She feels as if her ribs are going to split open, reveal her beating heart as it tears through muscles and tendons and falls on the floor before her with a resounding thud.

I killed Tom Keen.

Not just Tom Keen, judging by the haunted look in his eyes, the faded water-stained pink that runs up his sleeves. He'd most likely killed Pratt as well. She tries to still her shaking hands as he stares at something beyond her. She stands slowly and approaches.

"He was working with Pratt?" Her voice cracks with emotion. His left cheek twitches as he nods. Blood leaks from the bandages on his wrists, sluggishly slides down his face, stains the white of his dress shirt. He is covered in small cuts, littering his arms. She takes another step towards him.

"We need to get you stitched up."

She reaches out slowly, grasps his hand, but he flinches back from her. She stills immediately, watching him steadily as he stands before her. He isn't looking at her, as if he physically can't bring himself to do so. She reaches for his hand once more and this time he lets her take it. They walk to the bathroom, Liz snagging the medical bag from the kitchen on their way.

He still hasn't said a word as she sits him down on the edge of the bath. His face is like stone, unmoving. She slowly unwinds the bandage on his right wrist, trying to smother her wince as the torn skin is revealed.

She looks up at him, her heart stuttering slightly when she meets his gaze. His eyes are cold, dull. Liz glances away, grabbing the necessary medical supplies from the bag to begin stitching up his reopened wounds.

"Was it quick?" She finally manages, looking up at him once more. She's graced with another nod and Liz is struck with just how broken he appears.

Nobody can murder someone in cold blood and come out okay on the other end.

She blinks back tears; thoughts of Tom floating to the surface of her thoughts, how he had brutally murdered Eugene Ames. How he had choked the life out of him. She had seen Reddington in action, merciless in his pursuits, brutal in his protection of her. Tom claimed that he'd done what he did to protect her. However, Liz can't help but think that if she'd begged Reddington the way she had Tom, he would have thought of something else, would have stopped. That perhaps he wasn't as cold-hearted and vicious as her husband.

"Lizzie," he murmurs, reaching down and wiping a stray tear from her cheek. She wanted to hate him, knew she should be furious for his deadly actions, but she couldn't bring herself to resent him. Tom had been the one to plan her abduction. He was the reason her back was horrifically scarred, the reason for their copious injuries. She knows that as soon as Red had found out it had been Tom he would have pursued her husband until one of them ended up dead.

She was glad it hadn't been Red.

Her hands glide from his wrists, her handiwork not as neat as Renee's but suitable, and up his thighs to his torso. She feels his muscles tense beneath her fingertips, the catch in his breath as her fingers begin to unbutton his shirt. He watches her steadily and as she moves higher, she slides onto his lap. His eyes are dark as his hands rest on her hips, gaze locked with hers. She leans forward, brushes her lips against his forehead.

His skin is hot against her hands as they slide up his exposed chest and begin to gently push his shirt away from his shoulders. He freeze, snatches at her wrists and firmly puts them at her sides.

"What're you doing?" she asks. Her voice is a bit too sharp in the silence of the bathroom. "You have cuts all over your back, they need to be disinfected."

He stands abruptly, fingers nimbly re-buttoning his shirt. She stares at him, mouth slightly agape at his jagged movements. His mouth is in a firm line.

"I can handle it," he snaps, before breezing past her and out the door. She grabs at his shoulder. He whirls around, once again firmly grasping her wrist. His expression is furious. "Do not touch me right now, Elizabeth."

She breathes out deeply, confused and livid with his actions. Slamming the bathroom door closed, she storms into her room. Her nails are biting into her palm as she tries to calm down, listening for his steady footfalls, his soothing voice, perhaps an apology. None come.

She stands in the middle of her room, heart thundering in her chest. Her bed beckons to her, and though rage flows through her veins, Liz soon enough finds herself curled up on top of the covers, seething in fury until she eventually drifts off to a restless sleep.

A steady knock on her bedroom door wakes her from her slumber, but she is tempted to keep sleeping, to ignore his voice softly calling her name. Before she responds, the door cracks open and there he stands. He has changed into a clean suit, a deep navy. His green eyes still carry that slightly haunted look, accentuated by the purple smears beneath them.

"We need to change the dressings on your back," he states gruffly, brandishing the well used medical bag. She almost stubbornly refuses, but Renee had been explicit that they needed to be changed every day. Liz wouldn't be able to do it herself.

She nods to him and he steps further into the room, movements stiff, as if he is sore, or perhaps wary. Liz slips her shirt off her head, wishing to unsettle him further, but her actions garner no response. She slips her hair around her left shoulder, exposing the bandage on her right.

