He'd thought he was well accustomed to black dreams after years and years of them. Cruel fantasies, spurred on by pain and guilt, by loss and dark deeds; spectres that teased and taunted. He'd learnt quickly enough to survive on the minimum of sleep, and eventually, to thrive without it, to turn the drain of exhaustion into energy, thrust, mastery.

He'd thought he was well accustomed.

He'd been so very wrong.

Her death had brought torments that plagued him as none before, relentless torrents that he could not escape. If he had been a religious man, if he'd had any hope that a god, any god at all, would listen…he'd have prayed himself hoarse, flayed himself bloody, sacrificed anything and everything he had.

If only he could banish the image of her still, lifeless face, and never see it again.

Even her resurrection could not heal the breach in his subconscious; could not banish his sinister visions. Indeed, they only increased in horror, so terrible he felt his tattered soul begin to wither and disintegrate within, each night progressively worse until he sought to avoid sleep altogether.

For a time it was easy enough — the race for Agnes, a breathless quest that took all his attention and left time for little else. And if he could no longer look at her, perhaps that was just another price to pay for a lifetime of infamy — to see, no matter the bloom on her cheek or the depth of blue in her eye, nothing but the pall of death.

Always, always, until he nearly wished for blindness, or better yet, the strength to walk away.

But he knew he never could.

The darkness was complete and overwhelming.

Sweat, chill on his skin; sharp sting on his back.

His breath, stuck in his throat, harsh and hard; thick smoke acrid and bitter in his mouth.

And the smell, oh god, the ghastly stench of burning flesh permeating every pore.

It was a gaping evil that filled his mind, body, soul. He shook with it, couldn't focus, couldn't think. She burned, burned in front of him like a sacrifice made, but not the one he wanted.

She burned, while he howled and fought and tore, trapped and unable to reach her.

Every ounce of strength went to wrenching himself awake, away from the sickening spectacle of death, the dream wavering in and out of focus for several nauseating moments before he gasped fully conscious, upright and wretched.

Sick at heart, in body, of mind, he paced around the room, eager to shake of the slick malice of the dream. He downed a hearty belt of Scotch, barely tasting it over the lingering flavour of ashes that sullied his mouth.

He stopped moving, slamming down the glass and bracing himself on the sideboard, his head hanging low, struggling to calm himself.

Only a dream, he told himself fiercely, just like all the others. Elizabeth is fine, fine…

But all of his senses were still absorbed with extremity of her death, and he was dialing before he'd even realized he'd picked up the phone.

She stared at the wall, not really seeing it.

Alone with her thoughts and a sleeping infant; the man she thought her partner gone, disappeared again, on a quest for a past. A voyage she understood, and could not resent, but the loneliness pulled at her. The quiet always started as a welcome peace, then thickened and thickened until she wished she could scream just to shatter it.

All the same, the buzz of her cell against the desk was shocking; alarmingly loud in her strange sanctuary. The rooms within a warehouse within a warren of anonymous buildings, like nesting dolls of safety.

She snatched it up as it started to buzz again, eyes glued to the small blanketed form across the room.

"Keen," she snapped, sharp as a blade, but quiet all the same.

A long moment of silence answered her, long enough that her irritation wound tighter and tighter. Just as she is about to whisper-yell a wealth of condemnation on her caller, there came a whisper of sound.

"…Lizzie…"

It was so faint, so hesitant that she barely recognized his voice; might not have recognized it at all if not for his particular pet name, gone unheard for a long time. His hoarse caution made her soften her response slightly, though it made her afraid, afraid that something had gone wrong again.

"Reddington," she acknowledged quietly. "What is it? Do you have any idea what time it is?" She couldn't help the shade of impatience in her voice — he really should know better.

"Elizabeth," he said, firmer now, relief colouring his tone, although his voice still rasped as if he'd been running and had not yet caught his breath.

"Is…is everything all right?"

"Oh," he said hurriedly, "yes, nothing…nothing's wrong. And you're fine, you and Agnes?"

"We're fine," she confirmed, striving for patience. "She's asleep, and I'm just…reviewing some files." She had to say something.

"You should get some sleep yourself," he said, in faint chastisement, sounding much more himself.

"Oh, really, Pot?" she returned acerbically. "You're the one making phone calls at midnight."

