When Tom brings Dr. Wilkes back into the room, she's managed to calm down, to ready herself for the interrogation she is sure will follow.
But the doctor just sits in the chair beside her bed and smiles at her. She looks from him to Tom, who looks overwrought. Neither of them speaks.
"So, what do you want from me?" she asks bluntly. "Why have you brought me here?"
"Liz, I told you–" Tom starts, but Dr. Wilkes holds up a hand.
"Why do you think you're here, Elizabeth?"
"Really?" she returns, barely able to restrain the instinctive eye roll. "You do know I'm a trained psychologist, right?"
Dr. Wilkes chuckles. "No tricks," he says genially. "I honestly want to know."
She frowns, skeptical, then shrugs. "Okay," she says. "I think you want to interrogate me, that you'll torture me if necessary. I think you're looking for my father's research; that you want to know how he achieved what he did."
"And what was that? Was your father a scientist?"
"You know he was," she snaps, impatient. "He was a parapsychologist; he succeeded in stimulating psychic abilities in ordinary people."
"Liz, that's ridiculous!" Tom bursts out. "Your father was a reformed small-time crook who ran a pawn shop, for Christ's sake."
"Not Sam," she answers, sly now. "My biological father. Or didn't you know I was adopted?"
Tom just sighs. "Of course I did. Do. You and Sam were so close, though — you don't talk about your biological parents. I thought you didn't really think about them."
That gives her pause, because before Raymond Reddington came bulldozing into her life, she hadn't.
"So," Dr. Wilkes says, taking back control. "You believe your biological father was a…sorry, what was the term?"
"A parapsychologist," she mutters, thinking, thinking.
"And we," he gestures to indicate himself and Tom, "have abducted you to try and steal his research? To…continue his experiments? Are we criminals?"
"I believe you work for an obscure branch of the FSB," she says stubbornly. "Russian intelligence," she adds, in answer to the doctor's querying look.
"That's very interesting," Dr. Wilkes says. "Have we been searching for you for a long time? Why don't we just ask you nicely?"
"Firstly, because I'd assume you'd know that I wouldn't just tell you. Secondly, I expect…I expect you're afraid of me." Defiant now, because she knows she can't back up what she has to say next. At least, not now.
"I'm sure you're an excellent FBI agent," the doctor says, with another infuriatingly kind smile. "But you're only one woman."
"I'm pyrokinetic," she says, willing the fire to leap to life, to flare back into being.
There's nothing but silence, silence and empty air.
"Really?" Dr. Wilkes says finally, sounding fascinated. "Why don't you tell me about that?"
So she does — the short version of the story of her life. Growing up as a "powered" child, in an old farmhouse in Nebraska with her adoptive father. Learning to meditate and then fight as methods for dealing with the fire's aggression. The two of them moving to the city for her education, then the FBI — first the mobile psych unit, then training at Quantico to become an accredited profiler.
And then Reddington.
Entering her life like a whirlwind and changing everything; changing her. Teaching her that the flame isn't an enemy to be conquered, but a part of her to be embraced.
She talks for a long time, even with as little detail as possible. Dr. Wilkes takes a lot of notes, his face intent and fascinated. When she runs out of words, her story finished — though hopefully not her life — the doctor sits back with a sigh and a slow shake of the head.
"Simply astounding," he says. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this, in all my years of treatment."
"Doctor, this is…" Tom looks both devastated and exhausted, his body slumped in his chair and his hair a choppy mess from the number of times he's run his hands through it.
She feels badly for him for a brief moment, he looks so miserable, before she remembers that he's one of her captors.
He tries again. "Is…is Liz going to be okay?"
"Don't worry," the doctor replies soothingly. "Now that Elizabeth is fully awake and cognizant of her real surroundings, she will be able to heal properly."
"My real surroundings?" Liz says, wary.
