AUTHORS NOTE (6/2/19): This fic has been on this site for several years now, and I am still attached to it. It has morphed into a story I never expected, but nevertheless, enjoyed telling. It's also been years since I last updated this story, being overwhelmed with the amount of canon information about the show. So for now, I thought I'd re-write the opening as a way of saying thank you to all those who have read this story thus far. I would like to add more to the story, but I am unsure when that will be (or how I can weave in all the canon threads while still making sense of the main character's presence in the show). If you are a new reader, it is my hope you enjoy my little AU fic. And as always, this show is the property of the creators, I just play in the sandbox.
On the structure of the story: Elli's character is loosely based upon one of the extras from the "Pilot" episode. (Aged up a little). Each chapter corresponds to a particular episode of the show.
Overall story song: "Angels" by XX
Chapter song: "Falling Slowly" from the Once soundtrack
Chapter 1: "Pilot"
"Ranko Sinesia Zamani. Serbian national, educated in the US." - Eleanor Simon
I hate the squeak of shoes on old linoleum. At this rate, all my pacing will no doubt rub a path along the middle of this dingy, sad excuse for a kitchen.
"What do you mean, you lost them?" I could hear the wobble in my voice even as I try (unsuccessfully) to maintain a sense of firmness. I switch my cellphone to the opposite ear, and sit down in a nearby chair to rub my right leg absentmindedly.
"Our apologies, Ms. Simon," replies the other person on the line in a robotic voice, getting the pronunciation wrong for the umpteenth time. "Your luggage will be obtained within the week and shipped to your current address as soon as we locate it."
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Thanks for the update, in any case. Have a good day." I end the call, cradling the cellphone in my hands as if staring at it would bring back my belongings.
I grab the only change of clothes I had packed in my carry-on and attempt to smooth out my hair before putting it up with a clip and bobby-pins. My cane leans against the weathered, wooden nightstand alongside my bag and hat. Balancing all of my things I would need for the day, I make my way across the claustrophobic hallway to another bedroom.
Aunt Lillian sits in bed with several down pillows propping her up against the headboard. "Elli," she calls to me, her soft smile producing gentle creases around dancing hazel eyes.
Taking her hands in mine, I smooth my thumbs over wrists weak and thin. "Well, I'm off, Aunt Lill," I say as she breaks apart from me to fix the collar of my cardigan. "My boss was actually understanding when I explained to him what happened to our stuff. But, I dunno'…"
I pause, biting my lip in a nervous habit I have yet to rid myself of.
Aunt Lillian tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, and my attention focuses back on her gentle smile. "You look pretty in pink."
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"I don't know you, but I want you all the more for that- - -"
The song "Falling Slowly" invades my consciousness, and I find myself humming the melody softly.
"Where do you work? What do you do?" These questions are harmless common occurrences in daily small-talk. But now, classifying what exactly it is that I "do" for the FBI could get me in serious trouble. I am a far cry from a special agent, but that does not excuse me from the strict standards of confidentiality the FBI is known for.
I fumble over some semblance of an answer when a middle-aged woman with faded blue scrubs asks me those very question at my doorstep. I am grateful the in-home nurse is on time for my first day—one less thing to keep my stomach doing flip flops. I move aside, and she steps into the apartment before shutting the heavy door. I take out my phone and quickly type in the walking directions to the subway route I needed to take to get to work.
I don't know how anyone can find their way around with all these buildings and cars. I walk down the street while trying to juggle a phone, a bag and a cane, but having moved to DC recently, I am dreadfully unfamiliar with how people get around the city using public transportation. I inhale deeply as I make my way to the nearest subway station, and pray to whatever deity is in the universe that I am able to accurately read the subway maps.
I step inside the subway train and the doors close. I stumble in a clumsy array of moving limbs with each jerk and pull the train makes, and all I want to do is hide under a rock. In my anxious hurry to exit the embarrassing scene I am making of myself, I unknowingly get off at the wrong stop.
Should I just wait for the next one? I ascend the steps to reach the outside world. No, I decide, looking down at my phone as the monotone voice of the GPS tells me to take a right at the next street. I am on the right path once again in a matter of no time, and I walk a few blocks away from the subway station.
But my phone gurgles in a downward spiral, and my heart stops. "No, you stupid thing!" I hiss at it. It replies with the symbol of an electrical socket and a lightning bolt glaring at me before dying completely. My hands tremble and my breath catches in my chest. Sure, if this were to happen to most other people, their logical reaction to this would be to just "retrace their steps," take the subway, and go about their merry way, problem solved. It's times like this where I feel the harsh limitations of my condition as it makes it nearly impossible for me to do something so many take for granted.
