Blacklist 1. Look the Innocent Flower

He was conspicuously older than she had anticipated.

There was a trace of roundness to his physique—a healthy shape concealed in a well-tailored suit. His forehead was wrinkle-free, she noted as he removed the dark fedora from his head, but the sae gesture exposed his receding, grey hairline. Granted, he looked well for his age. She observed sturdy brow beneath the brim of his hat. Even behind his sunglasses—of thin frame and wholly reflective—she knew somehow that his gaze had settled on her. When she lifted her hand to acknowledge him, offer a slight wave of reassurance to indicate that she was the woman he was looking for, the corners of his lips lifted into a deep smile. Elizabeth couldn't throw the falseness of the gesture from her mind's eye. That grin appeared more sardonic to her than sincere. His gait was easy, but predatory.

She was starting to regret Internet dating.

Her keen ability to observe others had never been a strength in the same way some thought it might be. She had always been acutely aware of the patterns of human behaviour that made man somehow so predictable. She had studied psychology carefully, identified key behaviouristics that set apart the criminal mind. Though she had never meant for it to be anything but a career, anything but a somewhat fruitless quest for self-fulfillment to fill the holes in her life, it worked its way into every component of her world. Her gift leaked into her marriage, tarnished the kind and generous man she had married—her gift made Tom foul. It had revealed the impurities of his character, revealed the proverbial serpent beneath the innocent flower.

She had waited to find love in a man whose soul was unimpeachable, and for that reason she had fallen tragically, briefly, for Donald Ressler.

Of nobler character there were surely few. Periodically dismissed for his apparent slowness, for his careful and deliberating decision-making, she identified someone who was precisely who they appeared to be. Despite his background, with its various embarrassments and disappointments, Don was exactly who he said he was. His sincerity was apparent to all who met him, his honesty and determination his plainest traits. She adored him because he was simple, because he smiled when he wanted to and allowed himself to be upset. He was an open book. Tom had once told her she was too—_you're an open book, Liz, and that's what I love about you_—and she had detested him for it; now she thought differently: an open book was one that could be trusted, with no plot twists, no devastating climax, and no lonely denouement. Don's transparency made her realize that.

But honest people were doomed for this world. Their goodness made them susceptible to cruelty because they were not ruthless. Don was good at his job, and he always had been. He could shoot straight, move quickly and think on his feet. But he was by-the-book. He played straight because he couldn't think like the criminals they targeted. That was Elizabeth's job. Failing him had cost her a shot at true love and him his life.

Enough loss in her life had perpetuated a woe-is-me attitude that she thought she wouldn't shake. It made her intolerable to others and herself. It made her unlovable in the eyes of those who knew her, and, failing to believe that she was anything else, she could not convince those who she was yet to meet otherwise.

Jolene was one of the few friends that Elizabeth had the fortune of keeping after the divorce. Many of their mutual friends had followed Tom, for it had always been he who put effort into maintaining their relationships. He was the one who made social calls, invited colleagues and friends over on Saturday nights. Tom was attractive, charming and fun—but Elizabeth was relatively withdrawn. Her focus had always been on her job. Jolene was the rare exception, one of a small collective who remained with the newly-redubbed Elizabeth Scott.

Jolene convinced her that Internet dating was a worthwhile decision.

"It's really not for me, Jo."

"How do you know?" Jolene was so vibrant, alive with life and all that it had to offer. She was a few years younger than Elizabeth, and sometimes she disregarded her friend on this basis: she thought her naïve. All the same, Jolene was the self-proclaimed 'life of the party,' and she seldom led Elizabeth astray. "You've never tried it. Give me that—" at this point two weeks earlier, she had torn the laptop from her friend and began filling in the form herself, "—okay, name: Elizabeth Scott. Age—do you think you can pass for thirty?"

"Ha-ha."

"Hobbies … cheerleading, beach volleyball—"

"Fuck you. Give me that."

Her profile was a relatively censored version of herself. It attracted minimal attention, if only because her tone was professional, as was her wont. She didn't emulate anything terribly exciting, and suspected that the whole thing was rather laughable after a week of relative inactivity.

Until, that was, she was contacted by one Mr. James Holman. His profile, like hers, was sparse, and his messages were brief at best. He didn't attempt to woe her with words, endeavouring instead to capture her with a straightforward: _Coffee, Independence Ave, 3 p.m. Thursday?_

She almost hadn't replied, and again had debated that very morning whether or not to show up. As James removed his glasses, she wished she hadn't. There was a glimmer of something odd in his eyes, something that Elizabeth couldn't identify immediately. It was something slightly knowing, something a little too self-assured to be trusted.

"Hello, Lizzie."

He was wearing a suit. Instead of questioning why he was wearing a suit to a coffee shop, she doubted herself instead. Why had _she_ worn something to casual? Nervously, she touched the tips of her fingers to the scar on the opposite palm. Why was she wearing a sweater? Although it was one she thought suited her (it was purple; she once wore a fair bit of purple, until the last year, when she had worn a necessary but unfortunate amount of black), she now felt underdressed as opposed to James being overdressed.

"Liz," she corrected him mildly, drawing a smile onto her lips in order to soften her criticism. "It's very nice to meet you, James."

His laugh was like his smile: a fraction less than genuine. It was almost theatrical, though there was, she though, real warmth on his features as he shook his head as if to say 'Silly me!' "Right!" he seemed almost giddy, and she could only watch him and attempt to conceal her confusion, "_James_!" He stepped behind her to pull out her chair another inch. She thought the act gratuitous, given that she had been sitting down in it only a moment prior, but he was set on an archaic gesture of courtship, and pushed it in behind her as she sat before joining her at the table.

