Author's Note: Here it is folks, the second to last chapter! But never fear, I went a little overboard with the loose ends so now I have to make a sequel for you guys (sighs). The last chapter will be up ASAP. THANKYOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO READ/FOLLOWED/REVIEWED THIS STORY, I LOVE YOU ALL! As always, I own nothing and hope you enjoy!
Chapter 25
It is a fitting day for a funeral. The sky is heavy and overcast, a small drizzle had started early in the morning and has refused to let up. The air is a little chilly, the dampness making it very uncomfortable. It's as if the world is mourning the loss of the agent just as much as her team is.
It's a small funeral; Samar hadn't been in the States nearly long enough to make friends out of work. Cooper had tried to get in contact with her family, but had been unable to. So that leaves just the four of them huddled around the small marble gravestone.
Her death by far hit Aram the hardest. Liz looks up at him and sees the distant look on his face that she has seen often since returning home. She sighs, walking over to him and giving him a big hug. He stiffens at first, but then relaxes wrapping his arms around Liz gratefully. If Liz feels the tears on her back she doesn't comment.
They pull apart, Liz giving him a sympathetic smile, "Are you okay?" It is a stupid question, but it is something you ask at funerals, even though you know it's not okay; it will never be fully okay again.
Aram puts on a brave smile, "I will be." And maybe one day he will be. Maybe one day he'll lose this emptiness he feels every time he wakes up and has to face the day alone. It will never be the same, but Aram can only hope that it will get better. He glances momentarily at Red, thinking back to what Ressler had told him. If Red can get through losing his family, he can get through this. It just hurts.
The funeral is short, and soon the agents go on their own ways, all of them somehow realizing that this is the end of what they (Red) had started. It has been two long years, filled with some of the best and worst moments for all of them, but now it is time to move on. Nothing lasts forever.
The day of the funeral is the day Cooper resigns from his position at the FBI. He wants to spend the time he has left with his family, he owes it to them to be a good father and husband for as long as he can.
That day Cooper receives an unexpected visitor. He is at the Post Office, packing his few belongings into a single cardboard box. The other agents have the day off, it is just him; or so he thinks. Suddenly the door to his office opens.
"Reddington," Cooper says, surprise registering on his face.
"Harold," Red says fondly, looking around the empty office, "I am happy for you, this is the right choice."
Cooper continues packing, unsure how to address his old criminal. This is surely goodbye; Cooper doubts that Reddington will stick around with the changes certain to take place in the Post Office after he leaves. He is secretly glad that he will be free, Red is a lot of things, but Cooper has come to realize that a monster is not one of them. Considering the circumstances, Cooper thinks Red turned out as good a man as could be hoped.
Red watches him and then places a thin folder on his desk. Cooper gives him a questioning look.
"I'll leave it to you to decide what to do with that file, but I highly suggest reading it."
Reddington leaves Cooper alone again, closing the door behind him. Cooper stares at the folder for a moment then gives a resigned sigh and picks it up. He flips through the papers, glancing over the paragraphs. A few words catch his eye. He nearly drops the folder. He reads every word, his eyes widening in shock.
It's all in the report- Cooper is innocent. Well maybe not fully innocent, he had still killed a man to gain political power, but that man hadn't been a particularly nice man. Henry Price wasn't killed because he was close to catching The Keeper; he was killed because he was The Keeper's competition. Henry Price had used his publicity to hide in plain sight, he had controlled drug trade and other criminal operations in a good portion of the Middle East until The Keeper had taken over.
Cooper feels the weight slowly lifting off of him, all thanks to the man fourth on the FBI's most wanted list. He shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. He throws the file in his box, and giving one last glance to the black site, he exits for the final time.
Liz is exhausted when she returns to the hotel. She had spent the past 3 days at the hospital; after being cleared herself she had gone between Ressler and Reddington, finding ways to keep the two extremely irritable men from leaving or hurting each other out of sheer boredom. Needless to say, Liz had been at her wit's end by the time they were released and the day had just been topped off by Samar's funeral. Liz is more than ready to curl up in bed (hopefully next to Red) and catch up on sleep.
