A/N: This one's dedicated to Rose the cat:)
"It's why I'm here, Lizzie. I'm here for you."
"I… I don't understand," she says, nervous and edgy. "I thought… your list…" She trails off, thinking fiercely.
He watches as if he can see the thoughts moving across her face. "I think maybe you do understand," he says quietly. "That you can see quite clearly that the Blacklist, although a worthy and necessary enterprise, is also just a means to an end. I needed a reason to be in your life, Lizzie."
"But, why?" she insists, panicky fear rising, heat unfurling into her veins unhindered.
"Shortly before he died, Sam contacted me," he replies, sorrow in his voice now. "Outside our usual means. He was worried — there had been… indications that you were both being watched, tracked. When the next thing I heard was that he was gone, I had to come to you, Lizzie, to protect you."
"Protect me?" she asks, confused now, simmering; Sam had never said anything to her about a danger in their lives, about being watched. "From what? I'm nobody special…" And she wills it to be true, even as her fingers start to twitch. "What could anyone possibly want from me?"
"Really?" he asks, shaking his head at her. "I think we both know there are any number of agencies, both legitimate and criminal, who would be delighted, even eager, to get their hands on someone with your… abilities."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she lies defiantly, curling her fingers around the edge of the leather seat to stop the twitching.
'"You're going to have to start trusting me if I'm going to help you," he returns calmly. "We both know perfectly well what you are."
Fear rises inside her like a tide, choking her. "I don't know what you're talking about," she grinds out. "And I don't need your help."
"Don't you?" he asks sardonically, and looks pointedly down at her hands.
She follows his gaze, and her whole body jerks in surprise as she sees the curls of smoke starting to rise. "I don't need your help!" she cries again, rips her hands away from the seat, and bolts, out of the car and away down the sidewalk, fleeing him as if for her life.
He sighs deeply, leaning back in his seat. "That went well," he murmurs to himself unhappily, staring down at the blackened leather, a blurred outline of her hands branded there like an accusation, smoke still hanging, like an omen, in the air.
She focuses on work, avoiding him, ignoring his calls. She wants to earn her borrowed place on the task force, prove herself to Cooper, to Ressler. She completes reams of paperwork, answers questions, and helps Aram organize stacks of information on their three Blacklisters into a database of workable knowledge.
A week passes in this relative peace; then she gets a reminder email about the trial of Hector Lorca, a heavy-handed drug dealer whose case she had worked on before starting at Quantico. She's proud of her work on that case — Lorca is a despicable criminal, responsible for the disappearances and probable deaths of over 100 people. And those are only the ones they know of.
She's going over her notes carefully when Ressler sticks his head into her office.
"Hey," he says congenially.
"Hey," she says back, sighing and stretching her neck a little.
"What's going on?" he asks, wandering in and leaning on her desk.
She's a little curious — he's never shown any particular interest in her work outside of active cases up to this point. "I've got court this afternoon," she replies, watching his face. "Just going over some notes."
"Mind if I come with you? Nothing would make me happier than seeing Hector Lorca being sent away for life."
Ah, she thinks, a little disappointed. He knows exactly what she's working on, of course — she knows that they keep tabs on her, desperate to establish some kind of connection between her and Reddington. They're still evaluating her.
"Why do I get the feeling that you're less interested in watching Lorca than in watching me?" she asks, just to see what he says.
"I don't know," he says back, watching her just as carefully as she is him. "Are you hiding something?"
If only you knew, she thought wryly, and is about to answer him in kind when Meera puts her head in the door.
"Dembe made contact," she says briskly. "Reddington wants to see you — alone."
He's finally gotten sick of her avoidance, she thinks. He'll make her face him, because she can't refuse to meet with him when it might be about a case, when the whole team knows about the meet. Her irritation eases into anger as she marches out of the Post Office, and she welcomes the strength it gives her.
He's sitting on a bench, all casual elegance in yet another perfectly tailored suit, reading the paper without a care in the world. She sits beside him, careful to leave a space between them wide enough that at least two other people could sit there. He doesn't look at her, but instead starts to read aloud.
