Crawling, he thinks ruefully, really isn't for me.
He's been moving along the ceiling for some time, waiting to see something he recognizes or hear a familiar voice. So far, all he's heard is rough exchanges in Russian. He is cold and stiff right through, with fear as much as his cramped conditions. He stops moving for a moment to gather himself, and then he hears it.
"Okay, okay, um… no, that's not…"
A familiar voice, at last, muttering to the rhythm of the tapping of keys. He lifts a ceiling tile and drops through the resulting hole, landing heavily directly in front of Aram, who makes an ungainly choking noise and stares in disbelief.
"Aram, my goodness," he says, careful to sound normally buoyant. "Where are we, and what are you up to?"
"M-Mr. Reddington?" Aram stammers. "Wh-What are you doing here?"
"Just dropping in," he replies with a cheerful smirk. "Oh, I'm sorry, I just couldn't help myself. I was on my way in with a case when everything started. Now, Aram, would you be so kind as to brief me?"
"Sorry, I… Yes, sir, Mr. Reddington. We're in the main generator room. I'm trying to restore the telecom so we can call in the cavalry."
"And where is everyone?"
"Captured," Aram answers bleakly.
Red's heart stops beating for one soul-chilling moment. "Agent Milhoan?" He doesn't think his voice has betrayed him.
"She and Agent Ressler made it to the Box," Aram says. "I think they're still safe, for now."
Red nearly staggers under the relief that courses through him, so strong that he can see some of the tension ease out of Aram's wiry frame in response. He feels a deep yearning to have the steadfast Dembe by his side, but he'll make it work.
"How long until you have telecom restored?" he asks briskly.
Aram shakes his head regretfully. "I haven't been able to hack around it," he says. "they must be jamming the signal internally."
"How?"
"Uh, based on just the waveform readings and the wattage output, it's, uh, something powerful, but, uh, portable."
"Where would they place it?" He maintains his patient leading with some effort.
"All the uplink and communication relays are in the subfloor garage," Aram answers, voice gaining confidence.
"Could you reset the telelcom if the jammers were disabled?"
"It would automatically reset, yeah."
"Good," Red exclaims, slapping Aram on the back. "Do you have a weapon?"
"Uh, yeah, why?" Aram replies nervously, confidence dissolving.
"Because we are going to go and find those jammers, Aram, and save the day."
Aram shifts uncomfortably. "Um, I-I've only shot at paper."
Red checks the doorway and glances left and right to clear the hallway.
"Then pretend they're paper."
She can't stop shaking; perversely, she can't move.
The mercenaries are already at work again, setting up explosives, guarding their prisoners, watching the door. They have left Malik's body in its pitiful bloody heap in front of the Box — Liz can't take her eyes off it. Her heartbeat, the pulse of her blood, pound in her ears.
"Agent Milhoan," Ressler's voice is faint; she doesn't really register it, lost in horror. "Agent Milhoan." Stronger now. "LIZ!"
The sound of her first name coming from Ressler shakes her mind loose at last and frees her from her paralysis. She turns to look at him, and is shocked all over again by his appearance — pale, sweaty, and ill, his eyes clouded and his large frame wracked with pain.
"Ressler…" she goes to his side and takes his hand again, feeling helpless.
"I'm losing too much blood," he rasps out. "Dying, I'm…"
"No! Ressler, no," she says, panicking again. "No, you'll be okay."
She leans over to look more closely at his wound. She can see right through to the femoral artery — if she can close the small nick there, and seal the rest, he should at least stop bleeding.
"I won't be okay," he's saying painfully. "Milhoan, would you do something for me?"
"No," she says again, firmly. "I won't, because you are not going to die. Just… just be quiet for a minute and don't freak out, okay?"
"What are you…"
His voice trails off as she moves the chair and sits beside his thigh, positioning herself with her back to the door and her actions largely shielded from the men outside. She closes her eyes and breathes, looking for the calm place inside her, looking for her point of focus. She reaches for the feeling she'd had that day with Red (it seems so long ago, now), the way everything inside her had bent to one purpose, had finally aligned and found its way.
She sits quietly and breathes, thinking of Red and flame and perfection.
"Milhoan," Ressler's voice floats into her consciousness. "You-You're hand is… is on fire…"
She opens her eyes and a thrill runs through her — she's done it.
"Okay, Ressler," she says quietly. "Try not to move. And maybe bite down on something? This is really, really, going to hurt."