Dembe is standing outside the door to their hotel room. "Dembe!" Liz exclaims, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Red's friend who she hasn't seen in months.
"Agent Keen," he replies, one of his rare real smiles lighting up his face.
"Are you all healed?" Liz asks, remembering the state he was in last times she saw him.
"I'm much better, thank you. No one has touched the room since you've left." Liz resists the urge to give Dembe a hug on the way in, figuring it would make the man uncomfortable.
Liz looks around the room, a tired smile on her face. It is exactly how she remembers it, although maybe a bit dustier. She moves to the kitchen and freezes at the sight of the folder. Oh yeah, Liz thinks to herself, I forget about that.
She's glad Aram had told her to open it at home when he had given it to her so many months ago; because Liz is certain she would have broken down at work if she opened it there (she had broken down in the hotel when she opened it).
She flips through the pictures again, long engraved in her memory from the number of times she had looked at them. They still cause her stomach to burn and her eyes to sting. She closes the folder again, placing it back on the counter with a sigh. Red will be back any second now. She wishes she could hold off this conversation until tomorrow, but she can't wait any longer. The images had haunted her nightmares for long enough.
Red and Dembe embrace outside. "You look well my friend." Red tells him.
"Agent Keen is waiting for you," Dembe replies with a sly smile.
Red laughs at his friend, "You can get some rest my friend, Agent Keen and I will be here at least until tomorrow. Then we might have to change some plans." Red looks thoughtful.
Dembe nods, "Good night Raymond." He can't keep the smirk off his face.
Red walks into the hotel, a little unsure on what he's going to find. What he doesn't expect is to find Liz sitting at the other side of the island, nervously playing with the edge of a worn folder.
"Red!" she says, her voice falsely cheery, "Come sit down."
Red sheds his coat and hat slowly and then goes to sit across from her. "What have you got there, Lizzie?" He eyes the folder cautiously.
Liz sighs, and Red notices that her eyes are watering. "Oh Red…" Her voice is filled with so much pain that Red knows something is wrong. He feels cold dread filling him. He swallows thickly.
She opens the envelope, fingers slightly shaking, and lays the pictures out in front of him.
Red freezes. His eyes squeeze shut for a second. He meets Liz's gaze, his face expressionless. "Where did you find those?" His voice gives away his pain; he can barely force the sentence out.
Silent tears are already streaming down Liz's face. She wipes at her blurred mascara, breathing deeply and steadying herself. "Aram."
Red nods, staring at some point on the wall behind Liz's head, his gaze not focusing on anything.
"What happened?" Liz asks him softly.
Red looks back down, his vision blurring as his eyes fill with tears. Laid out before him are the pictures of his old house. Covered in blood, so much blood. Next to them are pictures of his family- his daughter and wife with joy- filled smiles on their faces, his daughter's mouth open, frozen in a laugh. They had been so happy.
"I don't know," Red croaks out and then stands up abruptly.
"Where are you going?" Liz asks, sounding slightly panicked and standing up to follow him.
Red clears his throat, hiding his face from her. "To find Ressler." Without another word he grabs his hat and coat and walks out the door, leaving Liz standing there with a single tear running down her cheek.
Ressler stares at the screen, his mind blank. Entirely, blissfully blank. He knows it won't last for long, the pain pills they had given him aren't nearly strong enough (taken at the appropriate dosage) and Ressler doesn't want to go down that path again. A promise is a promise; even if it is made to a person with a worse criminal record than yourself (keeping Tom captive was a huge mistake on Liz's part).
When he lifts the remote he watches his hand tremble slightly. Huh, so I guess I'm still slightly addicted. His hand shakes more violently- very addicted. Before Ressler can consider that thought there is a knock on the door.
Ressler looks at the door for a few seconds, the unexpected knocking blowing his drugged mind. You should probably answer that. Ressler stands, grabbing the gun on his coffee table just in case. He opens the door a crack.
"Reddington," he says, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He opens the door for him and Red strolls right past him into his house. Ressler can't tell what it is, but there is something off about the concierge of crime tonight.
Red looks around his apartment. "I must say, Donald, your decorating style is very… peculiar."