He was smiling at her again, and, the more she observed him, the better the expression fit his face. His tone was fond when he spoke again, "You got rid of your highlights."

Her heartbeat grew erratic beneath her breast, "What?"

"It's good," he said, suddenly serious, if not mockingly so. "They were so _Baltimore_."

Her breath caught in her throat before she could cough out a response. She felt hot and cold at once, terrified by his omniscience, "I have to go," she blurted out hastily as she began to rise from her chair, reaching for her red coat as she did so.

"Lizzie, _stay_!" the command was made laughingly. "You simply _must_ try their vanilla rooibos latte."

She was shaking without realizing it. Deep rooted trust issues, intense paranoia and a profession that caused her to think the worst in everyone made her especially fallible to the anxiety that his commentary was inducing. Her throat was tight, and her pulse echoed through her ears. He knew her hair colour. He knew her drink order. He knew things that she had definitely not posted on Matchmaker.

"I—I'm—"

"Sit with me," he said cheerfully, seriousness in his eyes but not his voice, "It can't be more horrible than going home to nap in that empty bed you used to share with Donald."

As she lowered herself back into her chair, still uneasy, her trembling hands covered her lips.

"There we are, Lizzie."

"Who are you?" her fight or flight reflexes were at war, battling in the privacy of her mind, waging war within her skull. On the outside, all that he was privy to was her pale cheeks and the slight sheen of tears glistening in her eyes. They were in a public place. He wouldn't hurt her—he couldn't hurt her—

"Honestly, what sort of FBI agent doesn't recognize Raymond Reddington?—oh, yes, we'll have one vanilla rooibos latte and one black coffee. Thanks."


	2. You Need Me

**Author's note: **Hey, everyone. Thanks for all your support on the last/first chapter! I really wasn't expecting anyone to read it. Or to keep going. But thanks to my friend who has somehow never seen _The Blacklist_, I definitely have a direction now. Bear with me as I sort through some necessary intro stuff. ;) 

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><p>In a panic, her hand shot forward, fingers lunging for her phone. Seeking the flat Android blindly on the table, her gaze dropped after a dreadful second, unable to find the device. Her fingers, in an anxious flurry, lifted from the linen and fluttered hysterically to her jean pockets.<p>

"Your instinct will be to call Assistant Director Cooper. I implore you not to, if for no other reason than that I simply can't _stand_ the man."

She had never paid much attention to him, not because he was not of interest, but because her attention was always directed to more immediate concerns to her. It was the murder at 1st Street and Frederick that had Elizabeth's attention, not the long-gone naval graduate. She regretted that now.

Raymond Reddington had always been Don's fixation. He had chased the man to the corners of the globe, only to have him slip through his fingers again. Don had complained often of it. Hunting Raymond Reddington was like reaching out for smoke. He slipped through the cracks of his hunter's fingers, effortlessly evading their grasp, disappearing without a trace.

He was a character so deplorable that he bordered on being a Bond villain. The name "Raymond Reddington" bore the same notoriety as Timothy McVeigh and Jim Jones. He was known for the danger that he posed to the nation, like an untraceable Edward Snowden. He sold secrets. His decisions were unconscionable, made regardless of the threat against his nation and those he once fought for.

"Besides," he drawled, snapping her out of her numbness, "I offer a package that can make a man disappear in 30 seconds. You can only imagine how far away I'd be by the time he got here. So stop looking for your phone, Lizzie. It's in good hands."

Elizabeth would never be able to say why she didn't just _run_ in that moment. Maybe it was the intensity of his stare, the calculated way he looked at her, or how reasonable he seemed despite how exposed he was. Maybe it was because she couldn't imagine a scenario where she escaped unscathed. Maybe she was simply paralyzed from the waist down, unable to do anything but wrap her arms around her tense body and await his judgment.

"Please—" there was a quiver in her voice, an undeniable trace of weakness. Had Elizabeth been more conscious of this, she would have been embarrassed.

She prided herself on the strength that she exuded under pressure. She was calm under duress, capable against the odds. Her self-concept disregarded the last few years of struggle, during which she fought to preserve a modicum of dignity while shrouded in black mourning veils that only she could see. Elizabeth saw herself as stone—a stone girl carrying a stone heart.

"What do you want from me?"

She sounded so vulnerable. His own smile grew softer at that, "You have a gift."

He was so placid and yet in control that she couldn't imagine speaking up then. Elizabeth only stared, seeing right through their server's arm as a pair of ceramic cups were laid gently before them.

"Thank you," Reddington supplied graciously, never missing a beat. He turned his gaze to Elizabeth with a curious expression on his face. "Careful. It'll be hot."

A brief silence settled then, filled by the distant sounds of chatter from other patrons and the faint noise of cutlery.

"I think we'll make an excellent team," he said rather decisively.

"What?"

"Lizzie, I need someone in the FBI. I need to know when my people are being watched by _your_ people," he paused to sip his coffee, reacting only slightly when he found it too hot. "In exchange, I'll hand over a few nuisances to the FBI—"

"People who get in your way," she said slowly, leaving her fear in favour of reluctant comprehension.

"Exactly. People so good at being bad that you don't even know they're out there," he laughed here, as if he thought this especially funny, "My little blacklist, if you will. But, yes, I believe a good business deal should be tit for tat."