He shoves his tie into his mouth, eyes wide with terrified comprehension — but he nods his assent, all the same.
Carefully, oh so carefully, she brings her hand to hover over the horrible wound. She delicately extends her index finger, and very slowly starts to cauterize the nick in Ressler's artery.
She gets most of what she wanted done before his screaming distracts her enough to lose the flame.
He shatters the small black box clipped to the wall cables with the butt of his gun, getting immense satisfaction from the opportunity to smash something.
"How many of these things would they need to scramble the telecom signal?" he asks Aram.
"Uh, several. But just disabling two should be enough for the uplink to reset and reestablish a signal. Just… it won't be anywhere near full strength."
"Cellular?" Red asks, mind racing, still longing for his own people.
"You might have one bar," Aram answers doubtfully.
"That's not enough," Red says, frustrated. "This will be faster if we split up."
Before the wide-eyed Aram can reply, heavy footsteps approach from the corridor ahead. Red steps in front of Aram, grim-faced, shoving him toward a corner a few feet behind them.
"Go," Red hisses fiercely, "And get it done. We're all counting on you, now."
He faces forward, blocking much of the view behind him, and hears Aram scuttle hurriedly off as two hulking brutes appear. Evaluating quickly, he holds his hands in the air, showing his inactive weapon.
"Well, gentleman," he says jovially, "Shall we go and meet the boss?'
Ressler has passed out again, which she supposes is for the best. Volkov is pacing in front of the Box, hammering away at her.
"Who should be next, hm, Masha? Who else's life will you sacrifice for your own?"
She has to bite down hard to keep from railing against the unfairness of this, but knows that she will be better served by keeping quiet — she doesn't even turn around.
"Listen up, little girl," Volkov continues, angrier now. "You…"
His voice trails off at the sound of booted feet approaching, and then, he starts laughing, and the sound chills her far more than his anger.
"So it's true," he chortles. "The infamous Raymond Reddington, reduced to snitching for the Feds — all for the sake of a woman."
Oh no, she thinks, her heart plummeting. Oh no, Red.
She turns slowly to face the door, and there he is — a little mussed and grubby, but whole and safe, and she breathes a little easier. She's missed him; she didn't realize how much until he was standing in front of her again. His face is dark and the air around him tinged with worry, but he sends her pleased relief — she thinks he is glad to see her safe as well. He holds up his hands, and she sees that his palms are smooth and completely healed, and her tension eases another notch.
"Well, Nikolai," he says smoothly. "You came here for her too, didn't you?" Liz feels a wave of reassurance now, and wishes that she could believe in it, believe that everything will be fine and they will somehow escape unscathed.
Volkov gestures to his men, and they haul Red forward to stand beside the Box. He has to sidestep quickly to avoid the sticky pool of blood.
"True enough," Volkov says to Red conversationally. "I'm having a little trouble with her though."
He looks at Liz, then, and she knows with sickening certainty that her face shows far too much as he smiles slowly.
"Maybe you can help me with that." And, without taking his eyes off her face, he raises his gun once more to rest against Red's temple.
"No!" she shrieks out, before she can stop herself, and Red closes his eyes briefly in defeat.
"Ah," Volkov says, and his voice is rich with triumph. "Well, well, how… interesting. Beauty and the Beast, is it? For fairness, Masha, I'll give you a ten count, yes?"
Oh God, she thinks, bile rising in her throat. Please.
"Lizzie," Red says calmly, "Lizzie, no. Whatever happens, do not come out."
She ignores him completely. "Cooper," she says instead, and is a little taken aback by the panic in her own tone. "Cooper, please. Please tell him." She's shaking hard, now, and the heat is rising fast.
Cooper mutely shakes his head, looking immensely sorrowful, but firm. He is not going to budge, she can tell.
"Six… five… Halfway there, Masha," Volkov sing-songs.
Red is still talking, still telling her to stop, sending her calm, but he can't break through the tumult of her thoughts. She turns on her heel and rams her fist into Ressler's charred and bloody wound as hard as she can.
He jolts awake with a scream of agony, but she has no time for regrets.
"The code," she says fiercely. "Now, Ressler — If not for me, then for yourself. I'm seconds away from losing it and I'm not the one who will burn."
He gapes at her for a split-second and she knows he can see the flame dancing in her eyes when he blanches white as a sheet.
