Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters recognisable from the show used in this work of fanfiction. I am making no profit from this work. This fic was inspired by 'Sugarcane' by Missy Higgins.

She Will Leave Our Games (to Never be the Same)

They'd been gone for almost a year when March 20th rolled around and Red announced he'd be going back to the States for a few days. She had regarded him curiously then; he had insisted that returning to the US was far too risky for them both whenever she brought the topic up. He'd even been putting off any business, requiring his clients to come to him instead, which most of them weren't able to do; he had suffered for that decision, and she was aware that it bothered him. Just two days before she had tested the water again and he had again told her it wasn't safe to return still. She wondered if he had lost his mind or hit his head very hard; Raymond Reddington did not change his mind like this. She resolved to wait until after dinner to challenge him on it, not wanting to spoil their meal.

How they had argued long into the night, her demanding a straight answer - For once in your life, Raymond Reddington, you will tell me the truth - while he deflected like the pro he was. She had gone to bed, still enraged, not expecting him to join her just a couple of hours later with one thing apparently on his mind. Sex. He wanted sex at a time like this. She forgot just how much it turned him on when she was angry with him, and wondered if she'd ever work out his peculiar quirks and kinks. In the few months since they had given into their feelings for one another she felt like she had barely scratched the surface with him, much as he assured her she knew him better than most. She made a mental note to fill her bedside drawer with pens - he still flinched when she wielded one too close to him - although she gave in, needing to expend her pent up energy in some other aggressive way and she was powerless to resist him when he insisted on touching her so brazenly.

Afterward they lay spent and tangled in the sheets, he on his back and her nestled into his side with his arm around her. The argument still hung in the air between them, but she would not press him for it again so soon; he could be very cantankerous when tired. He surprised her though, by broaching the subject himself. As he spoke of the small ballet company that he, the dutiful father, had taken his daughter to whenever he was on shore leave; Liz felt the familiar prickling sensation in her eyes that heralded the arrival of tears as he revealed that he had at times risked life and limb, not to mention irritated the company's Director to no end, by returning on the same date every year to watch the one production he had missed. It had been her last.

Three months later saw her rendering him speechless, not that she had long been over the shock of the revelation herself; fear was etched across his face as her words sunk in, and Liz stood wringing her hands as she waited for his response to her. He moved suddenly, startling her, and pulled her into him, kissing her soundly before pulling away with a smile to lean his forehead against hers. Knowing his history she had expected a more subdued reaction, even denial, so his positivity made her feel far more at ease. She hoped it would be a boy to avoid any future emotional turmoil for her to navigate with him, but whatever happened she had no doubt he would stay the course.

6 Years Later…

The only argument Sophia Black recalled in her six years on the planet was a largely harmless bicker over her Father's nickname for her, Sugarcane. At her Mother's admonishment of the term, insisting he would give her a complex, he had turned to her and enquired whether Butterball would have been more suitable, causing her hot-headed mother to sputter angrily at him - Of course Butterball isn't suitable, what are you thinking? - before throwing examples such as Princess and Sweetheart, though that was her Father's nickname for her Mother, at him. Sophia never understood why Sugarcane was such a bad nickname; she liked the way his face lit up whenever he saw her and, smiling, enquired after his Sugarcane's day.

She would remember vividly the argument that raged in the kitchen, directly below her bedroom, that particular night though. She didn't understand how wanting to take up ballet like all her friends was cause for a row. Surely their parents hadn't reacted in such a way? If they did they never let on. She hadn't even been brave enough to leave her room and sit at the top of the stairs to hear them better, knowing that whatever it was wasn't for her young ears, and had instead cried herself to sleep, feeling as though she had somehow wronged her Father as he ground out his words to her Mother downstairs. It was his 'end of conversation' tone, which he used rarely and effectively, though her Mother didn't seem to heed the warning it held.

1 Year Later…

She would be forever grateful to her Mother for insisting that he just sign the God damn consent form for her to attend the ballet classes, right before she turned to admonish the seven year old for parroting the language. 'Do as I say, not as I do' was a phrase Sophia was all too familiar with from her Mother, and her Father seemed to agree as he rolled his eyes over his wife's shoulder. With a resigned sigh he had signed the form and watched with concern as Sophia had skipped around the kitchen, elated to be able to join her friends at last, though she knew she had some catching up to do.

