Raymond Reddington hates needles.
This international criminal mastermind, in the eyes of the world a traitor to his family and his country, a man reportedly without a soul, has done countless things that he considered unavoidable, though unpalatable. Some, he can think about with an easy conscience; others keep him up at night.
But none of them give him that fleeting thrill of fear he gets when someone approaches him with a syringe.
He doesn't blink when he sees it. In fact, you wouldn't even see him react. But Red is good at that, hiding his true feelings. Vulnerability is not one of his strong suits. In fact, Joseph Rasmussen (Number 47) once told him that if he ever saw Red display any kind of fear he would impale himself on the spot. Red considered pretending to be frightened in the weeks that followed that declaration, just to see if Rasmussen would be true to his word. But he didn't, because Rasmussen hadn't made Red's blacklist. Not yet. If only Red had been able to see into the future, he might have reconsidered.
It isn't the prick of the needle that bothers Red; he's been shot, stabbed, beaten, whipped, hit by a car (twice), had his kneecap broken, and had three of his fingernails ripped off. And no doubt he'd certainly have at least one or two of those things done to him again. All of them hurt more than the little sting of the needle. No, it's the complete lack of control that comes with being injected with something unknown that leaves him mentally trembling. After all, whatever is inside that syringe will affect his blood, his organs, his nervous system. He can't control those things, and control is the one thing Raymond Reddington needs. He needs it like a heartbeat.
He needs it like oxygen.
Because he can't follow his orders if he loses control. And the number one order, after the big one he gave himself up for, is that he must keep his secrets. She could never know that he gave himself up to the FBI after so many years in hiding because that was the only way he could get near her and keep his cover. That to protect her, he needs to drag her into his world. That people unknown to her know exactly how special she is, and that Red has been charged with the task of protecting her at all cost.
That's what he was ordered to do. And when he believes in a cause, Raymond Reddington follows orders. No matter what the cost to himself. That's why without hesitation when he was in the box and that gun was at her head he was able to turn to Agent Ressler and announce, "Agent Keen will die. Now is the time," and not flinch at what torture that meant he would face. He knew his mission had reached critical mass, and it was time to prove that he was worthy of the task he had been given by a power higher than the ones he knew would be after him for turning himself in to the FBI.
As though in preparation for this one moment, though Red knows better, he spent years watching her, learning about her, smiling at her accomplishments, ruing her poor decisions, privately worrying when something she did—like marrying Tom—put her in a precarious position. But he did what he was told. He is so deeply undercover, and has given up so much, and so many, that even he can't find himself, sometimes. That kind of single-mindedness, that particular sense of right and wrong, allows him to do the despicable without hesitation, and the necessary without looking away from the often bloody consequences.
Most of the time, he thinks, remembering how he closed his eyes when the gunshot rang out that he was certain was taking his dear friend Dembe's life right in front of him. He shivers at the memory. It isn't always easy to accept the fallout when it hits those who have been so loyal to him, so good to him. Those who are usually, though not in Dembe's case, completely blind to his real mission in this world.
"Increase the dosage," Anslo Garrick tells the doctor now, and Red listens as the medical flunky says the prisoner is already over the limit of what he can safely have, but that it isn't working because somehow Red is resisting. Control, Red thinks with a tiny measure of triumph. I have control. And that's something you have never learned, Anslo. He turns his burning, half-lidded eyes to his captor, puckers his lips into a kiss, offers the smallest of smiles. It's all he can manage if he wants to keep fighting.
It's enough. Garrick laughs. He knows all about Red's control, and it infuriates him. "Stick him again," he says casually, walking away.
Red closes his eyes, preparing himself.
He hates needles.