"I've got a lot to say,
And I'm scared that you're gonna slip away,
And you, you got this wide eyed gaze,
And a smile that you'll carry through your days." – Wasted Time, Vance Joy

A car accident; screaming tyres, shattering glass, crumpling metal and then, nothing, silence. They were so common, so mundane. It was a death not befitting the unique man that he was. The slow, crawling and devastating spread of cancer would have at least made sense; his love of cigarettes haunting him, like all things people love, a destructive force. A bullet would have been more apt for a man as fierce as him, so drawn to trouble; he would have died laughing, complaining about his lost agility, hopefully with Raymond next to him.

A car accident.

The heat slides down his throat, the scotch burning pleasantly on his tongue. It does nothing to numb the throbbing behind his eyes, the ache in his body. Sam, always smiling, always laughing, a champion wielding a knife and god when using a gun, is dead. A man that had always made sure Red kept his weapon clean and his mind sharp. They would sit up late into the evening, a crossword and a bottle of scotch between them, bouncing ideas off each other. They'd sit for hours, timing how fast they could take apart, clean and reassemble their weapons. Raymond's best was a minute-twenty. It had been an easier time, for Sam at least, a time before the fire.

Before Lizzie.

Sam had carried Red through the longest and darkest days of his life. A steady presence as he grieved his family, wrenched from him so young, so innocent. Whispering words of advice, keeping him sane as he writhed and thrashed in a sea of sorrow, Sam sat with him in those dark nights. He'd saved Red's life; tamed the thirst of revenge that left Red so hungry, unfulfilled. They would wait, plan, until they were ready, had everything in place. There were moments when Red thought he'd been driven to insanity, his patience so thin, and rationale nonexistent. Sam had hauled him back by the scruff of the neck, every time. If he hadn't, the empire of Raymond Reddington would not be the powerful stronghold it is today, the contacts he needs not available. Red still feels as if he never fully repaid the man, especially after the fire.

After Lizzie.

He tilts his head to the ceiling, so high above him, the wooden beams dim in the darkness of night. The scotch slides easily down his throat, the ice clinking in the silence. The glass is cold in his hand anchoring him to the world. Green eyes drift over the dim room; no one had turned the lights on as night fell across the sky, the darkness crawling over the floorboards and up the walls. The world was still, serene. His gaze settles on the figure, peacefully asleep, across from him. He is snoring softly; great gusts of air rushing out of his parted lips as his broad chest billows. His head is tilted to the side, undoubtedly going to result in a sore neck in the morning. A sad smile tugs at Raymond's lips.

Dembe had walked so quietly into the room, anxious by the news he was burdened with. His footsteps had been laced with trepidation; he could hear it in the way Dembe slowly approached, as if Red was a wounded animal, likely to lash out. It was then that he turned from his seat by the bay window, looking out over the vineyards, the last rays of the sun shimmering over the horizon. He had tilted his head as Dembe sat down before him, a phone and a folder in his hands. His voice had been so soft, apologetic.

He didn't give over the folder, the photos, until Raymond asked him to, and even then it was with reluctance. Red could still see the blood seeping down Sam's face, his eyes wide and empty, mouth slack. The car, a mangled mess of metal and glass, splintered and destroyed. He shoved the photographs away, rumpled from his carelessness. Dembe brought him over a scotch, placed the bottle delicately on the table before them. He sat with Raymond for hours, a steady and silent presence, until he drifted off to sleep.

Red hopes that he can be for Dembe all that Sam had been for him; a father figure, a protector, a friend. Though, for now, it seems it is Dembe that is carrying Red through the darkness, his support and loyalty unwavering. He is an old soul, subjected to so much pain and displeasure in the first years of his life, what would have felt like an eternity and is still so loyal, so loving.

When Red had found Dembe, huddled in a filthy basement, chained, burned, branded, tortured, he'd barely been breathing, barely alive. His frame had been so fragile, purpled from bruises and slick from puss that oozed from his wounds. Ribs jutted out, looking as if they could tear through the thin parchment of the boy's skin. His eyes were crusted shut, covered in dirt and grime. Raymond had seen stray dogs in Bali in far better condition. The boy was a mess. So, Red did the only thing that he could; he took Dembe, weak but still so angry, furious, a young boy who had been thrown to the wolves at such a young age. He guided the boy, only fourteen, through the darkness and despair he had been plunged into. Watched him grow, get his first job, celebrate his birthdays. The wide-eyed look of sheer joy, when Red told Dembe he would be attending school in the year of his sixteenth birthday, still filled him with a warmth that could never been squashed. He saw to Dembe's tutoring, made sure he didn't feel as if he was lagging behind the other students.

