The Very Definition Of Complicated

Disclaimer: I do not own her, or him, or the show. I make no money from this. Ironically I'd actually pay someone money if they let me write for The Blacklist.

Author's Note: Thanks go to Hestia for reading this in fits and spurts as I wrote it over the last month, and a MASSIVE thank you goes to jadenanne7, who very sweetly allowed me to write this first chapter based off of a one-sentence-story she wrote for a Lizzington Shippers Page challenge on Facebook. Her original sentence is included at the bottom of this chapter, and you should DEFINITELY check out her own heart-wrenching expansion of her sentence (Chapter 6 in her Lizzington One Shots-go read!). This story would not have happened were it not for that sentence, so thank you thank you thank you again! Lastly, this is dedicated to my gators and gutterbugs. You're all a ton of fun, and a terrible influence. ;)

Also, this takes place a few weeks after Reddington was shot, in a now thoroughly alternative timeline.

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Chapter 1

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Liz burst through the door to Reddington's current safe house. They hadn't spoken in days, and his honest, information-filled confession after the raid still rang in her ears whenever she was left alone with her thoughts.

"Ah. Lizzie. You got my invitation. Good. I apologize for the somewhat clandestine theatrics involved in getting you this address, but considering what happened after the shooting, I don't trust—"

"I'm still angry," she said by way of a greeting.

"I can tell," Reddington replied, his expression deadpan as he sat in a large armchair across the room from her, dressed in his customary expensive vest and tailored trousers, with rolled up shirtsleeves, no tie, and the corner of a strip of bandage tape peeking out of his slightly unbuttoned shirt.

He'd just been shot in the chest, and the bastard barely looked phased. It really wasn't fair. "Stop being so smug!" She spat the words in his direction, infuriated.

Reddington let his first instinctual response die in his mouth with just a ghost of movement from his lips as he regarded her where she stood. "I'm tired, Lizzie," he admitted instead. "I'm tired of trying to guess what will make you happy, and trying to balance that with keeping you safe. So here's the new deal. I continue to work to protect you. I tell you what I can, and keep from you what you need to not know. And you tell me what—exactly—you want our relationship to be. Because I have a feeling that's where we keep tripping up. If we can iron out what you want me to mean to you, I think the information exchanges will…" He considered his words. "…go smoother."

Reddington stood up, taking longer than usual, and Liz could tell he was only half-heartedly using his casual theatrics and mannerisms to mask the carefulness of his movements. He'd been shot; she knew it. She'd watched it happen. There was no sense in expending extra energy trying to hide that fact. "Tell me what you want me to be. If you don't want me to be smug… but you don't want me to keep things from you… and yet you tell me you wish I'd lie to you when I tell you the truth… Tell me what to do, Lizzie, and I'll do it. Like I said… I'm tired, and I'm edging closer to 'desperate' each time you look at me with revulsion and tell me we're done and that you never want to see me again. What do you need me to be? What do you want me to be for you? What part will you allow me to play in your life? Name it…and I'll do it."

Liz shook her head. This was twice in a very short period of time that he'd looked at her with an open, honest expression and beseeched her to believe his admissions. It almost unnerved her. "Don't make offers you don't have any intention of fulfilling. You're not capable of being anything for me. So don't offer options you're not able to give. It's rude," she finished ironically in a biting tone.

"Try me," he said, holding her stare with intense conviction.

Liz narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "And if I ask for you to be my CI, and nothing more?" she challenged.

"If I'm within arm's reach, and able to offer protection when—if—" he corrected himself quickly, "—if you request it… I would learn to live with that." There was a pause, and his brow creased briefly. "It's not my preference," he added, and blew out a breath. "But I would do it."

Liz uncrossed her arms and placed her hands on her hips before asking slowly, "And what if I wished you'd said yes when I asked if you were my father?"

The longer she'd worked with Reddington, the more frequently she caught his careful mask slipping. There were times that he looked at her with unguarded, infinite sadness and anguish.

