A/N: Please enjoy this bit of melancholic fluff while I sift through the continuity damage the show has done to my multi-chapter fic. :)

Spoilers for 1x09 and 1x10, "Anslo Garrick: Part 1" and "Anslo Garrick: Part 2."

Red was the leading man in her dreams lately.

Be careful of your husband, he'd told her, and that sword of Damocles had hung over Liz's head for months, ready to plummet at any moment. Even as she and Tom had weathered the process of buying a modest residence in the Virginia suburbs, a year later, the impending doom nagged at her every day.

But that didn't mean she couldn't prepare.

They'd dipped into their savings account, but Tom had insisted the extra cost was worth it. It was a small house with a big yard, a yard peppered with maple trees and quaint gardens running the perimeter of the property. A house fit for an acting-schoolteacher but not an FBI agent, and Liz knew deep down that she didn't belong in it, no matter how nice the molding in the bedroom was. Tom envisioned frolicking little Keens, too, but whenever he brought the adoption issue up again, whenever he'd ask why she was reneging on their agreement, Liz would shut down. Because something's not right about you, she thought. Because I'm not bringing a child into this mess of a life. Because I'm starting to prefer honest criminals over lying husbands.

Her trek to work was longer now, and it gave her more time to contemplate what she wanted out of civil service. Tom had asked her to consider downsizing her role at the bureau or, on an extreme level, moving cross-country to a different jurisdiction where the ailments of Washington D.C. would be less likely to afflict them. Assistant Director Cooper had made it painfully clear that she was their key asset in finding and communicating with Reddington, and that losing her could potentially mean the dissolving of the Post Office team and the continued efforts of dangerous criminals subverting the established order.

Liz told him she would think about it.

It was a kind of stasis that Liz occupied. She couldn't vent to Tom about her job, fearing what he might do with the smallest pieces of intel, and her superiors at the FBI still treated her as a pawn in an elaborate chess game. Agent Malik was indifferent. Agent Ressler had softened a bit in her presence but had his own things to worry about. The only person who offered her an attentive ear –who actually listened to her problems and took them to heart – was currently a shadow prowling the earth.

She dreamed of a perpetually-content Red, her subconscious imagining him sipping cocktails on a yacht off the coast of Puerto Rico or golfing on a breezy day in the Scottish Highlands. He'd look happy and healthy, beckoning for her to enjoy the fruits of life before they passed her by. Liz would always wake up the following morning longing for the danger of his company, wondering where he was and how long it would take for him to reach her in a crisis.

She got an answer to the former a few days before Christmas. A postcard was tucked in with the circulars and holiday cards in her mail, boasting a picture of the Sagrada Familia Cathedral in Barcelona. On the back, the message "Just checking in" was written in bold red ink. No return address. She didn't have to think twice as to who'd sent it.

Liz sat in the living room, thankful she'd risen before Tom, and read those three words over and over again. Then she went outside with matches, lit one, and held it to the postcard. The stiff paper curled and blackened until she dropped it on the deck railing and watched it turn to ash, which she blew onto the grass.

She and Tom visited Tom's family in Chicago for Christmas. The traveling took a lot out of her – she couldn't get her head in order until the holiday season had settled indefinitely. That was when she surprised herself by reaching out to Dembe, who met her on the National Mall the very same day she called him. He was staring complacently at the Reflecting Pool, one leg propped up on the ledge, when Liz approached.

"Have you spoken with him?" she said bluntly, reminding herself that Dembe cared little for formal greetings.

Dembe's gaze remained on the pool. "Not since the day he disappeared. When the time comes . . . he will contact me."

She sat down next to him, careful to give him plenty of space. "It's been a year."

Dembe shrugged. "You must trust him. He will do what needs to be done. Even if it takes ten years."

Something in Liz's heart sank a little. Impatience was written all over her face, betraying her pressing need to hear from Red. "Where are you staying now?"

Dembe twisted around and trained his eyes on a copse of trees ahead. "Wherever there is work to keep me busy. Not for money. I receive checks from time to time." A smile tugged at his lips. "Raymond is good to those close to him. He was . . . good to Luli."

Liz recalled the whispers at Luli's funeral of an anonymous donor who had paid the Zheng family's burial costs in full. The Zhengs seemed to have no idea with whom their daughter had been involved. Liz had to give Luli credit; she'd managed to juggle two separate lives without outside interference, all with a self-assured smile on her face.

