He watches her sleep, curled up again, frowning and fierce as if she would keep arguing with him even in unconsciousness. For someone who keeps such a tight rein on herself, he muses, her anger is always quick to burn, leaping to the surface, electric. Her agitated frustration at his refusal to talk any further about the forces ranged against her until she'd had some rest had been forceful, determined; so strong even though she was weakened by pain. He'd had to use his abilities to soothe her to sleep — she will be angry again, he supposes, in the morning.

She is absolutely beautiful, he thinks wistfully — at rest in deceptive fragility; in movement, fluid as her own flame; effused with emotion, her porcelain skin warming until it bloomed. Whether she can admit it or not, she needs rest, needs to regain strength in order to face the treacheries of the past and the facts of the present, so she can become even stronger.

He runs a hand softly over her hair and down the curve of her spine, over and over, to quiet both his mind and her rest. He watches in fascination as her frown eases away slowly, as her hands loosen and her body relaxes under his touch. It occurs to him to wonder, for the first time, how lonely she must be; to wonder how long it might have been since she has allowed herself the comfort of another's touch.

When she wakes again, it is morning, a sliver of light slipping under the still-closed blinds to welcome her. She's alone, but the blankets beside her are warm enough that she knows he kept his promise to stay with her, to watch over her. She feels a pleased glow inside her at the knowledge.

She rolls onto her back and stretches out her aching limbs — it has been long enough since she allowed the flame to take her that she had forgotten the pulsing soreness it leaves behind. She feels like she has been shaken and tumbled about like a lone sock in a clothes dryer. On top of that, her head still throbs dully, in time with her heartbeat; her shoulder tingles unpleasantly; and her leg burns and itches in turn.

She kicks off the covers, sitting up and letting her left knee bend and fall to the side, looking down at the neat square of gauze and tape with some trepidation. She's just reaching to pick at it when the door opens and his footsteps sound, accompanied by the absolutely wondrous scent of fresh coffee.

"Good morning, Lizzie."

His cheerful voice has her snatching back her hand and looking up to smile at him guiltily. He's carrying two brightly coloured mugs and has a folded newspaper tucked under his arm. As she meets his gaze, he raises an eyebrow, looking at her with a wry smile of his own.

"Why don't you let me do that?" he suggests mildly.

He puts the mugs and the paper down on the nightstand and walks past the bed to the bathroom. She hears the rush of the taps as he washes his hands, then he comes back out with the kit she remembers from the night before.

He sits down on the bed beside her and puts a hand down on her upper thigh; she's a little surprised by the warmth that pools in the spot, as if summoned by his touch. He gently loosens a corner of the tape, then tears the whole bandage away in one smooth yank; she lets out a startled yelp.

"Don't be a baby," he murmurs, absently knocking her hand away as she instinctively reaches out; but sending her a little mental stroke of comfort at the same time. He gently pats the wound with a warm, damp cloth and tests the skin carefully.

"It looks good," he decides, flashing her a quick smile. "Hold still, and I'll patch you back up."

She watches his face rather than his hands as he works, his intent expression fascinating to her. He cares about me, she thinks, then wonders if the care is for the child he knew, or the person that she is. It's both strange and somehow comforting that he has so quickly become a steady presence in her life, someone she can count on, someone who is there for her.

"Lizzie," he says, smoothing down the last of the tape and then squeezing her hand. "I want you to stay with me. The man who is tracking you now, I believe he is close to finding you, too close. You're not safe on your own anymore."

"Red… that's… I mean it's nice to have someone worry about me again. But don't you think that's an overreaction? Or isn't it? You still haven't told me what you know about this man, or how dangerous the situation really is. I know my apartment might not seem like much to you, but it's… my place. And I am safe there, maybe only there. Some of my things…"

"Things, Lizzie, are ever and easily replaceable," he interrupts, matter-of-factly, neatly sidestepping her pointed request for information. "And we certainly have time enough to go and collect anything that you really need."

She shifts uncomfortably, suddenly oddly aware she's sitting there in nothing but her underwear. "It's not just a few mementos, Red, it's everything. Sam and I, we… it's my place, don't you understand? It's my clothes, the sheets, towels, the mattress, hell, even the walls and the floors! It's all special, not to me, for me, it's all… you know," she pauses, suddenly awkward. "Resistant." She lowers her eyes, embarrassed.

