You can do this, she told herself firmly as she pulled on her suit jacket. She could keep up the façade, be the adoring wife; she could fool her husband.

After all, she'd been lying to him for months now, about one thing or another.

Just pretend you don't know. You don't know a thing and you…love…your husband.

The words rankled in her head, with a sourness she could almost scent on the air. She took a deep breath, centering herself, and thought of Red — his certainty that she could manage this, his belief in her. His arms, strong, holding her, bolstering her. Loaning her his strength.

And she went down the stairs with a smile on her face.

It hurt, though, to smile and pretend nothing was wrong, to kiss his cheek good morning and accept a cup of coffee. Just like any other day. Just like nothing had changed; like her world hadn't been turned upside down and inside out. She sat at their little round table and tried not to show her brooding, but stared off into space thoughtlessly in spite of her best intentions.

"Okay, here we are. My world-famous pancakes." Tom flipped a couple onto a plate with a flourish. "Gluten free."

She didn't even hear him, not really. The thought of food made her stomach roil and churn in rebellion.

"Are you okay? What's–what's wrong?"

Shit, she was blowing this before they'd even really begun. Losing herself in her distress. You can do this, Liz.

"Nothing," she said, managing a small smile. "I'm just feeling a little wonky."

"Uh-huh. Some of the kids at school have the flu. I hope I didn't give you something."

You gave me everything, she wanted to scream. But it was all a lie. She could barely bring herself to look at him, and kept her eyes downcast. She thought she could feel him looking at her; knew he'd have concern written all over his face.

She heard the rustle of his movements beside her.

"Elizabeth."

She forced herself to look over at him, and he was on one knee beside her chair, looking at her earnestly, sincerely. Falsely.

"What are you doing?" she asked, confused by the sudden change in the air, by his position next to her. It didn't make any sense..

"Will you," he said slowly, "marry me?"

She knew her face betrayed her surprise, but thought that was natural enough, considering.

"I wanna renew our wedding vows," Tom said. "So…will you marry me?"

Jesus, that was the absolute last thing she expected, or wanted. Just what was he up to now, anyway? What did it mean? But the Liz she had been only a day ago would have had only one answer to this particular question, and she had to give it.

"Uhhh…yes!" she said, making her smile as wide and sincere as she could. Imagine you want this, she told herself firmly.

"Yes?" He surged forward and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her head and rumpling her hair. "I love you so much," he murmured. At least she didn't have to smile anymore.

"Okay," he said, disentangling himself and standing in a rush. "Okay. We will talk about this tonight. I am so late." He beamed at her, and she smiled back. "But, uh, I love you."

He was gone, then, in a flurry of movement, and she sat for another minute, smile gone, trying, trying so hard to hold herself in. To keep herself together. Breathe in; breathe out.

But she couldn't, she couldn't, it was too hard, too much to bear. She let the rage take her over, a mist across her brain, a flush of horrified emotion that heated and spurred her into motion. Just to relieve her feelings, she went to the sideboard and swept all their happy, smiling photos to the floor in one sharp movement.

Lies, it was all lies. Foolish, foolish Liz.

She smashed her breakfast plate with a satisfying splintering noise, the cool, dry pancakes flying into the air. She stormed through the house, digging, searching for more. For evidence, to reassure herself, to use against him. For something that would give her further confirmation of what she knew.

She made a mess of everything, yet again, but at least this time it was physical; at least this time, it relieved her feelings. At least a little.

It was harder to go through the house a second time, putting everything carefully back to rights. She was lucky the lamp from the side table hadn't broken more than a light bulb when it hit the floor — how would she have explained it? She told herself that she had to be more careful, school her temper more strictly. She couldn't afford to let go like that.

She took the bag of plate shards and pieces of pancake with her when she left the house. On her way out, she threw it in a neighbour's trash can. She let the cool morning air wash over her face for a few moments, settling her nerves. Then she was on her way, to begin work, to solve this new mystery.

She called from her car, reaching him just as he finished dressing for the day. She sounded…false, as if she were trying too hard to be normal, as if she were overcompensating without noticing it. She asked him to meet her, and gave him an address.

The tables turned, he thought with some amusement. He was willing enough to go along with it for now, even just to make her feel better, more in control. He didn't like to see her as she had been the night before, broken and bereft.

