He lies beside her, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the look on her face when he found her by the woods, of her devastated fear that she had failed just by surviving. It worries him that she doesn't see how strong she really is.

She whimpers in her sleep, then, rousing him from his dark thoughts into concern. He turns his head to look at her, to make sure she's okay; she's still curled away from him, but she's starting to twitch and shiver under the heavy covers.

He sends tendrils of soothing warm affection her way, reaching out to stroke her hair and add physical comfort, as well as strengthen his connection to her. Seeking the comfort he's sending just as she would physical warmth, she rolls over, her face creased in a frown even in sleep, and curls into his side with her head snugged against his chest.

It happens so quickly, he can't move, or think; he can barely even breathe. He can feel her small hands digging in, gripping his shirt; feel her damp breath hot against his side. Her knees rub at his thigh, his hip; her foot scrapes at his leg through the blankets.

Seeking to calm, to soothe, his system restarts with a jolt; he finds himself able to wrap his arm around her, to place a kiss on top of her head, to murmur quiet shushing noises into her hair. It feels surreal, cradling her slight body as she sleeps, creating a refuge for them both that begins and ends with the halo of light from the bedside lamp.

He wonders, not for the first time, how many changes his appearance in her life will bring. While he regrets the necessity of change, he guiltily enjoys the feel of her and the comfort it brings him. He thinks if this is to be his new reality, he can adjust.

He wakes to the sound of her sobs.

Disoriented, he wonders how long he's been asleep, how he could have fallen asleep. He needs to wake her regardless, he thinks; she's restless again, body twitching against him, her feet pushing her away while her hands tangle in his shirt to keep him close. He supposes that it's not surprising that she'd have nightmares after what she's been through.

He squeezes her gently with the arm that's still wrapped around her. "Lizzie, wake up, now," he calls, "Wake up, sweetheart, it's only a dream."

He hears her gasp and then sniffle as she chokes back her tears, and then she stops moving. He waits, hoping she won't be angry, not wanting to be the one to move away.

"Red?" she says, voice faintly muffled by his body. "Am I… the fire…?"

"No, Lizzie, you're safe with me," he rushes to reassure, blanketing her in comfort and safety. "The fire's over and done; Ressler and Malik have taken care of the cleanup, don't worry."

"No, Red," she answers, squirming a little now so that he lets her go. She struggles to sit, dizzy and aching all over, but she doesn't want to lean up on the headboard beside him — she needs to see his face, now, to read his expressions.

"How's your head?" he asks, concerned by the effort it takes her to muddle through sitting up. "Still dizzy? Sick?"

"I'm okay," she replies, voice thick with impatience — but she keeps a hand on his leg for balance and support. "It's not important now, Red, I was dreaming about the fire."

"That's not surprising, Lizzie, the trauma of…"

"No," she snaps, "Not this fire, the… other one. When I was a child. I… If you were so close to Sam, he must have told you about it. I had nightmares for years after he took me in."

"What about it?" he asks cautiously, fairly certain he's not going to like where this is headed. "I suppose it's also natural that recent events would disturb memories…"

"What did he tell you?" she cuts in again, eager now, her pain forgotten, her hand gripping his leg. "He would never explain it to me, he always said it didn't matter and I couldn't, I can't remember. Red, please?"

He shuts his eyes briefly — he's not ready to tell this story any more than she is ready to hear it. "Sam was your father, Lizzie," he says, striving for calm, even tones. "And he was right, it's not important."

But that's not what he should have said, not what he would have said if he hadn't still been hazy with sleep. She pounces on his misstep like a jungle cat.

"So you do know something about it," she cries, leaning toward him in avid excitement. "Please, Red, it's my past, my story — and maybe my future, too. Whatever Sam told you… You're my only link, now, don't you see?"

He looks into her hopeful face, bandaged and scraped, flush with sleep — she trusts him, he realizes, to be honest with her, to help her. Because that's what he'd said he is there to do. She might not be ready, he thinks sadly, but when is someone ready to hear the tangled tale of how they were made?

"Sam didn't tell me anything about your early childhood, or that first, terrible fire," he says heavily, shifting to sit up straighter, to look her in the eyes.

"Oh, but Red," she says quickly, and he can tell she is struggling to hold back anger.

"He didn't tell me," Red repeats, cutting across her nervy protests. "I told him. I told Sam your story myself, Lizzie, when I took you to him that night."

She feels like she can't breathe. "Red, did you say… you brought me to Sam? You were the one? Does that mean… did you know my mother? My birth parents? How I… how this happened to me?"

The look of mingled hope and fear on her face makes his heart ache for her. He had known it would fall to him, one day, to tell Lizzie her own story, but that was before… Before she became a part of him. He felt as if she had seen the empty place in his heart, and had curled up in it and made it her own. He looked into her eyes, and he couldn't deny her — he can only hope that it won't break her, or the fragile trust that lies between them.

"Let me tell you a story," he starts, his voice deep and rich and heavy with memory, "About a young couple named Yuri and Katarina Rostova…"

Yuri and Katarina Rostova were KGB agents — not field agents, but scientists. After World War II, and right through the Cold War, all the big powers were delving into the sciences of the mind — although a lot of it bore more resemblance to magicks — America among them. Russia was no exception — everyone was drawn into the idea that there was more out there for humanity, that we were capable of using and manipulating the mind.

