Note: This is the third installment of Think Too Much. I'd urge you to read the first and second parts if you haven't already in order to get a better understanding of the situation.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters recognisable from the show used in this work of fanfiction. I am making no profit from this work.

Think Too Much: These Consolations Will Be Our Reward

Red flicked the lock on the front door and leaned against it for a moment, enjoying the feel of the cool wood through his shirt as he took a few deep breaths to relax himself; he felt a little better knowing it was his last job for a while, though the meetings had been gruelling and the client seemingly never happy. He had returned to the house in Havana, which Lizzie had certainly made a home, and relished in the sound of her humming along to the radio in the kitchen; it all felt so normal, and all outside pressures gradually faded from his mind – he would put off reality a little longer in their Cuban bolthole, though he needed to move them on sooner rather than later.

He pushed himself away from the door and meandered quietly down the hall, dropping his cream fedora on the console table as he went; he poked his head around the kitchen door and smiled at the sight of Lizzie at the stove, stirring a saucepan of what appeared to be pasta sauce – store bought, he had no doubt – and singing away to herself. He leaned against the doorframe and decided to observe her until she realised he was home; she had pilfered one of his linen shirts and paired it with her favourite pair of navy shorts and he found the sight of her – from the messy way she had put her hair up down to her bare feet, toes tapping to the music – quite beautiful. It didn't take long for her to notice him, and she caught him by surprise when she peered at him over her shoulder.

"It's rude to stare, Red," she commented before returning her attention to the sauce.

"I had a lovely business trip, thank you for asking," he shot back, though the dig was only in jest. She snorted a laugh, taking the pan off the stove. "Pasta?" he enquired.

"You said over the phone you wanted something simple, and this is pretty all I have in my repertoire as I figured mac and cheese might be a little heavy." She fixed him with a stare. "Pasta is pretty much all I can do. You promised you'd teach me to cook."

"Well, perhaps we can fit a few lessons in the next week, or when we move on; there is an empty house in Geneva that has a far better appointed kitchen."

"There is nothing wrong with this kitchen. I don't know why you insist on us moving on – we've had no trouble here. You're being overdramatic."

"We will be moving on soon, Lizzie. It's bad enough we've been here for over a month."

"We'll see about that," she responded in a sing-song voice, dishing up the pasta and spooning sauce over the top. Red took a seat at the kitchen table and fiddled with his fork as he waited for her to finish grating Parmesan over the top of their meal. There had been a strange tension between them since the night she caught him in the pool, the sort that builds when a question unasked hangs heavy in the air; he felt the weight of it in their every interaction, though hadn't gotten to asking it as he had been too busy working or too tired from working on his return. He was disturbed from his thoughts when his dinner was set down in front of him. He tucked in with gusto, having not eaten for eleven hours since he had left Paris. By the time they had finished their meals, mainly in silence, he was sitting back in his chair and stifling a yawn.

"Tired?" she asked; as the answer was obvious he just nodded. "Why don't you head up to bed. I'll do the dishes." He opened his mouth to protest. "It's not going to kill me, Red. I'll do them. You look like hell."

"Charming," he commented dryly. "Will you check the doors?"

"And the windows, yes. And before you remind me, I will take the gun on my rounds." He was loath to leave her company and felt terrible leaving her all of the end of day jobs they usually shared but he hadn't the energy to argue with her. He at least took the dishes to the sink before he bade her a goodnight and headed for the stairs. He managed to get to the third step when Lizzie called his name from the kitchen doorway. He turned and tilted his head in silent question. "We should make some plans for the week," she suggested. Red nodded, though is certain she was about to say something other than that.

"Tomorrow morning you can hash out your plan of attack on my downtime." He yawned again. "If I had my way I'd not leave my bed. It has been a trying week."

"So, skydiving's not in the picture then?"

He chuckled. "I'll tell you a story about skydiving sometime."

"Let me guess, you were high?"

"Higher than the sky, as they say," he admitted. "Goodnight, Lizzie."

"Night, Red," she said softly before disappearing into the kitchen again.

It was only when she was up to her elbows in suds that she realised Red hadn't taken his usual glass of water up to bed with him; from that realisation, a plan began to form in Liz's mind, one she knew she ought to ignore. She had been turning over what she saw, or rather what she didn't see, out by the pool the month prior; she had stopped herself from asking him outright about his back on several occasions in the hope the impulse would abate, though it never did. So it was that she found herself, finished with the dishes and done checking the locks on all doors and windows, climbing the stairs carefully with a glass of ice water in hand. She knew she was playing dirty pool, doing it like this, and she told herself she should just retire to her own room – if he woke in the night he was perfectly capable of fetching his own glass of water – though that particular voice was quite small and easily ignored in her pursuit of answers.

She opened his door without knocking, as quietly as possible; it wasn't unusual for either of them to refrain from knocking, she didn't because he didn't. He certainly never knocked when he breezed into her room for an early morning chat, early meaning around four o'clock. She was sure he had clocked exactly what she had been doing under the covers the week before, though he had refrained from commenting on the scarlet blush that his untimely intrusion caused to bloom.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark of his bedroom she froze. He was facing her. She hadn't thought that he slept facing the door, instead presuming that he would face the windows. The ice cubes tinkled in the glass, the sound loud in the heavy silence of the room. Red's breathing hitched and Liz held hers. One of his eyes cracked open, then the other so he could better focus on the silhouette in his doorway.

"Lizzie?" he murmured, voice thick with sleep. He pulled the sheet further up his body until the edge was secured under his arm.