His politeness and ease only made her incredulous. The less she saw immediate reason to fear him, the more Elizabeth succumbed to her disbelief, "Do you honestly think," she leaned closer to him over the table, "that I would turn on the FBI and work for you?"

"Someone with your intuition would be invaluable in my world."

He seemed less reasonable with every word he said, even though he said it with such unwavering decisiveness.

Pride and patriotism spurred her answer, "There's not a chance in Hell."

How were they speaking about this so reasonably? She was in the FBI, through and through, a profiler of reasonably good repute and a promising career ahead of her. She had never stopped thinking of herself as an agent. She had cracked down after Don's death, had not stopped to grieve properly; she countered his absence with her diligence. Her part in his death contributed largely to her revitalized need to do her job with exceptional skill. She was an agent, and if she was not a lover, that was all she needed. Elizabeth did not realise that that was fanciful until Reddington continued.

"I know your father."

Her heart skipped a beat. She mistook his calm statement as a threat, "Sam?"

"No."

He couldn't have approached her at a better time if he had planned it. Later, she would realise he probably had. The only way he could have manipulated her better was if he had tied strings around her wrists and head and played the part of the malevolent puppeteer. She was his invalid marionette. But he was no Geppetto. Rather than looking upon her with nurturing tenderness of a father, he was methodical. He had drawn her out at her most vulnerable, and he knew that.

Elizabeth's abandonment ate away at her often. First at birth, then in love by death, she was plagued with loneliness, unbearably aware that she had no one to rely on, and tormented by her independence. The suggestion that someone could resolve this perpetual cycle was enticing. The tenuous connection to that disappointing biological father had shimmered before her briefly when she started working at the FBI. The thought of exposing his elusive profile thrilled her, though she was later disappointed to find it nonexistent. Reddington was baiting her with the perfect worm.

The pure quality of his insight rendered her inept. Beneath his intent stare, she fumbled over her words.

"I—what do you—"

"Lizzie, let me make something abundantly clear: You need me, I don't need you," he leaned back in his chair, studying her with interest that wavered on genuine. "If it's not you, I can always find someone to do what I want. Maybe it's the fellow from the newsroom who delivers your mail. Maybe it your colleague with the daughter in an expensive private school. Maybe it's the man who parks his sedan next to yours who you've never seen in your life. It doesn't _matter_, Lizzie. There will always be someone with a price. _You need me_. I don't need you."

Perhaps it was the way that he said it—with such hard-hearted conviction—that caused her to nod mutely. A moment ago, she was ready to run. Now, she wanted to shake hands with the devil and accept his ultimatum. There was only one price in the world that she would accept, and it seemed that Raymond Reddington was the only man who could offer it.

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><p><strong>10 weeks later:<strong> _Shaky camera. Fluorescent lighting. A metal wall, a triangular window. A body lying on the ground outside. A chair. A close-up. Liz. Bleeding from a gash in her forehead. Her lips pulled apart, a lightbulb in her mouth. More shaky camera work. A face snuggling into the frame with Liz's. A familiar droopy mouth, a blind eye. "Hi, Red."_


	3. Equidistant

"Lizzie, what is it that people always say about instincts? Particularly _your_ instincts?"

He said it significantly, as if her ability to read others was truly spectacular. Ordinarily, perhaps she would have agreed. Today, the very idea was laughable. She stared silently, lips slightly parted, holding her breath.

"_Trust them_."

His smile was somehow endearing, although she couldn't see past something methodical sketched into his brow.

"You were right about Donald. You were right about Tom," looking her squarely in the eye, he said decisively, "You are right about me. Trust me, Lizzie."

A long pause settled. Then, suddenly and very amicably, he added, "Or don't."

Only then as he tore his eyes from hers did she feel that she could speak again—and by then she was quite speechless.

She stood in the center of two powerful forces, equidistant from her colleagues at the post office and the admiral she had been taught to fear. Each surveyed her closely, the former group watching her in fear that she was still fragile, and the latter observing her to make sure that she didn't do him the disservice of revealing his intentions. He extended his hand, beckoning—_come and see_—while J. Edgar Hoover reached forward, calling her home and draw her back into the familiar. She felt no closer to one than the other, halfway between the criminal world and the legal one.

It was any government agency's worst fear that one day a mole would dig its way through the rankings. It had never, even for a moment, occurred to Elizabeth that it would be _her_. She had betrayed any reassurance that she was a good agent in one fell swoop, succumbing dumbly to the petty proposition made by a criminal, winning her over with an illusion of love.

She called in sick on Friday, said she had a nasty bug. It wasn't like Elizabeth to place herself above her career. Cooper was quick to remind the members of his team that work was their first, second and third priority. It was only because she was so consistently reliable that he allowed her this. Had she been any less nauseous about it, she would have been grateful. She spent the weekend deliberating, and she couldn't bring herself out of fear to leave her home—irrational, of course. Reddington already knew where she lived.

He knew that this was her brownstone, where she and Don had lived. He knew that Don drove a navy Honda and that he left for work fifteen minutes earlier than Liz, for no reason other than that his dedication persistently surpassed hers despite either of their best intentions. Reddington would have known more than that, wouldn't he? He would have known that they had a cheap print of an Andy Warhol framed in their upstairs hallway, the hallway leading to their bedroom. He probably knew that they slept on white sheets, always cotton for comfort, never anything for aesthetics. More than that—he probably knew that he had first kissed her in that doorway, and that she had pulled him in from the rain. That she had smoothed back his wet hair, kissed his square jaw, fiddled thoughtlessly with the buttons of his shirt even though her fingers were cold enough that their tips were deprived of feeling and that Don had slid his fingers up the small of her back beneath her shirt and that they had hid that secret from the world until suddenly it was unbearable and she needed him and he needed her and they couldn't be silent any—

She could talk herself in circles. And she did, floating between fear and optimism when left to her own devices. He invaded her life—but she was so weak in the face of his bait.

