She insists he leave the fire to her and go inside. Although he is reluctant, it seems important to her, so he does. He takes advantage of the time to construct a fresh meal for her. He watches out the window as she finds a bag of dirt in the shed in the corner of the yard and carefully smothers the small, cheerful blaze. Her motions are deft and efficient, and speak of long experience — his heart aches for her.

When she trails back inside, a little colour back in her cheeks from the exercise, she smiles at him ruefully.

"We'll have to reseed that patch of lawn," she says quietly. "Nothing will grow back after that."

"Don't worry about it," he says, guiding her to the table. "We'll take care of it, I promise."

He watches her eat — she doesn't seem to have an appetite anymore, so he stays to make sure she finishes. It's little enough, and she needs to build herself back up. He buries his worry for her deep within, so she doesn't sense it, but it will not disappear.

They head to the living room afterward, and she stops suddenly in shock at the sight of the piles of boxes and jumbled assortment of belongings.

"What on earth?" she says, bewildered at the chaos, which is so unlike Reddington.

He grins. "That side," he says, gesturing, "is everything we took from the Centre — we'll need to go through everything carefully, so we know exactly what happened. Everything else is Sam's."

She startles, clutching his hand. "But I thought…I thought they…"

"They ransacked your apartment completely — all we have left is what you had with you in your room. I'm so sorry for that, sweetheart. But I don't think they knew about Sam's storage unit. Dembe cleaned it out as soon as we realized you'd been robbed."

"It's…Red, thank you." She feels almost overwhelmed — her history, her life, not lost, but right here, waiting for her.

"You'll have to go through everything," he says, then looks at her, evaluating the emotions that cloud around her. "When you're ready."

She smiles at him, grateful beyond words for his ability to understand her. "Not now," she says. "But soon, I hope."

They sit together on the couch instead, sorting through the reams of paperwork Red and Dembe recovered from the Centre. She finds Dr Wilkes' notebook — he isn't at all certain she should read it, but she insists, curling up beside him and reading with a small furrow in her brow.

It doesn't take much longer to realize that she has been more deeply impacted by the drugs than they realized.

It comes as a shock, this time, with no warning at all. She's reading in relative peace, and he is monitoring her with a corner of his mind — he felt nothing at all before she flickered into flame once more.

She leaps away from him with surprising speed, but it's too late for the couch. He's on his feet a moment after her, slapping briskly at a smouldering patch on his trouser leg; smacking out the smoking part of the couch with a nearby cushion.

"Red, are you okay? I–I don't know what happened." Her voice is horrified and tragic both.

"Of course I am," he assures her calmly, settling a warm blanket of that same calm over her. "Don't worry yourself at all, sweetheart."

She laughs tearfully. "The couch is burnt. Your poor friend will soon have no house left at all."

"On the positive side," Red says thoughtfully, ushering her outside. "The floors are all ceramic. And that couch is ugly as sin."

She sits down on the fresh dirt she'd spread not two hours earlier, and buries her face in her hands. He sits down beside her, as close as he can manage.

"Lizzie, don't fret so," he says gently.

She raises her head to stare at him, her expression torn somewhere between disbelieving and appalled.

"Don't fret? Red, if I can't control this, I can't stay here, I–"

He exerts himself to send a soothing stroke of love over her, and she relaxes slightly.

"I have been wondering if suppressing the fire for so long would have…repercussions," he says. "It is a wild power by its nature; it would not take kindly to being forcibly controlled."

"But I control it," she replies. "As best as I can."

"That's different — it's a part of you. You and the fire are one, Elizabeth, that is what you must come to understand."

She is shimmering with a low heat now, trying to breathe deeply and find her mastery. "How can a part of myself act on its own?"

He considers this, then says, "You're at odds right now, out of synch. I think things will continue to be somewhat unpredictable until you come back together."

Her eyes are closed now, and she takes one, two more long, even breaths, and the flame disappears again. She opens her eyes again, and they are tired, worried, sad.

"If you're right," she says, "then I'm not safe to have here. I have to go, maybe a warehouse or something? I can't–"

The thought of her leaving him at all, when he has just gotten her back, is impossible. To have her leave him to go somewhere cold and remote to struggle alone is appalling; it is ludicrous.

"Nonsense," he says firmly, taking her still-hot hand in his. "You will stay right here with me." Where you belong.