For me, I have little sense of direction due to the effect my condition has on my brain. Going to someplace requires me to memorize the steps along the way to the place as well as the path I'd take to get back. In other words, if I walk somewhere and turn around, I may as well have been in a completely different place altogether. Needless to say, my sense of direction is one of the main reasons I could never be a special agent. I find a bench to sit down in order to rethink how I am going to get to my workplace while scolding myself for carelessly forgetting to charge my phone the night before.
A man sits next to me, and I catch a glimpse of the dark-colored fedora adorning his head and eyes that are hidden behind large sunglasses. He inhales deeply, taking in the crisp morning air.
I feel a cramp tensing up my bad leg, and I run my hand along my thigh and calf to alleviate the pain.
The man is looking ahead, seemingly lost in thought, but when I clear my throat he turns to me.
I swallow thickly at his expressionless face. "I'm sorry for bothering you, but are you familiar with this area?"
The man watches me in silence, and I feel like he is debating with himself whether or not to answer.
"You could say that," he finally responds. When I continued to stare at him, he shifts his body to face me properly."Where do you need to go?"
"The FBI headquarters around here," I reply hopefully.
His laugh is dry and brings his mouth to quirk up on one side. "As luck would have it, I have to go in that direction as well," he says as he stands in a swift movement. He looks at me with a now-unsmiling face as he waits for me to follow him.
I grimace when I move, and the tenseness in my leg muscles tightens. The man stands there, quiet as a shadow, and does not speak.
"Ah, uh...stupid leg of mine gives me trouble from time to time, especially during cold mornings," I say hastily in response to him studying me from behind his sunglasses.
I can't tell exactly where he's looking, but I assume he discovers my cane resting next to me. He extends his hand to me. My lips thin in a resigned smile as I reluctantly take his offer to help me to my feet. "Try the little place about two blocks over…positively excellent Viennese coffee. It does wonders for warming the body on a chilly day like today."
I shake my leg until the cramp subsides, and I follow the man down the next few streets until we reach a tall, official-looking building.
"Here you are, the FBI," he says, gesturing with a wave.
Whatever the joke was that was making him smile like that, he did not tell me. "So, where are you off to, if you don't mind me asking?" I say.
He promptly sits down on another concrete bench in front of the building and resumes his exact position from minutes prior. "I'm waiting for someone here. After that, I'll see where the day takes me."
I smile and notice how pleasant this man appears to be- - -not many men in this day in age are what I would call "dapper," but this man is. I guess it is true what people say about the diversity to be found in big cities.
"Thank you very much for walking with me. I appreciate it," I say with a wave as I prepare myself to walk into the massively large building with entirely too many windows adorning the front.
Well that was rude of me, I didn't even tell him my name. Pushing the interaction out of my mind, I open the double doors to the Bureau. I am led to a generic office space I am to share with another analyst, Whitney, and I start up my computer. My first assignment is reporting on the known trade agreements of a particularly rural group of people in northern Japan, and I am glad to have the opportunity to begin my research right away.
It was shaping up to be a pretty average day.
Or so I thought.
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Sirens blare and I nearly fall out of my chair. Whitney and I exchange glances and race for the door that leads out into the hallway. People are scurrying about, and I keep hearing the name "Reddington" being said in hushed whispers. I see Assistant Director Cooper scribbling something on a clipboard, his dark eyes intent and furious. I hear the phrases "…someone in intelligence" and "observational skills" as he scans what seems to be a list of names. His head jerks up suddenly, and he snaps his fingers in my direction. I hurry to his side and he looks at my ID badge.
"You're new today," he says more as a declarative than a question.
My eyes must be as wide as a deer in headlights. "Yes sir," I say, trying to maintain composure in my voice.
"Good, then you wouldn't have been working on anything important yet- - -Simon," he replies, mispronouncing my last name in the same way the airline HR person did. I nod, not wanting to correct the man who could get me fired before I even start my job.
"I am assembling a group to go to the Post Office, and I need you to go along and get the agents whatever information they ask for."
I blink back my confusion at the odd request. "The...the what, Sir?"
"Just go to the black site with the people I'm sending out shortly. There's been an incident concerning a person of interest, and you could prove useful."