The address turned out to be a rental place for storage lockers, and he thought that was suitable enough, if she was creating a bolthole for herself. He wondered if she was just hiding, or if she had something else in mind. He readjusted his bags and knocked politely.

She let him in and walked back inside without saying anything. He saw her board set up, as if Keen was now her target; largely empty, for now. He felt a pang when he glanced over her face, drawn and pale.

"I come bearing gifts — pimento cheese sandwiches, toasted with the crusts cut off. Eartha Kitt's recipe. It's a fantastic story."

She wasn't interested today, apparently.

"What do you know about Tom?" she demanded.

"Lizzy, I'm not sure if I can shed any–"

"No! We're not doing that. Not today. You have been threatening to tell me the truth about my husband since the day we met, and I'm ready to listen.

"What do you know?"

So he told her, what little there was — or most of it, anyway. If he skirted…certain things, it was for her good as much as his own, at this particular point. She needed him to win this fight, and her anger, when it came, was sure to be transcendent.

"About a year ago, I discovered that he had purchased three passports from a trusted forger I use in Warsaw."

"That's it? He bought passports? My husband chose me. He inserted himself into my life because of you."

He nodded. "I can only assume that's the case."

"Why? How are we connected?"

"That is just a distraction." Now, of all times, was not the time for that conversation.

"No, that is all that matters!" she cried, anger fighting tears in her voice as she swept his bags to the floor with one strong arm. "This is my life! Tell me!"

"Right now, the only thing that matters is the immediate threat — your husband — finding out who he is and who he works for." He walked over to her, longing to hold her, to ease her suffering. He looked her straight in the eye. "The rest will come. I promise you."

He could see her gather herself inside as she bent down to pick up his things. He crouched to help her, offering her the bag full of discs of surveillance footage, recovered from the people who'd been watching her home. She didn't like the idea that he'd seen it, he could tell, but she didn't say anything, just sat down by the computer desk with a sigh.

"He wants to renew our vows."

He scoffed; couldn't help it. "Things are unraveling for him. He's desperate to keep you close."

She started to nod slowly as he spoke, understanding the opportunity the enemy's weakness presented. Understanding how important her acting abilities had become.

"Things will have to appear normal to Tom, to Cooper, and the others."

That's right, he thought, you can't trust anyone. Not Keen, not the FBI. Only himself — he would be her port in this storm. He didn't examine the satisfaction this thought brought to him too closely.

"Which is why you'll need a case," he said instead, deflecting himself as much as her. He stood and walked over to hand her a copy of the paper. "Yesterday in Brooklyn, a taxi drove into the back of a truck under the 86th Street L train; killed the driver and his female passenger. It's being reported as an accident, but I suspect, in fact, it may be murder, the work of The Undertaker.

"He's a broker of death, a man who somehow convinces ordinary people to kill on his behalf. Murder/suicide is his signature. How he recruits, nobody knows, but if this accident is his work, it gives you a rare glimpse into the way he operates and a chance to find him."

She looked at him, shook her head. "I don't think I can do it," she admitted, voice soft now. "I can't keep pretending with him. I spent all of five minutes with him this morning and I nearly broke."

"You must," he said simply. "We need to know more than we do — if we tip him off too early–"

"Who is this 'we' you're talking about?" she demanded bitterly. "I'm the one who has to live with him, I'm the one who–"

"Lizzy," he broke in, reaching down to take her hand. "I can only imagine how difficult this must be, truly. But if you want answers — and I think you do — then you have to do this."

Once more, she had to let Reddington's surety be her own; bolster her confidence and let his words carry her through. At least for now, she could focus on the case — he was right, it didn't just give her a reason to be normal for the team, it helped her to be normal for herself.

She presented the case, went with Ressler to interview the taxi driver's wife. Tracked down medical records, followed leads. It all helped her to regain focus, to remember who she was, what she was capable of.

Everything she could do that she'd shoved aside and forgotten.

If she had to play the devoted wife, well…she'd do it with a vengeance.

The next morning, she ignored case work and sat at her desk in a whirlwind of phone calls. She started with Tom's brother, Craig…and as she spoke to him, she started to wonder. If her husband wasn't Tom Keen, but someone else entirely, just who was Craig? This could be a lead, she thought, her heart beating faster. This could be a way to the truth.