And then with the ending of school came the beginning of university and Dembe thrived. He furthered his education, studied a variety of languages, picked up boxing and excelled beyond anything that Raymond could imagine. The next time Red saw Dembe, he held his diploma in hand and a million thank you's danced on his tongue. Red had never been so proud.

"Dembe," he calls through the quiet, his voice hoarse from disuse, "you'll get a sore neck. Go to bed."

Dreary eyes open, dazed and with a flicker of annoyance, gaze back at Red. A sleepy smile spreads over Dembe's face and he seems to sink further into his chair, eyes slipping closed once more, ignoring Red. He huffs a laugh, calls Dembe yet again. The younger man rumbles Red's name in reply, playfully mocking him, before heaving himself from the chair. When he walks past, his tall and bulky frame making even the large room seem small, he rests a hand on Red's shoulder, squeezes and then releases.

With Dembe's snoring moved to another room, the house seems empty, large. Red sits in his chair, staring out of the window into the night. Sam's death has greatly unsettled him, left him rattled. The grief is deadened by alcohol, causes it to be a quiet presence in the tumultuous sea of thoughts that clatter and rage inside Red's mind. He worries for Lizzie, constantly and without fault, but now even more so. Sam, Sam, had been everything to Lizzie; she will be left adrift without him, lost in a sea of grief, alone. Red breathes deeply, his heart steadily pumping in his chest, even now as it aches for all he has lost, for all Lizzie has suffered through, for the chasm he will never be able to cross to reach her. He was a criminal and she, an exciting FBI agent.

He has had her under surveillance, ever since the fire, ever since he dropped her off on Sam's doorstep, even as the blood leaked down his back, his vision tunnelled and blackened. She had been so frightened that night, so fragile and light in his arms. When Sam opened the door, the light from inside striking over her ash-covered face, she had winced, trembling in Raymond's arms. Sam had hurriedly pulled them inside, shoving Red onto the couch, jostling his wounds, making him groan in agony. His friend delicately freed the girl from Raymond's grip; he had her clutched tightly to his chest, her little form was still shaking. Sam placed her on the ground, walked around the sofa and surveyed the desolation, the ruin, of Red's back, panic flashing through his eyes at the state of it. Red didn't think that he had the ability to speak, but the words worked their way out of his mouth, clamped shut in agony as it was.

Tend to the girl, Sam.

Elizabeth, her new and special name, Sam had told her, was led to the bathroom. Tearstains tracked down her cheeks through the ash, her small hands still clutching her singed plush rabbit. Sam talked to her quietly, soothingly, made her laugh, and pried the bunny from her iron grip. He carefully undressed her, throwing the scorched and charred clothing into the corner, to be disposed of before she saw them the next morning. The water of the shower spurted to life as Sam checked Lizzie for injuries, her tiny body, only four years old, unmarked, unblemished, except for the ghastly burn on her right palm, oozing blood. Red doesn't know how he managed his way to the bathroom to observe them, to watch over Lizzie, the running water of the shower his only guide as his vision blurred and failed. Sam was under the water, fully clothed, washing the ash and soot from Lizzie's hair. She stared at Red as he slumped on the doorway, a wavering smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It was the last thing Red saw before his body gave in and he succumbed to darkness.

He'd left Lizzie in Sam's care, knowing that she could be no safer than with him. Red had gone into hiding to literally lick his wounds. The rehabilitation for the chaos of his back, charred and scorched tissue, had taken months; he had been in no condition to look after an injured and traumatised young girl. So, he had her tracked, made contact with Sam as he discreetly as he could manage. Kept her safe with the resources he had at his disposal. Watched her grow and succeed under Sam's care, received photos of her from her birthday, of her graduations and school achievements. He watched her grow and flourish and she didn't even know his name, the history they shared. He kept his distance, kept her safe.

Nonetheless, she was and always would be his second chance; his salvation from darkness.