My heart feels like it is going to leap out of my chest. I'm a social scientist hired by the FBI to write reports on countries and cultures of particular regions. I don't have any experience in dealing with criminals. Assistant Director Cooper must have made a terrible mistake.
I finally find my voice to protest his decision. "But Sir, I- - -"
"I assume you know how to properly use the FBI's search engine, correct?" He interrupts me with a slightly annoyed glare.
I nod and follow Cooper as he makes a round of the building to collect various people to take with us to the black site. I still have no idea what's going on or why I'm even authorized to go to such a place.
I guess my first day is going to be anything but normal.
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After a rushed briefing from an agent by the name of Donald Ressler, I am shoehorned into a corner of this Post Office facility that is to act as the central hub of operations. Sony VAIOs litter the area in clumps, displaying various FBI-centric programs and applications. I have yet to see the man that single-handedly requires an entire task force to be instigated in mere hours, but it isn't vital for me to know such information in order to do my job.
I am to remain on standby in case this Raymond Reddington mentions an individual's name. If he does, I am to scuttle along like the obedient worker ant that I am to use the FBI database to spit out essential intel to the rest of the Post Office team in the first of a chain of tasks assigned to various other people in a particular sequence. Failure to do so as quickly as humanly possible could result in miscommunication, at best—between Reddington and the agents assigned to assess his threat level— and a failed mission to ensnare this supposedly elusive criminal, at worst.
Urgent shouts and the sound of ruffling papers pepper the area in a frenzy of activity as the man in question is now being led to a container-like cell. But I have no time to lose, so any innate curiosity I have about what in the world I am doing here is put on hold for the time being. Shoving my belongings and cane underneath the workstation, I attempt to quell my shaking hands. A single phrase instantly has the entire Post Office hushed within seconds.
"He's online."
I clench my jaw, keeping a string of unprofessional language unsaid as I hurry to log into the FBI database I need to use. My fingers glide effortlessly over the keyboard, my attention solely focused on the act of—
"Evidently someone with the authority to make decisions has arrived," a voice oozes over the intercom, warm and deadly. I turn towards the sound, and my heart plummets to my toes—I recognize that voice.
Oh…no.
Cooper cuts through the center space, his heels clicking with every step he takes; his demeanor shifting after a comment made by Reddington. "Get these feeds fixed," he barks to one of the people near me, "I want him up here, c'mon."
There on the overhead monitors, in stark relief for all to see, is the very man who had led me to the FBI office this morning.
Guess I figured out what was so funny to him about me asking for directions earlier.
"You must have many questions," Raymond Reddington asserts as he looks directly into the eye of the camera. "So, let's begin with the most important one: why I'm here."
It's showtime.
I have no time to waste as Reddington spouts off several historical events and terrorist-related activities, speaking with the ease that can only come from first-hand knowledge or reckless confidence.
And then there is a name, a singular name, and I am thrown into action (whether I like it or not). I do my best to keep my voice steady, detached. "Ranko Sinesia Zamani. Serbian national, educated in the US."
I click once more on his profile for the last known address, but a flashing screen greets me next: DECEASED.
Come to find out, we were wrong...very wrong.
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"There's a table set up in the back on the ground level. You are to watch the interaction between Agent Keen and Reddington, and report on everything from their movements, body language, even if one of them fixes a shoelace," Cooper tells me while I reach over to get my things. I'm being shuttled yet again for another job with another set of objectives.
Cooper continues once he sees he has my full attention. "We're only allowing you to assist on this since we are sorely understaffed, and we need someone on ground-level observations. You're not qualified to report on profiling, so leave that to the agents who are competent in the area."
I nod and we continue on to the observation area with a window overlooking what appears to have been a parking garage. The others who had come with me are now settled and monitoring the Post Office from every angle while we wait for another agent—one requested specifically by Reddington himself—to arrive. From what I could hear from several of the others (how they already know bits of gossip is beyond me), this was supposed to be this agent's first day as well.
Finger's crossed we'll have more in common than our employment start date.
Cooper points to the door leading to the lower level. "Stay out of Agent Keen's way."
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My cane makes a noisy popping sound as I slowly descend the makeshift stairs to reach the concrete area. There's a rust-colored container a ways in front of me with windows around the sides. I freeze as I get to the bottom of the stairs.
There, in that container, really is the man who helped me find the Bureau. He is different somehow, a man that knows exactly what he is doing and an entire world away from the man recommending local coffee shops to lost transplants to the area.
His head is down, and he is focusing intently on the ground like a wolf listening for any sign of its prey. His hands rest easily by his sides despite being restrained to the arms of the chair he sits in, and he does not fidget in the slightest as he waits. He appears perfectly at ease with his current situation.