He settles on the bed next to her, bag slotted between them. He works in silence, the bandage tugging at her as he removes it. His fingers only brush her skin when necessary, but she can still feel his breath. Neither of them speak, Liz still bristling at his earlier behaviour.

Once he is finished, he stands, grabs the bag and goes to leave her room. Her voice stops him, and he turns to her slowly.

"What the Hell, is your problem?" She snaps, slipping her shirt back over her head. He tilts his head at her, regarding her in silence. He drops the bag onto the floor with a thunk.

"I don't understand," he replies, slowly, and at first Liz thinks that he is deflecting her question, trying to distract her, but his expression halts her.

It's dark, angered, yet he also looks perplexed, brows knitted together. She waits for him to elaborate, and when he does the disappointment in his voice has her tightening her hands into fists, her stomach clenching with panic, shame.

"Why did you sleep with Tom?"

"I shouldn't have to justify that to you," she responds firmly, straightening her posture and meeting his eyes. His expression changes to impassive; his hands are linked before him. His left cheek twitches and Liz is glad for that telltale sign, or else he would be completely unreadable.

"Of course not, Elizabeth, but are you able to justify it to yourself?" he states, his tone has an air of forced nonchalance about it. "Sleeping with a man that lied to you for years, a man hired to keep track of you, sell information about you."

"Yes," she replies darkly, her memories of that night flicking through her mind. She swallows and tilts her chin upwards. Her reasons at the time had been justified; Liz had not regretted her actions up until she had found out that Tom had been involved with Pratt. She briefly wonders if they had slept together. "Let's not forget who hired him in the first place."

He ignores her.

"I expected better of you."

"I consider jealousy to be a base emotion," she parrots to him, throat catching on the last word, betraying her anger. He smirks at her, crosses his arms.

"Oh, Lizzie, I have no need to be jealous of Tom. If I wanted a tumble in the sheets with a woman, it could be arranged. Madeline Pratt wasn't my only means of achieving such a thing," he retorts brusquely and she almost flinches at his words, hurt.

She swallows, turns away from him, hoping he'd eventually leave, miss the way his words affected her. He doesn't. She can hear his slow, steady breaths.

"I don't understand," he states once more, and she contemplates that perhaps he is the one that needs closure. She breathes deeply, still not facing him.

"I was lonely, Reddington. I couldn't trust you," she begins, shifting uncomfortably, "I couldn't trust you and my life had been thrown into disarray and Tom was there and it was easy. I just wanted to feel, Red, because ever since you waltzed into my life I've been so empty. I've felt so powerless."

When you love someone you have no control. That's what love is, being powerless.

She finally turns around to face him and his features express regret; his eyes are downcast, filled with remorse, and his lips are slightly parted. He doesn't move towards her, doesn't respond to her admission. He looks as if he is frozen.

"Red," she says quietly, stepping towards him, but he takes a step back, shaking his head. She stops.

"You're self-destructive, Elizabeth," Red murmurs, slowly walking towards the door, "you don't know what's good for yourself."

The door clicks closed and Liz returns to her bed, burying herself in the quilt and pillows, doing everything she can to smother the frustrated screaming and sobs that escape her. She falls asleep once more, face pressed into her pillow and burn throbbing uncomfortably.

His grip is like iron, unyielding as his fingers dig into her arms. Liz struggles against him, calling his name, begging him to stop, but Tom Keen just leers at her, teeth bared and uncomfortably close to her face. He laughs.

She's naked, struggling, tied to a chair. Reddington is standing across from her, blood pooling around him, spilling from the bullet wound in his chest, the stab wound in his neck. His suit turns crimson, but he just stands there, softly smiling at her. She had destroyed him.

Tom prowls forward, movements animalistic and feral as he approaches her. He's a contradiction; he has the features of her loving husband, soft eyes and a kind smile, but his movements are jagged, violent. Once he reaches her, he lovingly brushes his fingers across her shoulders and it burns, and Liz screams. She screams and screams until her voice is hoarse; the smoke produced by her skin chokes her. She struggles and wrenches back from his touch, but she can't get away, his fingers following her movements. Tears track down her face as ash begins to fall from the ceiling, leaving marks on her skin.

"Lizzie."

When she wakes, she wakes up screaming his name, surrounded by his scent, wrapped in his embrace. His hand cards through her hair, bandage catching slightly in her blonde locks. He murmurs to her, saying her name repeatedly, his own voice gruff and riddled with sleep. She curls tighter into his chest, sliding her hands up his body to settle around his neck, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, Lizzie," he whispers, "You're going to be okay."

She nods her head against him, believing him, because Tom's dead. Tom hurt her and now he's dead, because Red went after him, because Red would do everything he could to keep her safe.

A/N; Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoyed it! 16 should be up in a few and it has me very excited!