"Lizzie," he starts, then pauses himself, unsure what to say, why she's withdrawing. He lifts her chin with his free hand, needing to see her face, gauge her emotions.

"Lizzie," he says again. "Do you think it bothers me, what you can do? That I would somehow think less of you for doing whatever you had to do to keep yourself safe?"

"It's just… it's embarrassing!" she cries. "I have to wear these clothes made of Nomax, everything's always black; everything I have has to be fire-resistant, everything. In case I lose control. I've been pretty good, the last year or so, I really have, but I can't take chances. And if the dreams are coming back…"

He slides his hand up to cup her cheek, floods her with warm affection. "Did you think I didn't already know these things, sweetheart? That it wasn't all so much more important when you were a child, still learning control? You should be proud, Lizzie, not embarrassed, proud of all you've managed to accomplish, of the strength you have."

She manages a tremulous smile. His words ease the knot of tension inside her, just as much as the calm he sends her. "I… it's hard to see it that way, I guess. I'm still so tired, and I'm frightened, and everything hurts, and I just… I just need to go home."

He sighs, reading her, resigned. "I don't like it," he says, frowning. "But I do understand. I'll be moving today. I'll text you the address later. If you want to shower and get dressed, Dembe will take you home."

She offers him a much better smile. "And I'm sure you'll have a new villain for us to chase soon."

Three days later, Red sits in the living room of one of his favourite safe houses, sipping tea and taking a few moments to relax. Grey's voice comes from behind him.

"Your sources were correct, sir. The Iranian is attempting to procure a high-level intelligence package. We believe it could lead to the answer you seek."

"Have it intercepted," he replies.

"That may prove… difficult. The seller hired the Courier to make the exchange. The last time we attempted to intercept him…"

"I'm well aware," he interjects smoothly, "Of the men and resources we lost in Cairo. Perhaps this is an opportunity to let our new… friends at the FBI carry the water."

She sits at her desk, reviewing the reports on the Stewmaker. It's her first day back after her few sick days; it's been very quiet since she arrived an hour ago. There's a tap on the door jamb; Ressler ambles in to lean on the edge of her desk.

"I'd think that was the last thing you'd want to read up on," he says. "After everything that happened — the… explosion and everything. Did it really happen the way Reddington said?"

She's glad she made reading the reports her first priority, despite the discomfort they'd caused. "Yes," she says coolly. "Reddington came in just as Kornish was about to finish me; they fought, chemicals were knocked over — I guess they were pretty volatile. We were lucky to get out of there with our lives."

"And you didn't think you should wait for the rest of us before you took off?"

"I'm pretty sure Reddington explained that, too," she snaps, "But I'll confirm that I got hit with a lot of shrapnel during the explosion. In addition to the concussion I already had, my leg was bleeding pretty badly; I needed immediate medical attention and Reddington got it for me. I wasn't fleeing the scene, Ressler, I was just trying to stay alive."

"All right, keep your shirt on, Milhoan," he drawls, an edge of sarcasm in his tone. "Just checking. I guess I didn't know that you and Reddington were so… close."

She rolls her eyes, and is about to give a cutting reply when her phone buzzes cheerfully, signaling an incoming text. Glancing at it, she smiles.

"Speak of the devil," she says wryly. "Gotta go, Ressler."

She swings into the large, cluttered room, coming to a halt beside a fusty armchair, staring around in horrified wonder.

"What is this place?"

"Something of a hideaway," he answers dreamily. "It used to be home to one of the finest American writers who ever lived… Frederick Hemstead."

"Never heard of him," she says absently. "Red… this is where you wanted me to come and stay? This is… all this paper, it's… it's just a giant tinderbox!"

He grins at her, completely unapologetic. "It's also a great place to practice and refine control and finesse, don't you think?"

"You're insane," she replies flatly. "This whole house would incinerate in seconds."

He laughs, sending her waves of cheery goodwill. "It must be your positive outlook, Lizzie, that enables you to get through the difficult days. Come on, sit down and have a drink with me."

She drops into the couch beside him with a resigned sigh. "It's ten-thirty in the morning, Red. What is that?"

"No earthly idea," he answers, taking a swig with a throat-clearing cough. "Some sort of distilled alcohol, I think. There's bottles of the stuff stashed everywhere. Would you like me to pour you a few fingers?"

