A/N Liz tries to get on with Reddington but is frightened and appalled by his murky moral outlook. Meanwhile, Reddington is disturbed by his growing desire for Liz. As ever not mine, and I love reviews as much as country brewed cider :-)

The next morning Liz woke to the delicious smell of baking coming from downstairs. She showered and dressed as quickly as her battered body would allow, finding the drawers filled with clothing as he had promised. It was a luxurious selection, all in her size with plain designs in cool colors, each piece beautifully made in cashmere, silk and the softest cotton. She pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a blue cashmere sweater before heading downstairs.

As she entered the breakfast room she paused by the door to take in the scene. The room was light and airy, with large windows framing an ornate breakfast table set with baskets of muffins and fruit, tea, coffee, juice and a vase of white roses. There were two place settings. Reddington sat at the far end, dressed impeccably in a dove grey suit, a cup of coffee and a newspaper on the table in front of him. He looked up as she entered.

"Lizzie - did you sleep well?"

She nodded, eyeing him warily. "It's just Liz, actually."

Ignoring this, he folded the newspaper and gave her an appraising look. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore" she responded hesitantly. "But your...er… team left me with some good painkillers."

He smiled warmly. "That was thoughtful of them. Prescription medication can be such fun – personally I'm always grateful for the excuse to indulge."

She shot him an incredulous look and he shrugged, gesturing towards the second place setting at the table. "Have some breakfast – the muffins are heavenly, freshly baked this morning."

She approached the table cautiously, selected an apple from the fruit bowl and stepped back again, taking a small bite. He observed this behavior unhappily, and she began to feel self-conscious under the scrutiny of his gaze.

"Do you always wear a suit to breakfast?" she blurted suddenly.

"Yes" he responded simply.

"Oh… I'm sorry about your suit from yesterday. It must be ruined."

Reddington shook his head. "Not at all. In my line of work it's unfortunately not unusual find myself covered in a variety of difficult stains. I have a very…understanding dry cleaner." He chuckled softly at his own joke and it chilled her to the core.

"Mr Reddington-"

He grimaced at hearing her address him that way – he liked it no more today than he had yesterday, and cut her off before she could continue. "How about we try something a little less formal, hmm? Just Raymond will do nicely."

He watched as she frowned a little and captured her bottom lip between her teeth. She didn't respond, but she didn't need to. She didn't want to be on a first name basis with a criminal and a murderer, he thought bitterly. He nodded and looked away from her in an attempt to hide his disappointment.

"Fine. You can call me Red."

Raymond 'Red' Reddington she thought numbly, remembering her college professor's voice saying the name in class.

"Ok, Red - I'd like to tell you something about myself if that's ok?"

He looked up at her with interest, canting his head to the side. "By all means."

She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. "I've worked at the FBI for 2 years as a profiler. I like my job. Making it to Quantico was the proudest moment of my life. I was raised by a single parent – my dad, Sam. I love him very much and he'd miss me if I were gone-"

Reddington's face hardened as he listened and after a minute he sighed and shook his head. His voice sounded tired and gravelly. "The FBI playbook. You're attempting to humanize yourself in my eyes to increase your chances of survival. Let's get a few things straight. I have no intention of harming you in any way, but if I did, a speech about your hobbies and favorite color wouldn't make a blind bit of difference. You will be released at an undisclosed time of my choosing in the near future. Attempts to escape will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?"

It took some effort for her to fight the urge to run from the room - he expressed himself so eloquently, dismantling her clumsy attempt to build a rapport in a heartbeat. As it was, she nodded mutely.

His expression softened then. "Good. Now, if you would genuinely like to tell me about your job, then I would be delighted to listen." As he spoke he rose from his seat and poured a richly aromatic cup of coffee, which he set down at her place setting, before returning to his seat and gesturing to her to sit.

She hesitated for a moment and then sat down, enticed by the thought of having coffee after so many days without. She took a sip and closed her eyes – it was delicious, and definitely not store-bought. When she looked up he was observing her with a soft smile.

