"Now there's no holding back, I'm making to attack,
My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out,
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground." – Howl, Florence & The Machine
Trigger Warning; Significant amounts of detailed violence and gore. (Otherwise known as Red losing his shit and real fucked up Blacklisters)
The dust coats them, billows and wafts in the darkness. Metal falls from the ceiling, clattering on the ceramic floor, debris and shrapnel. It's choking and thick, curling and wisping around him like smoke, weaving down his throat into his lungs, as it did a lifetime ago, the hiss and crackle of fire, now a burning memory. The dust seems as impenetrable as the wall of detritus, the carnage of the ceiling and walls, that now towers before them. Raised voices are heard from the other side, muffled and all but drowned out by the buzz and ringing in his ears. Gasping for breath, he braces himself on his forearms, lungs heaving, feeling the keen sting of the grazes and cuts that now grace his body, the slow trickle of blood, oozing above his eyebrow.
He looks to the massacre of ceramic tiles, shards of smooth white and the brittle grey underside. Splintered wood, jagged spears like teeth, are shrouded in darkness. It is a hulking immovable beast in the dimness of the corridor, this wall of wreckage. The low hanging lights swing precariously further down the hallway, splashing light over the desolation, over the men wiping grit from their eyes, coughing into the crooks of their arms. Lizzie is not among them; a glaring absence.
He'd been too far away.
He'd been too far away to reach her before the explosion, before the roof caved in. He'd been thrown too far back to recover fast enough. He'd been too slow, throwing himself down the corridor to grab her. He was close enough to see her though, to see her eyes wild with terror. He was close enough to see her lips part as she went to call his name. Close enough to see her unmoving, as if rooted to the floor with the weight of her panic.
And now they are separated; she in the clutches of madmen, possibly unconscious, vulnerable to the heinous acts they perform, and he, battered and bruised, trapped in a maze made by sadists, struggling to raise his weary body from the floor.
The first word to pass his chapped, split, lips is her name, initially in a cough and then louder, stronger. He's calling for her as his men reach him, Dembe's strong hands grasping at his arms and pulling him to his feet. Baz is beside him; face drawn, pale, expression one of a man who has failed, a man suffused with guilt. The rest of the men remaining on the stairs have escaped serious injury, only marked by the occasional cuts and grazes. Either way, it does not faze them; they stand ready, weapons drawn, eyes attentive as Reddington breathes, thinks, strategizes. He can hear the Blacklisters through the rubble; can hear the way they jeer and laugh, the sound that hunters make after a successful pursuit, carrying their prey. Shifting his weapon, he looks at his men, begins making orders. They will take over this facility, they will storm it, until they retrieve Lizzie, their only priority.
Hastening to obey, without any real idea of where they are going, they make their way down the corridor, fury burning in Reddington's wake. Their combat boots are loud on the tiles, their weapons shifting as they move. The hallway stretches on, seeming to twist and wind beneath the earth endlessly, a thousand crevices and empty rooms to hide Lizzie within. A choking fear clambers up his throat, still raw from the dust that wafts around them, not unlike drowning. His lungs feel too tight, darkness clouding his vision, a constant mantra streaming through his consciousness. Lizzie. He'd felt similar in Marrakesh, felt the unholy weight of the world upon his chest, the panic that accompanied it, the helplessness. She'd been his only thought in those moments, even as he desperately tried to recall his Navy training, desperately tried to survive, he had seen only her, wreathed in flames, blue eyes the colour of the ocean that tugged at his limbs, dragged him down into the black abyss. The young girl he'd saved, the good in his world.
When his limp body had washed ashore, the hands of a local fisherman forcing the water from his lungs, cracking ribs in the process, breathing life back into him, Red coughed and spluttered, felt the fluid from within leak out of his nose and mouth. The sun had sat high above him, he could see the rays of light through the thin flesh of his eyelids, could feel as it crept over his chilled skin, as his waterlogged body arched and gravitated to the soft warmth it provided. And through it all, as the grains of sand stuck to his soaking clothes, as his saviour spoke to him frantically in a foreign tongue, her name coursed through his mind as relentless as the tide.
He remembers the fisherman running off, to get help, leaving him to bake beneath the sun, wishing fruitlessly for fresh water for what felt like hours on end, occasionally being racked by such severe coughing fits that he'd wished he'd simply died. And then Baz stood above him, face haggard, but smiling. He'd been searching the nearby wharfs, having refused to let Kate Kaplan scour for his corpse, as she had insisted. They'd put contingencies in place, following Red's orders; had assumed the worst when his body all but disappeared in the murky depths of the night. It wasn't until after they had taken him to a local hospital, where he ended up being monitored for days, that they informed him that Kate had contacted Sam, the immediate course of action that was to take place after his death.
