No matter what others would like a person to believe, Raymond 'Red' Reddington knew one certain fact - getting old is a bitch. Oh, he didn't feel as old as his outer appearance would no doubt suggest, but the fact remained that he was getting older and the wears and tears of his younger days were starting to show through. In his youth, Red had been very active. He had to be; his job had required it. Sometime the missions he'd been sent on hadn't been very demanding, physically. Most times, they were. One in particular always came back to haunt him. Its ghost lived in the worn down and damaged tissue in his left knee, choosing to reassert itself every so often should Red forget the boundaries his body had begun to place on him. Unfortunately, today was one such time.

Yet again, Lizzie had gone into a case full of hatred for him and stubbornness against his very sound advice. Being headstrong wasn't necessarily a bad trait. He was used to facing and overcoming it and therefore saw it as no real evil coming from anyone; indeed, one met with it quite readily in Red's line of work. It was her persistent anger towards him that he found particularly trying. He had known from the start that his lies, when discovered, would be seen as a deeper betrayal. The fact that it had been made worse by his growing bond with the girl had neither diminished his expectations nor changed them. He knew that, though she would rather die than admit it, Lizzie had begun to depend upon and trust him. Given that, he had held onto a sliver of hope (a thing that was very rarely supplied in this world) that she would be able to see past her emotions, her feelings, and would be able to acknowledge the truth in his justifications. Needless to say, reality had chosen to prove itself right once more and so here he was.

It had been three months since she had found out that, not only had he hired "Tom" to be in her life, but that he had also killed Sam. A spike of pain shot through his chest whenever he remembered both the act of killing a dear friend and the pain in her eyes as she accused him of using her only for the fulcrum. Even so, Red had fully expected that things would calm, that Lizzie would calm, and that they would get back to normally, albeit somewhat slowly. But Lizzie could hold a grudge like the best of them and she, even now, refused to forgive him.

So, when he had given her the case of The Conductor, a man who chose to kill with gut strings for string instruments, which he conversely made from his victims, she had naturally spat something at him about not needing his help to make an introduction with a suspect and had not bothered to say anything more before turning her back on him and leaving. Naturally Red had had one of his associates follow her and so had been alerted when The Conductor had knocked Ressler senseless and had taken Lizzie. He had wasted no time in making contact with The Conductor, securing a meeting with him in the interest of a trade - Lizzie for whatever the man wanted that Red had to give. Red hadn't even blinked when The Conductor had demanded to get Red in exchange for Lizzie, knowing that Dembe would get to them before anything truly horrific happened. She had stared at him confusedly, clearly unable to account for what he had done.

While he had been in the company of The Conductor, whose real name was actually Harrold as it would turn out, Red hadn't been treated gently per se. Yet, Harrold had only just begun to warm up when Dembe, alongside four of Red's most trusted extraction team, had shown up. The bruising on his side and wrists from being restrained and beaten was painful and would fade with time so Red hadn't bothered to worry about them, though Mr. Kaplan had frowned upon seeing them. It was the throbbing pain which heatedly pulsed through his left knee that Red found bothersome, and not simply because it hurt. He didn't know if it had been extremely good intelligence or simply coincidence which had led to the decision to ensure that he couldn't run via "crippling" one of his legs, but it had been done with efficiency. The leg was, of course, quite usable but one had to be prepared (and able) to endure a rather fair amount of pain in order to do so. Clearly neither Harrold nor his thugs had expected Red to be one such person and they had paid for their mistake with their lives.

Biting back a hiss of pain, Red got inside the car. He watched their surroundings as he waited for Dembe and Mr. Kaplan to enter via the driver side door and passenger door, making sure that no retribution from some random quarter would be coming.

"Are you sure?" Dembe questioned again as he put the car into gear and pulled away from the scrubbed crime scene. Mr. Kaplan had come prepared and her team had finished quite quickly, leaving the older woman free to accompany Red.

Red smiled. "I appreciate your concern, my friend, but I do not need to be seen to. My injuries are nothing that won't heal with time."