Dembe wakes him from his drink induced slumber in the morning, a plate of scrambled eggs in one hand. Red's stomach roils and writhes at the thought of eating. The stern look he receives, he does not appreciate. He looks at the plate, the lumpy yellow eggs, disdain morphing his features.

"You must eat, Raymond," Dembe implores, placing the plate on the coffee table, the utensils beside it. Red frowns at him, but picks up the fork, shovelling in a mouthful and forcing himself to swallow. Dembe nods approvingly and procures a steaming mug of coffee, puts it down on the coaster Raymond pushes over to him. They're borrowing the house from a French insurance-broker, whilst he is off holidaying in the Alps. Philippe is extremely cautious about marking his furniture, providing coasters at every coffee and dining table within the house. He'd be positively furious with Red if he was to find a new mark.

Red shifts in his seat, quickly glancing down to see that he is still fully dressed, the jacket of his suit rumpled and his tie loose around his neck. He straightens, fixing his tie and tugging at the lapels, trying to make himself somewhat presentable. Dembe huffs a laugh from the other side of the table, shaking his head as he practically inhales his own breakfast. Red merely scowls at him, returning to his meal, thoughts drifting to Sam, Lizzie.

"Once you're done," he begins, gaining Dembe's attention, "ready the car, please. We have business to attend to."

And distractions to make, he hopes, trying to rid the image of Sam's bleeding body from his mind, to brush off the nightmares of the fire that plagued him through the night.

They travel, from continent to continent, state to state, both so accustomed to it. Sleep on the plane is easily had, keeping the threat of jetlag at bay. Red is wined and dined in the most luxurious of restaurants, and then hunted and shot at in dingy warehouses. He donates to charities, causes for animals and children, before driving to the harbour to make millions in illegal arms and drug trades. He is always dressed impeccably, should he be visiting the richest, and most corrupt, of British Politicians, or an asset in an insane asylum; his suits so perfectly tailored for tea and then torture.

Dembe is by his side throughout it all; the most cherished bodyguard the world has seen.

After a rather long day involving a particularly crooked dealing with two Syrian mobsters, who are now dead and hopefully dumped in the Mekong, Red and Dembe sip on their beers in silence. The hustle of Ho Chi Minh City can be heard from below; the hum of scooters, the crowing of roosters, the shouts and bargaining of the locals. Red sits with his vest undone, sleeves rolled up, the humid breeze wafting over him, lulling him into a sense of comfort. He briefly shuts his eyes, breathes deeply.

It has been three weeks since Sam's death.

His tail on Lizzie has been quiet, only relaying to Dembe that she has not left her apartment, orders takeout, but never empties her trash. Red feels worry work its way through his core; she is grieving, in pain and has no one. Her fiancé, Nick, is weak, spineless, would never go to her if she had told him not to, even if she needed him. Red knew that Lizzie could be withdrawn, a trait she has had since the day she was left with Sam and Nick has never been willing to accept that. So Red contacted the tail directly, early into the second week, told him of a lovely little Chinese restaurant, Wing Yee. He arranged for a box of food to be taken to Lizzie, dropped at her doorstep.

He hopes she enjoyed it.

"Keen," Dembe says, catching Red's attention. He snaps his head over to where his friend is sitting, phone in hand, "he initiated contact with Elizabeth today."

Red places his beer on the ground by his chair, sits straighter and gazes out the window and down onto the street below. Food carts are pushed noisily along the street, heedless of the prayer baskets laid out to the Gods on the ground. The incense, bamboo shoots, food, are all crushed by the relentless wheels, one after the other. Red looks back to Dembe, chewing on the inside of his lip.

"That wasn't an order I gave."

Dembe nods his head, looking back down to the phone. He would have received photos of Lizzie, new information on how she is faring, specifically in regards to Sam's death. Red's throat suddenly feels dry. He picks up his beer, takes a long drink. Waits for Dembe to say more, to elaborate on what happened, on Tom's rogue behaviour.

"She... seemed happy throughout the contact, Raymond," he says softly, offering the phone over the space that separates them. Red reaches for it; dread corroding his veins. The phone is hot from Dembe's grip, the screen dark.

He presses the middle button and there she is. Red's heart drops in his chest; she looks ill. Her skin is sickly and pale, her eyes dim and framed by a purple so dark it looks black. She's dropped weight, her clothes hanging from her frame as if they're two sizes too big for her. Her cheekbones and jaw are sharp, sharper than they have ever been. At least her hair is clean; shiny, brown and curling around her shoulders. Red's thumb slides along the screen, over her face.

