Disclaimer: I own no part of The Blacklist. Zip, zilch, nada!

AN: I've spent months looking at this thing, trying to decide what to make of it. I will say that it got me back into prose writing after a year-long slump...and it's completely unlike anything I've written previously. Rated M to be safe.

Exquisite

"And this guy—Gaffran—"

"Is intensely fascinated by events of late." The man flashed a sardonic smile. "No doubt he thinks they'll prove advantageous to him—which is why you're going to play my steadfast middleman for the afternoon. You've just come from a meeting with me to iron out the details of a singularly delectable offer: In light of my current situation, I feel compelled to drop a few…untrustworthy assets; would he be interested in a wholesale offer on said assets; et cetera, et cetera, caveat emptor. "

"So he's a scavenger."

"Of the most highbrow variety."

Elizabeth Keen allowed herself a small smile. "You've certainly made some interesting enemies."

"Come now, Lizzie, life's no fun without invigorating company, wouldn't you agree? Even if that company occasionally tries to slit your throat and cut out your heart."

They were walking toward a black sedan where Dembe, in typical living statue style, waited by the rear passenger door. When Elizabeth fell out of step, her companion abruptly turned.

"What is it?" He didn't offer a hand, but his eyes were on her, assessing.

She'd already resumed heading for the car, chestnut hair bobbing with each step. "It was nothing. Shoe must've caught on the sidewalk."

Keeping pace with her, he gave a little frown. "I'd like to believe that, sweetheart, but you wear wide heels, which—despite their regrettably poor quality—are highly unlikely to catch on—"

"Red, it's nothing." Her lips remained parted between breaths, which didn't escape his notice. Nothing about her ever did.

Dembe nodded in greeting and opened the door. Red gestured for the young woman to go first, but when she shook her head, he simply shrugged and stepped in, feeling her pause a beat before climbing in after him. The car lurched into motion a moment later, and she cleared her throat.

"What do I need to know before I go into this meeting?"

His eyes were on her again, taking in all the little things, the pieces that made such a lovely whole. She was, at once, seamless and patchwork, the sheer dichotomy of her usually enough to distract him. But now the details dragged him out of his reverie, begging for translation: white-knuckled fists sat tightly in her lap; her chest rose and fell in small, quick movements; on her forearms, he could make out the subtle pucker of goose bumps.

"Lizzie, are you all right?"

For a second she wondered how he managed to twist every question into an unquestionable statement, the product of some near-omniscience. He knew full well she wasn't all right, and the little half-smile he'd adopted was, she decided, one of his more infuriating qualities. He was the only person she'd ever met who gave her the impression he'd already heard her response, and was merely waiting—with his own maddening and saintly brand of patience—for her to echo it back. A spark of defiance blossomed in her (she swore it was that damn smile) and she schooled her expression back to what she hoped resembled indifference.

"I'm fine."

He took in the hush of her voice, her pursed lips, her eyes—now almost aniridic—and turned to face her.

"You're telling me two very different things. First, that you're 'fine'—a conclusion I'd be perfectly willing to accept, only your body seems to have missed the memo." Against her silence, he continued, his voice a low purr. "Fear is one possibility. But I'm sure our brushes with the underworld are old news to you by now…Perhaps pain."

He waited for the flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes. "Obviously, its source embarrasses you. But through numerous first-hand encounters in a long and storied career, I've found there's relief for nearly all of it, at least temporarily. And I'd rather you not be a liability in our little tête-à-tête with Mr. Gaffran."

She stared into the front passenger seat, fingers stroking the scar on her wrist: a concession of defeat she knew he'd see. But she wasn't twelve anymore; she'd learned to tell the sinking ships from the salvageable ones—and right about now she felt a distinct affinity for the Titanic.

"It's only sometimes," she murmured. When he didn't respond, she took a moment to breathe, collecting her thoughts. "When he took me—the Stewmaker—he did something, found a nerve bundle near my neck. There was this metal skewer—"

A small movement on Red's side of the car startled her. But when her eyes darted over to him, she realized she must've been mistaken; he was the picture of thoughtful observation. She tried to find a few last words. "It was like he was twisting a forkful of spaghetti."

"Your left side?" Another unquestionable question. She nodded, hearing the faint click of a seat belt unfastening. In an instant, he'd crossed the distance between them, looking at her shoulder.

"May I?" His gaze wandered to her neck.

She nodded again, shutting her eyes against the pain of the movement. There was a ghosting touch as her hair was moved behind her shoulder, then his fingertips pressed softly into her neck, starting near her jawbone. He moved languidly, feeling for the muscles beneath her skin. She tried not to lean into the contact, or fidget in her seat as though he were seeking an itch she couldn't scratch. At the juncture of her neck and collarbone his fingers stilled, and she heard him take a slow breath.