He never took her to her classes though, and never asked her how they were going. She was hurt by how he distanced himself from her newfound love but did her best not to let it show, and though her Mother was wise enough to her moods she never commented. It was her Mother that attended her first show, alone, though her enthusiasm for her daughter's performance - Sweetheart, you were flawless! So beautiful! Come here, let me get a picture of you three! - went some way to making up for his absence. While it never graced the wall or any shelf in their home, her mother had made sure she knew that it was in a frame in her bedside drawer so she saw it every day when she woke and every night before she turned out the light.

9 Years Later…

It wasn't that their relationship was strained, not by a long shot, but she had tiptoed around the subject of ballet whenever her Father was present, choosing only to speak of it with her Mother while he was away on business. As she had done for years, her Mother assured her his dislike of the subject had nothing to do with her personally but she would never tell her any more than that. Sophia had outright asked him when she was fourteen, a precocious teenager, and had received a cool rebuff from him. The subject was off limits, it seemed to her, and after she had cooled off she resolved to drop the issue altogether.

Just days after her sweet sixteen he had disturbed her while she was studiously completing her homework before dinner and asked her to take a walk with him. Confused by his sombre mood, she had agreed and followed him as they strolled the perimeter of their garden; they had completed two circuits before he finally began to speak. She had no idea he'd had another life before her Mother, had never had cause to even think about it. The knowledge that there had been a half-sister sat awkwardly with her, though she felt they would have got on famously as her Father described her. His sadness was evident and she had stopped him to hug him in the garden, to let him know it was alright and she didn't blame him for not wanting to come and see her shows or talk about it. If the memory was too painful for him, she wouldn't push him on the subject any more.

It had been a load off, in the end; without the confusion surrounding her Father's dislike for her hobby sitting heavy at the back of her mind she found herself able to dance without worry and connect with the passion that she had when she first took it up. The main production for the year, Swan Lake, was fast approaching and rehearsals were stepping up. She needed to be on her game and found it was far easier when she didn't have the image of his disapproving face lurking in her head.

2 months later...

The night of the show was the most nerve wracking experience Sophia had ever had. Jenny had picked her up and they had gone to the theatre together for the pre-show run-through. Her Mother would see her at the show, though would likely be sitting at home anxiously until the time she left for the theatre. Her Father was away on business - as he always was at this time of year - and would be gone for at least a week, he had said.

The show was a raging success - they had brought the house down. The adrenaline showed no sign of slowing down as she waved goodbye to her friends, practically skipping out the stage door to catch a ride with her Mother. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her Father standing beside his own car, her Mother nowhere to be seen. His expression was a mixture of apology, pride and sorrow, and she was sure there were tears in his eyes as she approached him. He never blinked that much usually. With every step toward him she took, Sophia felt her own emotions welling inside her, and by the time she had reached her Father she dropped her bag and went to him for a hug. It had been her greatest wish for him to come and see her perform and she couldn't bring herself to be mad at him for not telling her he would be there. She would invite him for a stroll around the garden and talk to him about it at a later date.

5 Years Later…

Sophia had always known there was more to her parents' story than they ever let on, something not entirely legal; she assumed she'd find out eventually, but hadn't expected to learn it - and her true surname - from the tabloids. There had been an appeal for any information concerning her whereabouts also, which sent a cold trickle of fear down her spine. Her Uncle had turned up at her apartment in the early hours, insisting she come with him to see her Aunt Kappy. With his driving - Uncle Dembe, this is a V8, drive it like you stole it - the journey had taken two hours longer than it needed to, and they had made no stops. She had always liked the crotchety woman who had taken a shine to her, though was saddened to see how frail she was becoming in her old age when they arrived at the small cottage she leased in the Highlands. The weather seemed to suit her outward appearances, though the inside of the home was cosy and welcoming. Just like the woman herself, Sophia thought. Uncle Dembe left them alone in the small sitting room and her Aunt had produced a very solid looking wooden box, presenting it to her in a way that filled her with trepidation; it was evidently an important box, or rather, what was in it was important. With the box sitting in her lap she felt fixed to the small couch, and stopped herself from asking her Aunt to stay with her when she saw her leaving the room to speak with her Uncle.

She swallowed, the sound loud to her own ears even over the crackling of the fireplace, and fingered the latch on the side of the box. Deciding the best course of action was to treat it like a band aid, she flicked the latch back and opened the lid quickly, anxiety gnawing in the pit of her stomach. She almost stopped breathing when she was a note, in her Father's familiar script, atop the contents; the red inked words - he never wrote in anything else if he could help it - causing her hand to fly to her mouth to stifle the first of many sobs as the reality of her situation, and of what she had lost, bore down on her without mercy.

They'll chase you if you play their little games – Run fast, Sugarcane.