She rolls her eyes at him impatiently. "Why am I here, Red?"

"We need something that somebody else has," he says simply. "And to get it, we need to find the Courier."

And they're moving again, always rushing, always running. It astounds her, the speed at which everything in this new life of hers seems to move, a relentless freight train that she cannot escape.

The still-healing stitches on her leg burn as she runs through the farmer's market, as she throws herself into the commandeered truck beside Malik.

Her head pounds and rings unforgivingly as she staggers away from the wrecked truck; as she wonders just how many impacts her skull can handle before some kind of damage is inevitable.

The Courier, caught at last, isn't a monster like Zamani, like Kornish, but instead is just a broken, unhappy man. Viciously cruel, maybe, like a dog who's been kicked too many times, but just a man. Which means that she can find the key to him, she knows she can — when she finds the old sepia photograph in his apartment, she knows she has, if she can only figure out the right way to turn it.

Time passes in a blur of frustrating stops and starts and dead ends, and Seth Nelson, she thinks, is running out of it. Gambit after gambit fails, and it's Red, finally, who gets them what they need from Laurence Dechambou.

"I'll make her talk," he assures them, no hesitation or doubt in his voice at all.

"How?" she asks, voice professionally skeptical, though inside, something dark uncurls.

"You don't want me to answer that."

And she doesn't, not at all, and the anger and resentment she's feeling is both surprising and unwelcome. He raises an eyebrow at her, and sends her a little soothing pat of warm affection.

You don't own him, she tells herself furiously as he turns away, still wearing that enigmatic smile. You're barely even friends. It's ridiculous… to want to stop him as he strides out of the Post Office, or to follow him, to keep him beside her as much as to keep him safe.

When did he become her new anchor? And why, instead of making her feel safer, more sure in the world, does it make her shaky, unsteady on her feet as if she's walking down the aisle of a moving train?

But he's back soon enough, unchanged, unreadable, and they're working together, side by side. She loves their quick give-and-take, the way he makes her see things differently, think faster, use her knowledge and abilities in ways she has actually trained for.

And they find Seth Nelson. Together, they dig him out of the dirt and save his life — she thinks Dembe might have broken a rib, doing compressions, but Seth doesn't seem the type to hold a grudge.

She sees Red whispering in the kid's ear, and intervenes smoothly, reassuring Seth with news of his parents and promises of safety.

"Red," she starts, exasperated, as the ambulance pulls away, wondering what his angle is, wondering why, really, they did all this.

"Everything has its own purpose, Lizzie," he says quietly. "Come back to the house when you're done at the Post Office and we'll talk."

Again he sits in the dusty room, Grey behind him, ever watchful, ever attentive, and they both gaze out the window as if the horizon holds all the answers they seek.

"This man, the young NSA agent." Grey speaks suddenly into the silence, as if it's against his better judgement but he can't quite stop himself. "He allowed you access to the classified networks?"

"He did," Red smiles inwardly, willing to be questioned, for now.

"And I understand this was a one-time offer?"

"Yes." Cool, calm, waiting.

"The right question, and we could have made the world tremble!" Grey bursts out. "Had it all, everything we've ever wanted! Why did you waste it on the girl?"

"Not 'wasted', my friend," he says, on a sigh. "Circumstances are far more complex than we ever imagined. I'm betting on the long game… the future."

"Your future's arriving now," Grey answers, sullen resignation tinging his tone, turning and leaving the room as a car door slams outside.

Red leans forward, pours another jam jar of Frederick's mystery moonshine, and waits — she's later than he expected, and he's been worried.

She walks in slowly, a passive sort of exhaustion painted over her features, dragging down the usually graceful lines of her. Sadness emanates from her like a cloud, enveloping him and exacerbating his concerns. She's carrying a small-ish duffle bag in one hand, and tear tracks stain her cheeks.

He holds out the glass jar; she reaches out to take it, her fingers wrapping warmly around his for a precious moment. She sits at the opposite end of the sofa with a sigh. He's not sure what has happened, why she isn't grilling him, where she has been — but with her beside him, safe, he can wait. He sends her what sympathy he can, and looks out the window again.

"Funny," he murmurs, almost to himself. "All these wonderful manuscripts, and my favourite thing about this place is still the view from this sofa. I love how the light breaks through the trees." He gestures at the window, admiring the setting sun.

