A very quick and poorly written response to the "Red sees Liz's thigh" prompt on Tumblr. Not my best introduction to the Blacklist fandom but I hope you nevertheless enjoy!
~KK
Disclaimer: not mine
Elizabeth Keen is no damsel in distress.
Strike that.
Elizabeth Keen refused to be a damsel in distress, despite any and all machinations of a certain criminal mastermind, and his curiously comprehensive list. Admittedly, her most recent work association had catalyzed a few precarious positions – remedied by Reddington, Ressler, or both – but it was high time that the tables turned.
However, this was not going according to her plan.
Red's Blacklister du jour, Michel Kamps, was a particularly disgusting individual. An owner of several sordid nightclubs around the city – his businesses were an effective front for multiple offenses. Drug trafficking, illegal gambling and, most seriously, the abduction of young women for sale into the sex trade. Kamps made a habit of personally trolling his establishment, selecting girls from the crowds to be drugged and disappeared. With any luck, Liz Keen would be one of those victims tonight.
Not exactly a reassuring thought, she mused, collecting herself for a few seconds in the back of the taxi. She had gone undercover before: prostitutes, television repair, crossing guard, anything you could name. She enjoyed the discretely-condoned duplicity, the fabrication of a unique identity, the chance to revisit her past life in a slightly more legal fashion. Above all, Liz lived for the adrenaline rush.
She was free.
Well, more like free-falling with a safety net. The opportunity to grift with an earbud and wires tapped to her chest, to invent reality with a SWAT team next door.
Not tonight. She paid her fare and exited the cab, sliding into her new character with every step to the club door. No waiting in lines or cover charge – just a tight red dress, Louboutins, and the clutch that Red had liked.
Red.
The series of events between getting the call from Dembe and leaving her apartment were a blur. Red was gone. Somewhere between tipping the FBI off on Kamps and advancing his ultimate plan (whatever that was), he had arranged to meet Kamps with Dembe in tow. In a past life, Liz would have been much angrier about his interference and needless provocation. Now she could barely muster a flicker of rage – mostly because something had gone very wrong.
Dembe had been tased – undoubtedly from a distance – and Red was gone.
Gone gone gone.
Who's the damsel now? The possibility of Liz going undercover at Kamps' club was decidedly vetoed by both Cooper and Red early in the operation. A small part of her, the part that loved her husband and dog and dreamed of a small child to call her own, was relieved. This Liz – who strutted up to the bouncer and allowed his eyes and hands to roam, who had left her wedding ring on her desk, who passed into the club victoriously after a few seconds – just didn't care.
It was time to even the score with Reddington.
Her plan, hastily formed while throwing on a disguise and layer of make-up, was haphazardly simple. Get in, catch the attention of Kamps, access the "VIP levels" of the club, and hopefully find Reddington somewhere there. If Liz was especially lucky, she may not have to sacrifice too much dignity.
The writhing masses of bodies on the dance floor begged to differ.
She headed to a free bartender, often the eyes and ears of any establishment, leaning her forearms on the bar and thrusting her chest forward. It worked. The young man's eyes dipped down before bouncing up to her red lips. She grinned, "Vodka martini, please."
"You ever come here before?"
"Nah, I just moved to the city, looking to start fresh. Any recommendations?"
"You're standing in it, babe." He slid the drink over the mahogany surface. "It's on the house. My boss says, 'enjoy'." The bartender turned his head, revealing the curly wire and earbud there.
So that's how he scouts women. "Tell your boss I said thanks, and tell him to come say hi." She winked and downed her drink, guiding the olive between her teeth. She moved towards the dance floor, raising her arms above her head, and joining the gyrating masses.
It used to be easier to lose herself in a character. To become a Liz that loved crowds and the pulsing madness therein. A Liz who loved to be touched and jostled by anonymous hands. Tonight, several unwelcome images kept interrupting her assimilation. Her husband, her dog, Ressler, Meera, Cooper, Dembe, and Red. Red who would not approve in the slightest.