He had asked for a phone immediately.
Thinking back now, to that brief conversation with Sam, his rough voice and quiet chuckles, Red finds that his chest aches. The grief in his dear old friend's voice when he'd answered the phone, the monotone in a man normally so jovial and wild, it made Red practically quake with guilt. And then when Reddington had spoken delivered the news, in a disbelieving tone, wondering how Sam could have given up on him so easily, the other man had laughed, a laughter choked with tears, with relief, as the sorrow and grief ebbed away. In the background there was noise, the sound of a typical morning, the pop of a toaster, the whistle of a kettle, the clatter of plates. Sam didn't call him by his name, didn't mumble Ray into the receiver, just chatted with, what Red noticed as, a forced nonchalant tone. And that was when he realised that Lizzie was near, making herself breakfast, unaware of the international criminal on the other end of the line. A typical teenage girl with a burn scar blistered into her skin.
He thought about the contingencies that were to be put in place if he was to meet a fatal end sooner than expected. The money that would be transferred into Sam accounts, the security details that would follow Lizzie relentlessly until every threat had passed, the constant protection for the both of them. Reddington's world would have never reached them, would have never disrupted Lizzie's life, her education, while Sam was alive to watch over her, to guide her away from her more curious tendencies.
Having the benefit of hindsight, the curse of not being able to see ahead with clarity, but behind with pristine vision, he prowls down the sterile hallways, searching and searching, realising that the mere thought of Sam dying before him had been unfeasible. He'd sworn, vowed, from the day he'd left Lizzie on Sam's doorstep, the night of the fire, that he would let nothing happen to her for as long as he roamed the planet, the monster that belonged to her and her alone. There had been the comfort that Sam was with her, lethal and protective, her guard dog, loyal and savage when needs be. He was supposed to always be there. And now, with Sam gone, Lizzie had been left vulnerable and in Reddington's care, and with it, all the danger and threat that came with him. Not a young girl, but a woman, beautiful and wild, unpredictable, that graces him with smiles and then burning fury. A woman with a soft supple body that can turn lean and hard, who has hair that smells of apples and with skin as soft of silk, the colour of milk.
And then he imagines it splattered and stained with blood, beaten and bruised.
With gritted teeth he growls deep in his throat, tightens his grip on his weapon, something predatory, feral, unravels in his chest, snakes through his limbs. The burn that unfurled in his ribcage the morning he woke with her ear pressed to his heartbeat and lips a breath from his jaw. A need to protect, distinctly male and driven by testosterone, seeped through his awareness, his blood, ever since the moment he saw her in that warehouse, not a little girl lost in a big wide world, but Lizzie, throwing herself into danger and darkness, willingly. The men around him sense it, eye each other warily. When Reddington is furious, bodies trail in his wake, shot, stabbed, beaten, all dead, none spared. The only one to look directly at him is Dembe, his russet eyes intense, watching the fury emanating from his brother, knowing that when Raymond Reddington is furious, Raymond Reddington is fearful.
They stalk down the halls, as a group, they do not split and they do not falter. Crossing no one, they continue on, splintering through doors to reveal empty chambers, to reveal individuals merely husks of thin skin and brittle bones, eyes dead and minds broken. Reddington leaves three men behind, to deal with the victims, those that are still alive, not having succumbed to darkness. The smell is rancid, not enough bleach in the world can chase away the distinct stench of death, of rot and fear. It is enough to make the eyes of lesser men water, men who are not the incarnate of demise, of ruin.
When they burst through a particularly solid door, the usual waft of shit and blood and decay absent, Reddington steps in first, blindly fumbles by the doorway for a light switch. The men behind him watch on with grave eyes, the horror before them difficult to stomach, as white light bathes the scene before them. As a unit they step into the room, spotlessly cleaned, well maintained, cared for. The trophy room. Some men lower their weapons in disgust, sickened.
Shelves upon shelves line the concrete walls, metal and unyielding, to hold the weight of the jars resting on them. Dead eyes stare back at them, hair haloed in the liquid it resides in. Skin a sickly pallor, yellow and white awash in blaring light. Men and women, heads hewn from their shoulders, bodies long ago discarded, never finding rest, still in the hands of their captors, of the Head Hunters, even after death. Swallowing Reddington surveys the scene, notices the plaques, polished until they shine golden, beneath each jar. The name of the victim is inscribed in each, the weight of their head beside it. There are at least fifty victims and other empty jars to be ready to be filled, blank plates of gold below them.