"It was only through the efforts of an FBI profiler that suspicion began to fall on Hector Lorca, leading to his arrest and indictment," he reads, and then he flips the paper down and smiles at her. "Well done, Lizzie. Very impressive."
"You are aware, then, that I'm due in court in three hours," she answers stiffly, determined not to give him even a fraction of an inch.
"Your case is about to go sideways," he says back, regretful knowledge shading his tone.
"Why?" she answers sharply, "What's happened?"
"Lorca's people have reached out to me," he says coolly. "Normally, I wouldn't give him the time of day — he's a vicious little drug-lord thug. Certainly nothing there to hold my interest. But their request is of great interest because it concerns you."
"What's he asking for?"
"Transportation out of the country, new identity — passport, bank account, credit cards — as well as the proper introductions to reestablish his operations elsewhere. And he wants it by tomorrow night. For whatever reason, Lorca is under the impression he's about to be a free man."
No, she thinks, he's wrong, she's worked too hard. "I've got a witness testifying today who's got him cold," she insists. "Lorca's not going anywhere."
"Something is going to happen, Lizzie," he says, watching her so intently she feels like he's trying to see under her skin to the workings of her body beneath. "I don't think you're going to have a very good day in court at all."
And, of course, he's right — it all goes completely pear-shaped, a juror poisoned, her witness gone. He knew, she thinks and wondered what else he knew and hadn't told her. She knows she has to call him, reach out, and she knows it won't be pleasant… but she's wrong, at least in part.
"Sweetheart," he answers her call with great cheer. "Not really the best time for me."
"I don't… Wait, what? Where are you?" There's a strange echo to his voice over the phone that tells her he's not local anymore.
"Haiti," he replies, somewhat noncommittally. "Keeping up appearances."
She notices that he's avoiding using her name, when he normally says it as often as possible — trying to acclimatize her to his presence, she thinks, trying to make her comfortable with him. Is he protecting her from something by hiding her identity from whomever he's with?
She huffs out a frustrated breath — it doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing. She needs him. She questions him about Lorca, pleads for help — well, demands his help, but he should know…
But he doesn't, or if he does, he doesn't let on. He blithely disregards her worry, brushes the whole episode off as a lost cause that isn't really that important anyway — and certainly not worth his time — and hangs up on her.
She sits, speechless, affronted and hurt, though she's not sure why. Is this just payback for her cold shoulder, for the ignored calls? That's not fair, she thinks huffily, this is different. She catches herself then, and takes a moment to wonder why she takes such a virulent dislike to being put aside by him.
She comes up empty, yet again.
At home — a break to recharge, Ressler said, though she thinks he just wanted her out of the way — she goes over it all again in her mind. What is Lorca trying to accomplish? With the disposal of the witness, the only new trial will certainly be a short one, and he is virtually guaranteed a walk. This is infuriating, and a bit confusing — Reddington had said Lorca expected to be leaving the country inside of the next day, and a new trial will take weeks, if not months, to set up.
He's still planning something else, he must be expecting to escape custody, but how? She wonders if there's anything she can use to get Ressler to bring him into the Post Office for questioning. There's a lot less chance he'll be able to escape from them…
She sighs, and rubs at her temples a bit. Over the week she's been avoiding Reddington, she's been getting dull headaches that both hinder her ability to concentrate and sharpen her irritated mood. Meeting with him that morning didn't seem to have helped any, so she supposes she can dispose of the theory that he'd somehow been causing them in an effort to get her to speak to him again.
Her rambling thoughts are interrupted by the chirp of her phone; in seconds, she's up and out the door. A lead, she thinks gladly — it will at least help to focus her mind on more productive things.
He crosses and uncrosses his legs restlessly, anxious in spite of himself to get back to DC, to check on Lizzie. There's something about the things she's told him about Lorca that is niggling at him, but he can't quite place it.
He takes a swig of beer and leans back, thinking over what she'd said to him that afternoon on the phone. Something about the victims… and his mind clicks. But no, that's ridiculous, he thinks, a two-bit thug like Lorca…
He'll just check in with her, see if they've found anything. Just to make sure that she's safe.
