Summery:Liz Keen's life has not made sense since Red Reddington appeared in it, but her reality will grow stranger still before it begins to become clear. It starts with a tip on a government agent turned leak, but the case soon has deeper implications - about both Red's mission and certain darker forces at work. Red seems determined to win Liz's trust, and with resurfacing suspicions about Tom and mounting tensions at work, she's hard pressed to continue to resist his concern. She must come to grips with her new reality, and face strange truths about a life she thought she knew. Canon placement: begun just after 1.08, set a month or two after and will not be taking 1.09 & 1.10 (or later) directly into account. This will be pairing fic.
Notes: Please be aware that this is a story in progress. I have some of the infrastructure laid out, but these chapters are lengthy and will be spaced out a bit, but I'm working away and this will not be abandoned i promise! Please bear with me. I'm doing quite a bit of world building and keeping my fingers crossed that i don't get too badly jossed!
This is and will be a slow burn, but hopefully satisfying Red/Liz fic - I am a whole hearted supporter of a wary and feisty Liz + a dark but honorable Red. I think all the struggle and uncertainty only makes for a sweeter resolution, don't you? In any case, if Red/Liz is not your cup of tea, you are now warned. :)
Many thanks to my Beta, LovelyLittleFreckle, thank you so much my dear! 3
Disclaimer: any character you recognize and the world itself is not mine, no infringement is intended.
"We're going to have to do something about your poker face, Lizzy," he said from where he was reclined luxuriantly in a tufted leather Eames chair and ottoman, studying some document.
Aside from an enormous teak coffee table in front of what was likely the sofa, this chair was the only piece in the room not shrouded by dust cloths. The drapes were pulled back from the tall picture windows and the anemic winter sun poured in, making Reddington look rather pale and nearly ordinary. None of his little entourage was present, although Mr. Grey had shown her to the sitting room and she'd seen a glimpse of Dembe focused intently on a computer in what might have been a dining room before it was filled up with equipment.
His remark was an opening salvo and it didn't immediately register as Liz took in the setting for today's meeting. "My poker face," she repeated.
"Yes. You're a special agent, Lizzy, I assumed they would have given you some training in subterfuge - I believe I remember something to that effect in my long lost former life." His tone was smooth and jovial, he peered up at her with that insouciant smirk that always made her hackles rise.
"You may recall my training was in behavioral sciences and profiling, before this… detour of yours."
"And you were remarkably proficient in that field ," he put aside the file he'd been pursuing when she'd walked in. "However, our work will bring us into situations where you will need to blend in and react seamlessly at a moment's notice. I know it's something like a trial by fire for you, but you can't just stumble in and gawk around you like a country tourist in the city. Don't get me wrong, Lizzy, it's a charming expression on you, delightful in fact - ah, and there it is right now."
"Now, hang on," she tried to interject. Liz realized she was rather gawping at his sheer audacity and tried to school her features, her cheeks prickling hot.
"But these aren't amateurs I'm leading you to, and neither am I. It will look very strange if it seems I've suddenly taken on an associate who is so obviously wet behind the ears."
"For one thing I think I've been relatively professional given the impossible situations, and for another I never asked for you to involve me in your bizarre machinations."
"No, I know. And though you don't believe me, I am sorry about that. But it's only your safety I'm thinking about. You must simply cultivate a stronger sense of sang froid." He rose from the chair and set to peeling back the dust cloth from the long, low, rather austere looking sofa. "Have a seat, Lizzy, I'll just tell Grey we'd like coffee, won't be a moment."
"Anyway, I thought you had information for me," called Liz as he slipped from the room, "About the Dearborn leaks?" But there came no response.
Liz stood for a moment, indecisive, and then perched at the edge of the dove grey leather seat. The sitting room was large, cavernous almost. It, and in fact the whole house seemed to be designed in that scandinavian modern style that was so popular in the 50s and 60s. Not the cheesy version she knew from old sitcoms, but an airy, refined version that spoke of real money, all timber framing, white plaster, glass and dark wood floors. Beyond the enormous windows, the yard was wooded in a landscaped sort of way, with no neighbors in sight. A light dusting of soggy looking snow lingered in the shady places though no snow had fallen in the city, that she had seen. It had been a long way out of her way to come out here, Liz hoped that Reddington's promise of information hadn't just been a ruse to get her to sit for a scolding. She'd taken the morning off work to attend to his summons, the imperious bastard, although she she supposed there wouldn't be much work if their source of intel didn't feel like playing ball.