In the next image she is sitting across from Keen, with a shy smile on her lips as she stirs at her coffee. The next she is laughing. In the last, Keen is handing her a slip of paper, a phone number clearly written across it. Red returns the phone to Dembe, guilt swirling through his gut. He looks back out the window; her haunted eyes burned into his retinas.

"Contact Keen," he orders, voice gruff, "make it known that any further transgressions and his contract will be terminated. If she contacts him, he must alert us immediately. The relationship must remain entirely platonic."

Dembe nods his head in silence and as he begins to retreat into the living room to conduct his business, a mobile phone starts to ring. Red turns in his chair, recognising that particular tone; a specific number logged into ever advancing phones. They always keep it on them; always keep it charged, a number, a means of contact, for after the fire. Sam's phone.

The ringing grows louder as Dembe fossicks through their bags, until he finally pulls it free of the mountains of paperwork and passports. He tosses it to Reddington, who snatches it out of the air with shaky hands. He stares at the number, unknown to him, a million possibilities screaming through his mind, vociferous in their intensity. Sam was clever, seemingly indestructible, it wouldn't be impossible that he would fake his death. It wouldn't be impossible that he would go this long without telling Red, he could be so stubborn in his ways.

He swipes to answer the phone, presses the speaker to his ear. Breaths, ragged, can be heard from the other end, and Red takes a moment to compose himself, to wait for the silence to be broken. It drags on too long.

"Yes?"

And then they speak and Red's hearts seizes in his chest because it's her, Lizzie. It could be no one else. Her voice is so soft, so unsure as she asks for a man that doesn't exist, never did. It's shaky, nervous and Red briefly considers the time it must be over in America; the earliest of hours. She must be in Nebraska, sitting in Sam's house, sorting through his things, alone. He grips the phone unnecessarily tight, pushing it harder against his face, wishing he was closer, could comfort her in her grief. He can feel the weight of Dembe's gaze, realises that he hasn't answered, realises that he can't. Dembe reaches for the phone and after a moment of hesitation he passes it over.

"I am sorry; it appears you have the wrong number," Dembe says quietly before ending the call. He looks to Raymond, frozen in his chair as he is. He nods his head and watches as Dembe crushes the phone beneath his shoe. The noise is so loud, the cracking and splitting of the screen making Red inwardly wince. He lets out a shaky breath, standing and making his way to the bar. His beer is forgotten, warming on the ground by his chair, he needs something stronger.

Dembe disappears again, to finish what he never got started in regards to Tom Keen. Confliction rises within Red, the disobedience of his employee, unnerving. Yet, Lizzie looked happier in the photographs, as if the immense grief that had dropped her weight, paled her skin, was lifted, if only for a moment. Keen had offered her a distraction, a way back into the world, to normality. It had been good for her, that much was obvious. There had been no reason or need for Keen to give her his number, a distraction for her would have been enough, prolonged contact was dangerous. Red squeezes his eyes shut, if the relationship develops to nothing further, it will be fine. He breathes raggedly through his mouth. If it becomes something more than platonic, he'll intervene.

They travel again, not staying in one place longer than three nights. Red drinks, more so than he usually does, still shaken by Lizzie's voice. Dembe watches him, eyes filled with concern, but never says anything, just removes the empty scotch bottles, washes up the glasses. Red sleeps rarely; the night of the fire infects his dreams, distorts them into nightmares. Sam burns, Lizzie burns and Red can't save them.

Deals are made, weapons sold, people whisked away and money deposited in countless off shore and untraceable bank accounts. Red meets with contacts, eliminates competition. He sleeps with women, drinks with men. He shoots and he stabs, fights and claws his way through the criminal underworld, like always. He long ago succumbed to the monster within, unleashing it against the world; Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime.

Throughout it all, a steady mantra burns in the back of his mind, a prayer, unrelenting.

Lizzie.

She has made contact with Keen, met with him to have coffee. Her skin has returned to a healthier shade, but she is still too thin and her eyes, her eyes are grim, grave. Sleep escapes her, obvious by the now stained purple beneath them and as they spread, Red's worry grows with them. Apprehension is thick in his bloodstream whenever Dembe comes to him with an update. They're growing closer, Lizzie and Keen, as she drifts from Nick. Red doesn't know if he should be thankful for it. Nick is vampiric in nature; sucks the soul and energy from Lizzie. But Keen, Keen is dangerous, compromised. Raymond has never felt so powerless.

