I own nothing but an imagination that is going crazy trying to figure this show out...

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Raymond Reddington watched impassively as Donald Ressler approached, then looked the agent up and down appraisingly. "You're not limping," Red announced matter-of-factly.

"Not any more," Agent Ressler answered. Then, pointedly: "It's been a long time."

"It has," Reddington agreed amiably.

He offered a small, expectant smile from under his fedora but said nothing else. Ressler huffed to himself; Reddington always left those gaps for someone else to fill. He looked around at the containers, forklifts and massive container ships that surrounded them as a stiff wind rushed past them. Another unfathomable meeting location chosen by one of the FBI's former Most Wanted. And on a bitter, sunless day, no less. Noticing Red's friend Dembe, standing nearby in what he could only assume was in bodyguard mode, Ressler asked, "So what made you decide to resurface?"

"I sensed that you missed me, Donald. I didn't want you pining," Reddington answered brightly. "And I need to give you some information about the next blacklister, who's just appeared on my radar."

"I thought you only spoke with Keen."

"Agent Keen is waiting for us in another location. I wanted to have my reunion with you first. See if you've done anything in the time I've been away that made it worth me saving your life."

Ressler frowned. Reddington just waited. Infuriating as Red was, Ressler reminded himself that it was Reddington's handiwork in the box that had probably saved his leg—and his life—when he'd been shot by Anslo Garrick's people. And in the endless hours that he had spent in recovery, Ressler had also accepted that Red had been right from the very beginning: Garrick had tricked them, was breaching the Post Office security, and was coming after Reddington himself, all of those things happening at the moment Reddington was describing them, almost as though he was narrating and orchestrating the events himself. Love him or hate him, the guy was smart, and always right on the money. And, truth be told, if the FBI had even considered asking Red what he thought about the now-known-to-be-fake threat against him before hauling him back to the Post Office, then likely none of what had happened that awful day might have happened. Including Ressler nearly losing his leg. Including Luli being shot to death before everyone's eyes. Including Red himself being taken away and tortured by Garrick.

Swallow your stupid pride, Ressler. "Thank you for… uh…"

"I don't want you to thank me, Donald. I acted purely out of instinct. When someone is dying in front of you, you try and stop it. That's the human condition. Sometimes the human weakness."

Ressler narrowed his eyes, as though looking for truth that he knew he wouldn't find. "That might be the case with most people, Reddington. But not with you. If that was the way you thought, you wouldn't find killing so easy to do. And I'm told that Garrick was pretty dead when Agent Keen found him—and you were nowhere in sight."

"The human instinct to survive is stronger. It's as simple as that."

Ressler paused. He knew Reddington was right about that. But at the same time he knew that Reddington had forced the code to the box out of him in order to save Elizabeth Keen's life—and that wasn't the survival instinct. That was something else. But as usual, Ressler realized he was completely clueless as to what it was that was driving Reddington. Probably the reason he had never been able to capture him in the past.

Reddington's cheerful announcement pulled Ressler out of his thoughts. "I hear Audrey Bidwell made an appearance."

He looked at the former fugitive, who was smiling amiably. "Yeah, she did," Ressler answered. "She showed up when I got out of surgery."

Red nodded, apparently satisfied. "Well. As you said, it was because of me that your relationship soured; it seems only fitting that it's because of me that you're back in touch."

Instantly, a thought came to Ressler that he had never before considered. "Are you saying that it was you that called her? Because I was under the impression that she was listed as my next of—"

Reddington shook his head, laughing softly. "Don't be silly, Donald. How could I have possibly done that."

The fact that it didn't really seem like a question bothered Ressler.

"You don't have to try and fix things for me," Ressler declared. "I don't blame you for what happened."

Red threw his head back and let out a long, genuine laugh, something the young agent would have realized was quite rare had he not been so annoyed by it. "Look, I mean it, Red. If you're feeling guilty—"

Reddington's laughter abated but the lilt in his voice and the curve of his lips made it clear that amusement remained. "Donald, it becomes ever more obvious that you're not a psychological profiler. Perhaps you should ask Agent Keen about my motivations. I live a dangerous life surrounded by dangerous people, and the FBI in its wisdom fell for the oldest trick in the book. I don't feel guilt—not for the events that occurred at the Post Office, nor for anything else you might think I should."

"Not even for leaving your family in the lurch? For leaving them to face public humiliation at being connected with a man who betrayed his country?"

At this Red's eyes darkened slightly—or so it appeared to Ressler, who could only gauge by the cold that suddenly emanated from Reddington. The very slight drop of the man's chin made his fedora draw a deeper shadow across his features. Dembe, standing ever-present a short distance away—far enough for privacy, but, Ressler was certain, close enough to hear and react in need—moved slightly, and for just the briefest moment Ressler thought perhaps he had pushed too far. But then Reddington spoke, his voice gravelly, all traces of humor gone. "You will never understand why I went down my path, Donald. Just as you understand nothing now."

"You're right; I don't understand," Ressler said, being unnerved making him bold.

"So ask your question, Donald," Reddington invited, equally bold, raising his head to show a face at once both challenging and guarded. "You know, the one you've been dying to ask but haven't had the nerve to until now. I'll be an open book to you. You have thirty seconds."

Before he could talk himself out of it, Ressler burst, "What made you regret your life of crime enough to turn yourself in?"

Reddington nodded. "Interesting. Not 'Why did you leave in the first place?' No. Probably because you think you have that figured out." He shrugged an eyebrow. "Very well, Donald. I turned myself in because there was work to be done that I needed the resources of the FBI to complete. However, the premise of your question is flawed. I regret nothing. I do everything confidently and after great consideration."

"Including abandoning your family, your job and your country," Ressler pressed.

"Including that."

The words were confident but there was a hard edge now that Ressler couldn't deny. "Just one more thing," he persisted.

"Anything, Donald. You have ten seconds left."

"Why Keen? What is she to you? Why were you willing to let Garrick take you to save her?"

Reddington looked Ressler in the eye. His expression was serious, and Ressler could tell that there was deep thinking going on. Distracted by Reddington's past, he had not thought to ask this before. But he realized he wanted the answer to this one most of all.

Any hopes he had for an answer were short-lived. "Your time is up," Red announced. He ignored Ressler's look of frustration. "Agent Keen is waiting. My car is nearby. Dembe will drive us; it's too far to walk on such an unpleasant day, and I don't want to strain your leg. I'm sure the doctors would be unimpressed if you damaged it again so soon after they worked so hard to heal it. I'll fill you in in the car—better for Agent Keen to hear some of this from you than from me. She has these strange trust issues when it comes to me. I'll never understand it."

Red motioned to Dembe—more of a nod than a gesture. Then the two of them turned and walked away without looking back to see if Ressler would follow. Somehow Ressler suspected that Reddington knew he would, unanswered questions or not. The mystery of Raymond Reddington was too strong to resist.