Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way.

AN: THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH for the follows/faves/reviews! I am grateful beyond words! This one was actually kind of fun to write since I had never really written any story in this manner. The only trouble I really had with it was choosing a stopping point since I actually had to split this one into two chapters! Chapter 3 will be as soon as I add a few finishing touches. Thanks again guys, much love! And please tell me what you think of this chapter as well!

Song lyrics provided by VMV Nation – Illusion

Chapter 2

Someone to Call Home

I know it's hard to tell, how mixed up you feel

Hoping what you need, is behind every door

Each time you get hurt, I don't want you to change

Because everyone has hopes, you're human after all

But feeling sometimes wishing you were someone else

Feeling as though, you never belong

This feeling is not sadness, this feeling is not joy

I truly understand, please don't cry now

Please don't go, I want you to stay

I'm begging you please, please don't leave here

I don't want you to hate, for all the hurt that you feel

The world is just illusion

Trying to change you.

Upon returning from Belgium, Dembe drove Red out to his cabin tucked away a mere few miles from Elliot Knob, a mountain peak just outside the picturesque and sparsely populated town of August Springs, Virginia. This small but quaint dwelling was in actuality the only residence of safe harbor he personally owned, holding a snug albeit bleak cocoon of memories of his family.

As they pull into the dirt drive, Red exits the vehicle exhaustedly. No matter how often he jaunts across the globe, he unavoidably experiences jet lag for the bare minimum of a day or so. His back aches and his knee throbs from prior injuries, only making his languor all the more frustrating. If the occasion ever emerged to have at least one good night's slumber, he would gladly relish it and could die a blissful man.

Unfortunately, life can never be that simple for Raymond Reddington. He believes it also has somewhat to do with his aging mind and body, in addition to the pressure of being a distinguished criminal operating his own worldwide business. After all, executing the whims and wishes of other transgressors of the law in exchange for exorbitant sums of money would take its toll on anyone.

His extensive history in the criminal underworld has made him a mark for shady organizations and individuals whom he has forsaken or unforgivably misrepresented in some way, be it personal matters or within the dimension of professional relations. His brain resides unalterably on high alert, rejecting the idea of a peaceful sleep so that he is capable of glancing over his shoulder every minute of each day, on the grounds of him ostensibly being the most sought-after man on the planet by foes and every bureaucratic institution of law known to man.

On that fateful day he surrendered his freedom and expressed his stipulations to only speak with Elizabeth Keen, he acquiesced before walking through the doors of the FBI's headquarters that his sleepless nights were to get progressively worse. And most of all, I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I did when I was a boy. Give me that, just one time.

Approaching the front door whilst Dembe gives him the all-clear, Red's burner begins buzzing in Dembe's pocket. The dark, colossal bodyguard belatedly retrieves the phone from his shirt pocket, flipping it open as the duo saunter into the living room.

"Yes?"

"It's Gerald. There seems to be a problem with the girl. Put Red on."

Red quirks an eyebrow questioningly at Dembe's uneasy appearance. Extending the phone in Red's direction, Dembe quietly but suspiciously cites who it is, and the purpose of their call. "It's Gerald. He believes there could be an issue with Agent Keen."

What has Lizzie gotten into now?

"Gerald, what do you have?"

"I'm not sure. I followed her and Agent Ressler back to his apartment a few hours ago. I've been sitting in the lobby, waiting for her to come out, but . . . um, I don't things are going very well. I heard shouting. Lots of it. And you told me to report any sort of disturbance."

"Where is she now?"

"She has yet to come out. Do you want me to intervene? Because if there is the slightest chance of him getting physical wi—"

"There's not. I don't trust him, but I do not believe he would ever harm Lizzie. Gerald, we will be there in an hour. Call me while we are en route with an update if there is anything else to report."

Red closes the phone and hands it back to Dembe standing next to him, as he nods in comprehension back to Red. He clenches and unclenches his fists anxiously, aiming to rationalize traveling an hour just because Lizzie and Donald are having a little spat. But what if it is far more than that? I have to be sure, he deliberates to himself. Animosity rumbles through his veins violently, broiling to the point of instilling tremors in his gut. Intrinsically, he senses that something is amiss. And he always trusts his pinging instinctual radar.

He would not let anyone with the exception of Dembe see him like this, especially where Lizzie is concerned. He is a man of reserved emotion on the exterior, and persistently slides an unruffled façade over his features to thwart anyone from analyzing him and his true objections in any given situation.