"You were right," she replies, equally quietly. "Someone is tracking me. When I got home… I think, no, I know, someone had been there. My home, it's… it's not safe anymore."

He turns back to her quickly, a frisson of alarm shooting through him at the implications of her words. "Lizzie, are you all right?" he demands. "Was there anyone…"

She can feel his panic reaching out to ice through her, and rushes to reassure him. "No, no, it's okay. No one was there, everything seemed okay. I was just… I just knew. A few of my things weren't quite where I'd left them, the air was… different? It's like you said. It's just a place, and it's not safe anymore.

"Don't worry, I don't think anyone could have followed me here. I left my building out the back, took a cab to a hotel downtown — that's what took me so long, I had to wait a bit after I checked in so it didn't seem odd or stand out, then I called a car service…"

"Don't worry about that now, sweetheart," he says, proud of her all the same. He reaches out to take her hand, to share comfort. "I'm just glad you're safe. I'm sorry about the apartment; I know it was important to you. Is this all you brought with you, though?"

She shrugs. "I don't need a lot, really. My clothes are all the same anyway. But… I brought sheets and a couple of towels. If it's okay. For, you know… safety."

He smiles fondly, her awkward shyness allowing him to settle, to take control again. "I'm not worried," he says warmly, "But if those things make you feel better, by all means. I'm just glad you're safe and here, with me."

She flushes a little with pleasure; takes a sip of her drink and chokes over it. "God, Red," she sputters. "This is appalling!"

He laughs, richly. "Isn't it just? Takes the edge off, though."

She rolls her eyes a little at that, then shrugs again, toasts him, and takes another sip.

"Did you get what you needed?" she asks, leaning back into the sofa. "From Seth?"

"Ah," he says, a little disappointed, but also gratified that she refuses to become complacent. "I did, as a matter of fact." He leans over and picks a slim folder off the table. "It's not a lot of information, but it's more than we had. And it's a name — at least for this particular blackguard. The man currently hunting you, who was in your apartment," and she feels a wave of cold rage roll off him. "His name is Nikolai Volkov."

"Russian," she says thoughtfully. "Is all this related to my parents?"

"Very good, Lizzie," he returns approvingly. "Nikolai Volkov is an FSB agent, but not officially. He's working for a very unofficial branch of the agency still exploring the paranormal. They want your father's research, they want to know what he knew, and they've decided they need to get it from you."

She shivers involuntarily. "But I don't know anything," she says, puzzled. "And didn't you tell me… wasn't there an entire government laboratory? His research, I mean… I wasn't the only… subject."

"In a tragic, yet ironic, coincidence, the Popov laboratory and all it's associated paperwork and data burned to the ground, not long after your parents died," he says coolly, with a grim smile.

She looks at him carefully, evaluating. "Coincidence, Red?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "It seemed fitting. And I had hoped it would… discourage their interest. But I suppose all it did was make the game more difficult. And more attractive."

"Red, I…" She doesn't know how to properly formulate words for what she's thinking. Her head is aching again.

He smiles at her; touches her cheek. "You should get some sleep," he says quietly. "We'll start work tomorrow."

She hadn't been entirely sure what he'd meant, in her overloaded state. Apparently, uncharacteristically, he'd meant exactly what he'd said: work. On her.

After feeding her a ridiculously huge breakfast, hovering over her until she's stuffed to the gills and ready to throttle him, he takes her outside. And starts trying to rebuild her.

"Just your hand, Lizzie, like a torch," he says, his voice confident, almost eager. "I know you can do it if you focus."

She sighs. "It doesn't work that way, Red."

"It hasn't worked that way," he returns. "But I believe it can, if you want it to, if you can shift your mindset. The fire inside, it isn't your enemy Lizzie. Not a foreign entity or a parasite occupying your mind and body against your will. It's a part of you, it's genetic, just as much as your arm, your leg… your smile."

"Red," she says again, frustrated before she's even begun.

"Don't start off that way," he warns cheerfully. "It's all in the attitude, sweetheart. Just try." He bolsters his words with shot of his own cavalier confidence.

Wanting to please him, and curious too, she does.

Again and again and again.

