Not entirely sure where this came from. I've been fiddling with a few Blacklist fics on my computer for weeks now. This one hit me yesterday, and I finished it today. It is my first published Blacklist fic, so please let me know how I did. It's also my first attempt at a "no-dialogue" piece. If well-received, I may do a follow up that'll be story form (one or two shot at most). The title is from the Emily Dickinson poem of the same name.
This takes place before 02x22 but after 02x19, and is obviously AU.
On the first day, she was brave.
They had chained her up, stripped her to her underwear, and questioned her until they grew tired of her obstinence. She knew who they were or, more precisely, who they worked for. If the Director thought kidnapping her was going to get him anything but a hellstorm of righteous fury from both the FBI and Reddington, then he was sorely mistaken. Every question was met with a defiant stare, every demand answered with silence. Before they left, however, she was sure to tell them one thing.
He will come.
On the second day, she was hungry.
They hadn't fed her since her arrival, but as they came through the door with their standard issue scowls they also brought a tray. They refused to unchain her, and she refused to let them feed her. They reached a stalemate until the hunger pangs were so intense she felt her muscles quivering. By dinner she relented and accepted each bite with as much dignity as she could muster. They didn't ask her any questions, but they didn't have to. She knew what they wanted, and they knew she wouldn't give it to them. As the lights dimmed to complete darkness, she whispered her parting words like a prayer.
He will come.
On the third day, she was tired.
Despite the physical exhaustion that wracked her from having slept lashed to the wall for over 48 hours, her mind refused to relent. In truth, she only had some answers, but she wouldn't give them anything. For eight hours they asked her questions, accompanied by the occasional encouragement from a cattle prod. For eight hours, she only gave them one answer.
He will come.
On the fourth day, she was lost.
They had opened the door wide that morning, allowing the light from the hallway to blind her momentarily. She lifted her chin in defiance as they walked in with smug smiles. One of them was holding his hands behind his back, and as he neared he brought them around and flicked his wrist. The item he'd held tumbled to the floor at her feet, and she bit back a sob at the sight of the well-worn fedora, so familiar and out of place this far from its owner. The head, they told her, was much more effective than the chest. The harsh white light highlighted the bullet hole just above the brim, and dark blood stained the soft material a sickly black. Their laughter followed a parting shot, a joke shared among monsters.
He won't come.
On the fifth day, she was furious.
Her wrists were bruised and bleeding from bucking and pulling, and her throat was raw and inflamed from her screams. She hadn't relented, crying and cursing and damning, but never begging. Her anger rebounded off the walls, doubling with her again and giving voice to her grief. She hid her cries in her fury, vowing revenge and retribution as her loss imprinted permanently on her soul. As they left her in darkness, the truth seeped into her like a cold fog and left her with a chill she would never overcome.
He can't come.
On the sixth day, she was defeated.
She had no fight left inside of her. A small, defiant part of her still refused to tell them anything. The rest of her followed suit. She stared unblinking at the far wall, ignoring all else. The truth of her was lost forever, and she would never know. Her life had been taken from her piece by piece over the years - first her career, then her father, her husband, her identity. The only thing remaining to her had been the hope of making sense of it, of discovering and realizing and finally moving on with her life. But that hope had died with him. She almost didn't care if she did the same.
He'd never come.
On the seventh day, she was saved.
A rumble that could have been thunder shook the walls, but the shouting and gunfire that followed spoke of another source. She stirred lightly at the footfalls beyond the door, but her gaze didn't lift from the floor as it opened. Rough hands grabbed her, and she felt someone cutting the chains away as others lowered her to the cold stone floor. A harsh order made her wince, and it softened immediately as a hand ran over her hair in a soothing gesture. Soft material covered her then, warm and familiar, and she inhaled reflexively. Her mind suddenly came alive as the scent filled her and chased away the ghosts of their lies. She blinked, looking up at the impossibility before her. His face was drawn tight with worry, unnervingly still as he attempted to conceal his rage. She tried to lift her arm to make sure, to touch him and assure her mind that she wasn't simply hallucinating, but it wouldn't cooperate. His hand found hers beneath the jacket, and she used every ounce of strength she possessed to squeeze back. Before she surrendered to exhaustion, she heard him say her name and she felt whole again.
He came.