Dembe exits the cabin hastily, Red hot on his heels. Red decides not to call Lizzie on his way, dejectedly aware of how she will counter his decision to meet her at Ressler's apartment. He sits in the backseat with his head propped against the headrest sullenly, his body exuding vexation from the trepidations of what this night could bring.

Whatever comes of it, he feels compelled to tell Lizzie what has been eating at him these past few months, and offer an explanation for his condensed mannerisms upon leaving for Belgium. He knows things are quite bumpy at the moment, and must choose the proper time lest he drag her further into the pit of despair.

TBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBLTBL

Descending the staircase adjacent to Ressler's apartment, Lizzie walks through the lobby, only to suddenly halt in front of it when she sees a middle-aged man wearing a beanie hat and a black leather jacket peering up briefly from his newspaper at her. Lizzie knows she looks like hell, her hair a bit disheveled with her mascara running down her face, but she cannot muster up enough modesty to care.

She does not seem to be wary of Gerald as he sits there, acting as if he is still reading. She shuffles on past him, approaching the revolving doors of the building to abscond from this train-wreck of a night. Walking at a brisk pace as she departs the apartment building into the bitter January atmosphere, Lizzie makes it safely to her car without incident. She is visibly upset by the confrontation she just had with Ressler, and reeling from the alcohol's effects weighing down her limbs did not assist her physical and emotional state of disarray.

Drawing her phone out from the pocket of her wool coat, she decides to call a taxi from the warmth and security of her vehicle. Before deciding to call the taxi service, she perilously clutches the phone in her hands, scrolling through her list of contacts. She immediately stills her movements when the contact for which she was searching appears. Nick's Pizza.

She needs him.

She needs him right now.

Damn him for making her feel this way. For causing her existence to be inconceivably intricate, making her fall in love with him, then leaving for weeks without a single phone call, and not having a scant indication if he would make it back to her in one piece.

Lizzie is consciously aware of how broad the scope of her affection stretches for Red, but has never had the audacity to express it to him, nor would she now if presented the opportunity on a silver platter.

It is impossible.

And wrong.

And terrifyingly exciting.

She is morally bound by her career with the FBI and intrinsically faithful to the task force, so she certainly should not entertain the notion of having such a romantic rapport with Red.

She shouldn't.

But, she does. And often.

A relationship between an FBI agent and one of the most notorious criminals in the world is comparative to her meeting the Pope: it is a nice thought, but realistically speaking, it is not going to happen considering the odds.

If anyone enquired Lizzie about her true feelings, she would refutably deny it and provide them with a conjectural stance that it was quite the opposite. She denied it to herself for an entire year before coming to her senses, and knows she most likely could gather her composure long enough to showcase a convincing impression that she loathes the man.

However, she never has been a persuasive liar or manipulator in her own life. Although, anytime she enters into a role undercover with Red at her side, the fabrication seems to flow out of her unpretentiously. With Red at her side, she feels as if she could do absolutely anything with his comforting words of support that linger in the very depths of her soul, igniting an inferno within the core of her being that she has never experienced in her transitory thirty-two years here on Earth.

It is maddening to know the man truly brings out the best and the worst in her.

He is her sickness.

He is her cure.

The uncertainty is ripping Lizzie's heart to shreds. Since she has been vigorously drowning in love for this man, she has let him conclude that, for the most part, she despises him with every strand of her existence. As she sits in the somber air shrouded in the darkness of the car, she silently vows to herself to enlighten him the moment she even catches a glimpse of him again.

This all began with him digging out a cozy infinitesimal corner of her heart, building a nest there for him to reside. It inexorably grew and flourished into a love that can only be defined as otherworldly.

He is no longer a miniscule portion of her heart.

No.

He has devoured her entire spirit, and now is holding sole ownership of her beating heart.

Staring at the screen, she chickens out. Lizzie's emotions boil over and merge once more, resulting in the most painful sort of bellowing moans of anguish. She cries so loudly, her ears begin to thrum and ring from the sheer pressure of the involuntary sobs escaping her mouth. Grinding her teeth in anger, her mourning continues without interruption from the outside world. Laying her head on the steering wheel choking back sobs of remorse and agony, she whispers to herself, "I can't do this anymore." Her face tear-blotched and soaked with moisture, she finally leans her head back against the headrest to shut her fuzzy orbs.

