A/N: So there was this plot bunny...another one shot. I own nothing. Well, I do own a car, but I don't own the Blacklist.

Lizzie Wins

Reddington's safe house was a Georgian monstrosity in Falls Church. The owner took an extended vacation after "borrowing" some company funds, so Red was playing house sitter. It was a mausoleum of terrible taste, except for the one redeeming factor; it had a gym.

So now here she was in her tank top and FBI Academy sweatpants, about to take advantage of that amenity. It had been some time since she had done any physical training other than running or firearms and with Red in her life; she seemed to wind up in fist fights almost as often as fire fights.

The door swung open as she was fastening her padded gloves, she glanced up and did a double take as Raymond Reddington sauntered in wearing a t-shirt and his own pair of sweats. Naval Academy. Well, hell, looked like she would be going one on one with the FBI's Number Four.

"I thought Dembe was going to work out with me?"

"Dembe has an errand. You'll have to make do with me, Agent Keen. I promise you, I am completely capable of kicking your ass," the smirk turned into a leer almost as he began to put on the sparring gear. Lizzie narrowed her eyes at him. On one hand, she might have a slightly better chance with him than with Dembe. But on the other hand, everything she knew about Red told her that he wouldn't fight fair. He never did.

They squared off in the center of the black-taped circle; both of them knew the rules of sparring. Lizzie was still, Red could see the gears turning in her head as she strategized. She was cool and composed, not a hair turned by nervousness, and he couldn't help but admire that about her. It had been a long time for him, admittedly, but sparring had always been a favorite of his in the Academy, and his lifestyle kept those skills well-honed. This would be brilliant. If nothing else, it will get his hands on a little more of his Lizzie.

Lizzie decided to go in hot, as Sam had once told her, "Go whole hog or no hog at all," she kept away from him, tried to stay on her feet and moving. He had the better reach, but she could get under his guard. She was landing some decent punches to his midsection, but she would be lying if she called that winning. They were circling like dogs in an alley, he was watching her with eyes gone sharp and hot. This wasn't the debonair, refined Concierge of Crime; this was a man who had been required to fight for his life, more than once. This was a predator; it was there in his smile.

Lizzie gave no quarter, Red mused as he circled her, looking for his opening. As long as she was up and moving, she had the advantage. She could wear him down eventually. She had a nasty left hook and he was fairly sure that he would have the bruises to prove it. Then he saw what he needed, her front guard dropped for a moment, and he was in.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her in front of him, snaking an arm around her neck. For a moment, she froze, as though she was uncertain how she'd gotten there and Red smiled into the soft skin of her throat. She smelled like sweat and soap and some smoky perfume that shot straight to his brain.

"Oh Lizzie, you should have never let me get a grip, sweetheart," he crooned in her ear and her body shivered hard against him.

How she went from staying light and keeping her distance to being pinned against the solid bulk of him, she couldn't recall. But she knew what had happened. She had dropped her guard. She had assumed a weakness in her opponent that she had no evidence existed. He was much stronger than she had realized, and much of that bulk that he dressed in Savile Row suits was in fact, muscle. She rotated into him, and used the arm he had taken for leverage and executed a sloppy but effective hip toss. He countered by sweeping her feet out from under her and then they were grappling on the floor, move and counter move.

She had hooked her legs around his waist, squeezing the ribs she had pummeled earlier, Lizzie expected him to break the grip. Instead, he slid his hands down her thighs to her hips, and then just under her shirt where he raked his fingernails lightly across her skin. There was that shiver again, as heat poured through her like lava. She stared at him while a blush crept up from her chest to her face. The smile that crawled across his face was completely filthy, which is possibly why she lost her mind.

She tightened her legs and levered herself up, grabbing his shirt as a handhold. Once she was face to face, she gave him her very own smirk, and crushed her lips to his. His arms came around her, almost too tightly, as his lips ate at hers. The kiss began as a tactic, then it twisted out of her control, Raymond Reddington's mouth was a damn miracle and she was ready to convert. Her brain spun out as he coaxed her lips to part, licked at them, raked his teeth across them. She heard a whimper, followed by a sigh, and was alarmed to realize they had come from her.

When they finally broke for oxygen, she was straddling his lap, which he was apparently very happy about, and one look at his eyes confirmed he was as dazed as she was. There was her moment. She crossed her arms over her chest and used her legs to throw her body into his chest, pushing him back onto the floor. She brought her knees up and pinned his arms down, smiled and slapped the mat beside his head.

Lizzie wins.