He'd been wary when they entered the warehouse, but he hadn't expected this. This swift influx of mercenary men on a distinct mission, one that worries him deeply.

He battles hard and fast — they were separated immediately, and something inside him screams that it means a danger he hadn't foreseen. His hand-to-hand isn't his strongest suit, but it's good enough to make this a fair fight.

But he's distracted when he starts to feel her panic; they're focusing hard on Liz, leaving only enough men to keep Red from getting to her, from taking out his gun and changing the odds. He doesn't want to give away her secrets, but these people clearly know what they are here for — and if he has his way, there won't be anyone left to tell tales anyway.

"Lizzie!" he yells, as loudly as can. "Do what you have to do…"

Because if she doesn't…

Then she's screaming his name and her fear is so vibrant in the air that he becomes frantic; he kicks and pummels himself into enough free space that he can pull out his weapon and start shooting to kill. But then, then she drops from his awareness as suddenly the flick of a switch and he can't see her anywhere.

Another mad rush of movement, three quick shots — he's hit once, just a graze on the leg, and someone is calling his name. Dembe is here, he thinks, with overwhelming relief. As his eyes scan the room for the other man, he realizes that the enemy is either dead, dying, or gone.

And Elizabeth is nowhere to be seen.

Although he'd already known she was gone, taken, he still feels the loss like a hammer blow.

"Raymond," Dembe says, worry heavy in his voice. "What happened here?"

As Red limps over to him, he sees that Dembe, too, has been hit, is bleeding down one arm — as usual, though, Dembe seems unfazed. Grey is nowhere to be seen, and Red's growing rage hits a sharp spike.

"More betrayal," he says grimly. "They've taken Elizabeth — and I can't even say for certain who they were."

"Anders is dead," Dembe says, equally grim. "We'll need to search the bodies."

Red nods shortly and moves to the closest body, no time to waste. This one's still breathing, eyes glinting in the fluorescent lights.

Red crouches down, tilts his head to make eye contact.

"Who do you work for?" he asks, tone almost conversational.

The man on the floor coughs, spitting blood onto the floor. "I won't tell you anything," he says, voice without inflection. "You'll never find her."

"You're mistaken," Red says calmly, though his innards roil uncomfortably. He pats the mercenary gently on the cheek. "But it needn't concern you any longer."

He slips his other hand under the man's head, and with a quick, fierce, measured twist, snaps his neck.

He's moving on before the dead man's eyes go dark, completely focused on his macabre task.


Pain is all she's aware of as a hazy consciousness returns, her body throbbing like one giant torn muscle and her head pounding in an agony so severe she can't even begin to think of opening her eyes.

She's terribly cold, in a strange and empty way.

She focuses on breathing, in and out, slow and even, and gradually the pain recedes enough that she can hear voices around her. They're unfamiliar, though one is accented in a way she almost recognizes but can't put a name to.

correct dosage…problems with her heart rhythm…most of the bruising is healed…how much longer?

She can't make sense of anything that's being said, and fear starts to shorten her breaths. She tries to raise a hand, clear her throat, anything to indicate she's awake, but everything feels so heavy and she's so weak and tired. Where is he, her companion, protector, friend…she can't think of his name for a long moment, and it drives her fear into overdrive.

Far enough that something starts beeping and there's a flurry of new movement around her; a hand on her wrist, checking her pulse. Someone forces an eyelid open, Elizabeth?, a bright pinpoint of light that makes her wince away.

"R-Red," she says painfully, her voice harsh and hoarse from disuse, remembering the word in a flash, the immense relief of it making her relax.

"Push 30 more," the accented voice says, strident, in charge. "We're nowhere near ready for her yet."

She tries to say something else — a question, a protest, a demand, anything — but all that comes out is a pale moan.

Then, a blanketing darkness embraces her again, and all thought slips away.


He's enraged and terrified at once, and it isn't a good combination. He and Dembe left the bloody warehouse fairly certain that Elizabeth's captors are FSB, which meant Volkov had been working for the mob — or possibly playing both sides.

Which meant twice as much to worry about, and far too much potential for terrible things.

He paces the house in Grimmentz endlessly, trying not to see her in every room, trying not to imagine what could be happening to her now.

It's already been a week.

How could it all unravel so quickly? How could he have let Sam down so completely?

How could she, this elusive wisp of fire and flame, have come to mean so much to him?

He downs another two fingers of Oban, alcohol now the only way he can control his fluctuating emotions. He's just wondering if he'll have to crack and call Cooper when the bang of the front door tells him Dembe is back.

The other man is hefting a large box when he comes into the kitchen, and Red waves absently at the table.

"Did you bring everything?"

Dembe nods, leaning back against the counter and appraising Red carefully.

