A long chapter this time. And only one more to go! The last chapter will feature more of Red and Liz, as a thank you for all of you hanging in there. Much love to everyone, as always!

(x)

Georgetown University Hospital

3800 Reservoir Road, NW

Washington, D.C.

Present Day

"Hey." Casey sat up in her hospital bed. "So I was wondering. Think I can I get you to level with me?"

A nurse with skin the color of a mocha latte wearing bright pink scrubs blinked and walked over. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

Casey held up the hospital breakfast menu in her hand. "I bet you've probably tried some of this stuff, right? Or at least seen the food when it comes out? What's my best bet here? Like, if you were here in the hospital, what would you order?"

The nurse smiled politely and shared, "Stay away from anything too interesting, hm? Stick with the standards. I wouldn't order the Western omelet or the Eggs Benedict. But things like breakfast sandwiches, yogurt, and cereal? They ought to be okay."

She winked at the nurse. "Thanks for the inside scoop."

"You're welcome." The nurse turned to leave, but then she stopped in her tracks. At that exact moment, Red burst in through the doors, followed by three clean-cut workers in chef's uniforms wheeling in shiny, metallic catering trays.

Casey looked at them oddly and then a grin broke across her face. "Whoa, Red," she said. "What's all this?"

Red raised his eyebrows. "This? This would be a departure from having to choose something off that menu you're holding."

She pointed a thumb to the nurse. "She just gave me good advice though. Stray from the exotic; keep it simple."

"Excellent advice. Perhaps one of the only times I'll agree to deviate from an adventurous palette."

Casey nodded 'hello' to the catering staff as they set up each tray in her small hospital room. "So, what's the story? Did you divert these guys from a wedding reception? Or does some private chef owe you a favor? Or do you just keep these guys on retainer at all times?"

Red looked distracted when he said, "I'll let your imagination fill in the blanks. It's doing a fine job so far." He then excused himself and stood in the halfway open door of her hospital room. He stood next to Dembe as he stared down the hallway. Casey watched him silently countdown to Dembe 'three…two…one…'

At the same time, Agent Ressler's voice could be heard yelling towards them. "Hey! Stop! Stop right there. I swear I leave for one damned second to get some coffee at the nurse's station…"

Casey tried not to smile and did a poor job of it. Coffee. So Ressler was human after all. She called out to him, though she wasn't sure he heard it. "There's some breakfast in here if you want it! Looks like they've got waffles."

Red and Dembe blocked the door and it shut soundly behind them.

(x)

Red took a cleansing breath and stood with Dembe, the two of them a veritable wall between Casey and Ressler. He watched the agent's face go from a light smattering of pink to a full on ruse of red. Red decided that neither were really his color.

Agent Ressler went toe-to-toe with him. "Who the hell did you send in there with her, Red?"

"That would be brunch provided by Matchbox catering services. They run an outfit on 7th Street. Very authentic. It's really the only place in D.C. you can get a brunch that rivals that in New York. Don't worry. The mimosas are non-alcoholic. Though I might not tell her that just to give her a thrill."

He glared at Red. "You expect me to believe any of that?" He made a unilateral decision. "I am shutting this down. Get them out of there."

"I…" Red paused as he heard Casey interject something from behind the door. "You know, she's right. While you're here, you'll really want to try to waffles."

Agent Ressler cut in. "You've run this thing from start to finish and if you think for one second that I'm gonna give you two seconds alone with her then you must have me mistaken for someone else. You've got Agent Keen and hell, maybe even Cooper in your pocket but not me." He lowered his voice. "Now you get them out of there. I've got backup armed and ready, and I am not afraid to use it-"

"Donald, Donald, Donald." Red looked momentarily to the ceiling and then back at the agent. He spoke to him as though he were a student, a good student, but one having an especially difficult time grasping the lesson. "Despite your impassioned gravitas, we both know you're going to let me go in there, and you're going to let me go in there alone. Because as much as you crave order, authority, and control, you know that only I and I alone can get you what you really need."

Ressler wasn't hearing it. "We'll get whatever information we need from her on our own, Red. We don't need you for that. Not this time."

