Sam Milhoan - Guess Who?

Morning came and brought with it a picturesque scene to the kitchen in Red's cozy old safe house—sun streamed in through the window over the sink, ingredients lay measured and neat on the counter waiting to be used, scents of cooking food wafted out into the rest of the house like a siren song. It marked the first day of Red's promised cooking lessons, a welcome distraction from the worry and stress of Sam's illness.

Red leaned on an elbow next to Liz at the counter, explaining the purpose of what she was doing in a low, patient voice while she listened intently and attempted to follow his instructions as accurately as she could. Her lack of confidence was obvious; he kept in tune with it, careful not to overwhelm her, and successfully talked her through her nerves, interspersed with only the occasional whispered profanity on her part. The end result was a very serviceable hollandaise sauce.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, light, gentle.

"We haven't tried it yet." Frowning slightly, Liz dipped a teaspoon into the buttery sauce and gave it a cautious taste. Huh. The flavor was good, and the texture, too. Not bad for a first attempt, really. She'd been expecting lumps, like that time she got ambitious after binge watching Food Network for two days straight and decided to try making ice cream from scratch, but ended up with vanilla scrambled egg soup.

"OK, maybe you're right. Here." She filled another spoon and offered it to Red, but he leaned forward and bypassed it to capture her lips, tasting it that way instead. Her free hand came up to the back of his head, holding him to her so she could kiss him back soundly. The spoon clattered and splattered on the counter, forgotten.

Soon, there was a sound of a throat clearing behind them and they sprung apart with a start. A fierce blush crept up Liz's neck and face when she saw her father standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against the doorjamb as he struggled to catch his breath. Red was at his side in a flash, supporting him on the way to the table.

"Dad, you really shouldn't be out of bed," she said, her attention safely on the pot of sauce as she willed her blush to disappear.

"What's it gonna do, kill me?"

"Daddy."

"Sam, your morbid sense of humor is a breath of fresh air."

Sam shrugged. "At this point, all I've got is morbid." He leaned back heavily in his chair, drained and winded by the short trek. "If I'm interrupting something, just say the word and I'll head back to my room."

"Nonsense," Red said; if he was at all embarrassed over having been caught kissing Sam's daughter in front of him, he hid it better than Liz. "You're just in time for Day One of cooking lessons."

"Really?" Sam looked surprised, and more than a little impressed. "So what's on the menu today?"

"Eggs Benedict with hollandaise sauce handcrafted by Chef Lizzy."

Sam's eyebrows rose even further. "Good to see you're starting with something simple."

"I'll have you know I grew up watching Julia Child make hollandaise on PBS, I could make it in my sleep. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I have a couple times." Red took the stirring spoon from Liz, giving the sauce a quick stir and said, "It'll keep in a Thermos until we need it. You want to try your hand at the eggs while I take care of that?"

"Not really, no," she said, with a tight smile on her face and an edge of panic in her voice.

"Lizzy," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder in reassurance, "you've stared down some of the most heinous criminals in the world without batting an eye, you can do this."

"Such an inflated sense of your own importance."

Red twitched a smile. "You find me less intimidating than poached eggs."

"Does that wound your fragile ego?"

"No." He tucked her hair behind her ear and let his hand linger. "Not at all."

He pulled over the tray filled with eggs in small glass ramekins, so it was well within easy reach of her place at the stove in front of a pan of simmering water.

"Remember, they're cracked and ready, just slide them in clockwise around the pan and pull them in the same order, that way they'll be evenly cooked and you won't lose track. And if you screw them up? Don't worry. Eggs are cheap and we've got plenty."


Sam watched Lizzy and Red go about their lesson with a small, sad smile on his face. He had to admit seeing them interact made him understand just a little bit better why they gravitated towards each other—they could be themselves, something he knew didn't come easy to two people as guarded as they were.

He hadn't ever thought he'd see Red so relaxed around someone again, truly comfortable without the underlying emotional defenses he'd built around his heart. There was no artifice when he was around Lizzy. It was refreshing to see his friend so unencumbered. It was even more refreshing to see Lizzy as the focus of such genuine affection after the debacle with Tom.

Sure, she was nervous doing something she'd never done, but Red knew how to defuse the tension without making a big deal out of it. He was patient and kind, and she responded well to that. Not even when she and Tom were newlyweds did she seem so at ease in her own skin.

He thought maybe it had been new love coloring her personality then, but he could see now that he was wrong. She'd been stifled by the bastard—she had only been giving him what she thought he wanted, which was merely a shadow of her true self. This Lizzy right here, this teasing, bantering, vital young woman who gave as good as she got? This was his little girl.

The fact that Red had obviously fallen for this version of her? Well, it did more to erase Sam's fears about their relationship than anything. Red wouldn't want her to be someone she wasn't. And Lizzy would see him for who he really was, as well.

They were playing a dangerous game, Sam knew, and he wouldn't be the last loss either of them would suffer before it was over. He just hoped they might be able to eke out a little happiness in the meantime.