A gust of winter wind tore through the Mall, jostling chunks of half-melted ice in the Reflecting Pool. The crowds of tourists dissipated, leaving only Liz and Dembe in a deep, uncomfortable silence. Liz dug around for some half-hearted concern, for reasons to keep him talking so she could eventually circle back to the real reason she'd wanted to see him.

"What is the purpose of this meeting?" Dembe asked.

Liz shook herself from her daze. "Sorry?"

"You did not ask me here today to make small talk."

Liz rose and shoved her hands in her pockets. She idly kicked the frozen ground, searching for the right way to phrase a year's worth of conflicting emotions battling for supremacy. "If he contacts you," she said haltingly, "tell him I got his postcard."

Dembe nodded and looked directly at her. "I wish you peace, Elizabeth Keen," he said, "and the answers you seek."

Liz acknowledged the sentiment and left.

Farewells were more important to Dembe than greetings.

An unmarked envelope.

A date, time, and scribbled number.

Reassuring words. Weighted words. Words broken and lost through a tenuous cellphone connection. And then –

"We talked not long ago. She received your postcard."

"Good."

"She misses you, my friend."

". . . She said that?"

"In many words."

Static for several seconds.

"I miss her, too."

The Keens spent New Year's at home, exhausted from the parties, the cooking, and the empty promises of future holiday get-togethers. Last year, Liz had counted down the seconds in Tom's embrace. This year, she'd had one too many glasses of wine and was splayed-out on the couch while Tom sat beside her. She managed a feeble countdown and kept her eyes open long enough to see the Times Square Ball drop.

"And that's it for me," Tom exhaled.

"Really?" she mumbled. "You're not going to channel surf for the cheesy concerts? I hear NBC's got Justin Bieber live from LA at 12:30."

"He's so dreamy," Tom laughed, kissing her on the lips. He muted the TV. "Do you want me to come wake you in a bit?"

"Leave me. I'll deal with the hangover and subsequent morning back pain." She snaked one arm under a throw pillow and dangled the other off the couch's edge.

Tom chuckled. "Goodnight, Liz."

She waved in his general direction. As Tom shuffled out of the room, Liz stretched and curled into a ball, sifting through the sober recesses of her mind until she finally nodded off.

She awoke later – whether it was minutes or hours, she couldn't be sure – to a knit blanket being pulled over her and the faintest whiff of expensive cologne. Her sleep-addled brain told her to ignore it. Liz opened her eyes anyway.

Raymond Reddington was crouched in front of her, their faces mere inches apart.

Mercifully, he looked well, if a little tired. His tan Armani suit presented a stark contrast with his dark overcoat. A jet-black fedora rested atop his shaven head, and a new pair of rose-colored sunglasses peeked out from his lapel pocket. His altogether neat, pressed look said one thing to Liz: that whatever had been set in motion the day Anslo Garrick abducted him was on the fast track to being resolved.

"Hello, Lizzie," Red murmured. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

Her heart did a somersault. "I'm dreaming."

"Must be a good dream if I'm in it," he quipped.

She pushed herself up, eyes darting to the front door. "How did you –"

"You really think that after twenty years on the lam I never once learned how to pick a lock?"

Oh, how she'd missed his snark. "We paid a lot for that lock."

"And who do you think secured the house that surrounds that lock?" Red beamed. "You got my postcard."

She smiled languidly. "Barcelona, huh? You don't look any tanner."

"I could see the beach from my impromptu cement cell. Where's the postcard?"

"Burned it before Tom could see it."

He regarded her for a moment before saying, "Harold isn't paying you enough."

Liz lowered herself back down. Her mouth made a conscious effort just to form sentences. "They're losing morale. Lots of manpower and taxpayers' money going into the search. Higher-ups saying you're not worth the time anymore. We're back to jailing the vanilla criminals unless you turn up again."

The warmth in his expression faltered. "I've been leveling the playing field. Trying to, at least. There are –"

"—'greater forces at work,'" she finished impatiently. " 'Things about my past I have yet to uncover.' I know. Red . . . when?"

Red's shoulders seemed to relax, but Liz couldn't recall ever seeing him so wistful. He tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear and cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb against her skin. "Soon."

Liz blinked slowly. "Good. Because there's just no fun in it unless you're there."

Her head hit the pillow and her eyelids drooped until Red's appreciative smirk was nothing more than an afterimage burned into her memory. She felt cool lips brush against her forehead as his hand slipped away. For the first time in a long time, Liz felt protected.

"Happy New Year, Lizzie," he said, and was out the door a few muffled footsteps later.

Liz convinced herself the next morning that it had indeed been a dream.

It was easier than facing reality.