Another pause lingered, and it was so unlike him not to fill the air with talk that she couldn't help but start to worry again.

"I apologize, Elizabeth," he said stiffly, just as she was about to speak. "I only wanted to check in. I'll let you go."

"Wait," she said quickly, not knowing where the words came from, but not able to stop them. "It's okay, really. I…have trouble sleeping, too."

"I didn't say…"

"You didn't have to," she said, her tone all the way to gentle, now, thinking of them both alone, lonely. "Why don't…why don't you come by and see us for yourself?"

And so he found himself, ever a glutton for punishment, there at the not-quite-cozy hidey hole, knocking softly at her door.

She opened it fast, like she'd been waiting, and…there she is, real and breathing and warm, with a wry smile on her face.

"Come in," she said. "You didn't really have to knock."

"It's polite," he answered, as he moved past her into the room. "This is your home, such as it is."

She laughed softly and curled into a corner of the couch, gesturing for him to sit with her. He did, carefully, ease stealing over him in her presence, in this quiet room filled with the scent of her, with the smells of powder and milk and sweetness that come with a baby — all of it together rich with vitality.

He still doesn't want to look at her, to lose the vibrant sense of life, but he could feel her looking at him, deciding what she would say.

He looks…not older, she thought, but somehow smaller. Withdrawn.

It made her sorry and tired, and weary of the distance between them; exhausted from the guilt she carried like a stone. She could admit to herself, now, that she missed him.

"Red," she said cautiously, "why don't you look at me?"

He glanced her way as if to prove her wrong, and focused just past her cheek at the wall.

"Don't be ridiculous, Elizabeth," he said evenly. "I'm here with you right now."

Her temper fired at that, despite her resolution to stay calm and make peace with him — she always hated being dismissed.

"Don't patronize me," she hissed back, keeping her voice low. "Am I not supposed to notice the way you look past me, every time? The way you refuse to meet my eye? The way you speak to me as if it's a duty that must be done; just another bit of business to cross off your daily list?

"How long are you going to punish me?"

He listened, he did; tried to to take her temper-born words in stride the way he always managed to, but this night…this night it was all too much and the truth tumbles out on a wave of his unhappiness.

"Me?" he spat back — oh, he was angry, so angry. "Me, punish you? I cannot look you in the face, Elizabeth, because when I do, all I can see is your death, over and over and over again until I think it will choke me.

"Your face," he said, struggling to calm his tone, looking at her now because he had to, her face flushed and eyes bright with shock. "Your face, so pale and still and cold. Your body empty, you gone and lost to me. I knew you resented me, that things were difficult through your pregnancy, but that you could hate me so much, I…" he trailed off and looked away again.

She felt cold now, like an echo of his pained words.

"Oh, Red," she said, not sure how to explain or what to say. "Red, it wasn't that, never that. I was just so afraid, so terrified I could barely function. It seemed like every step I took caused an earthquake. Everything started to happen so fast, and all I could think about was a safe place for my baby. I was lost and then I was bleeding and afraid, and disappearing was a lifeline I couldn't refuse.

"I underestimated Kirk," she continued slowly, her voice rough now. "You were right about him, of course. You were right about everything.

"I'm sorry, Re– Raymond. I'm sorry for the way I hurt you."

He stared now, his own eyes bright and shining damp as he saw her, finally, saw her as she was — beauty of life returned, face earnest with a tremulous smile, leaning forward as she spoke, the way she did when she particularly wanted to press a point.

"I haven't said it before, have I?" she asked, realization crossing her face. "I've justified and explained and pushed, but I haven't…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Raymond."

He closed his eyes briefly, then felt warmth flood him as she gripped his hand in hers.

"And I meant what I said then," she said softly. "That day, when I was in pain and afraid; when I honestly didn't know if I would live or die. I don't hate you, Raymond, I love you."

And then, then, she was wrapping her arms around him, breaking through his barriers to hold him close. Close enough that he could feel the solid, reassuring beat of her heart. He held her as long as he dared, absorbing the reality of her, pressed his lips to her temple as their embrace broke apart.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, "Lizzie, I love you, too."

She smiled, a real, full smile, and curled back under his arm to rest her head against his shoulder.

He fell asleep there, easily and without fear.

He didn't dream, not at all.