Well, fuck him. Who am I doing this for, anything?
She pinned that last thought to the forefront of her mind, as large hands encircled her hips, and a hot cheek rested against her head. "Hi," he breathed, sending shivers down her body. She twirled abruptly, lifting both hands to rest them on his shoulders. Michel Kamps. Late-40s, handsome, intelligent, ruthless. Her profiler instincts jumped into overdrive before she could quash them. She disguised the scrutiny with surprise and awe.
"Well hello. I guess you must be the elusive owner." The club raged loudly around them, she was held captive in his arms.
"And I heard you were new to the city. Let me show you the ropes."
So Liz danced, and played her role, and pushed down every nerve screaming, "No!" She grinded and spun, and did her best to tolerate any wandering hands. There would be revenge.
Finally, Kamps stopped, interweaving their fingers. "There are VIP rooms downstairs. Free booze, and I'll be there." He grinned, as if that settled any decision. Liz barely transformed her grimace into a smile, but a surge of triumph bloomed nonetheless. Finally. Now to find Reddington.
She was lead downstairs, taking care to exaggerate her drunkenness. The club's boisterous interior was quickly forgotten, as they finally reached a seedy elevator. The air was cooler with every floor of concrete they passed – Kamps was trying to distract her with kisses and vile words. Liz counted the seconds.
12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17…
The box grinded to a quick stop and doors opened to a single velvet-lined hallway. Her heart plummeted as she noted several branching entrances. The VIP area was an underground labyrinth. So where was Red? Was he even here? Kamps confidently lead her through one doorway, revealing a comfortable and wood-panelled room with large couches surrounding a well-stocked bar.
"Strip." He barked, striding over to the booze.
Rohypnol, probably. She thought, eyeing the way he made a martini. Okay, Keen. You've got about twenty seconds before being drugged and sold into the sex trade. Her trembling fingers found the invisible zipper on her dress, audibly pulling down the toggle until fabric pooled at her feet. She carefully stepped out of the puddled dress, heels echoing off the hardwood.
She pulled the small gun out of her garter belt hostler, and armed it with a loud click. Kamps turned around to face a deadly weapon, forgotten martini falling to the floor.
"Where is Raymond Reddington?"
The door behind her opened with a crash. Liz swung her gun over while Kamps dove down.
"Dembe?!" She blurted out, lowering her weapon from the bodyguard.
"Lizzie? What in the world are you wearing?" Behind him, Red, looking dishevelled but still completely composed, eyed Liz with barely concealed amusement, worry, and … jealousy?
Desire?
His gaze swept over her swollen lips, chest, and settled on the vast expanse of thigh. She started a full-body blush.
"I'm trying to save your life!"
"I called her to say you were taken. Told her to stay at home and lock the doors." Dembe said, carefully averting his eyes, and focusing instead on Kamps – still on the floor and incredibly confused.
"I appreciate the effort my dear, but there are some things I prefer to do myself," Red shook himself and turned to Kamps, "and dealing with this scum is one of them." He disarmed Dembe in one clean movement, and tapped Kamps twice in the chest. Liz stared in shock as the man bled out without uttering a sound, her own gun pointed uselessly at the floor. She looked back up to find Red directly in front of her, one hand on her face and seemingly assessing any damage. She shrugged him off and started towards her discarded dress, embarrassed.
"Don't. I'd have to burn it anyways." Liz felt Red drape his signature windbreaker over her shoulders. "Let's go home."
She let herself be lead out of the room – away from her only lead to a sex trade ring, now dead. What would Cooper say? How could she be so stupid?
"Thank you, Lizzie." Red whispered, a guiding land placed on her lower back. "I'd be a captive more often, if I always got this welcome."
Elizabeth Keen is no damsel in distress.
But for Raymond Reddington, she might make an exception.