True to his word though, he was back shortly carrying a black lacquer tray with a delicate coffee service in celadon green. He set the tray on the table with his usual smooth grace and nary a clatter of porcelain and seated himself next to Liz. Rather nearer than she would have chosen, near enough that his elbow brushed hers when he adjusted his jacket. She considered scooting over and away, but it was a concession she was too stubborn to make. After all, his company was often irritating but hardly distasteful. Besides, from this close distance she could smell his sweet, subtle cologne and it was refreshing in the distinctly musty air of the place.
"I must apologize for the state of the house, you've caught us mid move," he said as though she'd dropped by on an unannounced social call and not because he'd summoned her. "Still, you must admit it's a lovely place. It belonged to an old friend. We didn't part on the best of terms, I'm sorry to say, but he left it to me in the end. In memory of the good ol' days, he said, but I suspect it was partly to do with some… things he was storing that he didn't want in the wrong hands. He told me that, even as adversaries, there was no one he trusted more to keep the place in working order and not sell it off for one of those atrocious developments so beloved by suburbanites." As he spoke he went through the ritual of pouring the coffee and milk, apparently unwilling to talk shop until it was done.
Stalling, she thought. Reddington liked to keep her attention for as long as he could.
Steam was visibly rising from the cups in the chill room. He paused with the silver tongs poised over the sugar bowl, which was filled with lumpen, golden brown sugar cubes. "Still avoiding sugar are we, Lizzy?"
She stomped on the urge to ask him how he'd known about that little attempt at healthy eating. Asking was part of the game and she didn't feel like playing. "No," she said firmly, "I'll take two."
He smiled at her contrariness in a way that made her want to fidget as he served the two cubes as asked, but she accepted her cup with what she hoped was a look of bland professionalism.
"All this boils down to," he continued, "Is a lot of dust, a ponderous amount of unpacking and a decrepit furnace that will need replacing. I've decided to make this my home base for the time being, in spite of it all. It's a comfortable distance from you lot, and there are some truly fond memories with these walls," he glanced around for dramatic effect but his expression was more smug lasciviousness than nostalgia.
Liz hid her scowl with a sip of her coffee. It was rich and strong, almost citrusy, if a trifle sweet. "I'll be sure to let Cooper know where you'll be. However, this doesn't have anything to do with the leak. Do you have information or don't you?"
"I think you know by now that I always have information. But first things first, Lizzy, I would like some indication from you that you understand how important it is that your endearing emotional honesty doesn't give away the game."
"When have I ever given away the game? You've thrown me into all sorts of strange and dangerous situations and we're all still here."
"You've announced yourself as FBI to three of my acquaintances and you've walked into multiple situations and proceeded to look visibly shocked at the goings on." Reddington turned to face her directly, his knee bumped hers briefly.
Under the intensity of his gaze, Liz had a hard time blustering through and refuting this. In the barest fact, what he said was true. She had tried to ply her FBI credential on more than one occasion to get information, and she had walked in to find Reddington in meetings with strange and surprising characters. There was the housewife laundering money, the little old english jeweler who dealt in passports and black market antiquities on the side, a glamorous older socialite who was handing off a filthy sum of money in a transaction, the details of which Liz never actually learned. There had been no real consequences to these encounters, the parties involved seemed to be too beholden or cowed by Red to question her presence even if she seemed out of place. As for trying to use the weight of the Bureau to their advantage, not only was it a part of her training, it did usually work and when it hadn't, Reddington had been able to talk fast enough to right the situation before anything got out of hand. Perhaps not her proudest moments, but it was it was hardly Reddington's place to reprimand her, she was supposed to be his handler not the other way around.
"Maybe if you furnished me with details, as you supposed to do as an informant, rather than leading me in blind I wouldn't have to play catch up all the time," she sniped back after a hair too long a pause to collect her thoughts.