"I needed a van," he says. "It's behind the house. Everything from Sam's storage space, and one box from their apartment."

"Just one box?" Red wonders how much anger he has left in him to feel. Does it build exponentially, feeding itself over a lifetime? Or will it one day run out, and leave him empty, a miserable husk of a man?"

"I did tell you, someone cleaned it out," Dembe is saying. "All that was left other than food were a few linens, bits and pieces of clothing. Nothing even remotely personal, and nothing at all of Sam's."

Frustration tangles with the fury now, because he can't fathom what they have planned, at all.

"One more thing," Dembe says, and he sounds hesitant now. "I have word on Grey."


Ault is a beautiful place, he thinks, there's that at least. Although it's the wrong season for it to truly shine. The day is overcast, the sea below him steel-coloured and restless, the ground around him scattered with puddles left from the early morning rain.

At least it's not a time for tourists, the man he has come to confront the only other person to be seen all along the coastline. He stops walking when he reaches the lonely figure at the edge of the white cliff, and joins him in staring out over the waves.

"Newton."

The other man turns his head slightly. "So — it's finished?"

Where is the rage, now that he needs it? All he can feel is a weary heaviness of spirit that weighs him down like an anchor.

"If you had come to me, I could have helped you. We could have avoided all this." All this ugliness. "But now we can't."

Grey looks at him now, his face pained, but resigned. "They threatened my family."

Red sighs, because he understands; because it makes no difference.

"Of course they did." Which is why it's smarter to have no one, to care for nothing — but he's broken that rule himself, hasn't he?

"I'm sorry," Grey says suddenly, "about Agent Milhoan. I don't know anything about what happened."

"Oh, don't you? Are there degrees to betrayal, Newton?"

He grills the once faithful lieutenant intensely, driven by fear and need. He focuses closely on the other man's expressions and body language, using what he knows about human nature to guide him. As always, he'd been fairly certain of what the answers would be before he'd started asking the questions.

There are no surprises.

When he's done, at last, Grey is sweating lightly, his face drawn, eyes wet.

"I'm telling the truth, Mr Reddington, I swear I am."

"I believe you," Red says, his voice chillier now. "If I didn't, we wouldn't be here, having this conversation. We'd be somewhere much less pleasant, having a significantly different conversation."

Grey gets paler, somehow — then nods and looks back at the horizon, his body slumping into itself as if wishing it could collapse.

"Newton, I'll take care of your family, whatever they need." Because there had been many good deeds done, to at least somewhat balance out these last bad ones.

"My wife," Grey says, meeting Red's eyes again. "She has no idea. If you could make it look like an accident, for her."

"Look out at the water," Red answers. He waits until Grey is facing away again, then slides the plastic bag out of his pocket and whips it over Grey's head, pulling tight. "Just look out at the water."


It's not really that much later when he climbs back into the car, meets Dembe's somber gaze in the rearview mirror with a slight nod. Then he lets his head tip back against the seat, his eyes closing.

"Our information was correct, then? Newton only passed along details on your movements, nothing else?"

Red grunts an assent. "But it leaves us with a much bigger problem, doesn't it?"

"Finding Elizabeth may prove to be somewhat difficult."

Red laughs aloud at this ridiculous understatement, and it makes him feel a little better.

"Who else do we know with ties in the right places?"

Dembe hesitates, then looks at him in the mirror again. "What about Dom?"

Red frowns, thinking. His first instinct is to say no, that Dom will refuse to help on principle, but maybe, for Lizzie… For Lizzie, he can face a man he thought he'd never see again. For Lizzie, that man might help him.

"We'd have to go back to the States," he says slowly. "If they've taken her into Russia…"

"We'll go there," Dembe says with a shrug. "As former KGB, Dom may know — or have the contacts to find out. And I can try and track her property, do another pass through the apartment."

Red nods. "All right then," he says. "Home again, home again."


Awareness is a slow, lethargic process, like wading through cotton wool. There's no real pain this time, but her limbs are stiff and numb — it's difficult to move. Her mouth is dry, her lips cracked; her eyes sting at the brush of air when she opens them.

Just how long has she been lying here?

She manages to get her arms out from under the sheet that covers her, untangling the IV tube she finds there. Other than the IV site, she is clean of any apparent interference — no other patches or monitoring — even the bruises and scrapes she's certain that last battle must have caused are conspicuous only by their absence.

A much longer struggle, one that involves the unpleasant discovery of a catheter, has her sitting up on the side of the bed, sweaty from the exertion.

What's wrong with me?

Looking down at herself, she isn't wearing a standard hospital gown, but heathery grey nightshirt that feels soft on her skin. Looking around, she's not in a hospital room either — it's clearly institutional, but with much more effort made to make it comfortable and attractive.