If it were not for her sitting in a reclined position, she would have been startled so badly by the faint tapping on her window, that she would have walked around for a solid week with a sore goose egg on her head. Her eyes dance alarmingly across the featureless face. It is too dim to see who it is by their face, but as Lizzie shifts her focus upward, the silhouette of one of his trademark Valencia fedora gives him away.

Shit.

Red catches a glance of her face illuminated by her dashboard. He is becoming increasingly unhappy by the second upon seeing how badly she has been crying. Puffy eyes? Check. Reddened and flushed cheeks? Check. Makeup running amock? Check. Speaking so nasally he can barely understand her? Check. Lizzie shoves her keys into the ignition, mashing down on the window button.

"Lizzie? Whatever are you doing sitting out here like this?"

"Trying to decide if I wanted to go back to the hotel or sleep in my car. You're back?"

"Yes. Lizzie, what is wrong? And why in God's name would you want to sleep in your car?

"Were you following me?"

"Not me, no. An associate of mine has been since I left town. I also told him to keep an eye on you this evening. He called to inform me that he overheard you and Donald get into an argument. Well, a bit of a screaming match, as he put it. Then called to say you had been sitting in your car for quite a while. I wanted to be sure you were alright."

"Oh . . . r—right. I'm guessing he was the guy in the lob—by. Wait, how long have you been back? And where is Dem—be?"

"Dembe dropped me off. Lizzie, what has you so upset? And you're talking quite strangely . . . "

Red bites the inside of his cheek as he eyes her curiously, realizing he was right about his instincts. Something else is going on here. He is a very observant man, but he did not want to be presumptuous considering her fragile state. He was going to try to encourage Lizzie to explain her demeanor and the situation with Donald.

She is obviously not pleased with his failing to contact her as soon as he returned. Lizzie can barely keep her eyes open, her gaze bouncing from his face down to his tie, then straight ahead. Red has seen enough. He crosses in front of the car, making his way to the passenger's side to settle in next to her, and to escape the chilling single-digit wind blowing into his face and ears.

For a moment, he does not say a word. He just looks at her with such adoration, like he so lovingly has since the day he invaded into her life. He appears to be in deep thought and consideration about her present condition of distress. Placing his left hand atop hers lying on the middle console, he gives it a tender reassuring squeeze. Everything is going to be okay.

"So do tell, Lizzie. Why did you need to sleep in your car? Are you simply that exhausted?"

She shakes her head, and begins to sniffle. She refuses to look in his direction, glaring at the nothingness outside the window. Fighting back the sharp sobs that threaten to escape her throat, Lizzie lets her tears descend in silence. When her breathing becomes slightly ragged, that is when he smells it. The alcohol.

"Ah. You have had a few drinks. I will drive you home, alright?" Saying it without realizing the content and meaning of his words, Red immediately clamps his eyes shut in regret, a small disapproving hum rattling in his throat.

"I don't have a home, Red."

She pitifully turns her head toward him faintly to make direct eye contact with him, her lips turning up into such a distressing frown. Her ducts have decidedly been thrown into overdrive, forcing her eyes to brim with an excruciatingly painful amount of moisture that is causing her nose to congest and her temples to throb. He sees how upset she truly is, and it rips his heart out of his chest. His pulse jumps on the side of his neck, and his ire attempts to override his obligation to remain calm. So help me God, if Donald had anything to do with this. . .

"Yes you do. You will always have a home as long as I'm around." He says ever so softly, giving her the most compassionate smile, all the while acknowledging no amount of promises or explanations will help her at this point in the night. The deep rumble of his voice brushes over her skin, sending tingles rolling down her spine and warming her center. He is completely oblivious to the fact that just the purr of his voice is the only comfort she needs. The tenor in which he is enunciating in is synchronously soothing and erotic, and she wishes she could listen to him speak to her in so many variegated scenarios that she has mulled over on a regular basis.

"What happened, Lizzie?"

"It's not important."

"I'm sorry, but you're wrong. It's important to me. I care about you Lizzie, very much, and I will not stand by and allow someone, anyone, to intentionally hurt you. That being said, what did Captain TRESemme have to say?"