"I was pretty sure you knew the name of the game was 'Catch Red Reddington's bad bad friends,' Lizzy, and that game will be over very quickly if my acquaintances start talking and it becomes widely known that I'm working with US government agents. So at the very least, stop identifying yourself as FBI to anyone who will hold still long enough, alright?" his tone was infuriatingly condescending with a hard, scathing edge underneath.
Liz set her cup and saucer down to save herself the temptation of flinging it at the asset. "If my performance in the field is so very annoying to you, maybe you could find some other poor agent's life to manipulate beyond repair." As soon as she said it she knew it was a pointless bit of melodrama, he had made it clear no other agent would do, if she wasn't there to work with he would never have turned himself in. This was obvious even though she didn't understand his reasoning. "Anyway, what the hell did you think was going to happen? You're involving the FBI and the CIA in your crusade, whatever it is. You're going down a list and having us pick people off using your information. At the very least, aren't your criminal buddies going to think the feds are onto you? Aren't they going to catch on at some point and sever ties before you can bring them down?"
Reddington sighed and brushed his fingers across his forehead, sipped his coffee, turned his face back to the window, apparently organizing his thoughts. The tension seemed to leave him, his posture easing towards resigned. The early December day was finally beginning to lighten up beyond the glass, the sun taking on a warmer hue. Liz retrieved her cup, feeling the cold of the room despite her coat, and settled in to the couch a little more. The coffee was far too nice to let it go to waste.
Despite herself, she could never maintain a head of steam where Reddington was concerned, not while talking to him, not while sitting comfortably next to him. He always found a way to put her at ease, even as he set out to wind her up again. He was controlling and condescending and much of him was made of threat and power, and yet not one ounce of that threat had ever been directed at her, not even in play.
"I've always known that this would be the endgame for my little organization, Lizzy," he sounded tired, lost in thought, "I have no delusions on that score. I have amassed wealth enough to live very comfortably for the rest of my days, even if I live to a ripe old age. I have also amassed enough enemies that living to such an age will be something of a miracle, so i don't intend to retire without putting some things in order. I have made my business as a man with nothing left to lose but the truth is, there are still some things, some people I would see protected. And the people on my list - they cannot be allowed to continue. They are a threat to everyone, even on my side of the law, and I don't intend to disappear into the sunset until they are dead or in prison and no longer a threat. Make no mistake, Rome will burn, Lizzy, but not before the right moment, and certainly not with you and I trapped inside," he caught her gaze, his face sharply intent, "Do you understand what it is I'm saying?"
"I - yes, I understand," she wanted add that she could only understand in the very broadest sense because he was still keeping her in the dark about practically everything, even those details that seemed like they would be personally important to her, but it wasn't the moment. She understood well enough what he meant. Don't rock the boat too much before the job is done, or they would all regret it. She wondered if she was one of the people he meant to protect, or if she was just a means to an end. He talks like a man with a terrible secret, she thought, he talks like a man dying. But surely that's not it, Red was far too strong and vital to be ill. Perhaps he had simply grown weary of the terrible game, if what he hinted was true, it was never his choice to begin with. What she said was, "Do you know you have a tendency to speak in paragraphs?"
Reddington barked a startled laugh and grinned at her. It was a fond grin. "Yes. Verbosity is a great weakness of mine, I'm sorry to say."
Liz shook her head and smiled in exasperation. "Always an answer for everything."
They sat in companionable silence for a time, sipping their coffee. He plied her with a plate of wonderfully soft and buttery shortbread cookies from the tray. When she remarked on them, he smiled and told her Dembe had made them. Liz peered over at him skeptically, sure he was pulling her leg.
"You don't believe me? Well, the man does present a rather stern exterior, I grant you. But he doesn't always sleep well. He says he finds it soothing to bake in the middle of the night."
"Really?"
"Ask him yourself if you don't believe me. Or better yet, let him know you enjoyed the biscuits on the way out. I'm sure he'd appreciate it."
Liz nodded but held her tongue, still not sure if she believed him. She couldn't quite process the image of tall, handsome, deadly Dembe up to his elbows in flour. Maybe, she thought, I mean who knows? We all need a hobby.