"Two paths diverged in a wood, Donald. You can take the one less travelled by as Mr. Frost so ardently suggests, or you could do what I do. You can take the one that gets you there most efficiently." Red paused and continued, "Now, I wasn't going to mention Cooper, but since his name's already risen into the ether, what do you think will anger him more? That I brought breakfast to someone whose name is on the Blacklist, or that an opportunity was missed to bring this entire situation, which has become quite the awkward fiasco for your department, to its fitting, and more importantly, quiet end?"

Ressler glared forward. He seemed to be working up an answer, when Red nodded and said, "There's no need to answer now. As always, this visit's been a sheer delight. If you find your coffee lacking its counterparts, please feel free to join us. The brunch that's been delivered really shouldn't go to waste."

Red walked back inside Casey's hospital room. Dembe stared Ressler down, before joining Red. It was an unspoken that he would be standing guard on the other side of the door.

(x)

Casey looked over as Red and Dembe walked back inside. "Trouble in paradise?"

Red took off his hat and set it down on her nightstand before taking a seat at her bedside. "I wouldn't exactly call it a lover's quarrel. Though over time we are growing quite fond of each other."

Casey threw back her head and laughed. After all the changes over the past few days, she was enormously relieved to find the good feel of laughing hadn't changed. "You shouldn't be so hard on him. Agent Wonderbread's not so bad."

"I'll trust you had the common sense not to share that nickname with him."

"I thought up a bunch of them. Agent Wonderbread. Captain America. Officer Friendly Shooty McScreamsalot." She dug into her waffles, took a bite, and then quickly swallowed. "Oh and Matt Damon. Start calling him Good Will Hunting, Bourne Identity, Green Zone. He'll love it."

"I once challenged the agency find someone else who could provide information on criminal activity and also come up with interesting nicknames for Agent Ressler. I was being, oh, crass at the time. But you're giving me a run for my money on the latter."

Casey nodded, a number of thoughts rolling through her head. Then she asked, "Did you get it?"

"I'll assume you mean both parcels. Yes, I did." One of the caterers brought Red a mimosa, which he accepted. "The second was a little much, don't you think?"

She shrugged. "I didn't go too far out of my way, if that's what you're asking." From there the caterers took their leave. She watched them go and her smile faded. "Guess you had to decide what to do with 'The Boyatri'. Looks like I made that your problem, huh?"
Red said, "You chose wisely given your options, if that's what you're asking. Though that's not what you're really asking, is it?"

"No, I… I guess not."
"It'll be on the national news. Most likely within the hour. Also I called in a favor, and you'll notice that the contract that was out on you has been withdrawn."

Casey's shoulders rose and she smiled. Then just as quickly they sank down at the news. Then she frowned. "What about the contract out on you?"

"No matter what steps I took to correct the situation, the Syrians can't let this go unpunished. They need to pin the blame on someone. Their ego's been bruised in a very public fashion. In this case they chose the mentor instead of the student, despite my returning the painting and the military plans in good working order. It seems they don't trust that I didn't get a look at the military locations myself before handing them back over. Which normally I'd agree is good business practice."

"How'd you get away? They wanted blood. A lot of blood."

Red zeroed in on her. "You've known me a long time, Casey. If you think I've run out of tricks up my sleeve, you don't know me nearly as well as you think you do."

Casey watched him. "So… did you? You know, take a look at them?"

Red met her gaze. "I'll give you a moment to consider that if I wanted to know Syria's military plans I wouldn't need to go digging inside a painting for them."

"I'm sorry, Red. I never should have named you."

"While that's true, you can take solace in the fact that the fault doesn't lay entirely in your camp. I've been…" He chose his words carefully. "At odds with several members of the Syrian hierarchy for some time. I've bruised their ego before, and their rule is two strikes and you're out."

"Two strikes? I thought it was three."

"Yes, well, the Syrians don't watch baseball."

Casey sighed at that. "So what's that mean for you now?"

"Very little, I'd imagine. Besides the fact that I won't be vacationing in Aleppo any time soon." He said, "The real question lies with you. What will you do now, Casey?"

She pushed around the remainder of the waffle on her plate. "How deep am I, you think?"

"For any other person, up to your eyeballs, maybe further. But you are you, and I'm certain that this isn't the last trick up your sleeve either."

She bit her bottom lip and then said, "What if I want it to be the last trick up my sleeve?"

"I was curious as to if you might say something like that."