Lizzie parts her lips with a smack, snaking her tongue around them to lick the salt away and to wet them I order to speak. They are staring at each other now with such intensity that Lizzie feels her heart jump in her chest. With her heart rate rising, she knows she has to tell him. She is thankful that she is intoxicated, otherwise she would not have the courage to explain any of it to him.

"It wasn't just Ressler. Red, it is like the culmination of everything, too. It's killing me inside. I mean, it was him that upset me tonight, but it was just what he said that pissed me off. . . and really hurt me since it came from him. But, he was right."

Keeping his eyes fixed on her, Red braces himself for what is to come. He knows how badly she has wanted to give up on everything and everyone since Sam died. She is stronger than she realizes, but it crushes him to see her swimming in immense grief.

"It all started with him trying to kiss me. I rejected him, and told him that I didn't feel that way about him."

Red cringes internally, squaring his shoulders a bit as he narrows his eyes at her. He is taking a mental tally of every detail she provides, and if he deems Ressler's actions to be more despicable than he originally thought, well, he has an endless supply of weaponry to choose from lest Red having to take extreme, but necessary measures. Anything for Lizzie, anything.

"Then, he got pissed off and stormed into the kitchen. He broke a drinking glass and split his hand open and I tried to help him, but he wouldn't let me. Then he told me to get out. Said that I had problems, and basically that there is something wrong with me because I wasn't willing to kiss him, but was willing to kiss a man I thought to be my father at one point."

Red suddenly sucks in a lungful of air, whipping his head away from her to gaze out the windshield into nothingness and starts chewing on the inside of his cheek. He succumbs to the overpowering rage knocking around in his gut, and reaches for the door handle to get out.

Under any other typical circumstance, Red never indulges his impulses, but rather exchanges them for logical, well thought-out decisions. In this case concerning Lizzie, he is incapable of desisting his emotions from besting him. When you love someone, you have no control. That's what love is: being powerless.

Lizzie grabs his left arm to stop him, her eyes pleading with him not to leave her in the vehicle alone, "No! Please . . . Red. Don't." Still latched onto his arm, she shakes her head in disapproval of whatever Red was about to do to Ressler.

Red glances down at her hands squeezing fiercely around his bicep, taking her shaky hand back into his but this time, intertwining their fingers. His eyes saturate with unspeakable fury, but it begins to fade as she brings their interlocked fingers to her warm mouth. She kisses the back of his hand and the tops of his knuckles, allowing her lips to remain a bit too long.

His expression is of shock and awe: as his smooth jaw hangs slack, his pupils fill with want and anticipation. Lizzie has rendered the Concierge of Crime speechless. He stares longingly where her mouth is making contact with his skin, watching her lips extract themselves, while they become temporarily stuck to his skin a bit as she pulls back to separate them. He has never witnessed such fondness from this beautifully fierce woman. He is absolutely stunned.

Red has so many sensations at the forefront of his psyche that he eventually allows to them to spill out onto the features of his face. His eyelids flicker passionately, and the only sound that can be heard is the heaving of their chests as they struggle for each breath.

Red gulps harshly, his throat running dry, frantic for a drink of her. All of the nerve endings in Lizzie's body spark and sputter, becoming ultra sensitive to touch, but begging for it nonetheless. She wants so badly to place her lips over his in this moment to taste him, but she is fearful he will rebuke her since she is quite inebriated, and Red's gentleman scale is always off-the-charts chivalrous.

Red steadies himself against the beckoning of desire that is flooding his senses. He places both hands softly on each side of her head, bringing her down to his moist lips, kissing her forehead. Pulling back again, Red smiles so brightly and lovingly that it lights up his weary face, "Come on, let's get going. You need to lie down."

She nods her head slowly, knowing all will be all right come morning, with the exception of the piercing hangover she will be required to endure. Red gets out to stride over to the driver's side, swiftly opening the front and back doors. She eyes him warily, but then understands what his intentions are. He reaches inside to scoop her up under her knees, latching one arm around her back and side. He lays her down easily in the back seat, taking off his coat to drape over her curled body. Climbing into the driver's seat, Red revs up her car and diverts into the late-night traffic of Alexandria's roadways.

The only thoughts conjuring in his mind as he blankly stares at the road in front of him are that of Donald Ressler. Just you wait, Donald. Tomorrow, you and I are going to have a bit of fun, and you are going to love it about as much as Lizzie adored your kind words of endearment tonight.

P.S. – Hope you all enjoyed it! Thanks again for reading