"My dear, surely you can see that very little of what you described to us can possibly be real? Magical powers, dastardly villains, vigilante crime fighting? A criminal mastermind with a heart of gold?"
"But I…"
"No," the doctor continues, overriding her weak protest. "What we need to do now is discern exactly what's going on. When your husband first brought you here, the diagnosis was a severe mental breakdown brought on by your depression, and the added stress of the attack you suffered.
"But now, with the revelation of this incredibly complex, multilayered delusion…well, we must consider that you may have suffered a complete psychotic break."
"I'm not crazy," Liz bursts out, furious. "I don't know what you think this attempt at manipulation is going to get you, but–"
"Now, now, Elizabeth, you must stay calm," Dr. Wilkes says. "No one is trying to manipulate you. I'm here to help you."
"Liz, please, listen to him," Tom pleads. "I want our life back — I want you back. I–I love you."
She's waited her entire life for romantic love, a partner, someone to say those words to her and mean them. Had given up on ever hearing them, of ever being able to have that bond. And now someone has, but they are empty and meaningless and it cuts like a knife.
"I don't know you," she snaps, wanting to cry, wishing she could just kill them both and run. "All I want from either of you is my freedom."
Tom starts to say something else, but Dr. Wilkes stands, forestalling him. "I think we can all agree that this is best place for you, for the time being. Visiting hours are about over," he says gently. "Your dinner will be here soon, Elizabeth, and a nurse will come and attend to you.
"You and I will speak again tomorrow. Try to get a good night's sleep."
He heads for the door and waits there for Tom, who stands beside the bed looking down at her wistfully.
"Try and remember us," he says softly. "I miss you."
He touches her cheek, then turns and walks swiftly away without looking back.
Liz is left alone to think, to mull over what she's been told — and to plan for her escape.
He vacillates, in a way very unlike himself, while Dembe drives. Finally, he gives in to Liz' insistent voice in his head, and dials the phone.
"Harold!" he says brightly, shields up. "How are things?"
"Reddington, you son of a bitch," is the much less pleasant, infuriated response. "Where the hell have you been? And where is Agent Milhoan? If you've done something–"
"I didn't call you to answer questions," he interrupts coolly. "I called to ask whether or not you've found your mole."
"Our mole?" Cooper shoots back. "You're the criminal. If anyone has been doing any sneaking and betraying, it will be on your side of things."
"My house is clean," Red says sharply. "But yours is not. Find the leak, Harold, and do it fast. When you know who it is, I want to be notified. I have some…pressing questions for whomever it is."
"I don't work for you, Reddington — it's the other way around, in case you'd forgotten."
"I'd have thought you'd want to know," Red answers mildly. "One of your people is dead, another badly injured. Who else are you willing to risk?"
A pause on the other end, then a muffled thump, like a fist hitting a desk.
"Fine," Cooper snaps, his voice angry and tired. "Now, I want to talk to Agent Milhoan."
He's not ready to tell the horrible truth, not until he absolutely has to.
"I'm afraid she's not with me at the moment, Harold," he says smoothly. "Call me when you know something."
He hangs up and stares out the window at the velvet dark of a rural night. And tries to imagine what he can possible say to Dom that will induce the other man to help him.
She waits impatiently for things to fall quiet, for all the activity to shut down for the night.
Her catheter and IV have been removed, and a brief physical examination performed by an efficient but silent nurse. Someone else brought her dinner, which was heavy on starch and low on protein — in deference to her having not eaten solid food for a while, she supposes.
If she hasn't. She's no longer sure what the truth is.
She takes some time to look through the belongings in the room she occupies. She finds some clothes — nothing that she recognizes in particular, but everything in cuts she prefers, in colours and fabrics that she would choose if she could. Not much else, which unfortunately makes sense whether she's a captive or a catatonic mental patient.
Wait, there's her favourite cardigan, ancient and worn — it was Sam's once, and one of the only things she habitually wears that isn't flame retardant. Navy blue, nubbly, faded, with the hole near the hem. She brings it to her face — it even feels the same, and smells faintly of the detergent she favours; the perfume she occasionally wears.
