pleased to see that it has a sitting alcove. She can spot Red across the yard, back to the house and standing completely still. His overcoat is creased from where he holds the phone to his ear. He's leaning heavily on his right leg, Liz's luggage balanced against his left. He looks as if he will be out there for a while.

Turning away from the window, Liz ambles over to the great bookcase, laden with old and dusty novels and tomes. She glides her fingertips over their spines, breathing deeply at their musty smell. She'd have to finish the book Red had given her before starting any of these. She selects out a choice few anyway, not knowing how long they were going to be here, but hoping it is at least a week.

Sauntering back into the kitchen, absently reading the blurb of a book, Liz fills and flicks the kettle on. She then begins to scour the cupboards and pantry for teabags and mugs, figuring Red might like some tea as well. She leans against the bench, fingers drumming on the countertop as she waits for the kettle to boil. A sigh rushes out of her, long and deep. She feels settled in this house, something she hasn't felt since the day Reddington strolled into her life. Perhaps it's the silence, the lack of human life; just her and Red and the beauty of Iceland.

She hears when Red steps into the room, the thunk of her suitcase marking his presence. She spins around, ready to thank him and to exclaim how much he adored the cottage, but his expression stops her dead. His eyes are tight, jaw locked, lips thin. He tilts his head to the side, his pulse jumps slightly in his throat. He takes a step forward, hand twitching slightly as if he was about to reach out to her and then thought better of it.

"Lizzie..." he begins, voice rough, "Donald's been shot."

The kettle begins to whistle, signalling that it's boiled. Liz turns quickly, grasping the handle and splashing the water into the mugs she'd set out, watching the tea bleed into the clear liquid. She can't breathe as the steam wafts over her face. She can't breathe.

Ressler.

She swallows thickly, flinching as she hears Red step closer, because she can't lose control again. She turns to him slowly, desperately ignoring the bile rising in her throat long enough to choke out,

"Is he dead?"

He shakes his head slowly and Liz feels her knees go weak with relief, but Red's expression does nothing to quell her rising panic. The wound was life threatening, or else he wouldn't have told her. She heads over to the fridge, ignoring Red as he quietly murmurs her name. She gets out the milk, pours some into each of their mugs and, with shaky hands, she passes one to Red. He accepts it and immediately places it on the counter closest to him. He opens his mouth, but Liz quickly brushes past him, choking back her fear and guilt, and heads for the front door.

Once outside she gasps for air, the mug slipping from her grasp and smashing on the slate step, porcelain and hot liquid spraying across the ground. She can barely hear it as the blood roars in her head, heart thunders in her chest. She swallows back sobs, images of Ressler racing before her eyes.

She knows what a bullet wound looks like, not a graze, but when metal has torn through flesh, muscle and sinew. She has seen the way the blood, thick, bubbles out of the victim's mouth, how they choke on it, the panic bleeds into their eyes as much as their blood bleeds into their clothes.

Liz slams her hand against her mouth, biting down on the flesh of her palm to stop herself from screaming, because it's just too much. She can't do it anymore.

First had been Sam and then so soon after, Meera. Their deaths were never being properly mourned, as Liz hunted down criminals, hoping in some way to honour her late father, too find redemption for her colleague. Reddington's shooting, almost losing him and in turn entangling herself in the web of an organisation that wants nothing more to see her and those she loves burned, which in turn led to Cooper's arrest and subsequent torture and now; Ressler.

Her partner.

He'd killed for her, and she he. Their partnership had been strained at the beginning, and with good reason, but after the months they had spent together, what they'd been through, the bond between them was powerful, strong. When she needed him, he was there, unfaltering. One of the more steady and solid people she had in the tornado of her life. And now he was wounded, perhaps fatally, because of her. Murderer.

She sits there, on the freezing slate, for a long time; long enough for the sun to sink behind the towering mountains in the distance, the land plunging into dark. The stars glint down upon her, thousands and thousands of cold lights, staring and accusing. Liz wipes at her aching eyes, breathing harshly through her mouth, nose blocked.