I must be with Red. The thought is such an intense relief that she nearly collapses again. Right on the heels of that thought is the question of where he is — knowing him, it seems odd to wake entirely alone.

She gathers herself and stands up, her legs wobbly and unsure beneath her. Leaning on the IV pole for support, she walks slowly around the bed, heading for the door. She stops when she catches movement in the corner of her eye; she turns painstakingly to see a mirror, and feels faint all over again.

My hair… She fingers the blunt ends of the slightly overgrown bob in surprise. It seems bizarre that someone would have cut her hair while she lay unconscious — what possible reason could there be? Her face looks different too, somehow, a little…rounder? Fuller?

She starts looking more closely at her surroundings, confusion and curiosity overcoming her apprehension. There's a framed photo on the dresser below the mirror — it's her, laughing in a black sweater, a sunny park in the background, and with her…a stranger? She thinks for a moment that she recognizes the photo, but she doesn't know the man beside her, his arm around her shoulders and a beaming smile on his face. He's good looking, with dark messy hair, black-framed glasses, just a hint of stubble, clear blue eyes.

But who is he? What's happening?

Anxiety starts to rise again, and she picks up the photo to look at it more closely. The noise of the door opening makes her turn, too quickly — she has to fall back against the dresser, clutching the edge with her free hand.

Two men enter the room, heads together in quiet conversation. One is clearly in charge, in a neat and formal suit and tie, with a heavy clipboard in his hand; he has wavy grey hair and dark eyes that look kind.

Beside him, in a rumpled plaid shirt and faded jeans, is the man from the photograph in her hand.

They both stop short when they see her standing there, and the three of them just stare at each other for a long, shocked moment.

Then, both strangers burst into speech, talking together in a tumult of words.

"Ah, Agent Keen, how wonderful!" the doctor exclaims.

But the younger man is effervescent with happiness. "Liz!" He's around the bed in a rush, grabbing her up into a fierce embrace. "You're awake, thank god! I was starting to think…"

She wrenches away, breaking his hold and stumbling backward, landing hard against the wall.

"Liz? What's wrong?" Shock and concern, hands still stretched out for her.

"Agent Keen, perhaps you should sit down," the doctor says gently.

She pushes herself fully upright, her heart pounding in fear. "Why do you keep calling me that?" she demands, hiding her terror in anger. "Who are you people? And what the hell is going on?"

"Liz, it's me," the younger man says, stepping closer again.

"Stay away from me," she rasps. Her voice is rusty with disuse, and she wonders again, frightened, how long she has spent unconscious. She reaches inside for the flame, for some way to defend herself.

But.

There's nothing there. No answering spark, no glimmering core waiting for her hand. No heat in her blood, her embers gone cold and dark.

She feels sick and lost; she longs for Red with a yearning so fierce it hurts.

"Liz, please, talk to me," the younger man begs, close enough now to reach out and touch her face.

She flinches back, banging her head on the wall with sharp smack. Desperate and terrified, she smashes the photograph in her hand against the dresser beside her and snatches up one of the resulting shards of glass. She grips it tightly, ignoring the slice of pain, and holds it between herself and this strange man who knows her name.

"Don't touch me," she hisses. "I want some answers, and I want them now."

"Agent Keen…"

"Stop calling me that!" The shriek hurts her throat, and startles the younger man into taking a few steps back from her, his hands held up in a gesture of appeasement.

"Elizabeth," the doctor says. "It's important for you to keep calm. You've just woken, and your body is still weak. I'm Dr Wilkes; I've been taking care of you. You have nothing to be afraid of, I promise you."

"How do I know you're telling the truth? I have no reason to believe you."

"Do you have a reason not to?" the doctor asks simply, smiling at her.

She frowns at him, angry and afraid. "Oh, I don't know, how about — you've abducted me and are holding me captive?"

The doctor looks taken aback, but the other man steps forward again, a pleading look on his face.

"Liz, it's me," he says earnestly. When she just stares at him, waiting for more, he pushes a hand through his hair a bit self-consciously. "Your husband," he says. "Tom."

And that appears to be it, the last straw.

Her legs crumple beneath her, and the last thing she sees before darkness claims her again are a stranger's hands, reaching for her.


Her head throbs from its knock against the wall when she wakes up. She's lying in bed again, but this time, someone's there, because they're holding her hand.

Red, she thinks, with a wave of relief. It must have all been some sort of bizarre dream; maybe she has a fever, an infection.

Her wide smile is already forming as she opens her eyes to see a stranger, who smiles back.

"Liz," he says happily. "You're back. You fainted — are you okay?"

She tugs her hand away, and his face falls.

"My head hurts," she says warily. "And I want to know what's going on. Where's Red?"

The man — had he said his name was Tom? — looks puzzled.