In the rearview mirror, Dembe looked doubtful but he didn't pursue the topic. Red felt his left wrist being enveloped by strong but careful hands and he looked over to find Mr. Kaplan, Kate, examining the bruises now that she was able to. He was patient, letting her satisfy herself, and went back to looking out the window. In his reflection, Red saw his upper lip curl into a micro-expression of a snarl of pain as the throbbing in his leg worsened.

Damn his body's weakness!

Opening his cell phone, Red dialed Lizzie's number.

"What?" she asked by way of a greeting.

It hurt that she didn't sound at all concerned about his well being or that she didn't seem to care that he was able to call her. Swallowing his emotions since they wouldn't do him any good, he said, "You can find what remains of The Conductor's client lists and the details of his current case."

"Red?" She sounded confused, almost hopeful even. Had she not looked at the caller ID before she had answered? There was a pause in which neither of them said anything. Red was curious to see how she would react and so he was therefore content to let her break the silence. It didn't take long for her mind to catch up with what he had said. "What happened to The Conductor?"

"I am not sure," Red answered. It was technically true as he hadn't a clue what Mr. Kaplan had done with the body; he had been too busy attempting to walk, or limp rather, to the car.

"He's dead isn't he?" She sounded resigned, tired.

"Oh yes, he's most certainly dead, but what has happened with his body, I couldn't tell you."

He hung up before she could begin lecturing him about the unlawfulness of his actions (or calling him a monster again, for that matter). As much as he loved her, Red was not in the mood to be patient and understanding. He simply hurt too much.

A bump in the road had him grimacing. It reawakened the burn in his side to a degree which made his brain pay attention to the injury. After a few seconds, it quieted down, allowing the pain receptors to go back to indulging the signals coming from his knee, and Red let his mind wander, remaining silent the entire rest of the trip, his phone ringing all the while.

oOo

Liz angrily punched the 'end call' button on her phone and slammed it down with enough force to make her briefly wonder if she had cracked the screen. Fury raged within her but where it was, or should be, aimed, she couldn't quite figure out. Plenty of it belonged to Reddington, that she was sure of, but she couldn't help but be sensible of the fact that some of it was also aimed at the criminal known as The Conductor as well. Not because he had taken her but because he had hurt him.

She hadn't gone more than ten steps towards the door when the sounds of fists connecting with a solid mass reached her ears. Resolving not to show that she cared about Reddington, she had kept going, her mind still awhirl with thoughts and feelings she hadn't had the aptitude to sort through at the time. When she had heard Reddington cry out in pain, Lizzie had stopped. She had never heard him make that sound before. Even when he had been shot, he hadn't put that much pain into a sound. Sure his groans had gorged at her, digging into her stomach until she felt sick, but this had been so much worse. It had taken Dembe forcefully dragging her out of the closed-down warehouse to get her to leave, and even then she had fought to get back.

More anger poured through her as she recalled that, had she simply gone with whomever Reddington had hired to drive her back and protect her, Dembe would have been able to get to his friend much swifter. Anger morphed into guilt and Lizzie didn't shy from it. She knew that it was her fault that The Conductor had managed to relocate Reddington. She only hoped that he wasn't hurt too badly. She almost hoped for forgiveness but that, she felt, was going to far. There was still plenty of anger towards Reddington for her to think that she didn't need or want that man's forgiveness.

Even so, she couldn't get him out of her mind. With an eye roll, she forcefully shut her computer off and grabbed her phone and keys. She needed to get the whole story from Reddington, anyways, might as well do it in person.

At the time it had been a good idea. Now, though, she wasn't as confident in her assessment. Dembe stood in the doorway, refusing to let her in. His face betrayed no emotion so she couldn't tell if he was refusing her out of orders and duty or because he was angry with her.

"Move," she ordered, her fingers twitching to grab her gun and put it in the man's face. Again.

