It was the breeze.

It had always been the breeze. Raymond always returned to this island, back to this particular resort, because of the breeze. It blew in off the Indian Ocean, spread out as it was before him, so blue and so endless and so free. It ruffled his trousers, tangled her hair, whispered over his skin and danced over hers. It cleansed.

All I saw before me was... possibility.

They had left New York in the early hours of the morning, and though Lizzie had grumbled when Dembe gently roused her, the untimely rise hadn't bothered Red. Sleep had evaded him. He hadn't even tried.

He'd sat on the seat across from the couch, staring into the darkness of the room. As his eyes slid shut, all he could see was Lizzie beneath him, her tousled hair and soft lips and her eyes; as blue as the ocean that he now stood before. He was certain that the taste of her would never leave him; had been certain of that ever since Iceland. He was certain that the heat of her body was the only thing in this world that could warm him, certain that her moans would haunt him into the afterlife.

She had been silent the entire plane ride, not asking where they were off to, why they were leaving. Red at first assumed she was mortified by her actions, but he soon noticed the way her eyes slid over and rested on him, only jumping away when he returned her gaze. He took note of the way she'd softly smile each and every time he caught her.

Red was sure she was going to be the end of him.

He idly scratches at the scar she'd left on his neck, turning to face the villa they were currently occupying. Lizzie has gone to the spa, after Red's insistence, with Putu. He hopes that the tension, the strain, she has been under these past weeks, months, years, could be slightly lessened by the sweet Balinese woman's magical hands.

Dembe had left them at the airport, taking a flight to Denmark. He was following up some leads regarding the Cabal; the shadow government's unnerving silence. It concerns Red greatly, after the events of New Zealand, how they had all but given up on the chase. Perhaps their escape to Iceland had thrown them off the trail.

Red thought it highly doubtful.

A breath whistles through his teeth as he contemplates their next move, whether to switch from defensive to offensive. Donald would be back pursuing them in a matter of days, perhaps already was, knowing his work ethic. That would mean that they would have to take greater care with their travels, keep a lower profile. Not that Red was even contemplating taking Lizzie out into public after the last two disasters that had resulted in.

In any case, Ressler was a good agent, knew what he was doing, had access to knowledge and information he wouldn't have dreamed of now, compared to his initial, relentless and in the end, fruitless, pursuit of Raymond Reddington. There was the distinct possibility that he could track them down.

Red knew that if that happened, it could only, only, happen after Lizzie was exonerated. He would be able to escape, weasel his way out of the FBI's grasp, but not with Lizzie. It would be too difficult with the both of them. That only left him with one choice; to leave her behind, safe and vindicated of all crimes.

To end this chase would be agonising. Red didn't want to admit it, would never voice the thought aloud, and kept it locked away in his scarred and battered chest cavity, but it was the truth. All this time, basking in Lizzie's presence; those stolen moments and longing looks and furtive touches, they would all come to a screeching halt, an end. Red wasn't sure he could do it; give up Elizabeth Keen once more, entrust her safety to others.

Raymond had trusted Sam implicitly with Lizzie, but as a little girl, as a surly teenager.

Things have changed.

Lizzie is a relentless force, so wild and fierce. Her blue eyes, sparkling sapphires, and a smile brighter than the sun; GodΒΈ she is beautiful. She has hands that could heal, words that can soothe, hands that can kill, and words that can savage. She had a name that sounds like a prayer as it rolls of his tongue; Elizabeth.

She had said that he had waltzed into her life, caused an upheaval, destroyed everything she held dear, and she was right; the guilt almost crippled him. Yet, she had stormed into his life, raging and battered, furious and desperate. With a cut on her head and accusations rolling off her tongue, she'd plunged a pen into his neck without a flicker of remorse.

That was the closest anyone had come to killing him in years.

A laugh bubbles out of him, at his complete inability to shield himself from her, whether it be her fury or affection. He'd shed all his armour for her, knock down every wall. Burn the world. It would all be for her.

His smile lingers as he sees movement within the villa. She steps out, dressed only in a robe, skin shining from the oil. It is scented; jasmine. He breathes deeply.

"What's funny, Red?" She asks and her voice is slightly gruff, sleepy. She drags her hand through her oiled hair, rolling the locks between her fingers, feeling the texture. Red's hand twitches at his side.

"Looks like you enjoyed your massage," is his response and she nods her head enthusiastically, smiling so brightly. She pads over to him, placing her weight carefully, cautious of the oil on her feet, so as not to slip. Red doesn't move, but his hands briefly clench and unclench as she stops before him, only inches apart.