Her answering voice is sharp and impatient — his dismissal earlier angered her, and it pleases him in a perverse way.
"What do you want?"
"I've been thinking about your case," he tells her. "What do you have so far?"
"I'm at the crime scene," she answers, and her frustration is palpable, even over the phone. "Or what we think is the crime scene."
Shit, he thinks. Sometimes, it's no fun at all being right all the time. "You didn't find anything," he says aloud, and it's not a question.
"Not much," she says back, and her questions are fully audible in her voice.
"Tape residue on the walls?"
"How do you know that?" She's instantly on alert, and he smiles to himself.
"Look in the tub," he instructs, and he can hear her moving through the room in the background. "Run your fingers around the drain. What do you smell?"
"Chemicals," she answers, curious and thoughtful.
"You see, Lizzie, now I'm interested."
"Why?" she asks, instant suspicion in her tone.
"The Stewmaker is in town," he answers, and if it sounds ominous, he can't help it. "You're going to need a plumber."
They're all back in the Post Office, even Lorca, who's being held in an interrogation room, waiting on Reddington like he's some kind of… Ugh, she thinks, she doesn't even know what she thinks anymore.
He clatters in just then, coinciding neatly with her thoughts in that way he does, shadowed by Dembe and beaming genially around the room. He winks at her, and she narrows her eyes, about at the end of her patience. Without introduction, he starts in, delivering facts in a surprisingly sharp and concise manner.
"The Stewmaker is a true Blacklister," he says, pacing while he talks so they all have to watch him. "The only fellow to engage when one has a particular sort of disposal problem. He's a chemical expert who turns his victims into chemical stew, thus the nom de guerre. No DNA. No nothing. He makes corporeal problems literally disappear."
He meets her eyes, now, demanding her attention — she thinks absently that he looks worried. "But it's much more than the proficiency of his tradecraft that gets him on the list," he continues. "He's a… trophy collector…" He's right in front of her now, capturing her gaze. "Remembrances of his victims. Memento morti."
Her heart is fluttering a little — she feels like he's talking just to her, his eyes piercing, and he smells amazing… Stop it! She admonishes herself, What is wrong with you?
"Now, you've lost your witness, and with him your case. But the Stewmaker is the key to so much more." He finally looks away, and she's able to take a deep breath, reorient herself. "He's served the needs of international syndicates, repressive regimes, anyone with the need and means to pay. The Stewmaker knows where all the bodies are buried. He's got the answers to hundreds of unsolved murders."
"So," Ressler says, "How do we get him?"
"He's notoriously cautious," Reddington answers. "I don't even know who he is or where he bases his operation. And believe me, I've tried to find him."
"Lorca knows," she says, watching him, caught up. "If not his name, he knows how to make contact."
"Yes," he answers, and it feels like they are in sync, partners. "I suggest you encourage Mr. Lorca to share that information. The Stewmaker is obviously here now, but he won't be for long. And if you let him slip away, he'll be as gone as his victims, and you'll never see him again."
But Lorca gives them nothing, even in the face of Meera, even in the face of detention in the hands of Homeland Security. The Stewmaker must be a truly terrifying man, she thinks.
She insists on going along on the custody transfer, talking at Lorca the whole way, threatening as much as she is able, hoping for a crumb of a clue. As they approach the waiting helicopter, she tries again, she can't give up — she gets nothing, though, from Lorca but venomous bile. She's starting to worry a little…
At least until the explosion knocks her off her feet and several metres backward through the air, slamming her head into the ground. Dizzy and sick, she tries to raise her head, to sit up, to see what's happening. All she sees is flame; flame is everywhere. This further confuses her — it doesn't belong here, she hasn't done anything. She can't understand what's happening. Shadows are crossing the dancing light, people are running and yelling.
Footsteps thud up behind her and she's abruptly engulfed in darkness. Hands grab her shoulders roughly and she's dragged along the tarmac and shoved into what she thinks must be a vehicle. A hood, she thinks blearily, pain fogging her thoughts. They don't want me to see where they're taking me.