There are women with flowing locks of brown, dull blue eyes that were once the colour of the ocean, once tumultuous and wild. There are women with milky skin that is now bluish, tight ad tacky. In them all, Reddington sees Lizzie, feels a tremor run through his fingers, feels Dembe's steady gaze on his back. He turns away from the gore, battles down the growing, the gnawing, fear that burns like acid, and faces the door. His men follow suit, immediately raising their weapons when they find a shadow just across the threshold.
Weapons hang by his belt, useless now that all manners of guns are trained on him, glocks and pistols, semi-automatics, shotguns. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape as Reddington strides forward, seemingly triggering a will to survive, to preserve his life like the floating heads in the jars before him. He turns to run, but Reddington is quicker on the draw, sends a bullet tearing through the man's kneecap, sees the blood and brittle bone burst through the skin, hears the agonised scream as his prey tumbles to the floor, clutching at his wound, blood pooling over his hands. His eyes are clenched closed, teeth gritted in distress as Reddington hauls him to his unsteady feet. Their faces are inches apart and Red is smiling at him, seems entirely calm, almost like a doting uncle as he pats the younger man on the shoulder.
"Now, I'm going to need you to focus," he rumbles deeply, twisting the other's jaw gently so that their eyes meet. There are unshed tears in the hazel iris's that stare back at him, bright with panic. Red is given no response, so he reaches down, presses his thumb into the devastation of the bullet, slamming his now bloody palm over his victim's mouth as he howls in pain. He backs him against the wall, the cold ceramic, scarlet splattering on the tiles. They are all once more in the hallway.
"Are you listening?" Red growls, snarls. He is given a nod in reply, a sobbed yes, muffled by his palm. Tilting his head so that his lips brush against the shell of the younger man's ear, whispering as if to a lover, he says, "You're going to lead me to the woman your fellow hunters seized, or I am going to blast out your remaining kneecap and then have my men disembowel you for the longest of hours. Understood?"
He steps away abruptly, watches as the man stumbles to catch himself, useless knee buckling beneath him to send him sprawling, smearing red over white. Two of Reddington's men lunge forward, roughly drag him upright, guns digging into his ribcage. When Reddington meets the young man's eyes, with a smile and a brandished arm, he politely asks him to lead the way. And they start down the corridor, at their regular pace, dragging their injured prize behind them.
It doesn't take them long to hear the distinct clank of weaponry, echoing off the tiles, bouncing down the hallway. It doesn't take long for bullets to rain down upon them and it sure as Hell doesn't take long for them to return fire. There is the scream, the shriek, of gunfire around them, and no cover to take. Tiles chip and spray fragments through the air, blood pools over the floor as men fall, some dead and some injured. There is shouting and yelling, orders given, demanded, as Reddington's men, as Reddington, sinks enemy after enemy, advancing up the hallway. Dembe and Baz flank him, unstoppable and with deadly aim, seemingly as invincible as their employer, their friend. They release round after round, dodge and weave, until their close enough that in the end bullets are of no use at all and it becomes physical combat, the wielding of polished steel.
Red knows how to box, how to spar and fight, excelled at it during his time at the Navy, excelled further when he delved into the depths of the underworld. He can be found in the hotels he frequents, when the gym is empty, during the early hours of the morning, coated in sweat, hands taped and a boxing bag swaying on its chain, the distinctive groan of metal following each swing. Dembe comes to retrieve him after hours, when his arms are aching and tape occasionally stained with blood. Subtly his brother checks that no knuckles have been broken, that all digits are straight and then he takes Red back upstairs, to shower, to rest.
So, when some savage beast of a man lurches towards him, blade in hand, evading him is easy, landing a punch that cracks ribs and a knee that shatters the delicate bones of the nose is simple. Snatching the blade from his hand as he teeters and sinks to the floor like a hacked tree is child's play. Sinking that same knife into the back of his fallen opponent's neck is the obvious thing to do. And then he is on to his next target, leaving the lifeless body behind, to hack and slaughter his way through their measly ranks.