"Romeo," he chokes out, just as Volkov lets out an exultant "One!" "The code's Romeo."
Volkov laughs again, keenly mocking. "How ridiculously apt," he sneers, and gestures with his gun at the man next to Cooper.
Liz moves to wait by the door, biting her lip nervously, for several nerve-wracking seconds until the machinery grinds to life with a clamour of beeps and everything starts to move.
"Oh, Lizzie," Red says unhappily. "I do wish you hadn't."
"Don't," she says bleakly. "I don't know what will happen now, but I do know that I couldn't face any of this without you."
He starts to move to her side, but Volkov thrusts himself between them. "I think not, my lovelies," he says. "Come along, now, it's past time we were going."
He shouts a few brusque phrases in Russian, and everyone starts moving. Liz catches one last glimpse of Cooper, staring down at Malik's crumpled body, before she is hustled toward the long corridor that leads to the loading dock.
No, she thinks, filling with determination, I won't be taken.
The heat starts to grow almost instantly; her tension and fear have kept it simmering just under the surface. She is just starting to glow bright when, "Ah, ah, ah," comes Volkov's voice from behind her. She feels a sharp, sudden pain behind her right ear, and everything goes black.
She comes to slowly, feeling nauseatingly like she is floating, just under the surface, the world rippling gently in front of her eyes. She's seated in a hard chair in a large, dingy room she guesses is in a warehouse of some kind. Her arms are turned painfully to her back and tied to what seems to be another person — it must be him.
"Red?" she croaks out, and hears his gusty sigh of relief.
"Lizzie," he says, "Listen to me. I know you're in pain and confused, but you have to…"
But his hurried words are cut short by the clang of an opening door, and Volkov swaggers into the room, followed by a much smaller man carrying a black leather case.
"So," Volkov booms out, dragging another chair out of a dark corner and sitting, facing her. "Now we are all nice and quiet, yes? So now it is time to tell me everything about yourself, and your parents, and then, I would like you to tell me where I can find the Fulcrum."
Panic swells easily and she starts to sweat. "I don't know anything," she replies emphatically. "I was barely more than a baby when my parents died — I can't even remember what they looked like." Her voice is thick with bitterness, and she feels Red touch her mind sympathetically. "All I know about myself are the bare facts, and what trial and error has taught me. And I've never even heard of 'the Fulcrum'."
Volkov sighs in mock disappointment. "I thought perhaps you would be ready to be more forthcoming, after earlier… events."
He beckons to the other man, who approaches her and starts rolling up her sleeve. He has a syringe between his teeth.
"There's no point in truth serum, or any kind of drug!" she snaps angrily. "I'm already telling the truth, and you can't torture information out of me that I don't have."
"You expect me to believe this!" he exclaims, standing abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. "That Katarina Rostova would leave her daughter alone and helpless, without the basic knowledge she needed to survive? Bah!"
He leans over her, shoving the other man out of the way, bracing his arms on either side of her legs and thrusting his face into hers.
"But here you are, little Masha, alive and well and perfectly able to use your powers. So, I think you are lying to me, and I will prove it."
Her eyes brimming with tears now, she shakes her head, unable to speak.
"At any rate, Masha, this is not truth serum," he says, standing straight again. "You know that anesthesia blocks the impulses to the brain so one doesn't feel the sensation of pain. The drug that the kind doctor here is going to give you does the opposite — it enhances the impulses received by the brain."
He gestures at the doctor, who steps forward and, none too gently, inserts the needle into the meat of Liz's left bicep and slowly begins to depress the plunger.
"When the drug takes hold," Volkov continues, "The feeling of a breeze wafting against your skin will be enough to make you beg me to kill you. Then, I think, you'll want to tell me what I want to know."
Horror runs through her in a rushing tide; Red's echoing her own before he clamps down on it.
"No!" she cries, "You can't! The fire, pain brings it out. It's too dangerous!"
"The only one here that has to worry about that is our friend Reddington," he replies, with a cruel smile. "So I suggest that you try very hard to control yourself. I'll give you a few minutes to think things over."
He leaves quietly, the so-called doctor following in his wake.
A long moment of silence stretches out between them.
She can already feel the chill of the drug sinking into her veins, rousing the sparks to battle it, making her teeth chatter in cold and fear together.
"Lizzie." His voice comes from behind her, low and rich and home.