It was only natural that Jolene had been chomping at the bit when she called Elizabeth later that afternoon. She had so many questions, and it seemed only a limited amount of breath with which to ask them. Elizabeth's replies were brief and vague in nature, bordering on curt. It hadn't been her intention to recall the details in so standoffish a manner, but it struck her as inappropriate to explain to anyone, even a trusted confidante, what she had just stumbled into.

She did consider it, even early on, to be a stumble. It was easier to put it that way: a blunder that she had unwittingly made, rather than willingly succumbing to the request of a criminal on a sentimental whim. Reddington seemed to know plenty about her. There was a very real possibility that his lure was fabricated, a mirage to satisfy a girl who had grown up too fast and was starved for a vision of family. She tried not to dwell on it.

Jolene had, understandably, lost patience with her early on. She was a bubbly girl with an attention span that relied on reciprocity; if she sensed that her conversation partner was not prepared to cave and spill the gory details, she moved on. She was appropriate like that, and Elizabeth valued this quality in her friend. Jolene allowed her to dismiss the entire thing as being "a bit of a waste of time," adding, "He's a bit old for me."

Elizabeth knew it wasn't practical to hide forever, but she fought with herself until Monday morning. She considered this to be a true test.

It didn't take long before the current of the post office swept her up. She hadn't even had a chance to remove her coat before she was addressed.

"Keen, we got something!"

It didn't matter what Bryan Goodwin actually said after that. He could have said that the building was on fire, or that his mother had passed, or that she had spinach between her teeth. He could have said anything in the world, and her heart would still have raced the same way. It was not because he was devastatingly handsome—although he was, and was not often allowed to forget it—and it was not because she felt any inclination whatsoever to impress him. Indeed, she fancied the reverse to be true. No, her heart raced only because he played for the good guys. She was on their home turf, but she felt as if she was playing an away game. Guilt displaced her from her kin, and she nauseously lifted her hand in greeting to Bryan.

"On what?"

"On Briggs," the look that he gave her was slightly incredulous. They had been working this case particularly hard over the last week, and it wasn't at all like her to lose track of these things. "We got something from our tip line."

Someone made the mistake of calling him "The New Ressler." Of course, that person had later apologised. It was inappropriate under any circumstances to speak so of the dead, never mind in the presence of their lover. Elizabeth had responded graciously, saying that he wasn't far off. She lied. She could see the differences. Everything about them was difference. Donald had instincts, and even his impulses seemed calculated; Bryan was different, with his decisions less natural and more distinctly methodical. He was by the book, certainly, but he abided by it not because he believed in it, but because he relied on it to perform efficiently. Maybe she was a nitpicker, but she had to be. Her job was to paint accurate portraits of people, and she was exceedingly good at it. She saw plainly that Bryan was a decent man, and not half-bad in the field, but he was—well, he would never be dear to her.

Perhaps for the better.

A bit of distance was what she wanted in that moment—distance from Reddington, distance from the FBI. It didn't matter which. Distance from someone—but it was the last thing that she could afford. Neither party would tolerate it. Even in the early days of this arrangement with Reddington, _this_, she understood, was an unequivocal truth.

Bryan waved Meera over. Elizabeth couldn't help but feel another wave of illness crash over her. Meera knew her better than anyone else on the team.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better," she answered lamely, "Thanks."

"Boss!"

Everyone had the tendency to look when someone called this, powered by self-importance and the desire to know that someone considered them as their leader. Ultimately, the title fell ambiguously over the group as one of the techs scurried over, cordless phone in hand.

"We have a call on our tip line."

Bryan raised his hands in the air, gesturing as if to say _so what?_

"He says he'll only speak to Elizabeth Keen."

"Hello, Lizzie. I've had an _awful_ morning. Tell me something nice."

She almost dropped the phone. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she waited mutely for a moment, trying to remain composed. Was this line monitored? What could he say to her here? "Do you have anything to report to the FBI?" she said evenly, unable to meet Bryan's eye and instead opting to lean, feigning nonchalance, against the table.

"Do I? I don't know. Have you ever tried bacopa monnieri? I hear it does _wonders_ for one's memory."

She realised then that he hadn't wanted to say anything to her, nothing particularly. He just wanted to remind her that he was out there. As if she could forget.

"No," she was relieved that she still sounded so steady. She was regaining her footing bit by bit. Still leaning against the edge, she lifted her eyes to Bryan and offered only the faintest shake of her head, indicating that this was a perfect waste of time. "I can't say that I have."

"Huh," said the voice at the other end of the line. "I'll call back if it comes to me."

Sounding vaguely exasperated, she managed to say, "Thank you for your time."

When she hung up, she hid her trembling fingers in pockets and shrugged as she spoke, leaving her associates with a brief, "Nothing."

The irony of her own words turned her stomach. Bryan just shrugged.

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><p><em>"I've been bonding with your lover, Red. She's fun, isn't she?"<br>_

_His index finger, skirting over the lightbulb's screw cap.  
><em>

_ "You should join us, Red," his accent. His slur. His thumb, with a distinct smear of blood along its knuckle, pressed against Liz's jaw.  
><em>

_Her eyes, wide with panic. Straining her neck. Anything but to bite down.  
><em>

_His finger, tipping her head further and further back.  
><em>

_ "No pressure."_


	4. None of us are angels

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** straight up honesty hour: I've written a chapter that's like. Two or three away from this one and I just want to get there so everything feels like necessary filler ughaksjdhaskjdhas. 

