So I'm just stretching my fingers right now as I haven't written in a very long time, so this probably doesn't make much sense. This is mostly from Lizzie's perspective. Anyway, Lizzington is literally perfect. That is all. Thank you for reading; you are lovely! (:

"You don't need them anymore, Lizzie. You have me. You're safe with me."

Those were the last words she remembered. Before she'd said yes and found herself on a plane headed for Europe. She'd chosen him, taken his aid after everything had begun to fall apart. He promised her safety and answers and she believed in him.

She started dreaming only a week in. Sweat clung to her skin; she'd been in the flames. Red called to her through the door of her room in Brussels, asking if she was alright. Hand held over her heart, it took a moment for her to realize the darkness she sat in was one of reality. She did her best to respond as calmly as she could.

"Everything's fine."

She had cursed herself for sounding flustered.

"Do you need anything? I'm right here."

For a split second she considered letting him in, but couldn't.

"Go back to sleep, Red. I'll see you in the morning."

The scent of gasoline and smoke reminded her of a fire - one that left behind a remnant of a house she hardly remembered. She dreamt of walking through that place, hoping to spark a long-forgotten memory with one of the many flames that had taken them away from her. Elizabeth waded through ash, the steps behind her left as imprints upon smoldering embers. But much like everything else, each footfall was quickly covered by falling cinder and debris, lost and forgotten. The only clarity that came to her took the form of a dark shadow. Outstretched fingers appeared to her as dark tendrils of smoke. Still, she recognized their safety; grasped them without a second thought and felt heat caress her skin as she was pulled away - away from the florescent orange glow of flames and under the cool moon of a winter's eve.

That shadow called to her, a voice deep and unwavering; a tone that rested at the forefront of her dreams and crept into her reality.

"Lizzie," a whisper as light as air hit her, and she shifted, pressing closed lids against a pillow.

She had grown so accustomed to it, hearing her name caressed by that tongue. She wondered if she'd tricked herself into believing something that wasn't real. But as her dreams continued, reoccurring and relentless as they were, she was certain of what she heard. And she knew by whom she had been saved.

In succession, three knocks against a door-frame followed before she grasped reality. She turned her head towards the door and squinted across the dim room - it was hardly morning. Frowning, she shook herself awake.

"You can open the door," she called out to him mid-yawn, taming down slept-in hair with a weary hand. Liz caught the click of a turned knob and addressed the suit-and-fedora-clad figure beneath the frame, a hint of surprise set in her tone at his readied appearance.

"Are we going somewhere?"

Over the course of the last few months it wasn't uncommon for them to cross an ocean, or at the very least a national border every other day. It was just that usually she was provided with a little forewarning.

His usual half-smile was there hidden in the lines of his eyes, and he nodded, quirking up a corner of his mouth, "Dembe's securing our flight. Which gives us a little over an hour," he explained, taking a step inside Lizzie's suite with a Boulangerie box in hand. He gestured to it.

"I can only hope you enjoy profiteroles."

Liz found herself smiling at the term, "I think you mean cream puffs."

"Absolutely not. These are authentic delicacies - homemade," he corrected, setting them down on the bedside table and flicking open the lid. "They didn't come off of some conveyor belt in a doughnut shop."

She smirked, dipping her hand into the box, "Breakfast in bed. Most women aren't so lucky."

His features softened at that - he allowed himself a moment of reflection; a dropped facade. Lizzie had always admired that of him; how he seemed to consider everything she had to say, no matter how offhand or lighthearted she believed it to be. But then again, she knew that he chose his words so carefully. She began to wonder if his silence allowed him the time to suppress more truths from her. And for a fraction of a second she considered what it might be like to explore his mind, but the thought dissipated as the bed dipped under his weight. His voice was deep, rich and resonant. "I suppose I enjoy spoiling you," his head tilted to the side, and there settled a teasing glint in his eyes, "I'm sure you were already aware of that."

Of course she knew that. She only had to spare a glace at the room she slept in to know that. She swallowed the sweet pastry, taking her time to decipher between the seriousness of his character and his playful delivery before straightening up a bit.

"I am," she admitted almost timidly, working out a following question. She desperately wished to push him, to get him to admit what she surely believed on his own accord, but she doubted herself when it came to manipulating Red. He was the one person she couldn't figure out completely - and she no longer trusted her self-conjured profile of him. She faltered, blinked, and continued with, "I'd like to know why."

He chose not to say anything, which hardly surprised her. Instead his hand found hers as it always did. He covered it entirely with the warmth of his own and he looked down at it before directing his stare across the room and through the balcony window - the sun was rising and light flickered through halfway-closed drapes. Red felt the delicate skin beneath his own slip away; heard Liz scoff beside him. He allowed his fingers to stretch out against the cool linen fabric.