"Red, I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry I left, sorry I didn't listen, I…"
"I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me," he says with a hint of humour. "Because I think that this must have been in motion for much longer than I originally thought."
She doesn't answer, attention stolen by the air on her face, the rough cords wrapped around her wrists, the textures of her clothing pressing into her skin. Worse, the sparks rising and multiplying inside her despite her attempts to quell them.
"Lizzie," he says again. "You've got to let go and let it come."
"Red, no," she manages, her shock overtaking the pain. "We're tied together, you'll…"
"Be freed," he interrupts angrily. "So we can get out of here."
"I don't want to hurt you again," she whispers, her skin tingling and jumping.
He floods her with such a wealth of warm affection that she wants to weep.
"I don't think…"
"Do it!" he says sharply, withdrawing everything, leaving her gasping and bereft. "Don't think, act!" A rush of noise comes from outside the room. "Lizzie, do it now!"
The edge in his voice and the tension against her back give her what she needs, and she lets the flame out in a flash and a crackle of heat. She can just feel Red tugging on the ropes until they part, and he leaps to his feet and moves around to face her. Her face behind its shifting mask of gold and red is anguished, and she hasn't moved.
"Can you stop it?" he asks urgently. "Can you put it out, sweetheart?"
"I don't… help me…" she manages — never before has the fire hurt her, but the drug has made her agonizingly sensitive and the pain is feeding the fire in the most vicious of circles.
He reaches out with all his inner strength, pushing all the calm and control he can muster, seeking the switch that will quiet the flames.
"I can't," she gasps, "It's too much, I can feel… everything, and it's too much. The fire loves the drug and the pain, and I don't…" Her voice trails off into sobbing breaths.
Panic fills him in ugly familiarity and he can hear shouts outside.
"You… you have to knock me out," she chokes out. "There's no time…"
"Lizzie, no," he says, honestly shocked. "I can't… you…"
"Now… your turn," she murmurs, then puts everything she has left into one last word. "ACT!"
So, with agony in his heart, he rips off his tie, wraps it around his hand, and punches her in the jaw. He watches her crumple in on herself as the fire winks out.
She dreams of snow; cool and white and clean. It's soft and peaceful and quieter than anything she has ever known. When sound does finally enter her perception, it's his voice. She seeks it, floundering towards consciousness.
When she's alert enough to discern words, he seems to be having a ferocious argument with someone, but his voice stays low. He doesn't want to wake me, she thinks, and the thought touches her enough to want to open her eyes.
She's tucked up across two seats on what she assumes is his jet, covered lightly with a soft blanket. He sits across the aisle, whisper-shouting into a cell phone, face fierce with annoyance.
"…If you think we are coming back there now, you are sadly mistaken," he's saying.
Her brain struggles to catch up. He must be talking about the two of them… where are they going and why? She struggles to sit up, relieved that movement causes only slight tingles of irritation over her skin.
"Red?"
He drops the phone and crosses the aisle to crouch before her, holding her hands and smiling into her face.
"Lizzie, you're awake," he says softly. "Are you all right, sweetheart? How much pain are you in?"
"I'm okay, I think," she answers, squeezing his hands in answering relief. His wrists are wrapped in clean white gauze, and her heart skips a beat. "Are you? Did I hurt you badly?"
"It's nothing, don't give it a single thought." He presses a kiss to her forehead, and they rest against each other for a short peaceful moment.
A tinny shout catches her attention. "Is that Cooper on the phone?"
"It is," he answers shortly. "I don't want you worrying about that."
Cooper's voice is just audible through the phone's small speaker, yelling at the top of his lungs.
"Red," she says, "He's my boss. Put him on speaker."
He frowns, but steps back to his seat and complies with her request, sitting back down and holding the phone out between them.
"Director Cooper, sir," she says, as briskly as she can manage. "Agent Milhoan reporting in. Sir, is… is everyone…" Her voice falters a little. "Is everyone all right?"
The tone of Cooper's voice becomes noticeably warmer. "I'm very glad to hear from you in person, Agent Milhoan," he says. "All present and accounted for here — Aram got a signal out and backup arrived just minutes after you left. Agent Ressler is still in surgery, but you saved his life."
Something inside her loosens in relief, and she smiles. "I'm pleased to hear it, Sir," she says.
"So," he continues, becoming a little harder, "Adding abduction to your list of felonies, Reddington?"
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Harold," Red retorts. "I am simply acting to safeguard Agent Milhoan, since you seem incapable of doing so."