It's in a haze that he guts and slices and feels the slickness of blood slide over his hands, the splatter of it coating his cheeks, his lips, spraying over his clothes, the starched collar of his dress shirt. Raymond Reddington rarely finds himself in the fray, rarely finds the need to be in the thickness of uncontrolled violence, but on the occasion that he is the beast within, the monster, revels in the destruction. It mewls as his victims' tremor, purrs when they effortlessly fall to his hands. There is no thought but survival, no thought of anything but achieving his goal, obtaining his prize. Lizzie.
He has saved her before, the scars on his back, rippled and scorched skin, warped by heat, are a testament. The slaughtering was the same, the battle and combat he found himself in before the flames slithered and roared around him, the smoke wafting and rising was familiar. Except he hadn't been slaughtering to find her, to save her, hadn't known she was still there until he could hear her screaming, found her father's corpse, blossoming with red, a smoking gun beside it. He remembers Katerina all but forgetting about retrieving the Fulcrum when she saw her partner, minutes dead. She threw her body over him, tears streaming down her delicate features. Something in her mind had snapped, she'd turned delirious, fearsome, threw off Raymond as he reached for her and tried to drag her away, even as tendrils of smoke snaked up the stairway. They were not supposed to die that night, they went there to retrieve Masha, retrieve the Fulcrum, before her father got to it, before he had leverage over them both. But plans change and Reddington left her to burn, left her to cry over the man that caused her so much pain, the man that stole her daughter.
It had spread quickly, quicker than he had expected, anticipated, as he rushed down the hallways, burst into rooms, having sent his men away when they tried to restrain him, drag him away. He was seeking a small girl with a white rabbit, the spitting image of her mother, skin unblemished by flames and no knowledge of infamous criminals, just another ruined Christmas and the small hands of an innocent killer. The flames had reached Katerina by the time Reddington found Masha, found Lizzie, huddled in a closet, rabbit clutched to her chest, face already covered in ash.
She had grown up with him nearby, bringing her ice-creams and treats whenever he came to visit, to deal with business with her mother; a Russian spy and a young Navy officer, wading into the dark and mysterious secrets of clandestine governments and shady characters. So, little Masha came with him easily, was pliant, her small hand in his as he tugged her out of the confines of her wardrobe into the smoke filled air. Scooping her into his arms, they braved the flames, the red and orange and yellow that licked at the walls and crackled around them. He'd turned her head into his chest when he stepped over her father's body, Katerina having fled the flames, fled in weakness and shame, valuing the life of a man destined to cause her pain over the life of her dear child.
The rest was a blur of pain and screams, of burning heat and then the soft embrace of snow. Desperate drives through the blackness of night, Masha nestled on the passenger seat, tears dripping off her filthy, soft cheeks. Blood and fluid oozed down the ruin of his back, sticking to the soft fabric of his shirt, the soft leather of the car. They drove for hours, even as Red's eyes sagged, even when he pulled over to vomit, they drove until they were standing at a front door and when it opened, kind blue eyes looked back at them.
Now, there is no fire, no smoke, just blood, just paling bodies and her name a prayer, as he slays and fights, red dripping from his fingertips, crimson footprints as he advances, draws closer. Their hostage is still shouting directions, until one of his own reaches him, slits his throat for his treachery. Baz dispatches that man easily, saves Reddington the trouble of having to do so. He spins and turns, watches as their opponents falter through the onslaught, begin to retreat.
And that's when he hears it.
Hears her.
Screams pierce the air, agonised screams that could be only her. He is thrown into a frenzy, draws his weapon once more, begins firing into the crowd, shot after shot, bodies dropping to the floor, sliding down walls, sagging as if in slow motion. His men sense his urgency, up their own game, become manic as they shoot and slice, can hear the screams, can see it greatly affects their employer. And as they draw closer, Lizzie grows louder, more frantic, more pained.
Reddington's teeth are clenched so tightly that he thinks they may shatter. His eyes are so dark he looks demonic. He can see the door ahead, solid, cannot see within. Spurring himself forward he makes for the room, feeling Dembe's solid presence behind him, trusting his men to cover him, gun clutched in his hand. And then he is there, can hear her so clearly, so anguished, and with a solid kick the hinges scream and the wood shatters as it smacks into the concrete, light spilling in on the scene, revealing the red, the blood.
And it takes Raymond back to another time when he was cold and stumbling, admonishing himself for his idiocy, a Christmas Eve. Presents abandoned in a car and a bowl of oyster stew awaiting him at home.
He'd run out of gas.