"But, Red, I–"

"Don't forget," he cuts in, talking fast. "I can help you; help you to stay level until things get back to normal."

"I don't want to hurt you," she answers in a small voice.

"You let me worry about that," he says. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time."

She sighs and leans against him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. "Okay," she agrees — she doesn't want to leave him either, not at all. "We need to get some sand."

An interesting non sequitur. "Do we?"

"It's the best way to put out the flame — things I set alight, and…and me, too."

He stiffens. "I'm not going to bury you in sand, Elizabeth."

"You may have to," she says matter-of-factly. "If you can't, then…"

"All right," he says reluctantly. "If I absolutely have to, I will. Emergencies only."

"Thank you," she says quietly. "I just need to know you'll be safe."

"I feel the same way," he says, giving her a quick squeeze. "With both of us working so hard, it will be a snap."

She laughs, as he meant her to, then yawned heavily.

"Go on, have a rest," he says gently. "I know the flame is hard on you. I'll bring some ibuprofen."

He leaves her tucked up, so drained that she's already asleep, and settles back down with the records of her confinement, determined to find some way to help her.

He's completely absorbed for some time — when a scream shatters his concentration, he has no idea what time it is, or even where he is for a panicked moment. He's down the hall in an instant, inside the room just as she starts to sob.

She is sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as if she's awake, but curiously blank.

"Mama, Mama!" Her voice is high and frightened.

He stands at her side, hesitant to touch her now, her empty expression making him wary.

"Lizzie?"

She half-turns to him; blinks away tears.

"Krasnyj, pomogite. Mama ne prosnetsya."

She is trapped in her mind, he realizes — a nightmare, or a memory? If he wakes her — if he can wake her — will it help her, or make things immeasurably worse? Does he have a choice?

"Elizabeth, it's time to wake up." Stern, but level — he doesn't want to frighten her.

She is crying harder now, and his extremely rusty rudimentary Russian isn't up to the challenge of decoding her fuzzy wet words.

"Elizabeth, wake up!" Fear is making him clumsy.

"Nye, ya Mariya! Mamaaaaa!"

Terrified by her sobbing cries and worried that in her distress, the fire will burst out and make things a thousand times worse, he grips her shoulders and shakes her, hard.

"Elizabeth. Wake. Up."

Her head flips back and forth alarmingly with his shaking, and he halts himself in horror. She blinks and shakes her head a little, then looks at him, awareness back in her gaze.

"R–Red?"

Oh, thank god.

She looks confused and a little scared, but herself again.

"Lizzie."

Unable to stop himself, he yanks her to him, crushing her against his chest and rocking slightly. Her arms come around him and she rubs at his back tentatively.

"Red," she says, her voice muffled by his shirt. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

He takes a deep, soothing breath of her, to settle and strengthen himself, then releases her, sitting down heavily on the chair still beside the bed.

"Do you remember anything from the last few minutes?"

She frowns at him, clearly clueless. "I was sleeping, and then you woke me up." She rubbed her neck absently. "Were you shaking me?"

"I'm sorry about that," he says, taking her hand, "I…I was frightened."

Surprise bubbles in the air between them.

"You?" she asks, clearly disbelieving.

"I couldn't reach you," he says unhappily. "I don't know if it was a dream or a memory, or what was happening, but you were too deeply inside it to hear me — at least, the real me."

"I don't understand," she falters, her hand tightening in his. "I don't remember anything like that. I just remember you, saying my name."

He looks so troubled that she becomes truly alarmed. "Wh–What's happening to me?"

He seems to regain some control over himself and offers her a half-smile.

"You've been through a lot," he says, calm again, though she can tell it's costing him. "There were bound to be…side effects. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out and we'll deal with it."

She nods, if a little doubtfully — she isn't as sure as he seems to be, but his confidence gives her strength.

"It's getting late," he says, checking his watch. "You had a good long rest, at least. Get up, and you can help me make dinner."

She smiles at that. "You know I can't cook."

He grins widely. "Then it's time you learned, sweetheart."

Lying in bed that night, she thinks she'd actually enjoyed cooking with him. He is a good teacher — instructive but not condescending, flexible, knowledgeable, and funny, too. And surprisingly (or not surprisingly) skilled; the dish they'd put together was absolutely delicious.

He hadn't even let her clean up, shooing her away to meditate outside before she tried to sleep again. Afterward, he'd entertained her with stories of his exploits as a young man, trying to make a name for himself in a dangerous world.