She is still smiling at him, her bottom lip briefly caught in between her teeth. Her hand darts out and wraps around his tie, tugging him closer. He merely raises a brow in response, locking his eyes with hers.

"I don't understand why you insist on these suits, Red," she exclaims, exasperated, "we're in Bali! At lease get rid of the jacket and vest!"

She's laughing at him now and he's smiling back so widely that his cheeks are beginning to ache. He slowly nods his head and remains still as she gently undoes his tie, wrapping the silk around her wrist. She then slowly sheds him of his jacket and Red can tell that her movements are measured and precise, so as not to touch him. It's when she begins to unbutton his vest that her hand skitters across his collarbone and he inhales sharply, an electric spark passing through him.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, snatching her hands away and looking up at him, slightly panicked as if he is about to disappear. He doesn't blame her and just adds it to the guilt that weighs down his shoulders.

"It's okay," he replies softly, finishing off the rest of the buttons of his vest, before shucking it and hanging it over his arm.

Her eyes are now downcast; she's fidgeting with her scar. She looks skittish now; as if she is about to dart off into the villa, claiming a matter of great importance, such as having a shower or taking a nap.

"Happy now, are we, Lizzie?" He states jovially, spreading out his arms and turning a circle for her inspection. When he turns back to her, she's smiling once more. "I'll even roll up my sleeves for you, sweetheart."

She laughs at him as he exaggeratedly unbuttons his cuffs and then, with great care, rolls up each white sleeve. Once he is done she nods her head once, in approval, a feigned look of seriousness on her face.

"Shall I get us some drinks?" Red offers, taking a step towards the villa, waiting for her to follow. She nods, stepping forward.

"Think I might have a shower though, but I'll be quick."

As he walks to the bar he is aware of her presence darting off to the bathroom. He looks up as he hears the door click open, just for one last glance. She already has her robe unwrapped, loose around her hips, chest exposed. And then she is through the door, the click of it shutting muted by the blood roaring in Red's ears. He swallows, hard, and focuses on making their drinks, stilling his slightly trembling hands.

When she emerges, towelling her hair, dressed in soft white cotton dress, Red is sitting by the pool, sipping at his scotch. She glides over to him and sits down, cross-legged on the pool lounge beside him. He watches as her lips seal around the rim of her own scotch, the amber liquid slips into her mouth and slides down her throat.

"I've been thinking, Red," she starts, eyes cast out over the pool and to the ocean before them. Her fingers are drawing patterns in the condensation of her glass. "About what happens, after this? If we ever get my name cleared, what happens then? Surely things can't go back to the way there were?"

Her words sink into his skin, into his pores. They seep into his overwhelming fear of letting her go. He turns to look at her, head slightly tilted and gnawing on the inside of his lip. A sigh gusts out of him as he answers.

"That is entirely up to you, Lizzie. You could apply to work back at the Task Force, see if the FBI is receptive towards you after your name has been cleared. Perhaps you could pursue another line of work, a passion of yours. Whatever you wish, Lizzie, I will do what I can to ensure it will happen."

Her brow is furrowed and her eyes slide to his. She takes her time to reply and when she does her voice is so soft, so affectionate, but it's tinged with panic, apprehension.

"And what about you, Red?"

Red looks away, can't stand to look into her eyes, not sure if he wants to see pain there, not sure if he could bear it if he did. He settles on the coastline, watching as the waves thunder along the shore, the currents whisking them away once they have expended all their energy, given all that they can, desperately racing up the sand before falling short, never quite reaching the border.

"The Blacklist would be of no use, if we dismantle the Cabal, Lizzie, and therefore the FBI would have no need of me," he murmurs and then pauses, takes a long drink of his scotch. "I would leave; disappear. My immunity deal would mean nothing."

She nods her head slowly and, though as it tilts forward it curtains her expression, Red can see the tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. His heart aches and his stomach sinks like lead.

"Of course, I would make sure you could make contact, Lizzie," he affirms, turning his body towards her, "I'll always be there when you need me, always."

"They could trace the contact," she replies, a grim smile settling on her features, "I doubt they'd ever stop keeping tabs on me after these few years. You could get caught and then God knows what they'd do to you."

What're they going to do to me that hasn't been done before? Kill me? None of it is worse than losing you.

He waits to reply, waits until he takes long enough that she turns to look at him, a question in her eyes. He studies the way her lips tremble, almost imperceptibly.