She quickly said, "I'm not saying I want to quit. I mean … I'm … I'm not even sure if I want to quit. That's the problem. I …I don't know what I want."

Red sat back comfortably in his chair. "There are some days, Casey, when you want to be the one who changes everything." He spoke softly and powerfully. "You know it could be you who steals the statue of David. Who cleans out the Metropolitan Museum of Art from top to bottom. Who finds and snatches Blackbeard's legendary buried treasure. Who takes on the FBI, the CIA, and all its international affiliates, strikes swiftly before they even know what hit them, and leaving their heads spinning in the process. You know the more you do it, the more you'll excel, until you're unrivaled entirely. In those moments, you feel an energy, a drive and a euphoria unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's intoxicating. All the alcohol, sex, drugs, power in the world can't replace it." He stared off. "You want to write your name in the Earth in gasoline and set it on fire."

Casey watched him, her mouth gaping just slightly open as he continued.

"Then … there's the other days. Where you imagine yourself doing things that you equally crave, though not as carnally. You crave silence and calm and predictability in a way you've only dreamed. You imagine, somehow, you're not sure how, moving past all the decisions you've made. You'll go to school. You'll get your degree. You'll meet someone … Someone kind, stable, uncomplicated. You'll raise a family." His eyes seemed not only to look at her, but look through her. "You're caught between two states of being, Casey, in more ways than one. You want both of these things. Even you realize that you can't have them, not together. Every time it leaves you with a question without an answer."

Casey was silent for a long time. This man had expressed all the complex things she felt in just a matter of sentences. She finally asked, "So what do I do?"

"You forgive yourself for not being able to do what you –really- want outside of all those things. The one thing you want to get back the most. The thing that is impossible."

The tears ambushed her. She cried them before she even knew what was happening.

Red leaned forward and spoke to her in a quiet voice. "I don't think it's any coincidence that she passed away only weeks before you took this job. I was sorry to hear about your mother, Casey. If I had heard sooner, I would have acted."

Casey brushed tears out of her eyes. She swallowed backward. "I knew she was sick. I knew the drugs and the psychologists weren't helping her. If I had just visited her, you know? Just gone to see her. She wouldn't have done it."

"No." Red spoke with unquestionable authority. "Your mother was ill, and she made a choice. You could spend your time blaming yourself for that, but your time would be infinitely better spent seeing this for what it is."

Red handed her a box of tissues and Casey accepted it. Red had an intuitive grasp of most people; he could handle them the way certain geniuses could multiply and divide seven-digit numbers in their heads. He did so – the same as the math geniuses – with quick, effortless confidence. After taking a moment to collect herself, she said, "She was the only one who ever asked me to stop."

"Then, your mind's already made up."

She looked at him. "It's all I have left to give her."

"So your end game is incarceration."

Casey sighed upward, blowing her red curls out of her face. "It's not … what I really want, but I don't think I can stop without it. It's not like they have a rehab for kleptos." She looked towards the door. "That oughtta make someone on the other side of the door with a lot of nicknames so happy he'll do a touchdown dance."

"While I would like to see that, we should consider other available options." Red said, "There are penal institutions that are clean and well-run with excellent programs set aside for the rich and privileged, even if they're not discussed in your social circles."

"That's great," Casey said. "'Cept last time I checked I'm not rich. Or privileged."

Red set down his drink. "It does help to have a sponsor. Who has connections in his own circle of acquaintances."

Casey pursed her lips. She began to feel herself become overcome. "I can't ask you to do that-"

"I'm not giving you the opportunity to ask. I'm telling you what's going to happen."

The face Red looked into was one caught perfectly between two states of being. It wasn't the face of a child, nor was it the face of a woman. It was a face of a small time grifter who didn't comprehend what she'd done to cause such an uproar, and it was the face of a criminal mastermind in her prime. It was a face of inexperience and naiveté, and it was a face that knew far too much, too soon.

It was also the face of gratitude. She said, "I'll never be able to repay you. Ever. I'll never catch up… It's too big."

"You aren't going to think about that now," he asked her. "Now's not the time for favors to be called upon or scores to be evened."

She challenged him. "Then what is it about?"

"It's about your survival. Not just staying alive. But thriving in a life chosen by you for yourself."

"Why?" she breathed out. "I've thought about it every day. Every day since I met you. Just … why? Why do all this?"