Dembe remained silent a moment, brown eyes staring at her. Lizzie wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he see the monster that she felt herself becoming? Did he see the person who could hold hostage a man who had once been her husband, using his own need for survival against him until it had all come crashing down around her? Did he know the kinds of things she had said to his friend? Had he seen the effect those words had had on Reddington as she had or had the "The Concierge of Crime" hidden everything behind a wall that would make Fort Knox proud?

There was a time when she had thought that he was simply a bodyguard for Reddington; someone who did a job that he was hired to do and nothing more. Then she had gotten to know Reddington better and she had seen the ways in which the two men interacted. She could see the friendship that lay beneath their roles, though barely. When Anslo had taken The Post Office, had taken Dembe and threatened to kill him, Lizzie had heard the declaration, the devotion, and the love that Dembe had expressed. She had also heard it returned by Reddington, had seen it in his his face through the blood and the gore on the cage.

"He's inside," Dembe said, voice quiet.

"Great." She tried to step through but he still didn't move. Taking a step back, she sighed. "I can't go in until you get out of the way."

Another pause of quiet. Then, with nary a sigh, comment, or expression, he moved. Elizabeth was hard-put not to glare at him as she passed him and went into the flat. She stopped shortly when she noticed that he was not in the living room where she had expected to find him. Turning, she looked over her shoulder at Dembe. "Where is he?"

"'He' is right here," Reddington's voice said over her other shoulder. It was then that she noticed a hallway which, presumably, led to his bedroom. Liz had fully expected to start demanding answers from him right off the bat, but she stopped short upon seeing him.

Though his tone hadn't suggested it, he was close to panting, evidently from the effort of walking out to join her. Sweat beaded his forehead and his upper lip, and pain shown out of his eyes. He limped, heavily, past her and stiffly sat down onto the sofa. Liz opened her mouth to ask if he was alright then stopped herself.

"What do you want, Lizzie?"

He seemed angry with her, yet he continued to call her Lizzie. Why couldn't things with Reddington ever be simple? Then again, why does she always seem to make it harder? She needed to make a decision and stick with it. Does she want Reddington in her life, or does she not?

"What have you done with The Conductor?"

He waved a hand at her and it was then that she noticed bruising around his wrist. Stilling her immediate reaction, Liz slowly, methodically, walked over to the armchair across from the couch. She sat and tried to appear relaxed. She was anything but, but as Reddington didn't seem inclined to speak, she waited until he did.

As she waited, her mind wandered. Did she want him in her life? Was she prepared to accept all the things, all the troubles, that come with having Raymond Reddington in your life? Then again, was she prepared to let him go, to let her job, go and move, start a new life?

Across from her, Red shifted. His body stilled almost immediately and a brief grimace crossed his face. Frustration almost overwhelmed Liz as she stifled another, stronger, urge to go to him, to make sure that he was okay.

"Put your leg up," another voice sharply commanded. Liz jumped, her eyes automatically flying over to where Mr. Kaplan stood in the doorway of the hallway. Across from her, Red practically rolled his eyes. Yet, stiffly, carefully, he did as he was told.

At the third sign of pain in almost as many minutes, Liz made her decision. Getting up, she grabbed the throw pillow which had sat behind her and reached out to place it underneath his knee. Sometime in the past few minutes, Liz had noticed how little he had moved the joint, leading her to believe that it was what was causing him pain.

Before her hand touched cloth, Reddington's right hand grabbed her wrist. His grip was strong, harder than it needed to be. The cuff of his white sleeve was raised, giving her a view of the bruise which ringed his wrist. Ignoring how tight he was holding on to her and what he was trying to say by that, she placed the pillow on the floor and then, as gently as she could, she loosened his hand from hers. He was shaking slightly, though why she couldn't figure out, and he resisted a little but he allowed her to do it. Remaining gentle, she slipped the pillow under his knee. Again, he grabbed her but this time, she suspected, it was because of pain. She let him hold on, let him squeeze.

"Has a doctor seen you?" she asked, more than aware of the concern that oozed out of her voice.

