Disclaimer: All rights for "The Blacklist" belong to Jon Bokenkamp and NBC. This is merely a derivate work, written for fangirlish amusement ;)

A/N:This is the first of what is supposed to be a three chapter long fanfic. The story is almost completely written and I hope to have it finished here before season two starts. Honestly, I haven't really written anything beyond a oneshot in years. So, please, bear with me if me being all rusty shows here and there.

My thanks belong to jessahmewren for being an absolutely wonderful and supportive beta.

In Plain Sight

A carnival. A vain, pompous carnival.

It was the only description Liz thought applied for the scene in front of her. All around, people in fine-cut tuxedos and designer ball gowns crowded the luxurious and brightly illuminated halls of the W Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. The music from string orchestra on the stage had become barely audible against the chatter and laughter that filled the air.

When Harvey Stance, one of North America's leading high-tech moguls hosted a charity gala on behalf of the victims of global human trafficking D.C.'s rich and powerful followed his invitation like the tune of a Pied Piper.

From her place at the table for the guests of honor, Liz silently observed the spectacle while Steve, the Air Force lieutenant colonel sitting next to her who had held her attention for the larger part of the evening, was engaged in small talk with an elderly woman on his right, leaving her the moment to ponder the scenery.

She had never been a person to socialize easily, doing her best to avoid attending the usual parties even at college. But this splendor and opulence. The display of self-importance and fake smiles. It was almost suffocating.

Only a few more hours and she would be able to leave. Except for the file waiting to be read on the nightstand in her apartment, there was a whole weekend without work waiting for her.

She heaved a sigh, running her fingertips absently over the delicate stem of the wine glass. Briefly her gaze caught on her own reflection, wavering pale in the burgundy liquid, causing her to wonder how she had come to be at the center of this whole event.

"It's fantastic, isn't it, Liz?" Harvey Stance had asked her a few hours earlier. Boasting with pride about his own event as he had led her to her seat at the main table for the guests of honour. He was a tall, broad shouldered man of fifty with vivid blue eyes and mid-length dark hair that was combed back from his high forehead. He carried himself with the confidence of a self-made man, used to steering a huge enterprise with thousands of employees.

"This is all happening because of you, Liz," he had continued, never waiting for her reply. He had waved his hand in an elaborate gesture through the air after personally handing hera crystal flute filled with champagne. "Everything is only possible because of you and your colleagues at the FBI. Without you I'd have lost everything - my kids, my purpose."

Stance's praise had been deliberate, loud enough for everyone at the main table and within 10 feet around to hear. Liz had felt dozens of pair of eyes suddenly turning toward her direction.

"We always try to give our very best, Harvey," she had replied, hating how shallow those words sounded. Her fingers curled tightly around the glass in her hand as the abashment burned in her cheeks.

The taskforce had managed to save the lives of Stance's two sons almost three months ago. Something Stance for some odd reason had chosen to regard entirely as Liz's personal achievement. After the case, she had politely and repeatedly refused his attempts to award her in some way for the rescue of his children. Once he had stopped calling her, she had thought the matter was resolved. Foolishly. How foolish, she had only realized several weeks later as she received the invitation as a guest of honor for tonight's event. An event with sole purpose to raise money for the victims of human trafficking, the very topic she had devoted her senior thesis to. It was the most presumptuous "thank you"-bouquet Stance could bestow on her, one he knew she could not refuse. It was simply not in the nature of men like Stance not to get their way.

It had been one of those unlikely coincidences that the team at the Post Office had become involved in Stance's case. His children, seven-year-old twin boys, had been kidnapped on their way to school almost two months ago when a truck parked on a side street had blocked the way. The moment the car with the boys had stopped, a group of armed mercenaries had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Three bodyguards and the driver had died in the assault, and the boys had vanished without a trace.

The abduction of his children had had only one goal, to pressure Stance into turning over the source code for an encrypted communication software, one he had exclusively develop for U.S military in exchange for his children's lives. It had been a demand Stance would have fulfilled without so much as a second guess, prepared to face the personal consequences for himself afterwards had it saved his sons' lives.

Liz had never needed to prepare the in-depth profile on the man to understand that. Behind the façade of the pompous businessman and self-made billionaire, he was most of all a late and loving father, who had already given up the hope to have ever children of his own when his wife had become pregnant eight years ago. By taking those children from him, the perpetrators had gone after his greatest vulnerability. The one thing that would cause a man like Stance to betray everything he ever worked for along with his country.

But that hadn't mean Stance had been prepared give up without a fight. After depositing the code at an unknown place and having arranged all the terms of its delivery through a trusted courier who could only be stopped by Stance personally, the man had reached out through a safe channel to a personal contact within the government. And this someone had chosen to place the case in the hands of Cooper and his task force, knowing they were already operating beyond any kind of official records.