"So tell me then. About the profiling – I'm fascinated. Perhaps you could tell me my profile." His tone was warm and coaxing.

She took another sip of coffee and met his gaze steadily. "Ok… You're a loner. You're at home everywhere and nowhere – you enjoy fine houses but are equally able to adapt to cells like the one you found me in. You exude confidence and charm, but it's superficial."

Reddington barked a laugh at that and she continued a little breathlessly. "Something happened to you. Underneath your charming façade you're terribly angry – and sad."

His smile vanished and she watched nervously as his lip twitched. "Something happened to you too" he said tightly. "The scar on your palm."

Her hand went to her wrist unconsciously, as if to shield it from him. "There was a fire. When I was little."

He nodded sagely. "You were hurt as a child, and now you work for the FBI."

She frowned. "My working for the FBI has nothing to do with what happened. I don't even remember it."

"And that doesn't concern you?"

Liz began to feel hot, his gentle but persistent questioning getting under her skin. "Of course it concerns me! I was adopted when I was four years old, I don't remember a single thing about my life before that."

"Nothing at all?" he asked quietly.

"Just…flashes sometimes. Nightmares about the fire." She paused. "God, why am I even telling you this? It's none of your business anyway!"

She rose and made her way towards the door before stopping and turning to face him. "May I explore the place?" she requested awkwardly.

He nodded. "You may. In fact, there's a lovely rooftop garden if you feel like some fresh air, and a fascinating if rather obscure library. Will you be joining me for dinner this evening or should I have it sent up like hotel room service?" He smiled as he spoke but there was an edge to his voice which told her he hadn't forgiven her for eschewing his company the previous night.

"I'll come down" she mumbled.

"Splendid! I shall look forward to it" he smiled, his eyes twinkling.

She turned to leave but stopped when she heard him speak again, his tone suddenly deep and almost hesitant. "Elizabeth…Did you have a happy childhood? With your adoptive father?"

"Yes – he's a wonderful dad." She smiled with genuine fondness as she spoke, and it warmed his heart to see it.

That evening she came into the dining room to find him waiting for her, the table set with more flowers – pale yellow roses this time - wine, and what looked like boeuf bourguignon. It smelled incredible. He greeted her enthusiastically, leading her to her seat at the table and pouring her a glass of red wine which she accepted hesitantly. Why had she agreed to this? She suddenly imagined trying to account for her actions to the FBI, as she would have to eventually when he let her go. If he let her go.

Despite the chill she felt, she took a mouthful of the food and couldn't help the small moan of pleasure that escaped her lips.

"Wow. I guess this house comes with a gourmet chef as well."

He looked delighted. "I admit I have been known to employ a chef, but this is actually my handiwork. I enjoy cooking when I get the opportunity."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise and he chuckled softly. "You think criminals don't do anything else with their time? That they exist for the soul purpose of contravening your government's laws? No no no. That's the kind of lazy thinking the FBI encourages. The reality is that criminals often have a fascinating spectrum of interests, perhaps more so than your average law-abiding citizen. I'm sure you're aware that Charles Manson was a prolific songwriter. And did you know the Genesee River Killer was a very accomplished artist?" he continued conversationally. "His use of color was so vibrant, complex… Not what one might expect."

Liz looked him stonily. "The Genesee River Killer was a child rapist and murderer. You want me to overlook that because he painted pretty pictures?"

His face darkened for a moment "Of course not. Lizzie, the point is that people are complicated creatures – there's never just one side to a person's life story. The people you view as cold-blooded killers had lives – families – they were children themselves once. No one is simply born evil. It's a rich mix of DNA and experience that make us who we are and influences our actions. There are those for whom there is very little choice in life, if they are to survive" he finished, looking away from her.

Disgusted, she shook her head and threw her napkin on the table, rising from her seat and walking to the window.

"You always have a choice whether to kill. Whether to hurt someone" she said folding her arms, her voice thick with emotion. "What Lorca's people did to me… It wasn't even to help him. It was just revenge. Just fun" she choked. "I don't expect someone like you to understand" she added bitterly.