How did it get here?
Photos, a scattered handful. Her college graduation, she and Sam, both grinning like lunatics. Herself as a child, messy haired and laughing, on Christmas morning. These are hers, contain her own memories.
Her mind falters, shivers and doubts.
Another photo of herself and the man called Tom, curled up together on a sofa she doesn't recognize, beaming into the camera joyfully. She touches her own face lightly — it's disconcerting to see yourself in a strange place, so blazingly happy to be with a complete stranger. For just a minute, she wonders what it would be like to be that other Liz, with everything she ever wanted secure in her hands…
She meditates for a while, the familiar processes comforting, the quiet, reflective time uncoiling the stress that has built up in her body. She lets her mind review what she knows so far, but she can't figure out what the game is. How will they get information from her just by pretending she is somebody else? Will they hypnotize her? Or are they just trying to confuse her? Get her talking until she unwittingly gives something away?
She doesn't know anything, and all this thinking, around and around, is getting her nowhere.
She shuffles over to the door, trying to be quiet while her limbs still don't want to hold her weight. Movement continues in the hallway — when she presses up to the window and peers out, she can just see a clock on the wall. It's only nine o'clock, and she sighs.
She works her way back to the bed and digs around in the nightstand. She finds what she's looking for — a watch. It's heavy and old, and it looks…it looks like Sam's, and she freezes with it in her hand for a long moment.
She shakes herself; it could be any watch, it's old but not an antique, not particularly unusual in any way. She slowly sets the alarm for one o'clock, hesitates again, then turns the watch over.
There's the dent in the case, and the mess of scratches — damage from the one time she'd almost vacuumed it up…
It can't be, though, it can't, because Sam's things and hers are all safe with Dembe, with Red by now, not here, waiting for her in some…Russian government facility. None of these things are real. She takes a deep breath, then another, recentering herself, shutting down the frantic scrambling of her brain.
She's cold without the flame simmering inside her; she curls tight under the thin institutional blankets and tries to sleep, watch clutched tightly in one hand.
It's farther outside the small town than he thought it would be, but Dembe finally turns into a gravel drive around midnight.
"It's very late," the other man says, looking at him in the rearview mirror. "Are you sure we shouldn't wait until morning?"
"I can't wait," he answers. "It's been too long already." He's afraid if he stops moving, like a shark he will falter, fail, fall.
He strides to the wooden door, knocks hard. Knocks again. Knocks again and again, until he hears shuffling footsteps and irritable grumbling.
Somebody better be dying out there…any idea what time it is?
The snick of locks being undone, then the door opens a crack, the security chain still fastened. A slice of a familiar face, angry and rumpled — before he can say anything, the door slams shut again. A volatile Russian curse, then footsteps walking away.
Before it's entirely too late, he calls out. "It's Elizabeth."
A pause, everything falling silent again, the eerie quiet of the country. The footsteps approach again.
"Elizabeth?"
"Your granddaughter."
The crack in the door appears again, the same piece of a face, this time afraid as well as angry.
"She's…is she…?"
"She's alive," Red hastens to reassure the old man. "For now. She's been taken; Dominic, I need your help."
The door shuts again, more quietly this time. Another long, long minute of silence. Then the rattle of the security chain, and the door swings open again, Dom's back already disappearing inside the house.
He glances at Dembe, who shrugs philosophically. They enter together, and walk down the creaky hallway into the kitchen, where Dom is pulling a bottle out of a cupboard. Vodka, rather than scotch, Red notes, but any port in a storm.
He could certainly use a drink or ten.
They all sit at the round wooden table; Dom pours out three generous shots and slides two over.
"Zdarovje," Dom says gruffly — the literal bare minimum, but it's something, Red supposes.