"Red what?" he asks. "Are you cold? Do you need another blanket, a sweater? I can–"

"Reddington," she breaks in impatiently, pushing herself to sit up and look at him eye-to-eye. "My…partner. He was with me when I was injured, taken, he'd never leave me alone." A thought occurs to her, one that sickens her, but she has to ask. "Is he hurt? D-dead?"

"Liz…" The stranger named Tom hesitates, an odd look on his face. "You don't have a partner — you work with a team. And you aren't here because you were injured, you… This isn't a hospital. It's a…it's sort of a recovery centre."

He looks pleased with this explanation, and she narrows her eyes, suspicious.

"Don't prevaricate," she snaps. "It's obnoxious. Tom, is it?"

"You know it is," he says, hurt. "Liz, I'm your husband."

"I don't…" This makes no sense, she isn't married, she can't get that close to anyone, and anyway…

She shakes off this confusion impatiently — first things first, her father always said.

"What do you mean, recovery centre?"

"For people with…look, Liz…" He looks increasingly uncomfortable as he speaks, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes, then takes her hand again.

"After your father died, you…you were really depressed," he says heavily. "You were having trouble just getting out of bed in the morning. I thought…then things seemed to be getting a little better, and then Hector Lorca escaped and attacked you. None of your physical injuries were serious, but mentally…it was like…you just turned off. You stopped talking, eating; it was like you weren't there anymore, inside."

The wrongness of the story he's telling grates — not because it's completely ridiculous, but because it takes some things that she knows are real and turns them around. Like a story of the life of a different Liz, in a different place.

It's disorienting.

"So what are you saying? I've been…in a coma? For how long, a month?" She knows he's lying, but…her stiff limbs, her weakness, the emptiness she has inside her…

"They called it unresponsive catatonia," he says flatly. "Not unconscious, just not…present."

He smiles again now, and if that clear-eyed look of joy is false, then this man is an outstanding actor. "This is the first time you've moved or spoken in six weeks."

He leans in suddenly, as if on impulse, and kisses her on the lips, cool and light.

She flinches — she can't help it, because everything about this is discordant and wrong, wrong, wrong. "Don't do that," she says, the warning clear in her voice.

He is instantly crestfallen, and despite all her better instincts, she feels badly for him.

"I'm sorry," he says sadly. "I'm just so happy to have you back. Do you–do you really not remember me?"

"I've never seen you before in my life," she says, the unvarnished truth. (It is the truth, it is.) "And I certainly haven't been catatonic for six weeks. After Lorca and the Stewmaker, I…"

"The what?" Tom interrupts, incredulous. "The Stewmaker? Sounds like a villain from a James Bond movie or something, not a real person."

"He was hiding his identity," she snapped, uncertainty breeding anger. "It wasn't his actual name."

"So…a mystery villain with a secret identity?"

She's been getting increasingly agitated over the course of this conversation, and…still nothing happens insider her. No answering spark, no spiraling heat.

Just emptiness.

As much as she has hated this strange ability over her lifetime, she now longs for it, for the certainty of its power, for the strength it gives her.

Frightened and alone, she jerks her hand out of Tom's grasp and covers her face for a long minute. She wants her father, with his unwavering love and belief in her; she wants Red, with his steadfast encouragement and warm affection.

Look, why don't I get the doctor," the man called Tom says gently. "I'm sure he can explain things a lot better than I can." He stands up, patting her shoulder a little awkwardly, then sighs and kisses the top of her head before he slips out of the room.

Alone, so alone, she brings her knees up and wraps her arms around them, staring at the door, waiting.

She focuses on Red desperately; builds the image of him in her mind. He can feel her emotions, always seeming to know what she needs before she knows it herself. Surely if she tries hard enough, he will feel her panic, her need, her loss. Surely he will hear her screaming, and come to her. Surely he will come to her, and help her make reality back into what she needs it to be.

But no matter how hard she pushes — and she puts everything she has into it, until her temples pound and her vision goes black — there is no answer but the sharp, icy shards of her own fear.

"Oh, Red" she whispers, wanting him more than ever, yearning for him with everything she has. "Red, where are you?"


Oh, Red…

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, en route from France to Maryland, Red's head comes up sharply, listening, the back of his neck prickling with sudden awareness.

"Lizzie?" he breathes, nearly soundless, opening himself, searching for her.

Red, where are you?

He heard her call, he knows he did.

"I'm coming, sweetheart," he vows aloud, fierce, determined. "I'm coming for you; wait for me."


A/N: I need to give an additional shout out here, to the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode Normal Again. It's not the only place I've encountered the waking-up-in-a-mental-hospital-wtf plot, but it was one of the first, the most effective, and the one that made the most impact, for sure. I hope I do the trope at least a little justice.