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><p>Coming home at the end of the day was an unparalleled relief. Finally relieved of the scrutinizing gazes of her peers and allowed an opportunity to breathe, Elizabeth found a few hours of solace in the evening. Some nights offered a more generous refuge, and others less, but that was an occupational hazard that she had long accepted. In the few hours after her return, she was permitted the opportunity to breathe. The later the hour grew, the more dread would inevitably settle in her stomach, weighing her down with aching malaise. The closer the hour to dawn, the more sick she became. Why had this sensation not, at the very least, eased? It had been almost two weeks. She had not yet found a cause to betray her outward allegiance … but it was only a matter of time, was it not?<p>

She ought to have counted her blessings, few as they were. Reddington was a fortuitously absentee master, despite having pulled her strings on the tip line three times in the last week. He was briefer, at the very least—though that was not to say that his purpose was not fulfilled. Regardless, he had a hands-off approach thus far, and had maintained a distance that worked (well enough) for her.

But perhaps he was not as hands-off as she had initially anticipated.

The key turned in the lock, and she stepped into her home in a subdued, vaguely theatrical way: staggering forward as if wounded, like her knees and shoulders were weighed down by hidden burdens. It occurred to her one night, while she lay sleeplessly in bed, making constellations out of the stucco in her ceiling, that she carried the world on her shoulders, and that a single misstep would cause it to roll off and devastate those within it. It was curious that, at the time, the guilt of what she had not yet done consumed her, yet the emotions felt in the aftermath of her future betrayals were but a fraction of this.

Dragging her unseen troubles into her home, closing the door behind her with relief, she would have thought that this was the beginning of her brief refuge. She was mistaken.

He was sitting in Don's armchair. At that particular moment, if only by virtue of his posture, he looked remarkably like him. The ghost of Don, just as she would expect him to be: ankle resting on the knee of his leg, leaning slightly towards one side—tilted enough towards the window that lifting his gaze only slightly would offer him a view of the street. The principle difference between their silhouettes was that there was no newspaper in his hands, but a fedora.

She consciously did not sit in that chair.

"Hello, Lizzie."

Stricken with déjà vu, she swallowed hard before she spoke. He always said her name _exactly_ like that—he had the day they met, and every phone call since—the tone never wavering from its calm, vacant style. Whenever he said those words to her, he pulled a string that reverberated quietly inside of her, causing ripples of unrest to spread from her core to her fingertips. That he was sitting in Don's chair worsened the blow.

"What are you doing here?" it occurred to her that he had managed to get in unaided, but there was little point being surprised about that. She slept at night with the deadbolt fastened, but it was a false security. Any endeavours to shut him out, she thought, rightly or wrongly, were wholly fruitless. He had violated the only place she had felt safe.

Instead of directly answering her question, Reddington commented, "I had half a mind to water your fern."

Her mouth was dry. All she managed to say in response was, "But you didn't?"

"No," a pregnant pause settled, consuming them both. Reddington, smiling peaceably. Elizabeth, with her pounding heart lodged in her throat. "How was—"

"Where have—"

They starting talking simultaneously, and, as the result of these types of interactions often is, both fell silent at precisely the same moment. He indicated forgivingly for her to begin. The consequence was that Elizabeth realised how very little she had to say.

"Where have you been?"

"Out and about."

She contained the shudder that built from the base of her spine. He looked so earnestly nonchalant when he said so, but her imagination couldn't help but envision the worst: treason, given Reddington's history, and other stereotypically-criminal acts.

Rather than dwelling on the matter, Reddington pushed on.

"I know we had an arrangement," he didn't say anything accusatory. He seemed fully aware that she was wary of him, and was generally indifferent to it. He still had a sense of ownership over her that neither of them was prepared to deny, "but I think we'll need to expedite the process a bit. Why don't you take a seat, Lizzie."

She shook her head, but he smiled, his eyes possessing such a semblance of warmth that she ceded in a moment. Her knees buckled as she fell onto the couch adjacent his armchair.

"You haven't held up your end."

Struggling to sound normal, she answered, "I haven't had anything for you," but the way that she stroked the scar on her palm betrayed her.

He didn't seem surprised, rather as if he had suspected as much—yet that was not the cause for his visit. It was evident to her in the way that he paused, biding his time before approaching a matter of greater importance: "I need you to come somewhere with me."

When would she stop feeling so paralyzed by his presence? It was odd that she felt guilt and fear, yet no remorse. None of her wanted to go back on her word, to leave Raymond Reddington in the dark and throw herself with a cleansed soul to the light where she belonged. Her loneliness alienated her from that world, too. She didn't belong there, not with such a scarcity of affection.

"Why should I trust you?" she asked abruptly, rather than commenting on anything he'd said before. It hardly registered. She only wanted to know one thing right now. "Why should I trust that you know my father?"

She wished with all her heart that she hadn't sounded so _pleading_.

"You shouldn't trust me. I'm a criminal," she noticed the gentle irony in his words. He maintained eye contact so effortlessly that it made her nervous; prolonged eye contact had that effect on most people. It was aggressive, challenging and seductive at once, "but I'm not lying to you about this."