It had been a simple equation. If the team had failed, nobody would have ever known that the government had been aware of the massive threat to national security beforehand. The moment they had succeeded, the men on top, had claimed the responsibility for the fortunate outcome.

Eventually, it had truly been mere luck that the perpetrator who had later turned out to be wealthy client from the UAE with loose ties to AQAP had hired a Blacklister with the abduction of the boys. Number 113, only known under the alias Black Pete, was a German who had mostly operated in Mexico and Colombia for over 20 years. He was responsible for the disappearance of hundreds of human rights activists, teachers and members of opposition in both countries. Once Red had recognized the connection to him through one of the mercenaries killed during the abduction of the boys, Liz had been able to compile a profile on the man and his methods. It had allowed her to narrow the possible locations where Stance's children could be held down to four options, forcing the team to split up in different units as they had been nearing the deadline. In the end, it had been She and Red who had found and freed the boys from the abandoned warehouse while the SWAT team under her command had provided covering fire.

Red.

Liz still didn't know what kind of incentive had ensured his direct involvement in the case, however; she was certain she would never forget the haunted look on his face when he had watched Stance's reunion with his sons from the back of the Hive.

She had long suspected that Red had never voluntarily abandoned his wife and daughter like the FBI files state. She had tried several times to ask him about that Christmas Eve in 1990, but he had deflected every single attempt and her own pitiful research had come up dry. Sources had turned silent; files disappeared while the wife and daughter had remained untraceable. Vanished like ghosts.

But in that moment, comprehension had seized her like cold claws, and Liz had understood beyond a shadow of doubt that the official records were wrong, and whatever had happened two decades ago, Red still felt it like an open wound. Herein had to lay the motivation for everything he did, for everything he was searching for.

For Liz, that knowledge had only added another piece to the intriguing and painful puzzle that Raymond Reddington had become to her heart. A puzzle that had presented itself in front of her and refused to leave her alone since she had learned that it had been him who had saved her from the fire all those years ago.

The revelation had come by accident during the height of Berlin's threat to their lives. They had once again shared the lodgings when she had burst into his bedroom one night, excited and unthinking, glowing with a breakthrough she had just made on the origin of the compass rose tattoo that some of the prisoners' on Berlin's plane had born.

He had been standing in front of the large garden window of the room, speaking with barely concealed anger into a mobile in his hand. He was already wearing his suit pants, but the white dress shirt lay forgotten on the bed. With his mind on the conversation and his gaze fixed on some point outside, Red hadn't noticed her enter the room, and Liz had immediately stumbled backwards, had tried to leave the room when she had seen him in the state of undress but before she had the chance to turn away her eyes caught the web of scars that marred his back. And then, she had understood, had understood what appeared impossible to believe.

She must have made some kind of noise then because Red had turned around, the conversation on the phone immediately forgotten.

The shocked expression on his face as he saw her standing in the doorway to his room had been all the confirmation Liz had needed.

It had been him that night in the fire. The arms that had cradled her. The man who had shielded her from the flames.

It had been him. It had always been him, a young Naval intelligence officer on surveillance duty for the high profile target that had been her father. Those had been the only details of the night Red had been willing to share, insisting once more that knowing her father's identity would place her in grave danger.

Abandoned by a father who was a career criminal.

Those words, they had finally made sense that night when she had asked him how her father had died. Red had never needed to put the terrible truth into words. She had understood the implications nonetheless when he had reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "Your father… he broke through the kitchen floor as he tried to leave the house."

Something in her small universe had shifted irrevocably in that second.

Her father had died trying to escape from the fire. Without her.

But Red… he had saved her, had protected her.

He was even trying to protect her now, in this dangerous quest for answers they were both on.

Suddenly every motive she had ever suspected, every single perception she had formed about the man sitting next to her on the edge of the bed had been shattered. In that moment, she had understood that she knew nothing about Raymond Reddington, and ever since she had been trying to assemble the broken pieces of her image of him anew while she was searching for the missing ones.

On the same night, with sleep impossible and Red being only one room away across the hallway, she had begun to compile a new profile, one the FBI would never receive.

On a daily basis, Red only showed the one side of himself to the world, the one everybody expected to see. The Concierge of Crime. The Traitor. Murderer. Fugitive. The criminal mastermind who moved and disposed people according to his needs, like pawns on a chessboard. A man without conscience or allegiances.

However, there was a different truth. Tiny pieces of another story that had appeared once she had started to look for them. Once she had taken the time to observe Red more closely.