"It'd be well worth it."

She draws a sharp breath, tries to smother it with her drink. Red goes to stand, wants to offer comfort, but she waves him off. The sting of rejection is piercing, until she looks up at him with a watery smile.

"I just don't want to lose it again, Red."

It's understandable really. He recognizes where she is coming from, but he still wants to reach out to her, to touch. He settles for resting his hand on his thigh, takes another sip of his drink.

Red can easily imagine their parting of ways; standing on an abandoned airstrip, watching her slide into one of his vehicles, driven away to wherever she desired. He'd make sure that Dembe was aboard the plane, for his companionship. He would need his steady and unwavering support.

They sit in silence, the breeze wafting over them gently as the sun dips below the horizon. The staff of the resort dart over the beach. They are packing up chairs and umbrellas, bringing in lifeguard flags, trying not to struggle through the sand.

Neither of them is hungry, happy to sit and drink, share idle conversation and then lapse back into silence. Red is in charge of the bar and after getting them another round he returns to find that Lizzie has shed her dress and is now clad in a bikini, standing in the pool. The water flirts around her waistline. She can't dip under the water, doesn't want to soil her fresh bandage.

"Care for a swim, Red?" She asks, playfully splashing the water so that it sprinkles over his shoes. He frowns at her, before he places her drink by the edge of the water and makes his way back to his chair. She huffs at him.

"I do not partake, Lizzie, apologises."

She laughs at him, loudly and sharply. She flicks more water over in his direction, the droplets marking his trousers.

"You were in the Navy!"

"The ocean is different," Red responds uninterestedly, raising his chin. His guts twists when her face lights up and she moves to the edge of the pool.

"Let's go down then!"

Red sternly shakes his head, indicating up at the sky. It is pitch-black now, it'd be dangerous. The current in this region is ferociously strong. Lizzie looks crestfallen, but Red is steadfast. Until her eyes seem to sharpen, her posture turns rigid. It's as if someone flicked a switch, her demeanour changing so suddenly.

"What're you hiding?"

He takes too long to reply, feels his heart rate rocket at her inquisitive stare. She is ever the profiler, her eyes flickering over his face, the way he fidgets slightly with the scotch glass in his hand. He feels his God damn left cheek twitch.

"It's something on your back. You always stopped me when I could have seen or touched your back," she states matter-of-factly, gaze hard and assessing. Red stands and slowly approaches her. She opens her mouth to say more, but he slowly raises a hand and she remains silent.

He toes off his shoes, crouches down and then sits on the ledge of the pool. The water creeps up the material of his pants, staining them. Lizzie steadily watches him, aware that something monumental is about to occur. The air around them is filled with tension, suffocating in its intensity.

Red slides into the water, wastes no time approaching her. He has nothing left now; no defence, no reasoning. In the end they would have to part ways and Red was tired of the secrets; she deserved everything, and he could give her this.

When he reaches her, still as she is, he tentatively reaches out and grasps her right hand, fingers resting on her scar. He slowly, so very slowly, brings it to his lips.

"I was there... the night of the fire, Lizzie, as you well know," he whispers over her skin, leaving his lips pressed to her burn.

He can tell that she's not breathing, but she manages to jerkily nod her head. She is staring at him, eyes wide. Her pulse jumps in her throat and he has to stop himself from moving forward and tasting it.

"There are certain aspects of that night that I will refuse to tell you," Red sighs, pulling away from her wrist and staring into her eyes. "That is for your safety and I will never compromise it."

He skims his fingertips up her forearm to settle his palm at the base of her neck, the bandage of his wrist catching in her hair. She leans forward and he brushes his lips over hers, before releasing a shuddering breath.

And then he tells her. He tells her of how he heard the gunshot as he screamed at her mother, telling her to get your daughter, as the flames licked around them. He tells her how Katarina Rostova had fled into the darkness, deserting her home and her daughter, after leaving her in the company of a madman; her father. She had died of weakness and shame only weeks later. He speaks of how he could hear her, Lizzie, screaming for help, for her mother, until her words were choked by smoke, how he feared he was too late; that his men dragging him back outside had wasted valuable time.

"You were an innocent child, Lizzie," he rasps, wiping a tear from her cheek as his own fall freely into the water. "I couldn't just leave you there."