If he had been any other man, she would have trusted her instincts as Reddington had instructed her to the day they met. She would have sensed sincerity and good intentions, buried, however deep, beneath a self-serving purpose. His will appeared not to be tainted, his purpose not evidently nefarious—only because he was Raymond Reddington was her judgement distorted.

"Now, Lizzie, the only way that this partnership will work synergistically is if you put your best foot forward."

She braced herself quietly for his demand, wondering where this was going. She had already attempted to explain her inactivity to him, so surely it wasn't back to that—or was he going to give her advice?

Elizabeth was continuously surprised by how cordial he appeared. Although his thoughts were often unfounded and usually bizarre (their previous conversations had included nothing short of acupuncture, Florence and some cannoli or other he had found), he appeared to be articulate and capable of kindness. If not kindness—not of the _genuine_ variety—then, at the very least, some modicum of humanity. Where he found it in himself to conjure a tone of such a gentle tenor, she couldn't possibly say. It wasn't conducive to the man she had suspected he was. Her profile was better-fitted for a colder man, a man who was more blatantly conniving.

But that was, she reasoned as she sensed herself softening to him, characteristic enough of a brilliant manipulator. A diligent sociopath would seek the traits in man that were regarded as desirable, and might aspire to recreate them to his benefit. Like her, perhaps he had reasonably unaffected sight into the minds of others, had the ability to peer through the slightest cracks in the façade and see the damaged interior. They were all haemorrhaging, just from different wounds in different places.

"I need you to come with me. You'll be appropriately compensated. We'll need to do something about your hair but—"

"What?"

"You're going to come with me into the den of thieves."

"Why?"

"I need you to do what you FBI are supposed to best: sniff out a rat. If you find it, you can keep it."

Another pause that felt endless followed, a drawn-out silence that begged to be broken.

"I don't think I can," she resented her quivering tone, the current of self-doubt and apprehension that accompanied it. She didn't want to admit her fallibility, but she didn't see a way around this. She needed what Reddington was offering, but she couldn't pay her way—she believed that adamantly. It was apparent to her as she felt her finicky heartbeat palpating beneath her breast.

He looked at her with such seriousness that she was taken aback. He had such intense emotion in his eyes, such attentiveness, that was powerless to resisting it. He was _listening_ to her, really listening. As frightening as that was, it was exactly what she needed from him.

"Lizzie."

All he said at first was her name, gazing at her with those keenly intelligent eyes. His hand lifted from the brim of his hat and settled on her anxious, fiddling fingers. She didn't recoil from his touch as she would have expected herself to. She instead craved that comforting gesture, was grateful for the kindness of his effort.

"You have put Cooper and your colleagues on a pedestal they do not deserve," she couldn't tear her eyes away from him, and that made every word he said unbearably reasonable. "If guilt is what holds you back, _forget it_. Don't be so black and white when you think of the world. None of us are angels, Lizzie." 

* * *

><p><em>His smile, half-concealed by shadow. Half-reason, half-madness. His fingers, tipping her head back further and further.<em>

_Liz. Convulsing as her gag reflex was tickled by the growing incline._

_Why couldn't Anslo have turned his blind eye to her?_


	5. Business as usual

**Author's note:** so for those of you who don't follow me on tumblr ... my iPhone deleted all my notes the other night. And I couldn't manage to retrieve them despite my better efforts. I had drafts of the next two chapters written on it. I was going to quit and give up, but I was really looking forward to posting this in the absence of a new episode tonight. Because it's my first Tom Bond-inclusive chapter. So I rewrote this today. I'll be the first to admit that it's a little choppy. I got impatient writing it a second time. All the same - onward! Lizzington/Tom Bond/general!Blacklistery waits for no one!

* * *

><p>It was decidedly disturbing how quickly she developed a penchant for playing in Reddington's world. It was one of deceit, fuelled almost singularly by fear to counter the tremendous distrust possessed by those within it. Where, she wondered, was the fear that she expected to feel entering such circles as these? A shred of fear might have been appropriate, but she had developed a powerful survival instinct over the years she had spent in the FBI, which she claimed was understandable of a child who had raised herself.<p>

It didn't start as smoothly as she would have liked. That ease, that (false?) poise came only with some degree of practice. Her first entrance was abysmal, in her mind a devastating failure.

"You're not coming with me," she couldn't recall quite when she realized that, studying Red in the backseat of the car as Dembe, reliably silent, drove them through downtown.

"No."

That was all he said for a moment, and in the seconds that passed, her heartbeat kicked into overtime. Its unsteady rhythm pounded against her breast agonizingly as she tried to imagine standing in that room, surrounded by men and women of villainous character, posing pretty as a picture as an adversary of Raymond Reddington. She, Elizabeth Scott, Quantico graduate, black site regular.

"People tend to send intermediaries," she thought momentarily of the state of the union, thinking of that poor, unphotogenic or irrelevant representative who was left to wait elsewhere and watch the ordeal from television, lest something go terribly wrong. Someone left to take care of the country—or, in this case, the business—if all else failed. "Believe me, Lizzie, you wouldn't be here if I had another option."

How cruel it seemed then that years of law enforcement had failed to prepare her for this. The other side suddenly seemed so foreign. This was far from the type of clandestine operation she would typically partake in. This was ... a masquerade, she thought, with unbearably penalties if she was somehow compromised.

"What do I do?" loathing the sound of her voice—uncharacteristically young and irritatingly uncertain—she kept her question brief.

"It's your average dinner party," he said, as if this explained everything. "You ought to read this."

She opened the thin dossier he placed on her knees, "'Claire Barnes'?"