It was all still there. The brilliant supposed-to-be-admiral, the loyal soldier and friend, and most of all, the father who had lost his family-one way or another.

It was all there, safely hidden behind the facade of the Concierge of Crime, and with every further glimpse, Liz had become more and more determined to peel layer after layer away from the mask Red wore.

What she hadn't expected though, was how emotionally attached she would become to the man who emerged beneath the monster. It had happened slowly, gradually over the course of months, like the sea crashing against concrete, each time washing another little part of her defenses away; and every steadying hand at her elbow, every occasional touch or shared laugh over dinner, only added to the strong current that was pulling her in… and now she was adrift out in the open sea.

She was in love with Raymond Reddington.

She hadn't realized it until it was too late, until she had witnessed from afar as Naomi Highland had placed one of those impertinent little kisses on the corner of his mouth and her own stomach had coiled with nausea.

Suddenly there had been no more air in her lungs, nothing for her to hold onto, just an overwhelming sensation of certainty as she stumbled back out of the room and into the shadows of a hallway. Not only had she lost her distance, she had lost her heart as well.

This is how drowning must truly feel like, she had thought then.

And it scared her.

Scared her more than the outlines of the shadow-like forces of the nameless adversary they were fighting.

Scared her because it was foolish.

Hopeless.

In the last two years she had learned to anticipate Red's way of thinking, the fine-spun logic of a commander steering a criminal empire in times of war. Every step was part of a far greater plan, every person a figure on the board. Even Liz.

Especially Liz.

Need, attraction, desire might all be forgivable sins for a man playing the greatest game of all with the only goal to have his revenge, but falling in love and giving in to the feeling was a distraction, a vulnerability Red would never allow himself.

With no one.

Especially not with her. Regardless how much he might care for her.

And she should not have allowed it, either.

There were bigger things for her at stake than her foolish heart. She wanted, needed answers, the truth about Sam and most of all, the truth about herself.

This had been the only reason she had ever climbed out of that taxi that day, hadn't fled as far as she could from everything because deep down she had known she couldn't live with the uncertainty. She had told herself in that moment that she would use him like he had used her and the FBI.

That this was what it was all about. That this was it could ever be. And she wouldn't risk her only chance at finding the truth now because of her heart, a heart that had once before misled her so profoundly.

So she had pretended, pretended that she needed the distance when she had asked for a change in their living arrangements, claiming she needed a more permanent residence again.

He had accepted her decision immediately, and she had pretended that she hadn't seen the unspoken sorrow in his gaze, had pretended that it all didn't matter.

Like she was still trying to pretend. Even now.

But it did matter. It did hurt.

Just how much, she had only understood when Red had left for Europe three weeks ago, attending to some business he had deliberately neglected to tell her about.

The day before he had left, they had spent the afternoon and evening at Red's residence, reviewing the evidence they had collected on the Third Man, the mastermind behind everything, who had sent Berlin and others like foot-soldiers into a battle against Red, to weaken him, to distract him.

It was long after midnight when they had realized that once more they had found nothing but dead ends. Seeing the mixture of frustration and exhaustion on Red's face when he had turned away from the evidence board had been enough for her pretence of indifference to crumble.

Liz had reached out and placed her right hand on his cheek, the sudden need to comfort him overwhelming. She had seen the flash of shock and surprise in his gaze at the gesture, had felt the slight shiver beneath her touch while his eyes bore into hers. Searching. Asking. Waiting for an explanation.

"We will find him," she had told him then, the whispered words an echo of his own spoken so many months ago.

A small, genuine smile had formed on his mouth in return, his left hand reaching up to cover hers with a soft caress.

"Yes, we will," he had said but the air in her lungs had solidified when afterwards he had closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, before turning his face to place a lingering kiss into her palm.

The contact had sent a rush of heat through her veins, like a stream of lava that had pooled in the depth of her stomach. She had sucked in a breath and pressed her eyes briefly shut, trying to reign in the sensation. When she had opened them again, she had looked down and away, afraid that her eyes would betray the fatal mélange of desire and love she felt for him the moment he would look at her again.

"Let's better get back to work," she had said quietly, her gaze lingering unseeing on the evidence board as she had turned away and withdrew her hand from his grasp.

There had been a moment of silence before he had joined her again, assembling the pieces on the board anew.

The next day he had informed her that he was leaving for Europe. Besides the short call to let her know he would be staying in Paris most of the time and that she could always reach him if she needed him, she hadn't heard from him since, and nothing at the Post Office had demanded his involvement. Only his people contacted her for the daily security sweep of her apartment.