She planned and plotted and made arrangements. This time, it wouldn't be her caught by surprise, with the rug pulled out from beneath her. This time, it would be his turn to scramble to catch up as events unfolded around him at lightning speed.

She thought that she'd rather enjoy watching it.

And she'd been right, she thought, examining his shock as he came through the front door in the sunny afternoon light to a house full of people. It was enjoyable to watch his thoughts race over his face, to see him caught flat-footed and off-guard. He was absolutely aghast at seeing Craig there, and she chattered between them, her heart racing.

"I want to marry this man!" she almost shouted, her voice pitched high, verging on hysterical to her own ears. She hoped that no one else could hear it, and schooled herself fiercely, remembering her goal. She shooed the two men off together cheerfully, secreting Craig's glass away for testing.

He thinks you're stupid, she thought to herself. He's going to learn a very unpleasant lesson.

It hurt, though, listening to Tom speak his vows earnestly, guileless blue eyes gazing into her own with every appearance of devotion. She clung to her red roses, nails breaking into the stems in her effort to keep the smile on her face. To remember how she'd felt the first time, when she'd loved him with all her lonely heart.

You idiot, she thought, even as she spoke her own vows, less emotional, a little more distant, but the best she could do. You still love him — that's why this hurts so much. Hate was merely a flip of the coin, just the other face of love. They were too close for comfort, and as much as she wanted to punish, to lash out and hurt him…an equal, bruised and broken part of her just wanted him back. Wanted the man she'd fallen in love with and made a life with.

She honestly didn't know how she lasted the party without bursting into howling sobs.

Later, alone in her bolthole, she plotted out what she knew. It was pitifully little, and wasn't going to get her very far. Most of what she had were still questions, about people, about relationships, about power. It seemed very much as if everyone had it but her.

That had to change.

Watching the surveillance tapes, hoping against hope for a clue…she got something. Tom, hiding a key at the bottom of their standing lamp. Ike, she thought forlornly. Nothing, apparently, was sacred. She slipped home again, and sure enough, there it was. She peeled off the tape and pocketed the key thoughtfully. She wasn't sure how to figure out what it opened, but she would, somehow.

She handed Craig's glass over to Dembe with some satisfaction — that would bring some concrete answers, at least. She would get some answers.

Then it was back to work — late, but thankfully earning her only a stern look from Cooper — and things began to happen in a hurry. It was always like this. Flashes of insight, put together like building blocks, and then the rush. Running, always trying to catch up to the bad guy, adrenalin rushing heart pounding moving moving moving.

At least they made it in time. But she was exhausted.

Ah, there was nothing like a trip south. Too bad he was surrounded by desiccated corpses. But, beggars couldn't be choosers. It took a little more fast talking than he'd thought it would to convince Cvetko to help him — and a weekend at his villa in Dubrovnik — but the results were worth his while. Touch DNA, really, what would they think of next?

On the plane, he made the necessary phone call home to check on Lizzy and line everything up. He was worried about her, though he didn't show it. The case was a challenging one, and although she seemed to have carried off her vow renewal — and even in his mind, he said it with disdain — with great success, he knew the load she was carrying was a heavy one. He needed her to stay the course, but he didn't want her to break under the strain.

When he saw the wreckage in the hotel room she'd directed him too, his worry increased. Yet she seemed calm and collected, pointing out the second Keen on the floor of the washroom. He didn't look in good shape at all, and Red had to wonder what she'd been doing to him. The proximity of the man's head to the bathroom sink gave him a clue, and he frowned thoughtfully.

"Ressler called," Lizzy said coolly. "I have to step out." He could feel her behind him, hovering at his shoulder. "He isn't cooperating," she added. Her tension was palpable; she nearly thrummed with it against his back.

Then she was gone, a whisk of air, and the temperature in the room changed. Red had no doubt that Craig Keen — Christopher Maly, rather — knew exactly who he was. The fear in his eyes told the whole story.

"Oh hell, Dembe, get the hacksaw," Red said cheerfully. "We're going to have to take him out of here in pieces." He let that sit for a few heavy seconds, watching the fear grow, then laughed. "I'm just kidding," he exclaimed, glancing at Dembe with a grin. "We'll get old Christopher to talk. Who's up for a field trip?"