Reddington released his hold but Liz didn't retreat. Instead, she captured his hand in hers, running her fingers around the bruise. Just from looking, she had wondered if more damage had been done, damage that couldn't be seen under the skin. She wanted to examine it, though she had no medical training or experience whatsoever, but she refrained, guessing that it would only hurt him more and for no reason than to soothe her conscience.

He shifted and winced again. "Are you injured anywhere else?" she asked, now beginning to wonder.

Reddington remained silent, not answering her. With a sigh she got up, pulling her phone out of her pocket. Eying him, she dialed Nick's number.

Liz heard Mr. Kaplan's quick steps and then her phone was grabbed out of her hand, the call disconnected. "Hey!" she argued, rather lamely.

"I have seen to all of Mr. Reddington's needs," Mr. Kaplan said. Her tone was firm, hinting that there was no argument needed but Liz still wanted to do it. Clearly she hadn't since Reddington was still in enough pain that he was expressing it. Still, something in the way the smaller woman blocked Liz's view of Reddington suggested protectiveness, as though she were shielding her boss from Liz.

"What are his injuries?" Liz asked of the older woman. She already knew that Reddington wasn't going to tell her so maybe she could get answers from Mr. Kaplan instead. When she remained as silent as Reddington, Liz blew out a frustrated breath. Tears sprang to her eyes, though she couldn't fully determine why, and Liz batted them back, refusing to let them fall. "Please," she said, lowering her voice in hopes that only Mr. Kaplan could hear her.

"Why?" Mr. Kaplan returned, her stance unmoving, unyielding. Clearly she wasn't about to let Liz know anything until she was satisfied with the answer.

It was a fair question. Unfortunately, it was one that Liz had been trying to answer ever since she'd been hung up on by Reddington. Why did she feel this, almost desperate, need to know how badly Reddington had been hurt? Was it guilt alone? Or was there something more going on? Could she even admit it to herself, let alone to someone else, if there was more? Or would indifference simply be easier?

She had once told him that she cared about him. Sadly, that was still true, but that had been at a time when she hadn't discovered the entire truth. She had foolishly believed that he had cared about her and so had allowed herself to return the feeling. Then Tom had come back for her, put himself in danger for her, and then had told her all that he knew. She never would have believed that Reddington could be so duplicitous. Pretending to care about her, to be her friend and savior, while all the while being the one who started the entire damn mess and, consequently, only wanting her for what she may know, remember, or have. Even now, thinking about it made her feel sick and she felt tears come into her eyes once more.

Liz looked over Mr. Kaplan's shoulder to Reddington. His expression could almost have passed for impassive, but his eyes gave him away. Soft blue eyes looked at her, reflecting the tears in her own, though he refused to let them fall. Unlike hers, his eyes weren't quite as full and therefore he was able to blink them away, shifting, and grimacing, while his mask went back into place. Why couldn't he allow himself to be vulnerable just once? She had seen him come so close a few times but he never seemed to trust her enough to fully let go. Was it because she wasn't much more to him than a source of information or was it simply a product of the life he has led?

"I had thought that you had actually cared about me," she began, her voice quivering with emotion. "I had believed that your interest in protecting me was because you, on some level, cared for me. Was that a my delusion?"

Reddington swallowed and Liz thought that she could see his mind working, trying to come up with a way to diffuse the situation without having to reveal all that he knew. "Lizzie," he said, his voice coming out in almost a growl. It had only been her name, well her name as Reddington saw it, but there had been enough of something like pleading in it to make her snap.

"Tell me Reddington - was I wrong?" She raised her voice as her anger and frustration and pain got the best of her and she saw something akin to a wince cross Reddington's face. Ignoring all signs that he was hurting, Liz continued to stare him down, demanding that he answer her.

Again, her fingers twitched, wanting to go for her gun in the hopes that putting it in the face of someone that Reddington did obviously care about would make him answer but she stopped herself. It scared her that that was her go-to way of getting answers. Besides, she knew that Reddington knew she wouldn't actually pull the trigger and the action itself would only serve to make him mad, which would cause other problems in themselves.