Red took a deep breath. "You remind me of someone." He appraised her from head to toe. "In nearly every way." In his mind's eye, Red could see a small child with curls and freckles. And innocence. Such pure, unadulterated innocence that had been extinguished as simply as the flame from a long-stemmed candle. "You have for some time now."

"Who is it?"

"Someone who I won't be able to give what I can give you." His voice was just above a whisper. "I was left with things left to give, and someone should have it."

Casey blinked, once, twice. Then she threw herself forward and grabbed Red in a crushing embrace. He made a surprised noise and caught her, and in doing so she almost slid off the slick hospital mattress. Red drew in a deep breath as he returned the hug.

When they parted, Casey brushed a hand across her wet eyelids, sniffed, and put herself together. She looked over at him, interested in changing the subject. "You said something about the news?"

He nodded. "Our dealings could become public knowledge any time now."

They turned on the television and began flipping through the channels. It took less than fifteen minutes before the story broke. They sat together in the blue glow of the hospital television, the newscaster reporting on international matters in Syria. Red looked on and said, "And so it was."

A tiny smirk worked its way onto Casey's face. She turned to Dembe. He'd faded almost completely into the background as she'd spoke to Red, as he tended to, perhaps as only he knew how to do. She said, "Hey, Dembe? You got a cell phone you can loan out?"

Dembe looked to Red, who nodded. He reached into the inside of his vest and handed her a non-descript, black flip-cell phone.

Casey immediately began texting.

Red said back in his seat. "I take it this is something of a personal matter."

She smirked in response before saying, "Something like that."

"You never did tell me how you managed to hack into the FBI's Black Site."

Casey stopped texting for the slightest second and looked at Red sheepishly. "I met a boy."

Red smiled as he watched the television. "A Russian boy, I take it."

She went back to texting. "Yeah, we met on this newfangled thing called the internets."

"I hear it's all the rage with your generation."

"Yeah, but that's not who I'm texting."

"Then who?"

Casey handed the phone back to Dembe. "Friend of yours. I better apologize in advance." She sighed and leaned back in her hospital bed. "You'll be hearing about it."

(x)

FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

Present Day

Agent Keen and Meera stood discussing the Cat's case with Cooper, reporting what they'd found and discovered in the last twenty-four hours. Liz dropped down a file with a 'slap' onto his desk. "This is a medical record of Patricia Moore-McCleach from Anchor Behavioral Health, a mental health hospital outside Minneapolis." Liz swallowed and said, "The late… Patricia Moore-McCleach."

Cooper read the file and frowned. "Overdose." He looked up. "She killed herself."

"That's the official report," Liz said. "It happened just before Casey McCleach accepted this job."

Meera looked to Liz. "She was distracted."

"And traumatized, most likely," Liz said. "Self-sabotage at its finest."

Cooper turned to more immediate matters at hand. "And the Cat's hospital stay? When will that be coming to an end?"

"Could be as early as this afternoon."

"Do we know who gave her this job?"

"Not yet," Liz said with a sigh. Despite all her late night research, not one lead was to be found. "I was able to rule out some possibilities. It's not an inside job. It's not the Syrians. It's not the Russians. I believe we're looking at the work of an independent contractor."

"A contractor who had designs to start a world war," Cooper said dryly. "There's quite a list of people who would benefit from such an endeavor."

Meera said, "And quite a list of people who would lose their lives if it were to succeed."

Liz said, "I'll work on Red. He was able to stop this from happening. He might know who's behind it."

Cooper quipped, "Or he might have known from the very beginning and he's been leading us on this whole time."

Liz narrowed her eyes at him. "Let me handle it."

Cooper sighed. It seemed he was about to give his exact opinion on the matter when his cell phone buzzed atop his desk. He lifted it up to his eyes.

A text read: 'Turn on the television.'

He frowned darkly.

Meera eyed him. "… Sir?"

He burst up from his desk and moved into the main area. "More of this shit," he seethed out.

Liz and Meera shared a glance, before following him out into the bullpen.

Cooper called out. "Turn on the overhead television. Now."

An agent called to him. "What channel, sir?"

"I…" His phone vibrated again.

'Channel 6.'

He rolled his eyes before closing them. He could feel his temperature rising and his fist curling into a ball at his side. "Channel 6."