Putting plans into motion, arranging things to his liking. Just like a puppeteer, he supposed, as they sat in the museum, gazing at the display of what was honestly rather creepy papier maché figures. He reminisced quietly, as Dembe took his cue to walk past them with Maly's elderly mother in her wheelchair.

Maly took his own cue without further prompting, and Red thought he could trust that his point was made. Back to the hotel with Maly, and goodness, but this had been a busy day. There was no real point in starting without Lizzy there, so he cuffed Maly back to the sink and got comfortable. There was no harm in ordering a little room service — a man had to eat, after all.

When Lizzy got there, he and Dembe were enjoying The Three Stooges on the hotel tv. She was…not amused, but was certainly ready to get down to business. She was fierce, intent as she questioned Maly, crouching close to him to intimidate. He admired her, he really did, as the other man stammered his way through an explanation.

Of course, he claimed not to know anything — but also asserted that Tom Keen had a real brother, somewhere in Chicago; was in contact with a woman known as Nicky… Their work was interrupted by continuous calls from Tom himself, which they eventually had to return. They certainly didn't need another player on the board right now.

Berlin. What, who, why there? Maly refused to answer, and before they could move, he'd thrown himself from the window. Red could almost respect him for it, if it wasn't so inconvenient. Dembe started cleaning efficiently as he put on his coat and nudged Lizzy along. She was shocked, horrified, but understood quickly enough that waiting around for Tom and the police wasn't going to get them anywhere productive.

He was sorry to have to be teaching her these lessons, of cold detachment, of efficient brutality. He wished they weren't necessary, that she could have remained ignorant of the dark waters in which he swam. He could see the trail that had led them each to this place, and deeply regretted the choices that he'd made. But if she were to survive, to thrive…she had to change.

She raced off to meet up with her team; he took himself to the Post Office for his look at Bobbit's client list. He thought he knew what he'd find, and he was right. Harold was peeved, but it was easy to put him off with an enigmatic smile. What Harold didn't know didn't hurt him.

He wound up the day with Lizzy, in the dim little storage unit, staring at her board. They had made little progress, and he was as dissatisfied as she seemed to be. Or perhaps, she was discouraged that the last couple of days of frantic activity had led to such meagre results.

"I can't do this anymore," she said softly, her voice one step away from tears. "I can't look at him, let alone touch him."

The thought of Keen's hands on her made his eyes mist red with rage; it is with some difficulty that he tempered it enough to answer her as he had to.

"Be patient," he said, though he wished he could say something else entirely. "With Craig, things have been set in motion. How Tom reacts will tell us a great deal. You need to stay the course."

"I don't think I can."

If he opened his mouth again, it would be to consign Tom Keen to the hell from whence he came. He wanted nothing more than to gather her up and whisk her away somewhere safe and secluded; warm and happy.

Instead, he refocused his attention on the board, specifically a charred scrap of paper bearing the word "Berlin" in the corner. He wracked his brain for the meaning — surely, there was something he knew…

"What is it?" she asked, as he carefully moved the scrap to the top of the board. The kingpin. She stood and moved to stand beside him. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know yet," he admitted, muscle twitching in his cheek.

She looked at him, beseeching with her eyes, and he hurt for her. "Don't make me go back there," she said, soft again, but hopeless too, as if she already knew his answer.

"Lizzy, I–I'm sorry." What else could he say? He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kept staring ahead. If he met her eyes, he might break.

She turned into him, grabbing his jacket in white-knuckled fists, burying her face in his neck. He waited for the storm of tears, letting his free arm go around her back to pull her close. But all that came were harsh, rasping breaths in the silent room, faster shorter faster shorter. He began to be afraid she'd pass out if she didn't stop.

"Lizzy," he said, pulling back and gripping her shoulders firmly. He shook her a little; he'd slap her if he had to. "Elizabeth."

She choked on her next breath and there was nothing, nothing, for horrible long seconds, then she gave a wet hack of a cough and her breathing eased. He touched her cheek gently, and she leaned into his hand.

"Don't panic," he instructed. "It's just another case; just another Blacklister to manage."