Although most of this type of research had been debunked and disbanded by the late seventies and early eighties, clandestine experimentation was still going on in select spots around the world. Yuri and Katarina were lead scientists at the Popov Laboratory for Bio-Research, sanctioned by the highest levels of Russian government to research parapsychology and psychic phenomena, particularly telepathy.

With a small and select team of brilliant minds at their disposal, the Rostovas conducted over ten thousand experiments on ordinary citizens, searching for signs of extrasensory abilities — clairvoyants, telepaths, pyrokinetics, remote viewers, distance healers — anything and everything they could think of. They met with limited success, mostly in telepathy.

Yuri, in particular, became obsessed with discovering genetic origins of mental abilities. He began to experiment in stimulating these powers in an "ungifted" person — in creating telepathic ability. He eventually produced a serum that he believed would induce telepathy, but it was impossible to test on anything but human beings. He couldn't get permission to begin human testing — you can see where that might have caused concern. Questions began to be asked about his running of the lab, about the types of experiments that he and Katarina were running.

Desperate to save his lab, his job, and possible the lives of himself and his wife, Yuri did what he thought he must to prove his theories — and his sanity. He injected Katarina with the serum. What neither of them knew was that she was already pregnant.

Katarina did, in fact, develop low-level psychic ability — she was able to discern not the exact thoughts of others, but the general tenor, the direction of those thoughts, and transmit her own. She could influence the thoughts of another; change their intent, their decisions. Not true telepathy, but enough to get the government off Yuri's back, and allow the lab to continue its work.

I believe that the first cracks in their relationship began when they discovered Katarina's pregnancy. Katarina was, naturally, horrified by what they had, unwittingly, done, and terrified at what it might mean for the child. Yuri, although concerned about the potential outcomes, was thrilled. Would the baby be a true telepath? Just imagine what it could mean for the future of their research!

But when the child was born, it seemed that both Katarina's fears and Yuri's hopes would come to nothing. The baby, a little girl, seemed completely normal. The only possible exceptionality was her extremely calm and quiet nature. Katarina named her Mariya, but they called her Masha.

Masha was three years old when the fires started.

Masha had done something wrong — I honestly can't remember all the details — and Katarina had sent the child to her room. Only minutes passed before Masha's screams brought her mother running — her hand was alight with flames. It took several minutes for Katarina to realize that Masha was unharmed, burning but not burnt. It was an easy leap to the truth for someone of her background — the serum had not given Masha telepathy, it had made her pyrokinetic.

It took a much longer time to calm Masha sufficiently to douse the flame — water, along with other typical means, as you know, was completely ineffective. When the child at last fell asleep, Katarina went straight to Yuri, assuming that he would share her concern, and needing his help to decide what to do for their daughter. Unfortunately, Yuri, rather than being concerned, was elated.

The serum had succeeded beyond what they had thought — beyond even Yuri's wildest expectations. The very next day, he began testing his daughter — how to stimulate the fire, how to stop it. How far reaching it was, whether she could cause a fire without first lighting her hand. Was it only her hand that would light, or other parts of her as well? It was Yuri that first caused Masha's entire body to light up in flame, and that was the moment that broke Katarina.

Katarina sought the help of the CIA — she defected, and took Masha with her. It was a bold and risky move; it was the only thing she could think to do to save her child's life, to give her anything even remotely resembling a regular childhood.

I was the agent assigned to Katarina's debriefing; I had been working in counter-intelligence for some time when the two Rostovas arrived on American soil. I worked with Katarina for almost six months before Yuri caught up with her. I still don't know who the leak was that led him to the safe house; and I have looked, Lizzie, I swear to you I have never stopped looking.

That night… I wasn't there. She called me at home, in a blind panic; Yuri was in the house and she was terrified for Masha. Katarina was a brilliant woman, but she had never done field work, had never fired the gun I gave her except in training. But she fought him; she fought for her child. The gun was dropped in the struggle, and Masha… Masha picked it up. Frightened, she must have been so frightened — her father was a much-feared figure, and he was trying to harm her mother… she shot him.

The shooting was too much for her, only four years old; the emotional overload brought out the flame, and the house went up. I had just turned onto the street; I could smell the smoke… the front door blew out just as I pulled to the curb. I don't think I've ever run that fast, before or since… The fire was everywhere, I could barely see, and it was hot, much hotter than it should have been — I knew what had happened.

I had to go in, I had to check — from what Katarina had told me, I was sure Masha was still safe, that the fire couldn't harm her. Katarina and Yuri were both dead in the front room, which was nearly completely in flames; I was too late. I've never stopped regretting being too late for Katarina. I found Masha in her bedroom closet, crying but unharmed, and her own flame gone — it's lucky that house was only one floor, or I would never have made it.

I put her on my back to carry her out; I needed my hands, to cover my face, to move debris, to try and keep us safe. When we passed the through the front room… it was my fault, I didn't think, I… When she saw them, when she saw her parents, she just… she flared up like a torch. It was all I could do to get us out of the house.