The door creaks open behind her, and she fleetingly wonders how long he has been waiting for her to come back in, if he's been brooding in that alcove she had been so excited about. His polished shoes come into view first, before he eases down onto the slate, pulling a soft blanket around her shoulders at the same time. His shoulder is pressed to hers, knees bumping slightly.

"Is he okay?" her voice is tight, choked with emotion and Liz is surprised she managed to talk past it.

"The surgery was successful," he says quietly, his hand clasping hers, warm and dry. "He's expected to recover fully. It was a close call, but Donald will survive another day."

"How do you know? Who's your contact?"

His grip on her hand tightens, and when she turns to look at him he does not return her gaze. His jaw is tight; he looks as if he is warring with himself. She says his name, sternly. He turns to her sharply.

"Agent Mojtabai."

Liz lets out a shaky breath; Aram. Would anyone from the taskforce remain untouched from the storm and hell that she had caused? Her chest aches, her bones are heavy, mind sluggish and drowning in despair. She tilts her head up, staring at the stars, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"I can't keep doing this, Red," she whispers, "I can't keep endangering the people I love and care about. I'm poison."

He pulls her into his embrace and she trembles under his touch. He rests his forehead against her hair, so his lips are just by her ear and she can hear him breathing, slightly unsteady. He takes his time; she can imagine the way his tongue is rolling along his teeth, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek, measuring out his words with precision.

"Agent Malik, Donald, even Agent Mojtabai were or are doing their duty for their country, Lizzie, for what they believe in. And yes, you are playing a major role in current events, but you need to realise that they're not doing this just for you."

She nods into his chest, breathing deeply. Unsurprisingly he smells like his overcoat; a mixture of sharp aftershave and cigars. She grips the material of his jacket into her fist, heaving herself into his lap. He shifts slightly, moving her so that no part of her touches the cold stone, wrapping the blanket tighter around her. The tremors in her body still almost immediately, the warmth of him seeps through her thin layer of clothes.

"He didn't get shot because of you, Lizzie. Agent Ressler was not even on duty, it was a mugging and dear Donald couldn't help himself but chase down the perpetrator. The junkie pulled a gun, let off three shots. One found its mark."

A sob wracks through her, a mixture of both relief and distress. He presses a kiss to her temple and Liz leans into him further, craving comfort, craving contact.

"It wasn't your fault, Lizzie."

She nods her head, hair tickling her face. She feels a mess, both physically and emotionally. Her face must be tearstained, eyes red rimmed and puffy. She is bone tired, but still has the strength to pull away from Red, far enough so that she can look into his eyes.

He stares back at her, gaze soft. His arms slide down her shoulder blades and then back up, thumbs circling as he goes. She brushes her hair out of her face, lips parting as she does so. He smiles down at her; she had expected him to smirk, because she knows that he is aware of what she is about to do next.

She tilts her head, moves forward and brings their lips together. He responds immediately, skimming his hands up her body so they come to rest at the nape of her neck. He is so gentle with her, manoeuvring her head and fitting them together faultlessly. Lizzie feels as if she should not be surprised that he is addictive, intoxicating; he is Raymond Reddington after all, an enigma. The way Red kisses is similar to his voice; deep, soothing and completely in control.

She moves her legs so she is straddling him now, bare feet firmly planted on the slate. He deepens the kiss and she moans slightly as his tongue lazily enters her mouth. He smiles against her as she scrapes her fingers over his scalp.

She tries to scoot closer, to be closer to him. Liz needs to feel something, anything, to forget the gaping hole in her chest, the constant ache. Yet, as she moves closer, brings her hips to his, where they fit so perfectly, he pulls back. She should have known.

"Lizzie..." he breathes and she doesn't push him any further, his voice so controlled that he sounds as if he is seconds away from breaking, strained with emotion.

The wind is biting at her skin; the iciness of it should have been uncomfortable, but all she can focus on is the way Red cradles her head in his hands, fingers tangling through her hair. His lips are parted, his green eyes are sad as he looks at her, leaning further in. She moves forward to meet him, their foreheads pressing together. His breath ghosts over her face and he gives her one last kiss before standing and leaving her outside in the cold.

A/N; I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, let me know what you think. Chapter eleven is in progress, however it is an interlude for bigger and greater things, so it won't be too long! Thank you again!