"I don't habitually sleep with your Blacklisters," she shot back, eyes dark with misery. "What if–"

"Avoid it, if you can," he said simply. "But Lizzy, if he–"

"Don't," she said unhappily. "Don't say it. I know what I have to do."

"I–" He, for once, was bereft of words. There was no way to make it easier, no way to lessen the horror of it. Or so he thought.

She lifted her eyes to his and offered a half smile. "You could…you could help me," she said, almost a whisper.

"Anything," he answered immediately, though he didn't know what he could possibly do.

"Kiss me?" The question was unusually timid, with none of her behind it. "Let me leave here knowing there's at least one person in the world who genuinely cares about me."

He hadn't known the depth of her loss until just now. Hadn't reconciled how completely alone in the world she was, and rather thought he'd avoided the thought; the guilt of it sank into him with all its miserable weight. He didn't want what lay between them to be reduced to a means to an end, but…if he could ease her suffering, he owed that to her. That, and anything else she might ask of him.

Without words, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers. She was cold, trembling faintly as if holding in her strongest emotions. He would warm her, he thought, and cupped her face in his own heavy hands. He moved his mouth gently, coaxing, until she relaxed into him, arms coming around him. She was soft and yielding; she tasted like apples and she smelled like home.

That's it, he thought dimly, mind already hazing over. He traced the outline of her mouth carefully, letting himself explore her fully. She murmured something and opened to him, already heating, already eager. Tongues met and tangled, hands gripping, stroking, needing. He tugged the back of her blouse free so he could touch her, so his fingers could soak in the silk of her skin. She pulled at his tie even as her own hand slipped under his jacket and vest to clutch at the back of his shirt.

He let his free hand tangle in her hair, a rare indulgence, curving around the back of her head to keep her close. It was so quiet in the small room, the only sounds to be heard were the wet suck of their mouths, the rasp of clothing.

He kissed her, and let himself dream of a different life.

She was lost, lost in him. He was kissing her with a singular intent, as if he wished to imprint himself on her. She wanted that too, wanted the feel of him pressed into her skin so she wouldn't forget it. Wanted these new sensations to be the only real ones in her life.

Red, she thought, but didn't want to move away, not even the bare amount she'd need to speak the words. She poured herself into the kiss, relishing his warmth, the spicy taste of him. She relaxed for the first time in two frantic days, warm again and flush with need and want.

She felt him harden against her, and wished that he didn't wear so many clothes. Pressed herself close, closer, as close as she could manage and still be kissing him. She had to let go of his tie, so she snaked her hand around his neck to scratch at the stubble of his hair. Was she trying to avoid leaving a mark, or trying to make one? She didn't know.

Red murmured into her mouth, half-words half-moan of appreciation. His hand clenched in her hair almost painfully, and a surge of heat flashed through her. She wanted, wanted, and hooked a leg around his to find pressure, find friction, find something to quell the rising tide inside her.

"Lizzy," he said, and she didn't like that, the loss of his lips, the space it made, the words she knew he would say. "Lizzy, we…we can't, not now." He pressed his forehead to hers, and they stood, clinched, breathing hard together.

"I know," she managed to say, although she was one touch away from ceasing to care. "I know."

It was harder than she could have imagined to loosen her hands, to back away, even a little. He sighed as she did, letting his fingers trail along her cheek as she moved, as his hand slid slowly off her back. He smiled at her, then leaned in and pressed a final kiss to her lips, stealing her breath and making her ache.

"Part of me wants to stay here forever," she admitted softly. "Or beg you to take me somewhere, anywhere and hide away from the world."

"If I thought it was right for you, LIzzy, you wouldn't even have to ask," he vowed. "Everything will come right soon, sweetheart, I promise you."

"It will never be right again," she sighed unhappily. "My life has changed now, and won't ever go back."

"You can go forward," he said. "You can move forward and I'll…I'll be there, if you want me to be."

She smiled at him. She felt more at peace than she had since seeing the fateful crime scene photos, and she knew it was largely due to the comfort and care he'd offered. He'd given her love, of a sort, she thought, and she would carry it carefully in her heart as she walked into the trial that lay before her.

"I think I'll want you there, Red," she said quietly.

He enfolded her one last embrace, warm, strong, and comforting. He started to say something, then simply placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. He picked up his overcoat from the chair and left without another word.