Until her body aches from the flame like she's been hit by a truck. Until the two of them are standing in a circle of burnt ground the size of a small car. Until the light is getting long in the yard and his voice is worn from his constant instruction, encouragement, and story after story. The only reason she hasn't been reduced to absolutely howling in frustration is Red, his consistent reassurance, affection, faith — both spoken and psychic.

"You're still fighting it," he says, sounding as tired as she feels. "You're still trying to control it."

"It's the only way!" she cries, her fists clenched. "If I let go, even a little, I burn! You've seen it now, over and over…"

"Shhh," he soothes, stroking her hair to strengthen the comfort he blankets her in. "Just let it be, sweetheart. Let it rest. You don't think about moving your fingers when scratch an itch, when you pick up a file — you just do it. The flame is no different. Let your instincts work for you."

She sighs. He's been saying the same things all day, but she's so tired.

"Close your eyes," he suggests, giving her all his remaining quiet, all the peace and solace he can muster. "And keep them closed this time. Just breathe, in and out, quiet. And I'll tell you a story."

She nods — she'll try one last time, for him — rolls her shoulders; closes her eyes; breathes deep. And lets his voice flow over her, warm, deep, rich like chocolate or coffee, low and hypnotic. He's telling her the sunset, painting the vivid colour, the texture the light makes through the trees, the heat and fire of its beauty. His mind keeps her calm and easy, and the tension inside her slowly starts to unwind. Her hands unclench and she thinks she can see with her eyes closed, he words are so eloquent. Warmth floods her, but she can't panic under the heavy weight of his tranquility.

"Lizzie," he says softly, making it a part of the story he tells. "Open your eyes."

What she sees is her hand raised between them, slightly cupped with her palm upwards, full of flame that burns quiet and steady.

She stares at it in wonder, turning her hand back and forth slowly. It's beautiful, she thinks, surprised, and looks up to smile at him just as the fire flutters away.

He's already smiling back at her, his face full of pride, and between his flowing happiness and her own pleased joy, she's buoyant with a euphoria she cannot contain.

She laughs happily, and without thinking about it, bouncing eagerly on her toes, she jumps at him, throwing her arms around his neck, "I did it, Red! We did it… together…" Her voice fades away as her body comes flush with his and she's hit with a pulse of something from him that she doesn't recognize, that she has no name for. It's so… warm, almost… possessive… it curls into her like smoke, heating her in a way wholly different from the flame, in a way that is new and unfamiliar.

Her head pulls back, tilts like a deer, wary and alert. She's curious, wants to see him; but keeps her hands wrapped around his neck, not wanting to lose this fascinating new feeling. The look on his face is new, too, he looks… like he wants something, but she can't figure out what it might be.

"Red?" she says hesitatingly, and shock flickers over his face and the heat disappears with a yank. "What is it?" she asks, confused. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, sweetheart," he reassures, but his voice is hoarse and strained. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to… you surprised me." He rests his forehead against hers, running his hands up and down her arms. "I knew you could do it."

She shifts her head a little, trying to see into his eyes, and she moves a hand to caress his cheek. The heat comes back in a rush, and it's intoxicating, and she holds her breath, waits. He draws a shaky breath, and everything is so warm and soft and something is singing inside her.

He shudders against her once, all over, and then his hands are gripping her waist, and his mouth is on hers, kissing her, he's kissing her, and she's dizzy and lost, and their lips are moving together like they have always known how. His tongue is tracing her lips, making them tingle; she opens to him, instinctively, and everything is a little faster now, a little harder. Something hot and hard is uncurling in her belly, but it's not the flame, it's new and strange, and it makes her tremble and press closer to him.

He hums a little into her mouth in approval; slides his hands under the hem of her shirt to rub against the bare skin of her back.

And it's like a bucket of ice water to the face — his hands are cool against her skin, too cool, her skin hot, too hot, and now that she focuses on it, she can feel the familiar horrible prickling rushing along her nerves after all, and she jerks away from him and out of his arms with a strangled gasp.

Her panic slaps at him so hard it almost frightens him; the horrified, haunted look on her flushed face does frighten him. He reaches for her, needing to comfort, to reassure, but she steps back.

"I'm sorry," she chokes, unable to meet his eyes, to explain. Tears run unnoticed down her face. "I just… I can't… I can't." And she turns and runs, more like a deer than ever, runs away from him back into the house, leaving him standing in the circle of scorched earth with his hand still outstretched, longing, confused, alone.