He is working so hard to help her. To keep her calm and centred, to make her believe that everything will be okay. All the while, repressing his own fear and worry so they don't affect her, and helping her control the fire.

He hadn't wanted to leave her alone to sleep, clearly worried about another…episode. She, on the other hand, was far more worried about losing control in her sleep and burning him alive.

She'd won.

She drifts off with a smile on her face, picturing his annoyed, resigned expression at her door.

Some time later, she wakes in a cold sweat, and is terrified to find herself alone in a dark, only vaguely familiar room. She'd been dreaming of Tom and walks in the park, kisses shared under a shady tree. At the last, though, he had turned to her, his face burning, distorted, ruined, crying out, "Why, Liz?"

For a long, sickening moment, she isn't sure which reality she is in; she flees her room without really thinking about it. Seeking, she stumbles into the next bedroom, gasping as if all the oxygen has vanished from the air.

When she sees Red, curled on his side, sleeping with a hand tucked under his cheek, the relief of it drops her to her knees beside the bed. She presses her forehead to the mattress, focusing on getting her breath back and returning her heartbeat to normal.

When she lifts her head to look at him again, needing to see him, it strikes her that he looks…rather sweet. She fills with a comforting warmth that overrides all the other feelings that she can't quite sort out. Fear over what's happening to her; a quiet guilt over the murder of her not-husband; relief that reality has reasserted itself; sorrow for a dream lost. But it makes her so happy just to kneel on the floor and watch him sleep and think about him — how his merest touch makes her tremble; how his smile lights up her soul.

Is this what love is?

She reaches out and traces a finger ever so lightly over his cheek. He smiles reflexively in his sleep, and her heart thumps almost painfully. She cannot bear the thought of any more doubt, of waking up again and thinking that this might be the dream.

She searches inward for the first time since her return, finding the fiery core that lives inside her. It is not its customary steady glow, but a ragged ball, torn, jagged, flickering so that it hurts to look at. She soothes it instinctively; remembering how Red uses his power to surround her in comfort and affection, she tries to do the same. It seems to work, at least a little, the turbulence slowing, the flickering dying down.

"Now listen," she whispers fiercely. "This man, Red — you're not to hurt him. He's ours; we have to look after him and keep him safe."

The flame brightens inside her and seems to be a little more complete. She sends more comfort — or tries to, hoping it's having an impact. She's still completely focused internally, kneeling on the floor, when a low rumble comes from the bed.

"Lizzie? Is something wrong?"

She rises up to look at him, touches his face again, lightly.

"Not exactly," she replies. "I just…I woke up and I was alone and it was so quiet. I just had to…make sure…" She ducks her head again, embarrassed now.

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, a little sadly. "Come here."

He shifts on the bed so that she has room to climb in beside him, then wraps her in his arms and floods her with warmth. Love, she thinks, surely, this is love.

"Red," she whispers shyly into his neck. "Kiss me?"

"You don't have to ask, you know," he says, a little amused, moving to take her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss.

She bolsters her courage when he pulls away.

"Is that better?"

"A little. But I mean… kiss me. Be with me, Red — make me yours, so I can never doubt again."

Sleepy he might be, but her earnest plea jolts his system awake into an eager heat.

"Lizzie," he says, scrambling for control (wait, wait) . "I'm not sure–"

"But I am," she cuts in, and kisses him, light as a feather. "Be mine," she says simply. "Be mine as I am yours."

And he is lost.

She holds nothing back, her inexperience leaving her without artifice, without the skills in teasing and withholding that lovers use to manipulate. She simply gives herself over to him, wholehearted and enthusiastic; even the heated arousal he can feel from her is innocent and appealing.

It's intoxicating.

He knows he should slow them down, that she has no idea of the power she wields, of the effect that she has, of the things he wants. But her taste is so cleanly sweet, her eager mouth and clinging hands are so diverting. The sound she makes when he finally slides a hand along her torso to cup her breast is an epiphany.

And her skin — gods above, her skin — once he touches it, sliding a hand under her rumpled t-shirt, he can't stop, his hands roaming everywhere, stroking, coaxing, memorizing. She is warm, so warm, luckily not dangerously so, not yet. She arches under his touch, gasping in pleasure, pressing herself closer and closer as he breaks desperately away from her mouth to nip and nuzzle at her neck.