"I need to find the damage."

On a couple occasions, she'd tried to feel for the injury herself, the little expeditions always ending in a glass of wine and an overlarge amount of ibuprofen. But something under the cavalier surface of his words sounded hesitant—almost as if he was (for the first time since she'd known him) concerned with possible impropriety. She braced herself, and swallowed.

"Okay."

It took her a second to figure out why he hadn't moved. He probably needs to work with bare skin. Willing the blush to drain from her face, she unclenched her fists long enough to undo two buttons of her dress shirt, and pulled the collar down to her shoulder. An ice-blue bra strap joined it a few seconds later.

"You are a winter," she heard him murmur. The half-smile on his lips now was of a different breed entirely, and she felt her blush reclaim its territory over her cheeks. She couldn't suppress a gasp as his fingers began tracing small circles into her skin, the twinge of pain very real. Then, when he brushed the halfway point between her neck and shoulder, she felt it—a pale imitation of what the Stewmaker had done to her that night, but still a jagged spike that radiated down her arm and spine. A whimper made its way from the back of her throat, buzzing on her lips.

Red pulled back his hands and sighed.

"It's deep."

She noticed his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes now nearly as dark as hers, and wondered if he was remembering the evening as well. It had been raw for both of them in more ways than one.

Fumbling for something comforting, she managed to mutter, "At least he's gone."

"And what does that change for you, Lizzie?"

"The fact that I'm still alive," she said, hoping to remind him of his timely intervention. Incapacitated and seconds from death, the warmth of his hand against her head had seemed nothing short of beatific.

"Hm." He was biting the inside of his cheek. "I know an orthopedic surgeon. I'll put you in contact with him tomorrow."

Fear trickled in a cold sweat down her back. "So there's nothing you can do now?"

His eyes found hers, and he chuckled humorlessly. "Do have a little faith in me, Lizzie. I can give you one of those temporary fixes I mentioned; stretch the muscles and partially realign them."

She inhaled slowly, her left side still raw and aching from his diagnostic.

"There will be some pain."

"Understood." She clenched her jaw shut, watching as his left hand came to rest over her shoulder, bracing it.

His fingers resumed pressing circles into the flesh behind her collarbone, slowly working deeper into the damage. As she fought to keep silent, Elizabeth was sure she could feel each twisted muscle screaming against his unrelentingly gentle compressions. Her right hand gripped the headrest of the front passenger seat; she heard the leather tearing beneath her nails.

A long moment passed before he reached the eye of her agony. She was trembling with the effort not to writhe under his fingertips. The pain shifted—she knew she was approaching the worst of it, but there was something else, a surge that was not exactly pain, churning just below her navel. She became acutely aware of her body, of every nerve ending invoking this relief, chanting in her quickening pulse.

"Almost there," he hummed.

His fingers worked deeper, unhurried but insistent. She tried in vain to keep her breathing even, no longer able to look away from him. Please, please, please, she prayed. Tears pooled in her eyes.

"Red." It was no use fighting; her voice came in equal parts sob and whimper. His sight slid into focus on her. The ring of green in each eye was razor-thin as his fingers continued their ministrations.

"Red," she tried again, her pitch lower, shuddering over his name. This was beyond pain; it spilled over into a world she had no name for. Her left hand reached up to grip his wrist.

"It's all right, Lizzie." His eyes burned her, left tiny, whirling, y-shaped scars over her cheeks and lips, before meeting her gaze. The words were not meant to be comforting, Elizabeth thought wildly. No, he was encouraging her.

It was something like a snap she felt then, the flesh of her neck and shoulder fitting in conformation for the first time in months. The hurt was gone, was more than gone. Her mouth opened, but there was no sound beside a sharp intake of breath. What she felt now evicted even the memory of pain. It soared past labels of relief or deliverance; she could only press her knees together in attempt to quiet the sensations that brought fresh color over her chest and face. That he stayed next to her—watching her, drinking her with his dark eyes—did not help.

-o-o-o-o-o-

He waited for her pulse to slow and her eyes to lose their glaze before returning to his side of the car, buckling the seat belt with his usual nonchalance. It seemed a small eternity before her voice returned to her—she could swear the sun was lower, the shadows of the buildings longer.

"Thank you," she spoke after clearing her throat, the words almost cracking.

"My pleasure, Lizzie." She heard the smile in his voice, even if she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Now, you truly do look the part."

Her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle out his meaning. Finally, unable to the resist the familiar pull, she sighed. "And which part would that be?"

"The part where you just came from a meeting with me."

Note: Too corny? Maybe. Too weird? Probably. But thanks for reading!