"That's ridiculous!" Cooper blusters, but he doesn't sound so sure.
"Isn't it just?" Red returns bitterly. "A top-secret FBI blacksite infiltrated by the FSB. You have a mole, Harold, probably more than one. What are you going to do about it?"
The conversation goes on for some time. Cooper rages and demands, Liz pacifies and tries to reason, while Red makes cool, assertive statements with no room for compromise at all. It is finally agreed that Red is right and DC is, at least for now, unsafe for them both. Cooper is intent on making sure Red keeps to their agreement, though, and Liz is still employed by the FBI. They make arrangements to meet two agents that Cooper trusts when they land in Paris. They will stay in touch while the Task Force rebuilds, and a full investigation is run.
When the conversation is over, Red hangs up and then crushes the phone to splinters under his shoe. She raises an eyebrow at that, but he just smiles, and she is so very tired.
"I've never been to Paris," she says, instead of starting an argument.
His smile grows, and he moves across the aisle to sit down beside her, enveloping her in emotional warmth.
"Are you in much pain?" he asks solicitously.
She considers briefly. While her head throbbed and her muscles ached from the flame, the drug seems to have mostly worked its way through her system. Movement and touch still seem to cause sharp tingles of awareness across her skin, but it isn't particularly painful. If anything, it's a little… electrifying.
"No," she replies. "My head hurts a little, but I suppose that's to be expected."
He reaches out to stroke her cheek gently. "Perhaps we should have you fitted with a helmet," he says teasingly. "I'm not sure how many more concussions you can take."
"Oh, that's a lovely thought," she returns with a smile. "Not a chance, Reddington."
She gives him a poke in the chest for emphasis, and he takes the opportunity to grab her hand and bring it to his mouth for a soft kiss. She trembles, inside and out, and leans in to him a little.
"You frightened me," he admits, tucking her hair back behind her ear. "Coming out of the Box like that. If things had gone differently…"
"But they didn't," she interrupts firmly. "And I'll never apologize for saving your life, Red. I care about you, so much I can hardly breathe half the time. I…"
Before she can continue her tirade, his mouth covers hers hotly, sweetly, his emotions following in a rush of heat and adoration. She kisses him back fiercely, wrapping her arms around him tightly. They spend a few long moments wrapped in each other, touching and tasting, celebrating the fact that they were alive, whole, safe — and together.
Just as her breath starts to get short, he breaks away with a sigh. "You should rest, sweetheart, and I'm not sure how much control I have in me at the moment. Why don't you lie down again?"
She's regretful, but exhausted, and she knows he is right. Besides, they have all the time in the world ahead of them now. She turns and lays back so her head is resting in his lap and she is looking up at him. He smiles down at her and cradles her in his arms.
"So," she says, stifling a yawn. "How did we get here anyway? What happened to Volkov?"
His eyes go cold at the mention of the FSB agent. "Dembe brought a team and got us out safely," he says. "The ridiculous man had a tracking device planted in my shoe. Stroke of luck I didn't leave them behind in the elevator, I suppose."
She finds a real, full smile inside her at that. "As if you ever would," she says affectionately. "And Volkov?"
"Dead," Red says flatly. "But you know it doesn't end there, Lizzie. It's barely the beginning."
"I know," she sighs. "We'll fight them together. A crime-fighting team." She grins up at him and a little mischief comes into her tone. "Like super heroes, battling the forces of evil across Europe. Red! We need code names."
He rolls his eyes dramatically, but he's still smiling. "I think I'll stick with Red, if it's all the same to you, Lizzie."
She grins. "Bo-ring," she sing-songs at him. "Fine. I think I'll be… Phoenix."
"Overdone," he scoffs.
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Oh, really? How about Flash? Or… Cinder?"
"Hm," he says, stroking her hair gently. "None of those really suit you. What about…" He thinks of her, wrapped in gold, glowing in dark of the night, glimmering like a beacon. "Ember."
"Ember," she murmurs. "I like it."
"Sleep now," he says quietly. "I'll keep you safe."
She closes her eyes, relaxing into his touch, his warmth, what she thinks now might be love, wrapping invisibly around her, and drifts easily away.
Will Red and Liz find safety in Europe? Will Liz find the answers to her heritage? Will Red be able to keep her safe? Will they find a way to be together?
Find out next time, in Ember: The Fulcrum!