He downs the shot in one healthy gulp, relishing the smooth burn in his throat, the warm heat in his stomach. Grateful to feel anything but icy cold and afraid.
"So. My granddaughter is in trouble? After everything? How do you even know?"
This may be harder than he had anticipated. "I've been working with her for a while. After Sam died–"
"What? All your speechifying about cutting ties, making her safe, keeping her hidden. And you…you just show up in her life as if nothing matters?" Dom is furious, his face red with anger, his fists clenched on the table. "You made those choices for her, for all of us. And I let you because I agreed it was the only way to keep her safe. How dare you violate that, just spit in our faces, and then come to me for help?"
Dembe shifts in his chair, but Red shakes his head slightly. It's no more than he deserves, it's true, it's all true. And if Elizabeth dies, he will cheerfully come back here and let this irascible old man put a bullet in his head.
"I thought I could…protect her. I anticipated almost every threat."
"Almost." A disbelieving snort.
"I put trust where I shouldn't have," he admits. "A failing I thought I had conquered long ago. And now, they have her, Dominic. And I must get her back."
"'They' have her? Who is 'they', according to you?"
"It's the FSB; I have confirmation."
Dom rolls his eyes in skepticism. "Look, I–"
"You know they're still trying to replicate Yuri's work, Dom, you know it. And they think she's the key."
"What do you want from me?"
Red puts his hands palm-down on the table, breathes in and out carefully. Looks into the other man's eyes and lets everything show. All his desperation, fear, loss, rage.
A silent plea.
"You still have contacts from your KGB days. I can't find anything on where they might be holding her, and I can no longer trust anyone I had in Moscow. Please, Dominic, help me find at least a trace of her."
"So, you broke your word, destroyed our best-laid plans — selfish, just like always, selfish. And now, you ask me to rescue you like a child with a broken toy."
The well of bitterness is much deeper than Red had imagined; the injustice done much worse than he'd ever thought. All those years ago, it had seemed simple. It is anything but.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I was wrong. Then, now, maybe both, I don't know. I'm sorry for what I took from you, Dominic.
"But I need your help to get it back. I don't need you to rescue me, Dom, I need you to rescue her. Help her, Dom. Masha needs you."
The old man flinches at the sound of the old nickname, his face drawn and tired now. He looks down at his hands, then back at Red.
"For Masha," he says, reluctant and tired. "I'll do what I can. Let me send a couple of messages, then I need some sleep." He hesitates, then sniffs a little. "You look like you could use some sleep yourselves, both of you. You might as well stay here — I've got extra beds."
This is a major concession, and far more than he'd expected.
"Thank you," he says, meaning it. "This is Dembe," he remembers, finally, "my brother."
Dembe smiles in a gleam of white, and Dom snorts again. "You've always been loyal, Red, you've got that going for you, at least. Go on, I know you have spare clothes and whatnot in that fancy car of yours. I'll get the beds made."
He stumps off, grouchy acceptance and stubborn indifference written in his frame. Red and Dembe glance at each other, and walk out again to the car.
Red stands in the drive, looking at the stars; takes long breaths of crisp, cool air. Finally, a step in the right direction.
"I'm coming, sweetheart," he whispers to the night sky. "Hang on, just hang on and wait for me."
When the alarm goes off, she blinks alert quickly, popping easily out of sleep. She's still not quite steady on her legs, which makes her think that, one way or another, she's been unconscious for some time — probably drugged, and she's glad to be rid of the IV.
At the dresser, she opens the drawer she'd looked through earlier, plucks a bra out and fiddles with it. It takes her a couple of minutes to make a hole in the fabric and wiggle out the two pieces of wire, but she does it eventually. It's thin and a bit flimsy, but she can make it work.
She doubles one piece over, squeezing it tightly together and making a small bend at one end, then makes her shuffling way across the room to the door. She stands, silent and unmoving, for a full minute, watching, listening.