Eventually, Reddington retrieved the file he'd been reading and handed it to Liz. "The Dearborn leaks," he began, "Your government has a real mess on its hands with this one. And so soon on the heels of Edward Snowden. I'm willing to bet many a senior operative in the Agencies will be upping their blood pressure meds in days to come." he looked wickedly pleased with this idea. "But unlike Snowden, an altruist interested in a grab at fame and an excuse never to see his girlfriend again, Wendell Dearborn is a ruthless opportunist. Now that he's made a name for himself on the international stage, he means to sell his secrets to the highest bidder. I that folder you will find information about the likely high bidders. One of them is a name on my list, though not one I'd planned to deal with yet. None of them are people you will want in possession of state secrets," Reddington took up his coffee again, settling in for the lecture. "I don't have a full picture yet. Dembe has been monitoring a secure feed Dearborn has been using to spread tastes of the information he is selling. He claims to have a list, hundreds of names long, of agents in the field."
"My god."
"Yes. I may not agree with the operations of the Agencies, but exposing the foot soldiers for them to be picked off one by one, that's just dirty pool."
"I'm going to need the information on the secure feed. I'm sure the tech team can trace it back to Dearborn himself."
"I'm sure he's in transit at the moment. With an eye to ending up in South America or China, some country that would be happy enough to shelter him in return for getting one over on the good ol' United States. You should be asking yourselves why he hasn't been spotted in any airports or border crossings."
"You think he's on a private jet somewhere? Or he's hunkered down somewhere for the time being?"
"I'm not here to do your job for you, Lizzy, simply pointing out it's an interesting problem." he shrugged, with that air of casual indifference that seemed specifically designed to wind her up. "The most expedient way to secure the information would be to set up some intermediary to win the bidding yourselves, keeping it all in house as it were."
"I'm pretty sure no one will like the idea of paying off a man wanted for treason, even we do catch him afterwards." She began flipping through the folder, skimming the information therein. Red had neglected to tell her which of the persons mentioned was the one on his blacklist, she realized. probably by design.
"If you're going to let your rigid, law enforcement morals hamstring you, it makes no difference to me. However I would caution Harold and those to whom he answers that going in with heavy boots to mop up the other bidders, even the one on my list, before you've got your man in hand will send the rats running. Even breathing too heavily in that direction may alert Dearborn, the man seem far too well connected for a man on the run, and he does know how you do business. Can't lose another one into the eager hands of the Russians now can you?" Reddington's jovial tone made it clear that, as much as he would prefer to keep Dearborn's information out of the wrong hands, he would find such an outcome amusing. Such dark humour spoke of a man used to deadly stakes and possessed of an ability to stay above it all. Sang Froid, she supposed, such as he suggested she develop. Well, no thanks to that, she didn't wish to be that jaded just yet.
"Catching criminals is what we do for a living," she huffed "We do know how it works."
Red didn't dignify this with an answer, just fixed Liz with a wry look. It was was a wry look that very clearly said 'you certainly wouldn't have caught me if I hadn't walked up to your front door and knocked' and dared her to deny it. She didn't.
"What isn't clear to me in all this," he said, returning to the topic at hand, "Is the answer to the question that will be the focus of the inevitable internal inquiries - was Dearborn turned, and for some specific purpose, did he have some kind of personal epiphany, or we he corrupt from the beginning?" he paused to consider for a moment and then seemed to shrug it off, "Ah, well, if you lot manage to bring him in I'm sure you'll get the chance to ask him. Of course it's also possible that there's more to this than meets the eye."
"Are you hinting you know more background on this than you're letting on?"
"Me? Withhold information from my favourite agent? Certainly not," he gave a wry grin. "But I've been in business long enough to know that when a set of circumstances doesn't feel right, there is always good reason."
"I'll keep that in mind." Liz wasn't sure in the least that Reddington wasn't keeping something back so he could reveal it later in a dramatic moment, or ploy to get his way. However there was no convincing him to reveal anything he didn't want to, she'd learned that much about him at least. "I should take this information to the team." Liz closed the folder and tucked it into her bag.
"Of course. I'll show you out, we'll check in with Dembe."