"It's your turn now," Lorca's voice hisses at her out of the darkness. "it's your turn to have your life taken away from you, bitch."
What must be his fist connects with the side of her head, and the darkness takes her over completely.
He's still at the Post Office, trying to pin down information, when the word comes down. The transfer has been ambushed, Lorca's escaped, Elizabeth taken. He doesn't need his brilliant mind to know just what Lorca will do with her, and his fear is second only to his cold rage at the thought of it, at the incompetence of those who are meant to protect.
Ressler and Cooper come up behind him, and now there's an explosion on the screen overhead.
"We just got the surveillance footage from the airport," says Cooper.
"What did you know about the transport attack?" demands Ressler.
"How did he know where to strike?" Cooper is genuinely wondering, not accusing.
Ressler is another story. "I swear to God, if you had anything to do with…"
He's not going to stand there and take that kind of crap from Donald Ressler. "What you're forgetting is that we want the same thing, Agent Ressler," he cuts in sharply.
"Why would he kidnap Agent Keen?" Cooper asks. "What's his play here?"
"I have a contract with Lorca to personally hand him a new identity," he answers smoothly. He'll make that meeting regardless of what they say, but he needs to at least try to stay on terms with the task force.
"That's never gonna happen!" Ressler cries, angry and trying to take back control.
Red seethes. "Your witness is dead, you lost Lorca, and he took Agent Milhoan. I'd say my meeting with Lorca might be the equivalent of you falling on your ass and landing in a pile of Christmas."
"We'll need time to set up a sting," says Cooper thoughtfully.
No, he thinks, increasingly angry. There is no time, here. "He's been evading capture for years — he'll be more on guard than ever. Any change of plans, and we'll lose him. I meet with Lorca alone."
"An FBI agent's life is in jeopardy," Ressler shouts. "There's no bargaining here!"
Red just looks at him, with every ounce of disdain he can muster — it's quite a lot, actually. "When confronting complex equations, the simplest answer is most often the correct one. You lost her. I can find her. It's that simple."
She comes to slowly, movement of a car still beneath her, but she's lying down. Is it… she tries to shift, but can't. Her hands are tied behind her back awkwardly; she's not hooded anymore, but blindfolded, and her mouth is covered in what feels like tape, likely duct tape. She's in a trunk, and it's quite quiet, and there's a faint smell of… dog?
She has time to think how odd that is, then the car slows and the engine shuts off. She hears a door open and shut, the driver getting out, she thinks, then — stop dancing around it, she tells herself firmly, you know it's him, it's the Stewmaker, and if you don't do something here, you're going to die.
Another door opens and shuts, then there's a much louder click and the darkness brightens as hands force themselves under her body and lift her out of the trunk. He seems to be trying not to be rough as he sets her on her feet and frees her mouth. She takes a gasping breath of fresh air; it smells clean, of earth and pine. They must be in the woods.
He starts her moving, half-guiding, half-pushing her forward; with her hands tied, walking is difficult, and his grip on her jacket is distracting. She's both frightened and angry now, every vein flushed with heat, and sparks dance eagerly and impatiently within, but…
No, she thinks fiercely, wrestling for control. NO, not another person, not ever. There are lines that she cannot cross. She has training for this type of situation, she's an FBI agent and a profiler, she can get out of this without… she can get out of this.
"My name is Elizabeth," she says, seeking some kind of foothold with him. "I have a name. I'm a person. I want you to know who I am."
She gets nothing back but a grunt, and a harder push to keep moving.
"What's your dog's name?" she asks, persistent. "What kind of dog is he?"
The sparks inside are bigger; it's harder to focus and she's starting to panic. It's bad now, so bad, she needs Sam, something terrible is going to happen, she knows it.
He was angry, at first, to be saddled with Ressler on this crucial meeting, but it turned out advantageously, after all. He actually loves having to think on his feet, having to pick his way carefully through a challenge, sliding through the danger like smoke.