She mentally added tonight to the growing list of those times.

He held her gaze, her cold blue eyes angry and cruel, hiding the fact that her mind was so disorganized and panicked that she thought this must be what insanity felt like.

"I care about you; I think that much is obvious by now. And we've established that I would do just about anything to protect you. Those two things can be painted in such a way as to appear… paternal. If you… need it that way." His voice was low, and measured.

"And if I want romance? Love? What if I 'want'…you…?" Liz's eyes scanned pointedly down the length of his body and back up to his face, lingering on his mouth. She began taking slow steps toward him.

Reddington's voice was barely above a low whisper. "If that is what you want… I'm sure we could come to some sort of…arrangement…that would work for both parties involved."

Liz, feeling an irrational surge of cruelty, added with doubting scorn in her voice, "Marriage? …Children…?"

"Do you still want those things, Lizzie?" Reddington looked at her with a slightly more level-headed, critical eye, even as his breaths continued at an obviously quicker pace.

She ignored his question.

"What if I just wanted sex? Just wanted to scratch an itch every now and then? And I knew I could go to you for it, because I'd be assured you wouldn't say no?"

"'Assured'?" he repeated. "I haven't answered yet. How do you know I'd agree to this one?"

"Because of the way you just looked at me when I mentioned romance and love. What if I just called on you every once in a while. Whenever I felt like I needed to—I don't know—blow off some steam, but I didn't feel like going to the gym? My very own punching bag, a mostly inanimate object I could use and then walk away from? I'd just show up on your doorstep… or call you and make you show up on mine," she finished fiercely.

She'd advanced across the width of the room, and now stood in front of Reddington. He didn't back away. She took a last step forward, pressing the length of her body against his, and his eyes dropped briefly before righting themselves again. His mouth was open, and she felt his chest expand as he took a deep breath that he was obviously working hard to ensure was silent and controlled.

"What if that's all I asked for?" Liz asked, placing a hand over the left side of his vest, running the flat of it down his chest and abdomen before hooking two fingers under his belt and giving it a punctuating tug, pulling his hips forward into hers. His exhalation was not silent this time, but to his credit, his gaze never wavered from hers.

"Is that really what you want, Lizzie?" he questioned, his voice tight.

"Right now?" She felt an incredible desire for control. Control of something, anything. Dominance. Power. "Yeah." Whether it was the truth or not, she believed it, and he could tell.

Her eyes skipped between his, studying his expression and waiting for verbal permission. It was a completely inadvisable move for both of them, but she thought she needed it, and all he wanted was to give her what was within his power to grant her. And this he could do.

He gave a sharp nod. "I already told you… whatever you need."

Without preamble, and without dropping her challenging stare, she moved her hand immediately to cup him through his expensive trousers, eliciting a sharp exhale and a twitch just under his left eye. Her left hand found his belt buckle and had it undone in what Reddington felt was a disconcertingly expedient amount of time, his zipper lowered and her right hand suddenly no longer safely on the other side of the layers of fabric.

He hissed through his teeth, and reached up to cup her face with both hands, angling it upwards toward him while he dipped his mouth toward hers.

She tossed her head, maneuvering it out of his grasp and causing his lips to miss hers, his attempted kiss lost somewhere in the empty space between his face and hers. Reddington's hands froze in midair, and while her right hand continued to move on him without pause, he moved to replace his palms on the sides of her head. Looking at him squarely, she gave a short, prohibitive movement backward with her head, warning him not to try to kiss her again. He nodded, and raised his eyebrows questioningly, motioning slightly with his hands. Please let me touch you, at least…?

After a moment of consideration—if she allowed him to touch her face, it would keep her from having to bat his hands away from other parts of her anatomy, because she had no intention of this being anything but a one-sided operation tonight—Liz gave a single, quick nod, and Red smoothed his palms down the sides of her hair, coming to rest on either side of her neck.