Before Red can piss him off, Ressler cuts him off, "Why are you here?"
Red hesitates, looking a little uncertain. Ressler would find his expression very entertaining if he hadn't been so shocked by it.
"Take a seat," Ressler tells him, gesturing to the worn armchair in his sitting room. He takes the couch beside it, facing Red.
Reddington sighs, playing with the rim of his fedora in his hands before meeting Ressler's curious and slightly concerned gaze.
"While we were in there, The Keeper interrogated you separately." Ressler takes in a sharp breath, immediately knowing where this is going. Red fixes him with his intense gaze, his eyes boring into him as he continues, "He seemed to think that you knew something about me. Something about that night." Red falters, his eyes containing more vulnerability than Ressler has ever seen. "Do you?"
Ressler wants to answer no so badly; he wants to tell Reddington that The Keeper was delusional, that he had just been doing his job. That answer is on the tip of his tongue but he looks into the eyes of the man in front of him, the man whose life had been destroyed on that night and he can't bring himself to say it. He deserves answers, even after all he has done.
Ressler stays silent for a little too long, he sees the sparks of anger starting to appear in Red's eyes. He steadies himself, taking a deep breath, "Yes, I know what happened that night." Red is no longer looking at him, so Ressler can't gauge his reaction to this, but he hears his breathing accelerate slightly as his body tenses. It looks as if he is preparing for a blow, and in a way he is. Ressler takes another breath and then plows onward, only pausing when the entire story is told.
Red listens intently, having suspected or known most of the details himself, but hearing them laid out like this makes his heart clench painfully. He pushes down the feeling; he will not break down in front of Ressler.
Ressler finishes with the tale, leaving out nothing and being as honest as he can. He studies Reddington whose face is devoid of emotion. The only way Ressler notices the raging storm inside is through his eyes. They say eyes are the windows to the soul and not even Raymond Reddington can keep his emotions for something this big completely hidden.
"Where did you find this out?" His voice is empty.
"I did some digging." Red just nods at that and stands, placing his fedora firmly on his head.
"Thank you," he says to Ressler, their eyes meeting and expressing so much more than the simple word. Ressler knows that this is goodbye.
He walks Red towards the door, his mind spinning on how to properly send Red off; after all he has now spent the better part of seven years with his life centered around this man. He finally settles on, "Take care of yourself."
Red takes his hand, a small smile breaking over his face in understanding. There is a hidden message to the statement- take care of her. Red has every intention to.
"Goodbye Donald."
Liz picks up the phone 3 times while Red is gone. One time she actually hits 'Nick's pizza' but quickly hangs up before the call can go through. She paces the room, once, then twice, and then sits back at the island, pulling a hand through her hair. She unconsciously rubs her scar as she looks over the photos again, her heart clenching painfully for Red.
This is where Red finds her, only a half an hour since he left. Liz jumps up, the mascara still blurred around her eyes and her hair falling out of it's messy ponytail. Red gives her a tired half-grin (that fails miserably) and shards his coat and hat again. He walks by her and collapses on the sofa, gesturing for her to join him.
Liz grabs a bottle of scotch and two empty glasses on the way, assuming correctly that this is going to be a long and difficult conversation. She settles down next to Red, eyeing him cautiously as if he could break down at any moment (which Red figures is probably true). Once they both have generous portions of scotch (their glasses are nearly overflowing) and Red has taken a large sip, he starts the dreaded speech.
"December 24th," Red starts, his gaze distant, "It was seven months after the fire. The organization had given me a few petty jobs in-between, but had more or less left me alone. I was desperate to leave, but I needed to figure out a way to protect my family first. When I finally figured out a way to get us out, it was so close to Christmas-," His voice cracks and Liz grabs his hand.
He takes it gratefully and swallows, blinking rapidly, "And I couldn't make them leave on Christmas. We were planning to leave the next week. We had our whole lives planned out, we could have…." Red seems to shake himself out of his reverie, his eyes haunted by the possibilities if they had only made it out. His wife, his daughter… But suddenly he looks at Liz and realizes once again that if none of that had happened he would have never found her.