There's nothing, no sounds outside, and she can't see anything through the narrow window. She puts a hand on the lever of the door handle and uses it to support herself as she crouches down.
And it moves easily under her hand, the door opening a crack with a quiet click.
She nearly falls over in her shock — what kind of kidnappers don't lock up their prisoner? Had that last orderly, the one who took her food tray away, simply forgotten to lock it? That seems unlikely, but…what other explanation can there be?
Doubly uneasy now, she slips into the dark corridor, making sure the door shuts behind her and keeping the wires in her hand — she can always jab an eye, if necessary.
She creeps along, keeping close to the wall for support as much as secrecy. There are other doors — not too many, but evenly spaced along both sides of the hallway. Peering carefully into the first one she reaches, she sees it is nearly identical to her own, with a person sleeping peacefully in the bed.
She looks into ten rooms in all, each one an apparent patient room just like hers. The corridor opens into a larger, communal room with a television, comfortable seating, a few small tables with scattered chairs.
The more she sees, the more it seems as if she is exactly where they told her she is — some sort of rehab or medical facility. She hears footsteps, then, and ducks down behind a puffy armchair, folding herself small and holding her breath. A flashlight beam sweeps the room, and the footsteps move past her, then into her own hallway.
A guard, doing security rounds, she thinks, and knows she needs to hurry.
There's only one other way to go — another hallway, shorter this time, with only two doors on each side. These ones have names printed neatly on them — doctors' names. Shaky and uncertain, she finds Dr Wilkes' name and tries the door.
This one is locked, but it's just a flimsy built-in, and she picks it easily enough. She slides inside and shuts the door behind her. It's darker inside the office; the windows — if there are windows — must be covered.
She waits by the door as long as she dares, twitching impatiently, for her eyes to readjust. As soon as she can see well enough, she makes her way to the large desk at the opposite side of the room. There's nothing untoward on its surface, just stacks of files, a notebook, some mail.
The top folder is labelled "Elizabeth Keen".
She grabs it with trembling hands, and flips it open on the desk.
Clipped to the inside is a photo of her, her face still bruised from her encounter with Lorca, then the Stewmaker. The first sheet seems to be an admittance form — a brief physical description, contact details for Thomas Keen, dated only a few days after Lorca grabbed her.
Her condition…severe catatonic state…completely non-responsive… A list of medications that she can't make any sense of; instructions for nutrients and saline to be fed to her via IV.
Her breath is short by the time she finishes just that first page, her eyes blurring, her whole body feeling weak and unsubstantial.
What's real?
It…it could all still be fake, it's obviously fake, but…
But, another, more treacherous voice murmured inside her mind, why would anyone go to all this trouble if they could just torture you instead? Why take the time? Why risk being caught and losing it all?
Is there…is there even a remote chance that this is all true? That she is just…crazy? Broken?
She doesn't hear the voices, the running footsteps, the doors opening and closing.
She's still standing at the desk, her eyes blank, her hands frozen on the papers, when the nurse comes into the room. She clucks over Liz, chastising her gently, exclaiming over the chill of her skin as she wraps a firm arm around Liz and guides her back to her room.
She goes as far as to tuck Liz into bed, fetching an extra blanket to throw over her, and patting her leg comfortingly.
"Now, you just try and go right back to sleep, honey. You can talk to the doctor in the morning — he'll help straighten this all out."
She bustles out, shutting the door behind her quietly. Liz turns to curl on her side again, watching the door for danger, for help, for Red.
The tears come slowly at first, then faster and faster so she has to muffle her sobs in her pillow.
How can she fight when she isn't being attacked?
How can she escape an unlocked cage?
When she does finally drift into an exhausted sleep, she dreams of fire, blazing bright in her hand.
She dreams of a man with stormy eyes, who can wrap her in love without touching her; who stands with her, strong and fast, in dangerous times.
Red, she mumbles, tossing and turning, seeking him even in slumber. Find me…