"Red," she says huskily, all sweet bewilderment, "I want…I want…I don't know, I don't know. More."

His hands clench briefly on her slim body; he consciously leaves a mark at the crook of her neck, sucking hard, wanting right along with her.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs into her skin, "I know. I've got you, I'll keep you safe, love."

He doesn't even know what he's saying; he hasn't been this lost in a woman in years…maybe not ever. She is shifting restlessly against him, instinctively seeking relief. He is so achingly hard he worries it will frighten her; tries to quiet her with soothing hands, but she mewls in protest.

"Please," she says, without knowing what she is asking for. "Red… "

He presses his face into her collarbone; draws a long, shuddering breath. He can do this. He can show her something of the beauty of love making, of the possibilities of passion, and hold himself in check.

"Let me touch you, sweetheart?" He makes it a question with some difficulty.

She draws back as much as she can to meet his eyes, her own a blazing blue like the heart of a flame.

"You are," she says wonderingly. "You're already touching me, and your hands, they're…it's so…it feels so good. Did you think I wanted you to stop?"

He laughs a little, kissing her sweet mouth, then turns them both deftly so she lies beneath him. "No, sweetheart, not that; never that. I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop," and his own honesty surprises him. "I want to give you pleasure, Lizzie, will you let me?"

She looks up at him, curious and unafraid, trusting and heartbreaking. "Oh yes," she says softly. "Oh, please."

He kisses her again, long and slow; watches her eyes flutter shut as he tastes her mouth. He watches her face as he traces the lines of her with one hand, resting his weight on his other side. She shivers under his touch, her body curving to follow his questing fingers. Her nipple stiffens most distractingly under his palm; he rubs, not to soothe, but to stimulate.

He lets himself taste her again; jaw, neck, the velvet hollow of her throat. She makes the most delightful sounds, surprised, aroused, needy. He slides his hand further, slipping under the waistband of her shorts, drawing his fingers along her hipbone, to the crease of her thigh, inward, to the centre of her.

He moves his head up in time to swallow the gasp she makes; happily drinks in her soft cries of discovery as he gently parts her folds, hot and slick with desire, to find her core, swollen and throbbing. He circles delicately, entranced by her; slides further to tease at her entrance.

"Red," she chokes, eyes wide and wondering, burning into him. "Raymond. What's happening to me?"

"Pleasure," he answers, "passion. Need, fulfillment, completion."

He presses a long finger into her, ever so slowly, thrilling at the way her eyes go blurry and blind. He pushes against her clit with his thumb, gently, gently, and she moans in surprised delight.

He strokes her, inside and out, with all the finesse he can muster, his own body aching, aching, as hers begins to tense. She trembles beneath him, her head turning restlessly on the pillow, closing her eyes, opening them again.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, "so beautiful, love. Let go, sweetheart, let yourself go. Feel it, let it come, darling."

His words seem to do their work, stoking the heat insider her to a pitch. Her legs kick in agitation, then stiffen as her back arches in the loveliest of curves. He struggles to keep separate the small part of his mind that watches the fire; it simmers, hot but not dangerous, as she keens in his embrace.

"That's it," he croons, overwhelmed by her. "That's right, Lizzie, let go now, that's it."

With deliberate precision, he adds a second finger to the first; finds the rough patch on her wall and slides against it, over and over again.

"Oh," she says, voice faint and bewildered. "Oh."

She splinters apart in his hands, crying out for him, clinging to him. Her core grips his fingers fiercely, coating him in moisture. He throbs painfully in response; watching her discover herself, receiving her first pleasure, is an agonizing euphoria. It takes a large amount of his strength not to strip her bare and drive madly into her; he focuses instead on her precious face, flushed and astonished.

He gently slips his hand free and drops into the bed beside her, pulling her shuddering body into his arms and holding her close through the aftershocks. She is truly the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and he is swamped with love, admiration, adoration. He wants to pile the world at her feet; he wants to stay in this bed with her forever.

He settles, for the time being, for holding her close, curling around her protectively as her breath starts to even out. Her fingers twist tight in his t-shirt, her breath hot on his neck. She winds a leg around his; her closeness sends another pulse through his groin. He bites his lip, hoping he doesn't just go right through it.

"Red," she says dreamily, her voice husky and madly appealing. "Is that…I mean, that…"

She is bewitching. He meant only to give her a taste of passion, to introduce her to her own sensuality. But he thinks that it is he that has been swept away, that has been beguiled and enraptured.