And it worked, at least partially — they've got a P.O. box, which leads them to a name, and that's all he needs. He gives Dembe the nod and they're out of the Post Office and on their way, because he can't wait anymore. There's no time for the plodding of the FBI, for guesses and procedures and red tape and warrants — the danger is entirely too great.
They're in the car and driving even as he starts the process of tracking the Stewmaker, and driving is better, he needs to be in motion before he starts to lose control. The dog is the answer, just as he thought it would be, they can track the dog and they'll find her. Please, just let them be in time, let them not be too late.
How will he live with himself if they're too late?
She knows that all her attempts at talking have been for nothing when he approaches her with a glistening needle in his hand. She can smell chemicals in the air in the small cabin — the room behind the one they're in boasts a large white tub, and whatever's brewing in there emits a harsh stink that burns at the inside of nose and the lining of her throat.
She wants to recoil as he grasps her arm, but she's still bound and helpless — not helpless, she reminds herself, and as her panic grows, she starts to think it might finally be time to leave morality behind.
It hurts when he jabs in the needle; he's not being so careful anymore. She knows then that she can't talk her way out of this, that she needs to fight. It's almost a relief to reach inside herself, but… the sparks are dwindling, they're far away; even seeking them, she can't quite pull them to the surface, she feels like she's filled with fog.
"What did you give me?" she asks, dizzy and scared.
"A sedative," he says, in calm, even tones. "It will eventually cause paralysis, yet maintain your sensitivity to pain."
She so very frightened; why can't she find it? Where is the flame now, when she needs it so very badly? It's the drug, she realizes, an extraordinarily fast-acting one that has dulled her senses and put action out of her reach. He looks at her, and his face is sad and regretful, and the fear intensifies, thick in her throat.
"I was… I was asked to make you suffer," he says slowly, and moves around the chair to stand behind her. "I'm… I'm sorry. It's my job."
"It's my job to read people," she manages to slur out. "And you're not a killer."
"I'm a lot of things, Liz," he says sadly, and she feels his heavy hand stroke down her hair to rest on her left shoulder. "There's a nerve cluster just under the shoulder muscle," he continues, gripping hard and digging in his fingers. "Just wait. The pain should be quite intense."
For one breathless moment, there's nothing. Then a pain so debilitating she nearly vomits, and she screams out her agony — she's so alone.
"Just wait," he says again, and tears are running down her face and she's having trouble breathing, but…
But the pain is a jolt to her system and the heat is rushing through her like a river.
She chokes out a laugh and that gives him pause — he lets go of her shoulder to walk back in front her. He grips the back of her head by the hair and yanks to bring up her face.
She's flooded with triumph when she sees fear in his face, now, because she knows that her eyes must have changed, knows what he must see there — the leaping flame. She's hot enough already that the ropes binding her are ash; she whips her hands around to clamp onto his arms before he can run.
He howls at the burn of her touch as his shirt begins to smoke, and the sound gives her further strength.
"Goodbye, Stanley," she says softly. "I'm sorry."
And she lights like a match.
His clothes catch fire quickly, and she lets him drop to the floor as she stands, pain forgotten and blazing like a torch. She feels amazing, flush with power — it's been so long since she let the flame take her fully that she'd almost forgotten the rush it brings, the seductive heat and hunger.
She can hear the shrieks and crashing of Kornish behind her as he struggles to help himself; can hear the crackle of the wood of the walls and furnishings catching as he flails around. She ignores it all as unimportant, but the whimpering of the dog catches her attention. She looks around and sees it cowering by the door, and walks over to open the door and let it out, careful not to get too close.
She's burning so hot now that the door immediately lights as she pushes it open, but there's enough open space for a dog, who slinks out and sits a short distance away and howls for its master.
Remembering Kornish, she turns, just in time to see his burning body bang into the edge of the long tub at the back of the cabin and tumble in with an ominous splash.
There's a long moment when nothing happens but an abrupt increase in the chemical smell in the air. Then, with a sudden whoomph of sound, the tub explodes in a noxious fireball that blows off the roof and sends shards of porcelain flying in all directions.
Second time today, she has time to think, as the force sends her, still ablaze, off her feet and out into the night.