She was supposed to receive praise for her good work at the end of that excruciating day. The sweat staining her blouse would have been worth it then.

He, on the other hand, was furious, and the sliver of happiness she was in for appeared to be in his way. So, he kicked the possibility for it to the curb and stormed into Cooper's office.

"We had a deal, Harold," she heard him announce. Cooper fired something right back. They engaged in an argument she had no interest in witnessing, so she made herself leave the post-office.

Washing the sweat off of her body was the kind of praise she could provide herself.

"It's 3 A.M., you fucker," she managed. He laughed it off.

"Waiting for a pat on the head earlier in Cooper's office, weren't you?" He was joking, she knew.

Ending the call was an option. Or, she could succumb to what was becoming a routine - letting him talk and allowing her fingers to relieve the recurring ache he was causing.

Having a routine never killed anyone.

"You do know you stole my thunder, right? He called me in to congratulate me on being a capable professional. You came in and wrecked it like you always do," her breathing had changed. He didn't dare laugh again.

"Some would say the concept of stealing one's thunder expires at the end of puberty," he offered no remorse.

"Fuck you, Reddington." Trouble was, she didn't hang up. She was waiting for her retribution and was sacrificing her integrity for it.

It took him a few seconds before he sensed the line never went dead. He would take his chances tonight.

"Hold that thought, Lizzie."

He did hang up. She stopped her fingers from finishing what she'd started.

She'd wait.