"You didn't bring any water up," she explained, the words coming out of her mouth far too quickly. "I thought I'd just put a glass on your nightstand, just in case you wake up thirsty in the night." She was rumbled and she knew it. Red rolled on to his back and she cursed inwardly.

"Thank you," he said, voice a little clearer now. "You didn't need to. I'm sure I will be dead to the world tonight."

"Well, I did anyway," she responded needlessly.

"Evidently," he chuckled. She stood, shifting her weight from foot to foot on the bare floorboards of his room, biting her lip to stop herself saying anything else that might further incriminate her. "Were you planning to levitate the glass over here?" he enquired lightly, disturbing her reverie. He patted the empty side of the bed. "Come, sit for a while," he beckoned. Unsure, she crossed to the nearest nightstand – the furthest from him – and set the glass down.

"I should really get back to my room," she said, "you need to sleep."

"Lizzie, there's something on your mind. There has been for some time, I think. Come here." He was completely awake now. Reluctantly she sat down on the edge of the bed. "Relax, Lizzie. This isn't an interrogation." He reached out and encircled her scarred wrist, pulling her gently to get her to lie down. Willfully ignoring the anxiety gnawing in her gut in the hope for an answer, she swung her legs up and laid herself beside him, staring up at the ceiling fan that rotated with a low hum above them. He hadn't let go of her wrist, his thumb now stroking lightly up and down the length of her scar. "So?" he prompted.

"So what?" she retorted, stalling for time.

"What is troubling you?"

"I don't want to move again," she supplied. It was half true, she supposed; she knew that he would ensure she was comfortable and enjoyed herself wherever they ended up, and she was resigned to the fact that he had the money so she would have to go wherever he did.

"I know what you mean; this mattress is divine, and Havana's not bad, but that's not it.

"What do you want from me, Red?" she asked, still staring up at the ceiling. Not having to look at him made it a little easier.

"I want you to be what you've always been with me – honest."

Lizzie let his words sink in; he had been fairly open with her since they had left the States – if he didn't want to answer her he would say, she knew. She wondered if she had made a mountain of a molehill.

"Your back," she began, pausing to allow for any immediate reaction to make itself known. Red froze. "Out by the pool, you wanted me in front of you the entire time. I turned around when I was on my way back to the pool. It was just a glimpse, but I know there's something there." When he still didn't move she looked over at him to check he was still breathing. "What is it, Red?"

"Scars," he answered after a long moment, his eyes resolutely fixed on the ceiling above.

"I figured that much."

"Burn scars, Lizzie," he elaborated flatly.

Her mouth formed a silent 'oh' of understanding. "How far do they go?" she enquired sensitively.

"All of my back and the back of my left thigh," he said, almost mechanically, detaching himself as he spoke. "Some of my left arm," he added after a pause.

"How long ago did you get them?"

He turned his head to look at her then, fixing her with a meaningful gaze. "A lifetime ago," he answered quietly, as though unsure.

"Can-" she stopped herself, only to gather her wits and ask anyway. "Can I see?" He closed his eyes, frowning for a moment as he considered her request before he released her wrist and nodded. He turned away from her, presenting his back, and she reached for the bedside lamp to get a better look.

"I'd rather you didn't," he said, voice half-muffled by the pillow. She withdrew her arm and turned to squint in the low light, silently cursing the cloud covering the moon outside. She reached out, cautiously, and he flinched at the first feather-light touch before relaxing into it. As she mapped the contour of his back with her fingertips Lizzie found herself increasingly horrified with the extent of his injury; she remembered the searing pain of her wrist and the smell of burning flesh – she couldn't imagine how much worse it had been for him.

"How long did it take to heal?" she asked, her voice not much more than a whisper.

"Years," he supplied. "By the time I could stand to wear them again all my old suits no longer fitted."

"You and your damn suits," she chided in jest, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. He huffed a mirthless chuckle that shook the mattress beneath them before he fell into a contemplative silence. Lizzie wanted to ask for the full tale but doubted he would divulge all the details to her then and there – it just wasn't Red's way, as she knew all too well; he would likely tell her at some wildly inappropriate moment when he decided she was ready to hear it, or whatever. She would listen intently whenever he deigned the time to be right.

The feelings for him that she already had she had been careful to keep to herself, unsure of how he might use the knowledge of their existence; now, lying next to him knowing the pain he had been through, the trauma that must still plague him along with everything else he dealt with daily – how he did it she didn't know – she felt closer to him than ever before. Without thinking she slid across the mattress and nestled herself into him, curling herself around his back, fingers still idly tracing the mottled, raised tissue of her answer. He huffed a long exhalation and she felt the tension leave him, likely as he realised she had no other immediate questions for him – she had learned when to push him for information and when to leave a subject alone in the time they had spent in such close quarters – and he reached around to still her hand before pulling it around him, effectively securing her to him. She struggled to extricate herself from his grip before huffing a sigh.

"I'm not leaving, Red. I just want to get out of these shorts," she explained. He let her go and she shimmied out of the chino shorts, leaving her in his linen shirt and her panties, before she slid under the sheet and assumed her previous position, giving him her hand again.

"Thank you," he said quietly, giving her hand a squeeze.

Liz lifted her head from the pillow. "What for?"

"For knowing when to stop," he said. "And for staying," he added as though it were an afterthought. She dropped a comforting kiss to his scarred flesh and shushed him softly. He released a small, tired sigh and snuggled into his pillow, loosening his grip on her. She knew she could go back to her room, and probably should, but found she didn't want to move from where she was. Before long Red's deep, even breathing and the consistent hum of the ceiling fan lulled her into a deep sleep.