Carrying her is awkward. His wrists, excruciatingly painful, give a fresh wave of agony with every pump of his heart. The bleeding has slowed, but Lizzie's dressed is soaked crimson. He cradles her against his chest. Having found his jacket, he drapes it around her, covering the blood, but each time the material chafes against her burn she groans in agony. So he tries to balance her in such a way that the jacket gapes at her shoulder, but covers her exposed body.

Red knows that he is disorientated in his panic, knows that he should search the bodies, look for a phone, but every nerve in his body is screaming at him. He needs to get Lizzie out, away from the stench of her burned flesh, though it has soaked into her hair, into her clothing. It's all he can smell.

She curls into him as they stumble out into the alley, and Red wastes no time, running out onto the road, gun sheathed in the material of Lizzie's dress. Pedestrians eye them strangely, until Red manages to strangle out some French, stifled with adrenaline, asking for a phone. His wrists are hidden beneath Lizzie.

A young boy, around Mia's age, passes one over without hesitation, eyeing Lizzie curiously. Red ignores his leering eyes for now, knowing that the woman in his arms is completely covered. He dials the number, waiting for Kate to answer, her steady tones to calm him.

"Raymond?" She asks, seemingly not surprised to hear from him at all. They had organised a specific phone to be left in her possession, a number only he knew, so that they could make contact wherever they went.

"I need you to organise security for the Four Seasons Hotel, Paris, specifically room 1007," he rasps into the phone, glancing around the cars parked on the sidewalk. He notices one of the SUV's the mobsters had leapt out of. "It's Elizabeth, Kate, she's injured."

"I'll send Dembe," And then the line clicks dead. Red passes the phone back to the kid, leaning against one of the walls now. He accepts it back with a shy smile as Red's eyes rake over him, assessing and calculating.

"Avez-vous l'habitude de la rupture les voitures?" Red asks, causing the boys brows to furrow, his stance to become wary. He slowly nods his head, not making eye contact, but remaining all the same.

"Montre moi," Red demands, indicating the SUV before shifting Lizzie's weight in his arms and moving forward. She is awake now, he can feel and hear her breathing his name against his collarbone. He gently squeezes her and she falls silent.

The boy grins at him, vigorously nodding his head, darting over to the vehicle. He is impressively fast, disabling the locks and opening the doors so Red can place Lizzie inside. By the time he has managed to get her in a seatbelt, the car has rumbled to life.

"Merci," Red says, pulling out his wallet and passing the boy some cash, enough that causes the lad to stumble over his feet in his gratitude before hastily shoving it into his pocket. Red slides into the car and the boy darts off into the night.

"Red?" Liz whispers from the passenger seat as they pull out into the traffic. Red reaches out, placing his palm on her thigh, briefly flicking his eyes over to hers.

"I'm getting you somewhere safe, Lizzie. We'll be home soon."

Her eyes slip closed and Red restrains himself from saying her name, from disturbing her, because though she's injured, painfully so, it's not life threatening. It's not fatal, she's going to live. He breathes deeply, navigating his way through the city, ignoring the pain shooting through his wrists, the slow drip of blood onto his trousers.

They soon find themselves in another alley, at the back of the hotel. Red wants to get her in within out being seen, and the old abandoned stairs at the back is the only way to achieve that. His gun is drawn and Lizzie is leaning heavily against him. He slowly opens the door, squealing on its hinges. A shadow looms before them, and Red feels his knees go weak with relief.

"How did you get here so fast?"

"I was never far away, Raymond," Dembe replies, stepping forward and scooping Lizzie off her feet, holding her against his broad chest. His sombre eyes flicker to Red's chest, concern etching his features as he notices his friend's laboured breathing, his hand pressed against the healing bullet wound. He then notices Red's wrists, his jaw locking in fury. "Come; let us get to your room."

With Dembe carrying Lizzie the climb is easier and they make it to their room quicker than Red thought possible. Dembe places Lizzie back into Red's arm before entering their suit, weapon drawn. He steps back out into the hall seconds later, declaring that it is safe to enter.

"Did you bring medical supplies?" questions Red, walking to the bedroom and gently guiding Lizzie onto the bed, gut clenching at the way her breath hitches in pain.

"Yes, Raymond," Dembe replies, but his tone causes Red to look up at him, "but she needs a hospital. You need a hospital; your wrists will need stitches, brother."

"You know that isn't possible. Organise the necessary arrangements. She does not leave this hotel and she does not leave my sight."