"My _favourite_ girl from Ann Arbor."

"I don't know anything about computer programming."

"Just do that voodoo that you do so well, and we'll talk."

Elizabeth fought the urge to double over and hug her knees to her chest.

Whatever gift Reddington thought she possessed, she feared he was entirely wrong. Her job required her to identify patterns, to note distinguishing themes and tie one crime to another, to an attitude, to a behaviour. Her specialty, she thought then, was nothing but reading and interpreting evidence. She was a motif hunter-and she could hardly work without data. Certainly, she had always had something of a sixth sense when it came to pegging human nature, but that was an apparently-inconsistent skill that was not presently in effect.

"You trust me enough for that?" she dared to ask, her tongue dry and cumbersome.

"Of course."

Surely he was being facetious. That, she thought, or he knew the power that he had over her with his promise and the threat of his reputation.

"That," he added, "and you'll be going with Luli."

How transparent she felt under the stares of her company. She thought she had conquered her fear of criminals by understanding them years earlier. She began to understand the power of circumstance and ill fortune in their lives. She had come to see that this path was so rarely a choice, just a tragically misguided attempt to regain control. On Reddington's level, she wondered if this still applied, or was there a more sociopathic gamble at play? A simple but dire need to be endangered, high risk for high reward? In her new role, her perceived control shattered in delicate pieces around her. They were malevolent and volatile, here to network for plots of vindictive malice. From the outside looking in, she thought them manipulators in a game she could still win; looking now from within, Elizabeth was certain that this was a new breed of animal.

Any minute they would see through her.

She might as well have worn her badge on her belt.

She had all but introduced herself as Agent Scott.

They were going to rip her limb from limb until all that was left was her pathetic talking head, iterating urgently, "I work for Raymond Reddington," making a last ditch attempt to garner respect while bleeding out.

It didn't even occur to her until much later that she might be recognized by someone in the room. Now or in the future. Had Reddington had such a thought and proceeded all the same? If was another idea on the growing list that she did not wish to contemplate in depth.

He had told her to just "play her part," as if it was so easy. All she wished was to leave from the moment she arrived. She thought the worst of those in her midst by virtue of their careers and was terrified to boot. She checked her watch absurdly often, until Luli, gentle as she was, kicked her under the table softly, silently imploring her to stop.

The information that was passed burned her ears. Instinctively, she wanted to blurt everything out in a phone call to Cooper. Meera would have been fascinated, given her CIA history. Elizabeth would have loved to show Bryan up (she was loathe to admit it, but she was considered quite brilliant before him, second only to Donald ... Bryan's being there was somehow an insult to both of them). Her team would have been chomping at the bit. But these were her secrets now. Until concrete evidence landed at the post office, she knew nothing.

"How did it go?" Reddington seemed quite disinterested in the car. She was inclined to suspect otherwise.

Luli offered a grin back as she slid through the passenger side door, "Business as usual."

"How is our friend Zamani?"

"Good to go."

"Music to my ears."

It occurred to Elizabeth then that business had been done without her even realising it. This detail alone frightened her. Although she entered with no background information, she hadn't even tried to follow the plot. She was too busy looking for signs—and she didn't even know what those signs were.

"Lizzie," he turned to her with a glaringly eager smile. Reddington's hand clapped over her knee but briefly. A gesture of camaraderie,"Who all did you meet tonight?"

She fought her instinct to look at Luli for validation. She reluctantly found a friend in the other woman tonight, or at the very least a decent ally. Regardless, she knew full well that the question was for her alone. Nervously, she rattled off what names she could remember. Most of them, she thought, too sick to be proud. Petering out towards the end, she concluded, "... and someone named Gina."

He laughed. That was all. A brief chuckle in the otherwise quiet car. It left her faintly horrified without knowing why-yet simultaneously frustrated, for she felt the laugh was for her benefit. To offend or perhaps intrigue. She couldn't ask and give him the satisfaction. Besides, her mind was occupied by her churning stomach and the truth that she would inevitably have to share.

"I didn't find anything," the words came out at a reasonable pace, for which she was proud.

His eyes met hers for a moment. Did Reddington see the nausea coursing through her, her pale cheeks, the faint rings of sweat sinking through her shirt? She had adopted mechanisms to counter the disappointment (the word seemed more forgiving than anxiety) that she felt in times such as these—times of failure—and called on them now as she counted her breaths quietly in the car as they fell between lines of dialogue.

"Alright."

That was it.

He presented as neither surprised nor displeased. It would have been wrong to ask for a heavy handed scolding, or a devastating dismissal that sent her covering back to the FBI, knowing that she was no longer pure enough to exist among their ranks yet not sufficiently tainted to join the masked crusaders of discord. anarchy and treason. She had feared but indeed expected this. Its absence did not relieve her as it should have.

If it had been Reddington's intention to send her in with Luli ... Again, she feared she was an unwitting pawn in a larger game. Had he put her there deliberately to feed her to the sharks, expecting them to smell blood in the water and feast? Or did he want to see how far she would go, prove his power over her? Queasy and on the verge of assuming fetal position in the backseat, she was relieved to be dropped off with a cheerful, "We'll be in touch."