I set down my things at the table in the back, and turn my laptop on in silence.
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Red looks into the glass where the other agents are watching him a few minutes after my arrival to this new area. He shifts in his seat as the click-clack of high-heels echo ominously in the space. A woman walks over to the chair in front of Reddington just as the walls of his cell pull away, leaving him on a platform of sorts.
With a shake of his head, Reddington's smile widens and a hint of a laugh escapes his lips."Agent Keen," he says in a smooth, low voice, "what a pleasure."
The woman in question claps her hands together nonchalantly. "Well, I'm here."
I didn't want to interrupt the discussion by my loud typing, so I furiously write down my observations on a notepad I had brought with me. There's a sort of melody-like quality inherent in Red's voice that I can't seem to put into words, and a kind of steely resolution apparent in Agent Keen's character that also eludes description.
These people, whoever they really are, are strong, powerful people capable of shaping their lives the way they see fit. I am drawn back to the conversation with Red's next sentence.
"I haven't been home in years," he says with a softness in his voice, as if speaking the thought aloud somehow makes it more real, more tangible, as it hangs in the air.
They banter back and forth, neither one giving the other much of an upper hand in the conversation. I carefully jot down everything I see, and the two of them ignore my presence completely.
"I'm going to make you famous, Lizzie," Red says in nearly a whisper, and Agent Keen gets up to leave.
He eyes her as she saunters away, and I am uncertain if she realizes just how much her hips sway as she moves away from the man they call The Concierge of Crime. People are now gathering around Agent Keen in the upstairs observation room, and their eyes are off of Red as they talk to her. I sigh, wondering what it must be like to be so "put together" while I'm here in leftover traveling clothes from the plane ride to move here. Still, it's no use in being jealous over something that someone else can't control, so I divert my attention back to my notes.
"I see you have great taste."
I squeak (do 29-year olds squeak? I'm hopeless). I had completely forgotten Reddington is still here with me, and he is now watching me closely. I look off to the side in the hopes that he is not, in fact, addressing the comment to me. His gaze does not waver.
He nods his head down, and my eyes tear away from his curled lips to focus on the grey fedora at my desk. I scrunch up my face in befuddlement.
"I thought you...didn't you just say you'd only talk to Agent Keen?"
"I spoke with you this morning, didn't I?" Red retorts, his green eyes shining mischievously, "And if you were indeed listening, you would have also heard me say that I'm a notorious liar," he adds with a low chuckle.
He clears his throat before continuing. "Now that you undoubtedly know my name, would you mind telling me yours?"
I scoff at the question. "If Agent Keen is supposed to be a 'nobody,'" I say, quoting the woman's own words said earlier, "then I am invisible, Mr. Reddington, Sir." (I erred on the side of politeness rather than bluntness).
"Humor me, then, and sate my curiosity for curiosity's sake."
Something in his expression holds my attention for a second too long, and I dart my eyes up to the observation room to see that the agents and workers are back to monitoring Red.
"I- uh...I have to go," I respond, stacking all of my belongings into a haphazard pile of papers, a briefcase and several books.
I stumble away from my chair and my cane rattles unceremoniously onto the floor. The shackles constraining Reddington jingle minutely as his natural reflexes compelled him to move in my direction. A familiar pain creeps into the back of my eyes, and I grumble irritably. People see my cane and automatically assume I'm some frail thing that constantly needs help.
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But a nagging feeling remains long after I leave the black site that day. For that one brief time back there, when he had asked for my name, I felt like I was finally being treated as a typical person someone was genuinely interested in, and not a person someone wants to talk to out of curious pity.
Too bad that person happened to be one of the most dangerous people on the face of the planet.
After checking in on Aunt Lilian that evening, I go to my beginner's dance class just a few minutes away from the apartment I am renting. I recently discovered the place, and it's the only personal time I take for myself all week. It's more like a fitness class, really, but the doctor says that light movement like that would help my leg from getter tighter and stiffer as I age. This week has had me working on the basics of rumba, and I find myself thoroughly enjoying the experience.
As I dance, my mind drifts off to wonder about my future in DC and with the Bureau.
In the end, I am perfectly happy staying in the shadows, free from questions and comments made by strangers as they pass me in the street. I am especially happy to remain free from their burning gazes- - - even if it is the burning gaze of a man with hypnotic green eyes and an affinity for classy, 3-piece suits.