Dembe nods his head once and leaves the room, moments later Red can hear his deep voice rumbling to someone on the phone in the other room; most likely Kate. He glances down at his hands, blood soaked and trembling, and then back to Lizzie.

He delicately removes his jacket from her, averting his eyes as he guides her onto her back. The burn is around three inches thick and five inches long. The skin is charred, weeping; the liquid oozing down Lizzie's back. The smell is sickening.

"Red?" Lizzie murmurs, reaching blindly for him. He grasps her hand, sits on to the bed and scoots closer to her. Her blues eyes blink up at him; there is still blood smeared across her cheek.

"I'm here, sweetheart," he whispers, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face, "I've got you, you're okay. I'm just going to get a flannel, so we can clean you up a bit."

She nods her head, eyes falling shut once more. He goes to the bathroom, flicking the taps on so they run hot until he manages to find a cloth. Adjusting the temperature, he soaks the material and looks at himself in the mirror. His face is swelling, already slightly purpled, from the well placed punch. He turns away and goes back to Lizzie.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry, you need to sit up."

She does so, immediately, eyes blinking open at his voice. He sits down on the bed once again, slowly raising the flannel to her face, dabbing at the dried blood.

She gasps in panic, and Red flies around, gun drawn and sees nothing. There is no one there. He turns back to Lizzie, feeling her fingers on the top of his hand; still shaking. Her eyes are latched onto his wrists and he barely manages to restrain himself from snatching them away from her grasp, concerned about startling her.

"They'll be fine," he says softly, extracting them from her grasp. Tears spill down her cheeks as she looks back up at him. The guilt is too much, the burn on her back and the scar on her wrist, permanent marks of the ways he has failed her. He moves towards her, pulls her delicately into his lap. She buries herself into his chest and he knows that she can feel the way it is rapidly rising and falling, how he is seconds away from breaking.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie," he manages to croak, his throat so tight he can barely swallow, "I was reckless, unaware, I didn't think... I never expected..."

She shushes him, tightening her left arm around his stomach, the right hanging uselessly by her side, too painful to move. He doesn't deserve her forgiveness, doesn't deserve her faith, but God he would take it, the selfish man that he is. He leans into her touch, mind drifting.

It strikes him like lightning, bright and electric and through the blinding light it is so clear. Pratt had the means of seducing Gerver, there was no doubting that, but she didn't have the contacts. Gerver was a cautious man, was not easily traced. Only someone with German contacts, would be able to track him, get his details.

German contacts.

His blood, what remains of it, smeared as it is up his forearms, boils within him. His vision blackens, he feels himself fading out, and the only thing anchoring him to the world is the way Lizzie clings to him.

She feels the way his body stiffens, the tension radiating off of him. She leans back, wincing, face swollen and a dark bruise forming around her eye. Her brow furrows, so he smooths it with his thumb, lightly brushing across the bruise. She opens her mouth, no doubt going to ask him what was wrong, but thankfully Dembe walks through the door.

"Dr. Costanzo is here."

Red stands as the woman is ushered into the room. She is young, younger than Red had expected. Her hair is black, a wild and wonderful tangle of curls that falls just below her shoulders. Her almond shaped eyes are dark, small smudges of mascara beneath them due to the hour. They flicker over Red, resting on his wrists. She then looks up at him, smiling in a friendly matter.

"Please, deal with Lizzie first," he insists, stepping to the side so that the doctor can move past, a large black bag in hand. The young woman greets Lizzie gently, introducing herself as Renee. She coaxes her onto her stomach, before pointedly turning to the two men in the room.

Red is greatly amused at the way Dembe fidgets slightly under the doctor's stern gaze. He nods at him slightly, the bodyguard giving a slight sigh before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. Renee's eyebrows rise, her eyes never straying from Red's.

"There is no world, universe or dimension in which I leave this room," he says sternly, eyes flickering over to Lizzie before back to the woman before him, looking so defiant. "So, I suggest you get started."

She seems to hesitate, composure weakening for a moment, until Lizzie's soft voice is heard from the bed. Red almost smiles at her forceful tone, but it's too weak; she's so tired.

"He can stay."

Renee flashes him a quick smile, almost apologetic, before turning back to her patient. She begins to pull swabs, salves, bandages and a variety of other medical equipment out of her bag. Red can hear her quietly murmuring to Lizzie, her voice comforting in the silence.