And, indeed, they were. It didn't take long for him to contact him again, and again after that. It was Reddington she personally accompanied thereafter, joining him on several "one-on-one" (the term was to be used loosely) meetings. People were wary of her—rightfully. She became increasingly familiar with her alias, an identity that she developed with Reddington and Luli as if it were a game, albeit one with high stakes. Reddington encouraged her presence as if it was _she_ who gained from their escapades. He treated his teachings like a great privilege, like something she should have been honoured by. It was not an honour. It endangered her. He was making light of her position, creating a mockery of the danger that she placed herself in. Every time they met, he risked compromising her—and Reddington was a man of acute intelligence and far from naïve. He knew what he was doing to her. Spreading Elizabeth too thin didn't seem to concern him. He seemed to possess undue confidence that, when worst came to worst, he could save her—or himself, she ought to have been clear; she hadn't the faintest idea what he would risk for her.

"I picked out something for you to wear. It's on your bed."

Reddington was seemingly impervious to the incredulous looks she exceeded at delivering in times like these. How unfazed he was by the shadow of her scowl! Time and time again, he let himself in, and, time and time again, she glared at him for his insolence.

She had been out with he and his band of merry men three times by then, and each time felt slightly more comfortable (in itself a concern). Naturally, this was not to be confused with a clear conscience. She spent night after night making constellations out of the patterns in the stucco, and what sleep she took was fitful at best. It didn't help that he apparently had the keys to the castle and could sweep in without so much as a moment's notice, invading the only place on earth that had ever felt anything like home. But then, she knew home had died. Home was whenever Don was, therefore home was six feet under the ground.

_ "What's for breakfast?" Her lids were heavy, and they strained to focus on Don despite the bright morning light that gently flooded the room. Was it only in her memory that he was illuminated like this, glowing in the soft sunlight that streamed through the curtains of the bedroom? Why was he, a man loved and lost, so transcendently beautiful even while performing such a menial task as buttoning his shirt?  
><em>

_ "I don't know. But whatever it is, I'm sure you'll make it delicious."  
><em>

_Both knowing perfectly well that there was no way he expected her to cook anything, her instinct might have been to hit him with her pillow. Half-asleep, instead she studied the motions taken by his hands, "You missed one."  
><em>

_His eyes flickered down to study his error.  
><em>

_ "Let me."  
><em>

_His haloed silhouette grew nearer to her, lowered on to the edge of the mattress as she reluctantly pulled herself upright.  
><em>

_ "What are you wearing today?"  
><em>

_ "Hmm," her voice passed through her lips, dreamlike and far-away. It wasn't like her to stray from pantsuits at work, but enticed by the weather she replied, "Maybe my red dress."  
><em>

_ "Need any help putting that on?"  
><em>

_Her hands lifted as the final button on his shirt slipped through its corresponding hole. Collapsing back onto her pillow, with a sleepy half-smile, her eyes sought his.  
><em>

_ "I need breakfast."  
><em>

_Nostalgia was a gut-wrenching compulsion she could do nothing about._

She knew the second that she saw it that she simply would not wear what Reddington had chosen. Strewn across her coverless duvet like a crimson stain, it mocked her. Bleeding over the mattress at _his_ behest. Had she selected it herself, the emotional response would undoubtedly have been less potent, but selected by the man Don hated most, the insult was unbearable.

In its place, she selected a top she frequented around the office, partnering it with a black skirt. She saw his anticipation flicker and face on his features when she came downstairs. Her breath caught in her throat, but she was too angry—too _offended_—not to comment.

"I'm not wearing that."

He made a dismissive gesture in response to her defiance, saying only, "You're a winter, not an autumn. Stop wearing olive."

She grabbed her navy coat rather than arguing. There seemed little point.

"Where are we going?" rather than offering protest, she found herself at point in her relationship with Reddington where it was better to simply go where he led her.

"To a party."

"Of course we are."

Of all the days to be bitter with Reddington, this was not the ideal one. The room looked like a proper celebration. She realised within a matter of moments that it was. They were here to speak to someone quite particular. Anything else on the property was just noise. She would have been quite content with this, accepted it as one of Reddington's unnecessary and rather unwelcome lessons and been on her way. Had they been in, seen their contact, and been out in a matter of moments, no harm would have been done, but Reddington commented lightly, "It really _is_ a party," in that flippant way of his.

"Who else is here?"

"Perry and Dechambou," his eyes indicated the direction of his … peers? Elizabeth hadn't yet decided how to refer to Reddington's acquaintances. She could only assume that he referred to the elegant looking woman and her rather roguish-seeming acquaintance, and not the teenage girl trying her first sip of champagne at the kitchen island. The two seemed to be in conversation with someone, but the back of that someone's head wasn't sufficiently telling.

"I think you'd like Laurence," Reddington was saying. "She's a _dynamite_ woman. I'll introduce you."

She didn't especially care, nor did she think she had much choice. A few steps closer allowed her a glimpse of the man the two were speaking to. He looked immediately familiar, enough so that she tore herself from Reddington's side in a rather ungainly display of urgency. Her heart throbbed again, kicking into nervous overdrive. His hair was shorter, his beard a slightly more aggressive growth across his chin than she remembered, but—

Stumbling past party-goers, although she still hadn't the slightest idea what was being celebrated, her knee rammed into a chair, and her side into the corner of a table. She was accustomed to bumps and bruises. There was no point letting a bit of pain slow her down. The room had become very small, suffocatingly so. The door was in sight, and she collapsed through it, craving air, not certain she'd breathed since she realised. If Reddington was bothered by her disappearance, that was his problem. _Fuck him_. She leaned against the door frame, letting the cool evening air soothe the hot surface of her skin.

Elizabeth didn't have much faith in the odds that this was mere coincidence. She didn't believe in tricks of fate. That certainty spurred the question … why would Tom be there, and why did he know Perry and Dechambou?


End file.