She tensed as she saw him approach behind her in the reflection. "I believe I understand better than most" he said quietly, his voice soft and deep. "It's an unfortunate hazard of my line of work that I have become intimately acquainted with the kinds of conditions that you endured this week. Though I would never claim to understand exactly what you went through, I have seen some of the darkest behavior humanity has to offer."

For a second she was almost moved by his tone, which was gentle and tinged with regret. But she couldn't forget who he was. That he would try to sympathize was sickening. She turned to face him, and although he was intimately familiar with her face he was still struck by the depth and beauty of her eyes as she looked up at him.

"Are you telling me you've never imprisoned anyone? Never tortured anyone?" She cast a glance down at his immaculate suit. "Maybe you just have someone do your dirty work for you" she finished scathingly.

He bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. He loathed the image of himself she presented. He wanted desperately to lie to her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. That at least was one injury he could spare her.

"Never for sport" he responded finally. "I take no pleasure in hurting people. Everything I do is done for a good reason."

Her chin crumpled a little with the effort of holding her emotions at bay. "And keeping me here – is that done for a good reason?"

She saw tension tighten his jaw but he said nothing and she shook her head angrily, wiping away a traitorous tear that slipped down her cheek. "You're a monster."

"Yes" he said heavily. He took a step towards her, looking down at her intently. "But you have nothing to fear from me. I promise you that." As he spoke he brought his hand to her face and gently wiped away another tear with his thumb.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Then why do I feel so afraid?"

He removed his hand from her face with a sigh and watched unhappily as she slipped past him and out of the room.

Later that evening, he found that he was unable to expunge the image of her angry and upset from his mind, despite imbibing more than his usual share of scotch in the attempt. She was right – he was a monster – and as such it had been many years since he had been moved by something as simple as a girl's tears. He felt utterly wrong-footed. She was currently under his care- his command- and yet she was dictating the terms of their relationship, such as it was. She was disgusted by him, and despite her precarious circumstances, had no compunction about letting him know it.

Draining his fifth glass, he decided against his better judgement to go to her, just to talk, to see if he could elicit a more favorable response. He knocked gently on her door, and hearing no response, turned the handle and entered. The bedroom was empty, but he could hear the sound of a bath being drawn and glanced towards the en-suite on the far side of the room. The door was ajar and from his current position he could see her leaning over the bath, trailing her hand in the water, her slim body cloaked in a dark blue robe. Suddenly she straightened up and slipped the robe off her shoulders, and he found himself with a full view of her naked body from the side.

If he had been in any doubt that the frustration he felt was fueled in part by the fact that he was experiencing an unexpected and disconcerting desire for the girl, it melted the instant he saw her stripped bare. His assessment of her the previous night, although favorable, had not done justice to the exquisite creature he saw before him now. She had long, graceful legs, and a round, peachy bottom he wanted to knead with his hands, to kiss, to leave his mark on the full, creamy flesh… Yet just as he felt his pants begin to grow tight with the sweet ache of desire, she turned to step into the bath and his breath caught in his chest.

Her torso was covered in bruises and welts of different shapes and sizes, and several cuts on her stomach and breasts that his staff had stitched up. Her body was a tapestry of pain and he an unwilling expert in reading the art it displayed. In his life he had been in fights, been beaten and even tortured, enough to recognize the signature stains left by a kick to the ribs, the thrash of a man's belt and the shallow knife cuts made by someone playing with another human being.

He no longer wanted to mark her himself – the thought was suddenly abhorrent to him. Overwhelmed by a desire far more powerful than simple lust, he longed to make love to her, to soothe every hurt, take away every pain and fill her with the warmth and happiness he always wanted for her. But if there were hands in the world that could heal – that could cleanse the canvas of her body – they surely weren't his hands. Cold, scarred and weary. The hands of a killer. Shaken, he left the room silently and unnoticed by the girl whose body would haunt both his dreams and nightmares from that moment on.

TBC