"Time to eat," Red announced, shaking Sam from his reverie. He and Lizzy set the finished plates of food onto the table and took their seats on either side of Sam.

He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy.


Three days later, Ressler and the task force still hadn't managed to take down Nathaniel Wolfe and General Ludd. Red decided to take pity on them, or at least on the continued value of the dollar, and left to lend his particular brand of expertise to the case soon after breakfast. (He managed to conjure up a waffle iron once Liz expressed her disdain for pancakes in no uncertain terms and she had yet another recipe under her belt.)

Sam slept, often and for long stretches, leaving Liz to her own devices most of the day, and the safe house took on an eerie quiet with only her, Sam, and the nurse present. She spent a great deal of time just poking around in nooks and crannies while he napped. Today, she found a random collection of battered board games stashed in one of the closets. Monopoly, Battleship, Sorry!, Guess Who?—the shelves were lined with blasts from the past. It made her wonder about the owners of the old house.

She tucked a few dusty boxes under her arm and went to check on her father.

There was a brief moment every time she passed Sam's room that she held her breath and braced herself, preparing for the possibility that when she turned the corner and peered inside, he would already be gone. It hadn't happened yet, of course; she wasn't sure she would be ready to deal with it if and when it did.

This afternoon, Sam lay with his hands clasped over his chest, staring unfocused at the ceiling with a deep furrow in his brow and a frown on his scruffy face. He looked wan, listless, troubled.

Liz knocked lightly on the doorjamb to catch his attention; he glanced over at her and it took a few seconds for him to arrange his face into some semblance of a smile. She returned it, but hers didn't reach her eyes anymore than his did.

"Hey. How're you feeling?"

"I'm still breathing. Albeit not very well." With great effort, Sam pushed himself up in the bed. "What've you got there?"

"I found some old games hidden away in a closet. Wanna help me check and see if any of them still have enough pieces to play?"

"Sure, bring 'em on over," he said, waving her closer with a frail hand. "There should be a tray table around here somewhere."

She set the table across Sam's lap and he took the lid off the old Monopoly box, started matching the property deed cards with the spaces on the board. She started on her own box, pulling out two stacks of cards, one backed in red and the other blue.

Two Georges, two Alfreds, two Susans and Marias. There was only one Richard, though, and one Joe. Liz sighed and started putting the pieces back in the box. She always liked Guess Who? when she was a kid. It was one of the first games the older boy next door let her play with him after she moved in with Sam.

"How did you end up adopting me?" she asked after watching him sort through his cards for a while.

"Haven't I told you this story before?"

"You tried to tell me once that the stork dropped me off on your doorstep. Remember?"

"Oh, geez, that's right. You were so indignant. How was I supposed to know how much you absorbed from watching I Love Lucy reruns religiously? 'That's not where Little Ricky came from, so it's not where I came from!'"

Liz snorted at the imitation, his gravelly, scratchy voice straining with the effort to sound high-pitched and young. "Give me some credit. I was four, not two."

Sam chuckled, a congested, uncomfortable sound. "You gotta cut me some slack, butterball. I had no idea what I was doing, I had no real experience with kids before you."

Liz sobered quickly. "Where did I come from? Really. I know it wasn't just a normal adoption."

He met her eyes briefly, then began to separate the pastel paper bills into denominations. He seemed to be weighing what he should tell her, which made her a little uneasy. If he wouldn't explain, how would she find out after he was gone? At last, he came to a resolution.

"It was a friend of mine. He brought you to me one night. He really did show up on my doorstep—I should've told him I called him the stork, he'd get a kick out of it."

"Dad… Keep stalling like that and you'll give Red a run for his money." He let out a half-hearted breath of a laugh, but he wouldn't look up at her. "Your friend, why would he… How did he end up with me in the first place? I'm guessing he wasn't from an adoption agency."

"He was involved with some dangerous people, dangerous people who wanted him to, uh… deal with… some people who were even more dangerous."

"And some of those people were tied to me?"

Sam nodded. "Your father. You know he was a shady character—"

"He was a criminal, you don't have to sugar coat it. Look where I am now, for God's sake."

"My friend had gotten in over his head with the people he worked for but he didn't realize that yet. At that point he was still just doing his job. He was already in danger just by agreeing to do it. I mean, he didn't have all that much choice to begin with, really. He might have been killed for refusing, we'll never know now." He shook his head, shrugged. "Anyway, things went bad. There was a fire." He gestured to her wrist.

"I don't know if it was intentional or if it broke out during a struggle; I don't know if he knew about you ahead of time or if you were a surprise. He wouldn't tell me any specifics. He never was the sharing type. All I know for sure is the outcome—he found you and he took you to me, told me your father had died and you needed a home, someone to care for you."

"Why you?" she asked.

Sam shrugged. "He was in pretty rough shape. I could tell he was scared, that he didn't know where else to go, who else to trust. He knew I was… safe." Sam paused, blinking back tears. "I don't know what made him believe I'd be a good father to you, Lizzy, but I'm grateful every day for his faith in me."

Liz felt her own eyes burn at the sentiment and reached out to give his hand a quick squeeze.