He talks until his voice is hoarse and the water has chilled around them. He tells her how he had stormed through the house, looking for her. When he had found her, burst through a locked door, she was passed out on the floor. She had been covered in ash, tightly holding a singed rabbit to her chest. Her wrist was burned, horrifically, as she had struggled at the door and then presumably the window, shattered glass littered the floor. Blood sluggishly slid down her arm. She hadn't been able to jump, the bravery of a four year old not withholding against the sheer height of the fall. So, he'd scooped her up in his arms, but the fire was all around them now. It licked and slithered, and then Red was screaming, throaty howls of pain as it crawled up his back.

"We jumped out the window," he murmurs, dropping her hand and slowly moving his fingers to the button of his dress-shirt. "When I managed to get us away from the house, stumbling through the darkness... I noticed that you weren't breathing. I'd thought..."

His voice cracks and Lizzie is trembling all over now. Her lips are parted, tears tracking down her cheeks. The buttons are slippery between his fingers, he fumbles.

"But then you were breathing, Lizzie, and the air around me had never been so fresh, so crisp, and it hasn't been ever since."

He had carried her off into the night, made the necessary arrangements to get her to Sam, to have her memory altered. He tells her of how Sam had taken her in without hesitation, had loved her from the day he set eyes on her. Red had known that she could not stay with him, that he would only be able to protect her from afar, especially whilst his burns healed, while he went through rehabilitation; the muscles of his back scorched so horrendously that it had taken months to regain full mobility.

"I never wanted to tell you about the burns, Lizzie, about that night," He breathes, "I never wanted you to believe that... you were indebted to me. I never wanted to use them against you."

She nods her head in understanding, gaze unwavering as he pulls his shirt aside, revealing his chest. Red can't bring himself to move further, his muscles so unwilling.

"I came back into your life, Lizzie, for countless reasons. You were my second chance, my salvation. You are the one thing in my life that I got right, that I succeeded in. At first my intentions had been to keep you safe. Purely that and perhaps keep a professional distance."

He laughed quietly and she offered him a watery smile in return. He still hadn't removed his shirt, as if the burns had begun to weep, as they had in the first few months of recovery, and caused it to stick to his body. Removing it would tear at the skin, pull apart the wound, afresh.

"And then you roared into my hotel room, stabbed that pen into my neck. You danced with me at the Syrian embassy, showed me how you had grown into a capable and beautiful woman; so fierce and brave. It was when you profiled me, made such an acute observation, in Montreal."

She tilts her head at him, listening intently as he relays those fateful words.

You need me. And you hate that about yourself because it makes you vulnerable.

"I do need you, Lizzie, an undisputable fact. Your prowess as a profiler is well known, you're incredibly talented. However, you made a mistake."

His heart skips at the way her eyebrows draw together, her gaze turns inquisitive. Red gnaws on the inside of his cheek, fingers still firmly clasped around the edges of his shirt, frozen shut.

"I don't hate myself because you make me vulnerable, that people may be able to get to me through you, that you're my weakness. I hate myself because it makes you vulnerable, Lizzie. I hate myself because I'm the reason for all your pain and suffering. The person that I love most is tormented and hunted because of me."

"But God, I do love you, Lizzie," he confesses, "I'm too selfish to leave you; I can't let you go, not now. I can't... I can't trust that there is anyone out there worthy of your love, Lizzie, and for that reason, I won't leave. I need to know that you're happy, safe."

"You're so good at what you do, Lizzie, and it frightens me. You are the sun, burning and surging with energy, and killing yourself the brighter you shine; the more you succeed. Things continue to get more dangerous, the criminals darker, and the missions more... horrifying. This is why I think... it's time to shed all my pretence. Shed my armour. So you and I... we're on a level playing field."

He grits his teeth, slides out of the sleeves of his shirt and discards the material, idly watching as the water soaks through it, as it drifts away. He can't bring himself to meet her gaze. So he turns, hands trembling at his sides. He tries not to flinch at her muffled gasp.

When her fingers trace over his back, over the scorched and ruined skin, Red can't breathe. Her touch is so tentative, so gentle and soft. Her palm slides from his lower back, roams up until she has her fingers wrapped around his shoulder. She gently tugs on it, turns him back around.

As he faces her, his heartbeat quickens. She is smiling at him, so brightly, her eyes glistening and swollen, but she looks so happy.

"Red," she whispers, carding her fingers through the hair on his chest. So he moves forward, wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her.

A/N; Finally, took'em long enough. I hope I did this chapter justice, so please let me know what you think. Chapter 18 is short, sweet and should be up soon! Thank you for reading!