The humid, polluted, air of Singapore wafts over him from where he sits. The balcony looks over the city; taxi's and vans racing by below him, just visible through the canopies of the trees. He is still dressed in his suit, fiddling with his cuffs as Dembe orders them food. Raymond won't eat, but Dembe needs to. The sound of children, splashing in the pool below, can be heard even over the roar of the traffic and Red smiles at their innocence, their weightlessness.

When Dembe returns, his expression is grave, as it had been all day. He was always quiet as they conducted business; his presence paired with Red's enough to silence those who would cause them difficulty. Red does the talking, Dembe provides the brute strength. And once they are done, they head to the car, Dembe driving. He would usually smile and chat, mentioning the things he took note of while Red's attention was elsewhere. Today he drove in a stony silence; grip tight on the steering wheel and rarely looking in the rear-view mirror to meet Red's eyes.

It would take time, but by the end of the night Dembe would say what was on his mind, if only to get some peaceful sleep. So Red sits in silence with him, contemplating as he waits. There is only one topic that could drive Dembe to such uneasiness; Lizzie. It has Red gnawing on the inside of his lip, fingers idly tapping rhythms on his thigh. His eyes focus out over the skyline, seeing nothing as he waits.

There food is brought to them, and Red can't help but smile at the way Dembe piles his plate. Even when fighting internal conflict, the younger man still has an appetite, perhaps even more so. Red makes no move to have any of the tapas before them, but Dembe makes him a plate anyway, nodding at him once before focusing back onto his own feast. Red's fingers continue tapping.

He'd known that the incessant movement, the fidgetiness of his fingers, would push Dembe to the brink. Red meets his gaze as Dembe grabs at his fingers, halting their movement. He looks disapproving, as if he knows that Raymond is pushing him, wanting answers to questions he hasn't asked. His brown eyes, so dark and wide are piercing as they stare and Red feels his heart rate spark. Dembe looks scared.

"She's ended her relationship with Nick," he murmurs, releasing Red's fingers and reaching into his pocket to retrieve the phone. Red leans forward, elbows on his knees and reaches for his scotch. He drains the glass. There is more.

"Did Keen come by this information?" He asks, even though he knows that Tom holds no loyalty now, is hunting and tracking Lizzie for his own purposes, desires. The confirmation is in the shake of Dembe's head, the tension around his eyes.

"The extra tail, you had placed on them both, sent the information," he begins, releasing a sigh as he passes the phone, "and photos."

Lizzie is practically melded into Keen, her lips captured by his, his hands roaming her thin body. Red grits his teeth, feels as if his molars might shatter as he stares. Lizzie, pure and innocent is so vulnerable in her current state. The phone in Red's hand begins to tremble, Keen's treachery flaring rage within, hot and furious. He wouldn't risk this, unless he thought he was protected, knew that Red wouldn't be able to come after him. Red looks at the way Lizzie grasped his waist, fingers digging into his skin. Maybe Keen thought her love was enough, but that was too risky. He wasn't aware of Red's connection with her, unless his new employer had information. Keen had to have a new employer, an employer that had painted a target on Lizzie's back, left her open to manipulation from a man that was being paid to be with her, to sleep with her. She doesn't know, is so alone.

The chair scrapes along the ground as Red stands, Dembe following him. He looks out over Singapore, thoughts of Sam clouding his mind. If he knew that Red had let something go this far, endangered Lizzie both physically and emotionally they way he had, he would have killed him and Raymond would have let him. Dembe slips the phone out of his hand, puts it back into his pocket, and waits for instructions.

Red sucks a breath through his clenched teeth, hears it whistle as it whisks through the crevices and cracks. She is in danger, unaware, exposed. Flames flash across his eyes, Lizzie staring back at him as smoke wafts around her, so young and afraid. Her hands reach out for him, fingers tiny and grasping as he lifts her into his arms. He would keep her safe.

"Dembe," he says, turning to his friend, grim determination settling over his features, "It is time to initiate the Blacklist."

A/N; Chapter Two done and dusted. Three is underway, things start to pick up from there. I hope you're enjoying the read so far!