It was the second time in their almost two year-long partnership that Red's almost constant presence in her life was gone, and Liz was scared by the intensity with which she missed him. She had lost count of the times she had taken up her phone to merely call him, to hear his voice.

In the end, she had always put the device down again, not willing to give in to the feeling and alert him to the foolish notions of her heart. It had taken almost two weeks without a word from him that Liz had truly understood that it was already too late for that. That Red already knew. That he was giving her time and space to overcome those feelings. And she was determined to do just that.

Yet with every day that passed the evil imp of fear in her heart had become stronger, louder, telling her that he might choose not to return this time, that he didn't need her anymore and that she might have lost him like she seemed to lose everybody who mattered in her life.

Liz felt how the thought caused the well-known knot in her chest to clench with an old pain. Blinking, she forced herself to brush it away. She had made the decision to enjoy herself tonight, to forget about Raymond Reddington–at least for a few hours. This was supposed to be her night after all.

With a determined smile, she turned her gaze back to the man sitting next to her on her right at the table of honor, trying to finally grant him the attention he had shown her earlier in the evening and deserved as well.

Steve.

He was an Air Force lieutenant colonel serving as staff officer at the office of the Joint Chiefs. Stance's anonymous government contact had brought him in on the case as a confidant and liaison between the contact himself, Stance, the commander of the Joint Chiefs and Cooper during the case. He and Liz had only briefly met during the investigation, but she had later heard about the excellent job he had done balancing the different interests and players behind the scenes in what could have turned out to be a massive security threat for the entire U.S. armed forces.

Therefore, it had been a pleasant surprise to find that Harvey Stance had decided to seat him right next to her at the table for the evening while everybody else involved with the case was placed somewhere else in the room.

He was in his early forties and almost a head taller than Liz and right now involved in a friendly small talk with an older woman, sitting two seats away on his left at the round table, inquiring about the different medals on his dress uniform. Warm blue eyes shone with amusement each time he spoke, making him look almost boyish in contrast to his thinning, blonde hair.

Liz smiled. Ever since she had arrived tonight, she had felt utterly out of place. Somewhere in the room all of her colleagues from the task force were assembled as guests, but once more it had been merely she who had been singled out by being placed at Stance's table among the guests of honor. Not Cooper or Agent Martin, but she, a supposedly ordinary FBI profiler, sitting at same table with the Director of the Bureau, the commander of the Joint Chiefs and several others of D.C.'s leading figures she only had known from the news.

Her overwhelming feeling of discomfort had only waned with Steve's presence at the table. He appeared very much unperturbed by the whole setting, and Liz still felt grateful for dry sense of humor he possessed, that kind which helps one even through the dullest evening. She was sure she hadn't laughed that much in weeks as in the few hours he had been sitting next to her at the table of honor.

Steve had proven to be the perfect distraction, and a distraction was the one thing she needed desperately right now. Steve apparently needed one as well. From what she had caught between the lines, he had ended his marriage a year ago, just like she had.

Well, not quite like her. She had never needed a divorce after all, given that she had never been legally married after all.

Tom was dead. Had been for over a year now. The man she had called her husband for years had died by her own hand and she was still waiting for a feeling of guilt to find her.

But so far, it had never come, and deep down Liz wondered how much of a monster this made her.

She was still contemplating the last notion when she heard Steve chuckle softly and searched his gaze. He was looking at her with an amused smile that caused several crinkles to appear around his eyes.

"What do they say? A penny for your thoughts."

Liz blinked in confusion until the meaning of his words resonated in her mind, and she realized she must have overheard his last comment.

"Steve, I'm sorry," she said with a soft gasp, "I don't know, I just… got lost admiring the crowd on the dance floor."

The answer was close enough to the truth, but Liz still felt her cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and shame as the smile in front of her broadened.

"Well, then you might not be averse to take a closer look at it." Steve rose from his chair, extending a hand to her. "Shall we?"

"I'd love to," Liz said, taking his hand as she rose as well.

She was about to follow Steve's lead through the small aisle between the tables when she felt a familiar sensation slither down her spine, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Pausing in her steps, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder and met the sharp gaze of a man sitting right next to Harvey Stance. She had noticed him earlier already. He was in his seventies, tall and slender, with a head full of white hair, however, she couldn't remember having been introduced to him or learning his name while Steve had shared little stories with her about the people at the table he knew.

When she turned away again, Liz could still feel his eyes following her. She shuddered inwardly. Whoever this man was, there had been something in his gaze. Cold. Calculating. An almost ruthlessness that appeared to betray his distinguished appearance, as if he was regarding her like a most peculiar lab rat.

But before Liz had a chance to ponder the feeling, she reached the edge the dance floor where Steve was already waiting for her.

tbc...