Moisture seeped up the legs of his trousers and his shoes were sodden, as he stepped up onto his front porch, the light left on. The warm glow from inside had spilled through the windows and on to the untouched white, the icy crystals twinkling like stars. It was quiet within, no sound of the piano, only the muted crackle of the fire. The smoke from the chimney wafted up into the sky, snakes of grey twisting and reaching into the heavens. Everything was so still, so silent. He'd been a simple man at the time, bills to pay and play dates to attend; he'd thought nothing of it.
And when he opened the door, greeted with the smell of metal and iron instead of festive food, he'd frozen, seized in horror, terror. Blood was smeared up the walls, smudged over the floors, spread further as he forced himself through the house, frantically searching, stepping through thick, sticky puddles of crimson. Sheer panic sweltered through his bloodstream, choking out their names in harsh sobs as he went room to room, finding only empty, cold beds and the stove left on, the oyster stew burnt and smoking.
He'd stood trembling by the fireplace for what felt like hours, unmoving, waiting for the assailants to return, to finish him off. He waited to die with his family, as it should have been. Until they didn't come, until time ticked over to Christmas day and Raymond Reddington phoned the one man he could trust, rely on.
Sam Milhoan.
This time, he does not freeze, does not falter, sends a screaming bullet shredding through the calf muscle of Lizzie's attacker as he turns to face the doorway. The knife clatters to the floor, as does the man, who then desperately tries to drag his heavyset body away, effectively trapping himself between Reddington and solid concrete, between a snarling savage beast and unmoving rock. Wielding his own blade, he stalks forwards, the monster within shifting and restless, feeling only vengeance, only wrath and rage, not sparing a glance for Lizzie though he can hear her whimpering, gasping.
Seizing the moaning mess before him by the throat, feeling the tendons and muscles squelching and yielding beneath his grip, noticing the way his eyes bludge, the knowing look of a man who is about to meet his end, pay for his sins. Reddington has seen it before, has seen it often. And sometimes he feels like retribution, like there is a reason for his blackened soul and stained hands, slaying the most atrocious of beings, barely human. Tonight he knows that his reason is Lizzie. He would stop at nothing for her, no matter the damage he caused, to himself, to others. If she was safe in the end, he could live with just about anything.
As always there is no resistance for the blade as it tears through the flesh, punctures organs with a pop, slithering through muscles until it finally snags on bone. The man gasps and blubbers, blood bubbling at his lips, bursting, small specks of red splattering over Reddington, adding to the carnage, the masterpiece of gore, a field of scarlet, of blossoming poppies. Wrenching the steel out, the handle slippery and slick, he spins away before the body slumps to the ground.
He turns to her, sets his eyes upon her form as it seems to wilt, clothing soaked through with water and blood. Her hair is a mess, tangled and plastered to her skull, clothes ripped and torn in half, to reveal the soft skin of her abdomen, blood weeping out of some wounds, sluggishly spurting out of others. She stares at him, looks so fearful, so small and for a moment he sees her huddled in a closet, frantically searching his face with wide blue eyes. And just like he did so many years ago, he crouches down, reaches out for her hand, only snatching it away when he sees the dried blood that coats it, caked under his nails, crusted over his skin.
He is vaguely aware of others joining them in the room, can feel the presence of Dembe behind him. Yet, all he can focus on is Lizzie; on her wounds and her beaten body, skin that had finally healed after Alexander Slattery's attack, now once more black and blue. Guilt clings to him like a disease, fusing in his lungs, so much so that he feels a struggle to breathe through it, because this is his fault, his world and he dragged her into it, knowing the peril, the danger.
Her name catches in his throat, snags on the remorse and shame lodged there. An ocean wells in her eyes, glistening tears that spill and track down her cheeks, a ragged breath drawn through a wounded chest. It's a miracle she is still conscious, still looking at him and seeing him. So when she speaks, breathes, voice hoarse and weak, Red feels his brittle bones ache with misery, with relief.
"Red."
A/N; I'm anxious to know what you guys thought of this chapter, so please let me know. Next one should be up soon! On a side note, I'm starting to question how I am going to finish this fic, and have discovered there is the possibility that I could begin fleshing out a sequel, since my muse doesn't seem intent on stopping. Just thought I'd keep you all up to date. Also, (I know this AN is as long as the chapter), to be blunt I don't know what the fuck is going on about Katerina Rostova in the show since I am not up to date and can only make assumptions from what I see on Tumblr, so some things about her and the night of the fire may not be cannon compliant. Okay, I'm done.