"Yes," he says, his own voice just a rasp of sound. He doesn't really want to put it into words, to make something so beautiful into something clinical. He kisses her again, drowning in her. "You are perfect," he murmurs against her lips.

"I never thought I could feel so much," she whispers. "I don't…Things will never be the same, will they?"

This worries him, and he untangles them enough that he can get a good look at her face.

"Different, yes," he admits. "But hopefully, better. Are you all right, Lizzie?"

"Oh yes," she breathes, and smiles at him, breathtaking. "I'm…quite lovely, really. Are you…" She bites her lip, shy again. "You didn't…I mean…You know what I mean."

He suppresses a chuckle with some difficulty, and kisses her again, a firm stamp of possession.

"I'll be just fine," he says. "Just being able to touch you is everything I need."

"Oh, Red," she says again. "Raymond."

She yawns suddenly, obscuring whatever else she says.

"Sleep now," he says gently, gathering her to him. "I'm here."

"Don't leave," she mumbles, snuggling close. "Don't leave me."

"Never," he says, pressing his lips to her head, making it a vow, soul deep. "Never."

They fall into a routine, of sorts, together in the charming house in the mountains. Red is surprisingly easy to live with, and takes such care of her that she feels absolutely cherished. Their days are quiet — he conducts some business, she knows, but always while she is meditating or otherwise occupied, so she doesn't need to be bothered by it.

He finds an old punching bag among Sam's things and they set it up outside, so she can work out her frustrations and regain her control. Slowly, the fire starts to become hers once more — but though there are flare ups, it never endangers Red again, so she adds caring for it to her routine of control and management.

It leaves her more comfortable, more at ease with her power than she has ever been. Being surrounded by Red's warm affection at all times, even when he is busy elsewhere, also helps her make great strides toward healing.

They continue to share a bed, for the sanity of them both. He shows her new and fascinating things every night, revealing a side of herself she'd thought would lie dormant forever. He says it is about discovery, that he wants her to understand her own desires before they act on anything in an irretrievable way. She is enjoying the journey, and tries to be patient.

No matter what, he wraps himself around her as they sleep, so she can never doubt. So that even her dreams are safe and lovely. Waking up in his arms is a quiet joy that she will never tire of; she thinks he feels the same.

One day, he tells her something of his search for her. Of her grandfather.

She is angry, so angry, that he hadn't told her sooner. But it is undeniably true that their relationship has been a busy one, to say the least. She believes he only wants to protect her, and that he didn't hold back to hurt her.

And he apologized with an earnest sincerity, and a kiss that curled her toes. They will visit him, Red promises, as soon as it is safe for them to move again.

The only blight on this precious time is her memory, which continues to flare and falter, throwing her into fugue states with gradually increasing frequency. It scares her, particularly since she remains unaware of the episodes while she is in them. Although Red keeps a calm facade, she knows he is deeply worried.

She puts more time into meditation, and tries not to worry and make it worse.

One day, after a week or so, she feels strong enough to look through Sam's boxes and bundles. She focuses on the artifacts of her own early childhood, hoping idly that reliving good memories will help untangle her mind.

She's digging around in the earliest box when Red comes in, a pleased sort of accomplishment preceding him.

"I have good news," he says cheerfully. "The neurologist who attempted to recover your memories, Dr Orchard? I've spoken with her, and she's agreed to see you, to try and help undo the damage done. She didn't work for Wilkes willingly, but she still seems to feel badly that–" He pauses, realizing that she still isn't look at him. "Lizzie? Are you listening to me?"

"Mm-hm," she says absently. "That's good news, Red, it really is, but…"

Now she does turn to him, standing up with a worn and slightly singed stuffed bunny in her hands.

"Red, look."

"That's very nice, Lizzie," he says impatiently, annoyed that she isn't paying attention to what he's saying. "But I think your mental health is a little more important than–"

"It's the only thing I have from before the fire," she says, talking over him, unheeding.

She's fiddling with the toy in her hands as she speaks, and he looks at what she's doing, distracted now himself.

"I know where the Fulcrum is," she says. They both stare at the small black object she holds up between them.

"It's right here."

Will Red and Liz find the answers they seek — past and present? Will Liz finally master the fire within? Will they stay safe from the evil that hunts them both?

Find out next time, in Ember: Dreams of the Past