Reddington shifted on the couch, face contorting into a grimace which refused to leave, and then he slowly began to stand up. Rather than tell him to sit back down, Mr. Kaplan moved to support him on his left side. The woman was so short that Liz was sure it didn't actually do any good, but evidently it satisfied her enough to where she didn't try to stop him. For his part, Reddington pulled her into his side, his knuckles turning white for a brief moment before his hand relaxed a bit. His face, almost frozen in an expression of pain, seemed to lose some of its stress and it struck Liz that he not only craved another person's care, touch, and love, but that he could return it. Why, then, couldn't he do that with her?

Then it hit her. They didn't judge Reddington. They had seen his darker sides, just like she had, and they hadn't judged him for them. She had. Every time Reddington had showed her a little bit of himself, in his world, she threw it back at him with hateful words and accusing looks. And yet, how had he expected her to react? She was a federal agent, it was her job to abide by the law!

"Why put on this farce if all I ever was to you was a source?" she asked, tears now streaming down her cheeks.

"I never said that was all you were," Reddington corrected. "That was all you, and Tom."

Liz hadn't realized that she'd moved until she saw Mr. Kaplan do it. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she was sure that she'd heard the sound of her hand slapping his cheek, but she didn't remember doing it whatsoever. Even so, even with the mark of her handprint on his face, she said, "Don't you dare blame me or Tom for this."

He looked at her as he would have looked at any other person in the world. Betrayal briefly flashed in his eyes but then it was gone as quickly as it had come and he simply stood there, somewhat off-kilter thanks to him favoring his left leg, staring back at her as though she meant nothing to him. And it was in that moment that she realized her mistake.

Ever since Reddington had come into her life, he had warned her about Tom. Granted it was because he was the one who had, originally, put Tom in her life and so he knew that she shouldn't trust him, but still. From day one, he had said that she shouldn't trust Tom. He had done things to protect her from Tom, he had tracked Tom for her, and even when he had found out that Liz had lied to him about killing Tom, he hadn't judged her for it. Yet, Tom was the one that she chose to trust, showing Reddington in actions more so than in words that she would always believe Tom over him.

Liz didn't know why but Tom was a bad habit that she couldn't seem to break. In spite of all that he had done to her, things that could be seen as far more personal and grievous than anything Reddington had ever done, she chose to forgive him over and over and over again. More than that, she chose to love him. She now wondered why she couldn't do that for Reddington as well.

His gaze could be considered frosty as he said, "You should go, Agent Keen."

"Red," she began, realizing now, with the use of her title, how much she had hurt him.

"Dembe will show you out," he answered, almost interrupting her.

Dembe, who had come closer to his friend when Liz had slapped him, now stepped in front of Reddington, waiting for her to begin walking. But Liz didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave things the way they were. Not now, not like this. She didn't want Red to think that she could never accept him the way he had her. She didn't want him thinking that she cared more about Tom than she did him.

The red mark on his face glared at her. It showed her far more than she had believed it would. It was proof that she could hurt Raymond Reddington, something she had long ago given up believing was possible. And now that it had, she wished that it would stop accusing her; that she could stop seeing it and hoping that she wouldn't continue to see it even after it had disappeared.

Ignoring Dembe, Liz stepped around him, not caring when he put a hand around her bicep to stop her from getting closer to his friend, and slowly raised her hand to Red's face. She felt the heat coming from the mark before she felt his skin and she winced a little. He winced as well at her touch but otherwise he made no move or sound. As gently as she could, she ran her fingers over the handprint, lowering her hand when she was finished to grab his. Then she did something that she didn't think she would ever do. Liz brought his left hand up to her lips and kissed that back of it, including a little bit of the bruising around his wrist as she did.

"I'm so sorry, Red," she said, tears filling her eyes before spilling down her cheeks.

Then, without a word, she walked out the door, letting Dembe escort her from Red's flat. She only hoped that it wouldn't be the last time she would see The Concierge of Crime.

TBC