"Do you know how aggravating that is? How vague you choose to be?"

Red turned to her, took in her look of slight agitation before attempting to coax her with another half-smile, "And you? Always so literal, Lizzie. Perhaps you should set a moment aside to read between the lines. And in the meantime," he glanced at the box beside her, "I'll take one of those."

He half expected her to hand the box over. But instead she shifted away in her sweats and tank. Red looked surprised as she suddenly stood, box in-hand, looking down at him with an arched brow, "I'm not really in the mood to share, Red," she spoke sarcastically, "You know how that goes."

She quickly made her point clear by taking one of the profiteroles out and biting down. Red gazed at her, amused and clicking his tongue at what he considered childlike behavior.

"Now that's rather cruel of you, Lizzie. You're topping the time you drove that ballpoint pen into my carotid artery," he tilted his head, feigning discomfort, " - which still stings, by the way."

Liz shrugged her shoulders, "I'm willing to do what it takes to get the answers I want. And I'm assuming this is pretty effective."

She kissed a forefinger clean of sugar. He pursed his lips as she licked hers.

"Eminently effective."

She paused at that, tilting her head, but took advantage all the same.

"Then tell me," she prodded, adopting a certain level of seriousness, "I know you're not completely incapable of a direct answer."

At that, he couldn't help but chuckle at her forwardness; it was light and came out as an undertone.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, watching her from beneath hooded eyes, "Only you would use breakfast as leverage to garner an unnecessary admission. There's nothing more important to me in this world than you - you know that."

She stilled. She knew he'd do anything for her. For a moment she wondered if she was being insensitive. Rude. She considered asking him flat out, then and there, why he saved her from the fire - why he'd kept it from her. Why am I so important to you?

"Sorry," she spoke instead, blushing lightly, tilting the box down, "Here."

"No need to be sorry," he stated matter-of-factly before rising to face her, "I know my feelings for you are complex... complicated. That it might difficult for you to understand the reasoning behind my actions."

She could laugh. It was more than difficult, or complicated, or complex. It was driving her insane. And after having been taken away from everything else, Sam, Tom, and her job - she didn't want to lose anything more. Confrontation terrified her.

"Red, just forget I said anything, okay?"

Setting the box down, she turned to the armoire that settled in the corner of the room. She swung open one of the doors, a bit harder than necessary before riffling through the contents. There wasn't much to go through, as she had to be able to travel light, but everything was much nicer than she was used to wearing. Red helped her blend in; she remembered him explaining to her only a week ago that she was much too young to pull off chiffon.

Liz heard him cross the room, felt his touch light on her elbow and for a moment it burned; she was reminded of smoke.

"You can tell me if there is something wrong, Lizzie."

She could tell that she'd hurt him, as the sound of his voice was quiet. And even though she was not looking at him, she imagined he bared a pained expression. She tells him no, and selects something light - she hopes they are traveling someplace warm.

Liz wonders if Red killed her father.

She thinks about it for weeks.

"You said he died in that fire. Did you know him - like Sam?"

"Lizzie..." his expression was strained, but she cut him off.

"You only promised you wouldn't tell me his name. You can answer this."

His mouth twitched, and his fingers flexed against the armrests of the chair he sat in. For a moment he looks as though he might make to leave, but to Liz's surprise he stays put.

"He was an enemy."

They are both quiet, and he half-expects a response from Liz other than silence but does not receive it. Red takes a sip out of a scotch glass and watches her expression. They realize they are both aware of who killed her father.

Much to his surprise, Liz is the one to make the first move. She's the one who places her hands on his shoulders so that they might lean against the wall, presses herself into his frame, and catches his lips with her own. He's the one who nips back at her, playfully - indulges her, traces her curves with his fingertips and allows her take whatever she desires.

He only falters when she traces the scars on his back, of which she seems to be transfixed with.

"Lizzie," and he swallows, "It's - "

"You saved me, Red," and she needs to interrupt him, because she needs him, "I don't care about anything else right now."

She places a kiss on his shoulder. He is surprised, but his lips soon return to the crook of her neck - and he thanks her.

They were on the countryside, his hand rested in the crook of her arm, guiding her. They had spent the afternoon talking over a whole manner of things; the fire, the scars, Berlin...

"If he discovers who you are, Lizzie, he will make every feasible attempt there is in this world to kill you."

"This coming from Red Reddington - the Concierge of Crime," she spoke with a small, dismissive laugh, "I'm not worried."

Red raised a brow at her as she added, "You've been watching over me my whole life, and apparently you never tire of it."

It was true. And he smiled warmly at her, encircling her hand with his own, "Never have, never will."

"You're safe with me."