Until I Collect Him

Disclaimer: He's not mine in the sense that he's Lizzie's, he's not mine in the sense that he's Death's, and he's not mine in the sense that I own absolutely nothing associated with The Blacklist.

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Chapter 2

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Marrakech was the first time he saw me.

The first time my charge actually died.

I was there early, since it was a slow day otherwise, and I watched all of the events unfold with a growing sense of certainty that today would be the day. By the time his body hit the ground, I had made my peace with the fact that the adventure had ended, and was trying to bolster my spirits by imagining how interesting my next assignment might be when Raymond Reddington appeared in front of me, and looked me right in the eye.

I said nothing.

"I'm dead?" he asked with a business-like tone.

I nodded.

He looked down at himself, and for over a minute he stood, still as a statue, making no sound at all. Eventually he turned back to me, and gestured at his dirty, blood-stained clothing. "I don't suppose you let us freshen up a bit before we cross over, or ascend, or whatever it is I'm about to do?" he asked dryly with a raised eyebrow. "I'd hate to show up looking like this only to find out that part of our final judgment is based on appearance."

I tilted my head and regarded him carefully. "You can't judge a book by its cover," I said carefully. "But you can by its first few chapters…" I let my eyes drift down to where his body lay before adding, "…and certainly by its last."

Looking back on this, I realize it was my words that made him stay. He looked down at his still form again with chagrin, as if he were distressed by the idea that this had been his last chapter. I assume he wanted another attempt at writing the book he would be judged by eventually, because he walked swiftly back to his body and lay down.

I saw him again soon after that in a hotel in Damascus. A man who's life he'd saved the previous month in Lebanon managed to get the drop on him, and while the paramedics worked on my charge, I couldn't help but envision the retribution that lay ahead. The other man had gotten somewhat damaged in the altercation, but had gotten up quickly and run. His case worker remained, hovering nearby despite there no longer being any need to do so, blathering about another charge, another case.

Like I said, our jobs can be lonely sometimes.

But I wasn't about to let the opportunity to talk to Reddington again pass me by, especially when I wanted to ask him why he'd continued with the same habits that got him into trouble in Marrakech. I held up a silencing hand and glared at my colleague. "You talk too much. I have no interest in cases that I have no interest in," I said harshly.

Reddington paced back and forth, unable to see me while simply unconscious, and I shook my head sadly. This man was so full of life, and so captivating to follow around the world; I had grown to love the act of checking in on him from time to time to witness his various exploits.

If he stopped living his life so recklessly, he'd surely last longer.

But I wouldn't have any cause to watch a mundane and sensible man.

I moved to intercept his path, and he blew through me with a whisper. I wasn't going to collect him today, but what might happen in a week, a month from now when he'd recovered enough to repay the violence visited upon him today? At what point would his aggressive tendencies catch up with him? Retaliation would solve nothing, as far as I could tell, but my charge seemed to value it above all else, even love it, as if he were married to the idea of it. "Revenge isn't a passion," I murmured to him as he paced back through me again, willing him to understand. "It's a disease. It eats at your mind, and poisons your soul." If he'd been so adamant about Marrakech not being his last chapter, why had he continued with all of the same behavior afterward?

I never got the chance to ask him, as he regained consciousness shortly thereafter.

I saw my talkative colleague again a month later, when Reddington broke his charge's neck with a shower caddy.

The longest amount of time I ever spent at his side was after he was stung by a lionfish while free-diving in the Andaman sea. He was in such pain that he was sure he was dying there on the beach, but he hung on, dehydrated and barely able to move. I thought maybe I'd get a chance to talk to him that day, or the next, or the next after that. It could have happened at any time—he was in terrible shape. But the gypsies that found him and healed him over the next several days saw to it that I had no audience with him. I stayed for much longer than necessary, truth be told, and even lingered to watch as he left the island. The gypsy woman who had found him kissed him on the cheek, and the expression on his face… He lifted a hand to touch his skin where she'd pressed her lips, and I realized that I would never actually have any contact with this man until the day I collected him.

I'd never thought about it before.

It had never occurred to me to want to touch any of my other charges.

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TBC.

Author's Note: Wow, I did NOT expect the response of love I got regarding the first chapter! Thank you to everyone who left a review, including the wonderful anon who mentioned the fact that everything the POV character says when Reddington is able to hear/understand somehow ingrains itself enough to get repeated at some point. Keep paying attention. I had a lot of fun with it: I think it was my favorite detail while writing this one. ;)