That was when I first realized the real strength of my own… ability. Realized that I was more than just a charismatic smooth-talker. That I could project emotions, use them to influence others, change their moods; even alter their actions. I was able to calm Masha enough to help her extinguish the flame. She and Katarina had managed to give her some control — strong emotions brought the flame; quiet and calm could banish it. I didn't want her in the hands of the CIA, of the government — they would have been no kinder to her than Yuri and the Russians.

I put her in my car and we just… drove away. I knew what to do — Sam and I had been friends since my youngest days in the Navy. He had also moved on to work in the CIA, but not in intelligence. In one of life's more fortuitous coincidences, Sam had been working in the Office of Technical Services — the cover for America's research into parapsychology.

He was just what I needed — an expert in extrasensory abilities, at least somewhat versed in espionage and clandestine activities, recently retired from active service, and the biggest heart I've ever had the fortune to know. He didn't blink twice at taking Masha right into that big heart — it was Sam that chose the name, Elizabeth; it was Sam who gave Masha her first real home. He loved you, Lizzie, almost from that first moment, and you him. He dedicated his life to helping you learn to manage the flame, and protect yourself.

He stops, voice hoarse and tired, empty of words at last. He'd told her much more than he'd intended to, maybe ever, it was just… once he'd started talking, he couldn't stop. She's so pale, sitting beside him on the bed, hugging her knees in a mirror image of herself earlier that night. He'd wondered why she hadn't interrupted, hadn't peppered him with questions. She doesn't seem angry or upset or… anything, he's not getting anything from her at all.

Truly alarmed, he reaches out and squeezes her hand gently.

She looks up at him, her eyes dark and hollow, her face empty and resigned. "I was right," she says quietly. "I am a monster. I murdered my own parents. And you… Red…"

"No, Lizzie, that's not…"

"Let me see," she says, ignoring him completely. "Take off your shirt."

He blinks in surprise, and looks more closely into her face. "No, Lizzie, there's no point in dwelling on…"

"Take," she interrupts fiercely, "Off your shirt."

She rises to her knees and leans forward to fumble at his buttons; he can't let her do it, it's just too much. He takes her shaking hands in his firmly, and now, now, he can feel her pain, a deep well of anguish that staggers him.

He sighs. "I don't think it will help anything," he says unhappily. "But if you must." He puts her hands back onto her knees, then unbuttons and strips off his shirt.

They stare at each other for a moment; she's a little startled by the firm muscle apparent under the softer skin of his chest and stomach; by the fine texture of his gold-and-grey body hair. But the next thing she sees is the scar tissue on the top of his left shoulder.

"Turn around, Red." Soft, but determined.

Uneasy, he shifts around her to the edge of the bed; swings his legs down to sit with his back to her. He hears the expected intake of breath — he knows it's a horror show back there, though it's been a long time since he's looked at it.

She doesn't say anything.

"Lizzie, it's not…"

"Hush," she says absently. Then he feels the feather-light touch of her fingers tracing the patterns across his back and he shivers involuntarily, draws a shuddering breath, closes his eyes.

"You are not a monster, sweetheart," he rumbles. "You are an innocent victim in all this, Lizzie, as much as anyone else, more than anyone else. Yuri Rostova was a blind and reckless fool, for all his brilliance. He created you, unwittingly maybe, but certainly heedlessly. He experimented on you like a lab rat and hunted you and your mother like animals. Any negative consequences of those actions must be laid squarely at his feet, Lizzie, his and no one else's. Certainly not those of an innocent child."

And now he feels sorrow and relief (and… could it be… tenderness?) emanating from her. The air is heavily sweet with her feelings, a poignant taste in his mouth. Her palms come to rest flat against his shoulder blades and her forehead presses into the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry, Red," she murmurs. "So sorry that I hurt you."

"You were just a child." The feel of her skin against his is intoxicating; he can't help but savour it. "Terrified, alone, confused. You had no control, then. You and Sam accomplished amazing things."

"Sam… he saved my life," she says, her breath misting over his back. Then she moves a little, shifting so she's beside him again, legs curled beneath her, so she can look at him. "And I guess I have you to thank for that, too."

He looks over at her and smiles, a touch grimly. "Sam saved the child," he replies. "Helped you control the uncontrollable, manage the terrible burden placed within your innocent self. I'm here… I'm here to save the woman. It's time to stop fighting the fire, Lizzie, stop suppressing it, stop fearing your own emotions, your own strength. It's time to start using this gift you've been given."

She gapes at him, her head still pounding with its concussion, shoulder aching from the ministrations of the Stewmaker, leg burning where it's stitched together, not quite believing what she's just heard.

"Red… control is all I have," she manages. "If I don't… it will destroy everything in its path."

"No," he answers simply, taking her hand in comfort. "You have control, and it's as admirable as it is useful. Now you need to accept the fire for what it is — it's not the enemy, Lizzie, it's a part of you. And you will need it, and need it soon, because they're hunting you now, sweetheart, and they won't stop until they've found you."