She took a couple of deep, centering breaths, neatened her ponytail, fished a mint out of her purse, straightened her blouse and tucked it back into her slacks. She pocketed the original key she'd found hidden in her house and steeled herself for the night ahead.

She made it home while it was still light out, and quickly and quietly replaced the key where she'd found it. As she was putting the pliers back in her bag, she heard him behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief. She'd made it.

"Hey."

"Hey, babe," she said, turning around with a bright smile. False, so false. She baited him about his brother, just to see what he'd say. He fielded her questions neatly and plausibly enough. Well, he'd had a lot more practice at this than she had. She moved past him, walking away, barely breathing.

His hand on her arm, no no. "Stop." Had he guessed? "We're newlyweds," he said softly, his hand moving to her shoulder.

Oh god, no. She took a moment to steady herself. She'd known, known, that it might come to this. She could do this, she could. She turned around with what she thought was her usual expression of interest, of love, and kept her eyes on his as she peeled off her jacket slowly. He had his own look of love on his face, and her heart splintered and broke yet again as his thumb caressed the apple of her cheek, as they came together in a kiss.

It felt so wrong, now, after everything, knowing he was a stranger, a con, a liar. He didn't love her, didn't want her, didn't care. She wanted to lash out, to slap scream run. Instead, she took his hand and drew him up the stairs to their bedroom.

At least it was familiar, was somewhat predictable, the dance of movement, the removal of clothing. His mouth on hers a hot fever, his hands pulling out the elastic in her hair. Naked, she nearly faltered, knowing she wasn't ready, knowing that he'd know — how could she hide her lack of interest?

Lie back and think of England, and even her thoughts bore a tinge of hysteria. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her roiling insides, tried remember loving this man. But she couldn't, couldn't, the feelings wouldn't come and his hands were on her and revulsion threatened to overwhelm her.

She summoned Red, then, desperate and alone. Summoned the way he looked at her, like she was as necessary to him as sunlight. The way he smiled at her so his whole face lit and his eyes crinkled. The feel of his strong arms around her; of his mouth, gentle and enticing. The way his hands stroked and coaxed, or demanded and took. The way she'd wanted, not even an hour ago, hot and wet and needy.

That was wrong, too, wrong to use someone else that way, wrong to bring Red into this…dirty act of desperation. Too many thoughts clamoured in her head, even as she lay back and held out her arms for her husband. He looked different without his glasses, eyes glittering strangely in the light of dusk. She thought his face looked almost…triumphant as his hand moved down her body to touch her intimately and found her damp and ready.

She wanted to scream that it wasn't him, it wasn't his touch that brought her here. That she hated him, that his touch disgusted her, that this felt like rape. But no, no, stop, she told herself fiercely. He'd know, he'd be able to tell she was already…

"Is something wrong, babe?" How he could sound so genuinely concerned, so caring, she didn't know.

"Of course not," she said with her best alluring smile. "I'm just a little tired. Come here," she added, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him down for a kiss.

She kept her mind on Red and kept her eyes closed; took herself away to another time and place. The writer's house, where the sunset had broken over her body, moving over Red, the passion overtaking everything. She let the memory of those feelings, impossible to ignore, overwhelming, course through her as Tom slid inside her, as he took his pleasure from her.

She wondered, as he kissed her, as he pumped into her, if it was pleasurable for him, if this was a bonus of the job, or just another task on a list. Did he feel anything at all, or was he, too, desperately picturing someone else, imagining that…Gina, lying underneath him.

It was over soon enough, Tom beside her, panting in satisfaction. She kept a smile on her face through sheer force of will as he turned to her.

"I guess this is our new anniversary," he said with a chuckle

She laughed, tinkling and false. "I guess so," she said. "Maybe we should celebrate both."

"I'd like that," he answered, and kissed her again. "I think I'll just grab a shower — wanna join me?"

His sheepish grin was so familiar, it hurt, deep inside. Death by 1000 cuts, she thought. That's how I'll lose this fight. One last broken piece of me that will be the last piece I have.

"I'm just so tired," she said apologetically. "I've had a long day — you go ahead."

And when he was gone, after a few more kisses caresses touch that reviled, she let herself weep, solitary and alone in the dark.