Liz began to take slow, careful steps forward, easing Reddington back with each one. She angled them around the chair, and toward the closest wall.

Reddington's eyes never left hers. If Liz hadn't been so intent on what she thought she was gaining from this, she would have noticed the disappointment hidden behind the defiance and desire twisting his face.

She gave a final shove with the heel of her free palm just to the right of his sternum, forcing him firmly into the wall at his back, and she heard him give a low grunt. His eyes closed for a moment, and he swallowed harshly, turning his head to the side briefly before swinging his gaze back around to hers, level and uncomplaining. Liz felt a flash of guilt: she'd momentarily forgotten about his injury, and she hadn't wanted to hurt him.

…physically.

She moved her hand faster, reveling in the somewhat perverse pleasure she obtained from the low, harsh noises she was learning to extract from Reddington. At one point he dropped his right hand a few inches, smoothing his thumb over her collarbone, and she used her free hand to sharply and definitively raise his elbow until his palm rested at the level of her neck again, and he nodded, his eyes closing and his jaw clenching, as he again smoothed his hand over her hair and resigned himself with cupping her face.

A minute later and his body was tensing, his breaths coming fast and short. He leaned his forehead forward on hers, careful not to repeat the angle she might mistake as another attempt at a kiss. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and he tilted his face down and away from hers without ever breaking contact between their foreheads, his temple pressed against the center of her brow. His hands grasped desperately but not harshly, his fingers threading through the hair on either side of her head. She could feel the tension in his fingers, but he never pulled, or pushed, or claimed the way she could tell he wanted to.

A small part of her was touched.

And impressed.

It was foolish of her to think this would solve anything, and it was equally as foolish of him to think this was a meaningful substitute for what he really wanted. Despite being pinned against the wall, he felt unbalanced as she stroked him to completion, and he would have staggered if she hadn't pressed her left side firmly against his body to steady him. He managed—just barely—not to say her name.

Even as the thrill of satisfaction warmed through his body, Reddington wasn't able to shake the great heaviness of the lack of intimacy just shared between them despite it being such an intimate act. He refused to open his eyes, but swung his face back to center, holding his hands steady, his fingers still laced through Liz's hair. He stood without complaint or reproach as he heard his zipper, and felt her replace his belt neatly.

Liz gently gripped Reddington's wrists and pulled his hands slowly from her, and as she stepped back, he lowered them to brace himself against the wall.

Suddenly terrified, and torn between three different, simultaneous desires, Liz stopped trying to decide which was 'best' and flung herself toward 'easiest', swallowing hard, spinning on her heels, and walking toward the door.

But before she cleared the threshold, she froze, and turned slightly.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, turning her head over her shoulder toward where he still stood.

"I'm healing from a gunshot wound, Lizzie. It's a process."

"That's not what I m—"

"I know it's not," he interrupted, not looking at her.

"Are you okay," she repeated slowly, with a noted hint of kindness, and a healthy dose of worry in her voice this time.

Reddington looked up at where Liz stood in the door, one foot in the room, one foot already in the hallway beyond. "Yes. I'm fine."

Liz nodded and stepped out the door, pulling it shut behind her.

Reddington stared across the room at where she'd stood before adding to the empty room, "I'm whatever you need me to be."

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To be continued...

Big round of applause for the AMAZING jadenanne7 and her incredible One Sentence Story that inspired this! Here is her original:

Prompt: Foolish.
It was foolish to think it wouldn't come to this...him backed against the wall, trembling as she strokes him to a staggering completion...not wanting it to happen quite this way...feeling the great heaviness of the lack of intimacy in such an intimate act; but he gives her anything she wants without complaint or reproach, going so far as to hide the tears as she simply zips him back up and walks away.

Again, you've GOT TO look up her version of this and read it, if you haven't already; it's Chapter 6 in her collection titled "Lizzington One-Shots".

Thank you again, so much, darling! Thank you for the incredible inspiration! You rock my socks off. :)