Red turns away moving into the bathroom to clean himself up, to settle himself down. He leaves the door open, ears straining for any sound of a struggle. All he can hear is Dr. Costanzo's soothing voice, punctuated occasionally by a tired laugh from Lizzie.

He breathes deeply, grasping the basin of the sink so tight that his wrists ache with renewed ferocity. His mind flows over his revelation, wondering how Madeline had made contact with him, what their deal had been, whether it had revolved around him finally getting Lizzie back.

Tom Keen was a dead man.

The water runs pink as he carefully washes the blood away; the water running into his wounds makes him feel sick. He stares at the ruin of his skin, torn and already fading to grey, dying. He'll just add it to the list of scars.

After putting on a clean shirt, he walks back into the room and Lizzie's back is bandaged, her eyes are closed and her breathing, even. Renee offers him a smile, before indicating to the bandage.

"That will need to be changed every day, I gave her the instructions, but she'll need your help."

Red nods his head, contemplating whether to wake her so that she can slip under the covers, or to get her a blanket from the other room. He looks back to the doctor, she has a smile playing at her lips, and her eyes sparkle. She indicates that he should sit, pulling her bag closer to work on his wounds.

He doesn't pay much attention, and unlike with Lizzie, she works in silence, methodical and precise. Red lets his mind drift as she sews him up, wincing occasionally at the tug of his skin. Soon enough it is done and the young doctor is packing up her things.

"Thank you," Red says as he escorts her to the door, she looks back up at him, nodding her head.

"If you need anything more, don't hesitate to contact me," she states, "even if you're not in the country. I get the vibe that you could have me on a plane to anywhere in a matter of seconds if you wanted."

He laughs slightly, nodding his head in acceptance and opening the door for her. She steps out without another word. The door clicks closed behind her.

Red takes a deep steadying breath, feels the weight of Dembe's hand as it rests on his shoulder. He absently plays with a loose thread from the bandage on his left wrist, thoughts racing.

"It was Keen," he growls and Dembe gives a solemn nod, watching him intently, awaiting orders. "I'm going to find Madeline in the morning. Get me details on Jaeger Gerver's movements."

His bodyguard moves off into the lounge room, no doubt heading for the laptop and mobile. Red, in turn, heads back to the main bedroom, moves through the door quietly, so as not to frighten Lizzie. He hates to wake her, but with the bandage now covering her burn, it wouldn't hurt for her to slip under the covers. She'd need the warmth, it would keep her comforted. She also needed to get out of her blood soaked dress.

"Lizzie," he whispers quietly, not touching her, "sweetheart, wake up for just a bit, we need to get you out of those clothes."

She rouses slowly, murmuring and mumbling, eyes flickering open to lock onto his. She tugs feebly at her dress, exhausted.

Red darts over to the medical bag Dembe had brought in, obtaining a pair of scissors. He moves back over to Lizzie, waiting for consent. She nods her head, eyes falling closed as he cuts up the middle of her dress. She covers her breasts with her hands, and rolls to the side as Red slips the material out from underneath her. He procures one of his dress shirts, the material soft and light, and slowly slips it across her shoulders. She tenderly lifts her right arm, sliding it into one of the sleeves. Red does up the buttons, careful not to graze her skin.

The covers are smudged with red, almost pink, but on the inside they are clean and Lizzie clumsily slithers under the sheets. Red watches, not able to tear himself away, to walk out the room. Her screams still ring in his ears, the images of her thrashing in pain burned into his retinas.

"Lizzie."

Her eyes open at his tone, and for once it's she who knows what he needs, knows that he is too proud to ask, to admit. Her left hand beckons him to her, and he's drawn forwards as if there is string wrapped around his heart, attached to her palm. The ache in his chest, the way his heart feels tight and constricted, is all the confirmation he needs. He sheds his shoes, and follows her under the covers, reaching out and tucking his hand behind the small of her back. He draws her towards him, warm and heavy. Alive and safe.

In the morning, Red slides out of bed, missing the warmth of Lizzie instantly. She sleeps soundly, her fingers occasionally twitching on the covers. He hopes her dreams are peaceful.

When he steps out of the suite, he is greeted by Dembe in the living room, manila folder in hand. He asks for a pen, writes a note to Lizzie; lets her know that he'll be back, that he won't leave her, that if she needs anything at all, get Dembe to contact him. He'll be back in time to change her bandages.

And then he sets out, gun tucked away, pressing against the small of his back.

A/N; Thank you for reading and all of your support! It honestly means so much! You're an absolute bunch of champions! Chapter 14 is on its way.