He downs more whiskey, the sharp taste of it calming him enough to continue, "That day, coming back from work, I was so excited to get home that I didn't check the gas tank. I ran out of gas. I was still miles from home and the snow was getting heavier. I got out and started walking home, so upset at the thought that I was ruining Christmas, but the more I walked the more I realized how funny the whole thing was and how every Christmas they would get such joy out of retelling the story at my expense of how 'Daddy ran out of gas.'" There is a ghost of a smile on Red's lips, but it is haunted, as if the memory is tainted by what comes next.
"I walked 3 miles. When I finally got home, I was so excited to see my wife and daughter. I opened the door and all I saw was blood. All there was, was blood." Red trails off at that, his expression tortured as it meets Liz's. Liz has tears running down her face and she is squeezing Red's hand so tight that the tips of his fingers are white from the lack of circulation.
Red is so lost in the memory that he almost forgets what Ressler had told him, almost forgets that there's more to the story. He hasn't had time to process the details himself, so when the words fall out of his mouth they are unprepared and filled with raw emotion that takes Liz's breath away.
"It was all a government cover-up. The organization I was working for had power, so much power that they could make me go away. But killing me would be suspicious, no they couldn't just kill me." Red lets out a bitter laugh, "Instead they had to destroy me. Destroy my name, make me the enemy, blame me for all that went wrong."
"While I was at work the leader of the organization visited my wife, the woman you know as Naomi. They showed her pictures and documents, obviously forged, about me. They accused me of horrendous crimes, crimes that they had actually committed with their widespread organization. Naomi didn't believe them for one second, and when they figured out she wouldn't willingly go into witness protection they threatened our daughter." Red lips pull into an angered expression at the thought of anyone hurting his daughter, especially since she was so young at that time. The thought that anyone could hurt an innocent child fills Red with the utmost rage.
"Naomi left and they set the scene for me. The blood they used was Naomi's blood; they had gotten it from her doctor. When I confirmed that it was her blood, I reacted how they expected. I disappeared, hunting for the killers. By the time I resurfaced three years later, no closer to hunting down the people responsible, I found myself climbing the charts on the FBI's most wanted list. I had a choice then- to turn myself and spend the rest of my life rotting away in prison while trying to prove my innocence, or I could take the opportunity and use my power to destroy the organization that took away my family. I slipped into my positon as Concierge of Crime. It was much easier than I thought it would be." Red frowns at that statement, realizing how true it is. He had been built for this, just as much as Liz had.
Liz's head is spinning with all the information Red has dumped onto her, her heart breaking for Red. Something bugs her suddenly and she asks him, "Where does the fulcrum fit into this?"
Red's proud grin at Liz asking the right question (thinking like a criminal!) doesn't quite meet his eyes, but it's a start. "Right about the time I disappeared, the fulcrum- a set of classified files on the organization I worked for- went missing. They jumped to the conclusion that I took it," Red shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know who actually took it or who has it now."
Something about the way Red says that bothers Liz. "But you have an idea." It's not a question. Red's eye twitches slightly, and he takes another gulp of his whiskey. "Red," Liz says sharply, not allowing him to hide from this.
Red meets her gaze again, his eyes troubled, "There was a rumor a few years back that your father had it."
Liz's splutters on the whiskey she just took a sip off. Red's gaze is far off, "I brushed of the rumor, certain that your father was dead, but now…" Red looks uncertain.
They sit there sipping their drinks, each lost in their own thoughts. Liz is the first one to break the silence a few minutes later, placing her empty glass on the table. "Come on," she practically pulls Red off the couch, "It's late. We can discuss this more in the morning." Red glances at the clock, it is 8 o' clock, but he isn't going to argue with Liz especially since she is dragging him to bed (a fantasy he had played out many times in his mind).
Liz strips down to a bra and underwear, too tired to care about being half naked (for the first time) around Red. Red lets his eyes run appreciatively over Liz, but he is just as tired (if not more tired) than her and is still recovering from a bullet wound (as Liz likes to remind him hourly) so he just slips in beside her.
Red pulls her close, letting her head rest on his shoulders. She is asleep in seconds and her steady breathing soon lulls Red into sleep too.