"I don't remember any of this," she said. "I don't remember him."

"You used to have nightmares when you were young."

"I remember having nightmares, I remember fire, just not anything specific."

"It was traumatic enough for you to block a lot of it out."

Liz frowned. That wasn't a satisfying answer at all. Everything in her said that this was a puzzle she should be able to piece together, but the solution was just out of reach. She felt frustrated and stupid, her anxiety and dread taxing her usually quick mind to the point of sluggishness. Lately, she just didn't have the ability to process things the way she was used to. Maybe she really did have a mental block.

"Maybe someday it'll come back to me," she said, rubbing absently at her scar. "Then again, maybe it's better if it doesn't."


When Red came in, it was late. Liz was already in bed, dozing fitfully. In her dreams, she and Sam played Guess Who? and all of the figures on the cards had shaggy blond hair but none of them had faces.

"They catch Wolfe yet?" she asked, groggy.

Red slid his tie from his collar and rolled it carefully before setting it on the dresser. It was the burgundy one with the tiny white lines in a diamond pattern; he'd worn it that fateful day at the zoo, when his man ran off with the bomb from Beth's backpack and Red told her they would make a great team. Call her sentimental, but it was one of her favorites.

"Mmhmm. I may have set a bad precedent. Ressler thinks I'm willing to work with him now, alone."

"Well, I'm sure you'll disabuse him of that notion at your first opportunity in the politest possible way."

He caught her eye in the mirror and smirked, and stripped off his dress shirt without hesitation. Now that she'd seen the scars on his back up close and personal, he was a lot more open about showing them. That felt significant, somehow.

"He's going to check, you know. He's going to wonder why you came back here."

"Let him wonder. It sure as hell shouldn't be a surprise." Off came his trousers, and then he crawled into bed, stretching out next to her propped up on his elbow. "How was your day?"

"Fine."

"That doesn't sound convincing."

"It's nothing, it's just… something weird about my father."

"Did you have an argument?"

"Not exactly," she said. "I asked him about my adoption. He told me about how some friend of his left me on his doorstop in the middle of the night. Apparently, if my scar was on my forehead instead of my wrist, you could call me Harry Potter."

"I know how frustrating it must be to—"

Liz's eyes narrowed. "You know what? Maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Maybe I should be interrogating you. You probably know everything Sam knows about that night already, don't you? If not more."

"Lizzy…" He searched her face, gauging, assessing, all with an undercurrent of something strange in his eyes, something that looked a lot like fear. The wariness she'd noticed in him ever since Sam had fallen ill was out in full force. He was probably worried she was going to punch him again or stab him or worse. She vowed silently never to react like that again. No matter what it was she discovered about him, she'd never raise a hand to him unless it was something he wanted.

"No, it's OK, I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you. The stress is really getting to me. I keep needing to… lash out."

"I understand. Believe me. And I'm the easiest target you've got. You don't want to hurt Sam."

The burn behind her eyes came fierce and quick. "I don't want to hurt you either," she said, hoarse and desperate, blinking back hot tears.

"I can take it. Probably deserve it." Red took one of her hands in both of his, running his thumb over her knuckles. "Lizzy, I…" He trailed off, his voice breaking; he swallowed reflexively, cleared his throat, but still couldn't make himself say whatever it was he wanted to say.

"What is it?" She cupped his face with her free hand, just below his ear. "Red?"

A deflating puff of air escaped him and he shook his head, his own eyes filling with tears. "I-I can't."


She wasn't eavesdropping. Not intentionally. She couldn't help overhearing them—the safe house really wasn't all that big.

"I'll protect her with my dying breath. You know I will."

"And you promise you'll tell her, when the time is right?"

"I do."

"Tell me what?"

Their heads whipped around towards her in the doorway. They both looked guilty, but Red looked almost ashamed. Their agreement was as fresh in his mind as it was in hers, but he clearly wasn't planning on answering her anyway.

Liz gave him a look that clearly meant, 'We'll talk about this later.'

"What's going on?"

"Lizzy, honey, please sit down. I need to talk to you about something important."

As soon as she sat, Sam took her hand. His grip was weak, but she could tell he was trying for something stronger. He clenched his trembling hand a few times and tried again.

"I can't do this anymore, butterball. The cancer's got me in a chokehold, I gotta tap out."

"What… What do you mean?"

Sam held her gaze, willed her to understand. Liz felt like she was collapsing in on herself, the wind knocked out of her sails all at once. Oh, she understood, all right. She just didn't want to. She thought she might vomit.

"I'm sorry, Lizzy. I can't take another five weeks of this. I don't have it in me." His eyes were watery and his voice shaky. "It's gonna happen whether we like it or not. This is just… faster."

"I don't—How're you—"

"That's the thing, butterball. I'll need… help."

Gradually, the implication sank in. She turned to Red, stricken, but he wouldn't look at her.

"Dad."

Sam shook his head. "I couldn't ask you to do it. I couldn't put that kind of weight on your shoulders."

"But you'll ask him."

He met Red's eyes. "He owes me."