He led her through the dim but spacious hallway between the living room, front entry, and other unknown depths of the house. Just off the foyer to the other side was the dining room, which had been taken over with computer equipment and unpacked boxes. Red seemed to be in earnest about settling in for a while. She wondered how he felt secure enough in his position with the FBI and with his underground associates to make a move toward semi-permanence. She also wondered what had become of the Hempstead house. She had liked that house, it had seemed warm and opulent where as this one felt both boldly elegant and austere. this was hardly the time to ask so she put it from her mind.
The dining room was grand under all the clutter, long and narrow and bright from a tall bank of windows that overlooked an overgrown side garden. There were monitors, computer towers, and a printer set up on the dark, massive table. Dembe was perched at the edge of one of the high backed chairs, leaning over the keyboard, chin in hand to peer at the only active monitor.
"You're going to give yourself a backache that way, my friend," said Reddington, announcing their presence.
"Ah, Raymond," he stretched and settled back more comfortably, "You have good timing. He's posted the time of the auction, details to be announced."
Liz stepped forward and peered over Dembe's shoulder at the digital countdown clock that was ticking away on the screen. Two and a half days, just about, until the bidding. It was not a large window in which to catch Dearborn before he was away with money in hand, heading so far under ground he might as well be a character in A Journey to the Center of the Earth. Of course there were plenty of people in other departments and other agencies on the hunt for this guy, it wasn't all down to Cooper's team. It never would have been their problem at all if Reddington hadn't called them up saying he had valuable information on the matter, for the ears of Lizzy Keen. She was sure that these small tidbits weren't what he'd meant, he seemed to be stringing them along for now, or maybe she'd been right in the first place, and it was an excuse to get her to listen to his lecture. She was holding tight to her temper for the moment.
"I don't suppose the clock is something we can trace…?" asked Liz.
"Unfortunately, no. It is a simple file, only connected to the image host," said Dembe. He closed the window with the clock, returning to what looked like a message board.
"Is that where Dearborn is posting? Can you send the address to the tech team at headquarters?"
Dembe glanced at Red for confirmation and then nodded, "Of course, Agent Keen. If you give me the email, I will send it along. I'm sure he is posting on other boards as well, this is just the first one I was able to access."
"Right, well thank you, in any case." She pulled out her notebook and after a moment's thought and consultation of her phone's contacts list, she put down the email of that soft spoken but apparently brilliant tech guy she'd worked with a couple of times, Aram.
Just then Grey appeared, in that mysterious and unobtrusive way he had, and murmured to Reddington that "a certain person has made contact, Sir, if you want to take the call."
Red sighed lightly. "Ahead of schedule. I must take this call, Lizzy, but I will be in contact with you soon, rest assured." He gave her his most charming smile and before she could formulate a response he was heading after Grey to take this mysterious phone call. Twice in one meeting, she thought, he sets new records in aggravation every day.
"Well," said Liz, nodding in the direction Red had gone,"I guess you get used to that, working with him."
"Eventually," said Dembe with a faint smile, "If you value your blood pressure."
"Right. Thanks again. I have to head out, they're waiting on me at the Post Office."
"Good afternoon, then, Agent Keen," he said politely before turning back to his work on the computer.
Liz got as far as the front hall before a thought occurred to her. She retraced her steps. "Dembe," she said hesitantly, "Is it true you baked those shortbread cookies?"
"I did indeed. Does that surprise you, Agent Keen?" he turned to face her where she stood in the doorway.
"No, I -" she blushed a bit, feeling she'd put a foot wrong, "Yes, actually, I guess."
Dembe smile goodnaturedly. "Sometimes, if you are restless in the middle of the night it's nice to do something productive, don't you agree? Good for peace of mind."
"I'll have to remember that," she said, thinking of all her sleepless nights recently, "Anyway, you might have missed your calling, the were delicious."
"Thank you," he leaned in conspiratorially, "I am surprised he saved you any. Raymond has a terrible sweet tooth."
Liz grinned, surprised. "I'll have to keep that in mind, too," she said, thinking rather nonsensically of bribing Red with confectionaries like a small child to get information. "See you later, Dembe. And call me Liz, will you? He certainly doesn't stand on ceremony."
"No, he never does," he said, "Good afternoon, then, Liz."
Liz gave a small wave and headed back out into the real world.