*My* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This is so much fun. :)

...:::...

Chapter 3: The Freelancer Part 1

…:::…

"I was thoroughly vetted when I was brought on at the Post Office. Are additional polygraphs really necessary?"

Over the next several days, Liz dutifully submitted to the entire process again, answering question after question about her knowledge of Reddington, why she thought he'd turned himself in—she liked those because she could answer that she had no idea, truthfully and without having to concentrate on her phrasing—and why she was so eager to be the one he talked to.

"Honestly, I feel like I know him. I've been assisting Agent Ressler on his case for years, and I've even been in the same city with him. At one point I was officially brought along on one of the attempts to capture him in Europe, for additional insight."

"It doesn't seem your presence was helpful. Reddington obviously wasn't captured," the other agent noted stoically.

"When the details of the operation changed at the last minute, Agent Ressler tried to kill him." Liz shrugged, watching the polygrapher evenly. "Things kind of went south from there."

…:::…

"Give me an update. What's happening?" Liz said, falling into step next to Ressler. She shrugged on her jacket, having just finished the last round of what her bosses were calling 'interviews' but which Liz felt had been more like 'interrogations'.

"Reddington claims there's going to be some kind of incident at the Decatur Industrial Park today at 11am. He won't give us any more than that, and the people upstairs are pushing back on his immunity deal. That's all you get."

"So when do we leave for the Industrial Park?" Liz asked.

"We?" Ressler said, shaking his head as he stepped on to the elevator and blocked her following him with a steadying palm. "You stay here. I know you're technically a field agent, Keen, but when was the last time you were out of the Post Office on a case?"

The elevator doors slid closed, and Liz clenched her teeth, resisting the urge to kick something.

…:::…

"Sixty people are dead because of you," Cooper said, gazing up at the closed circuit feed of Reddington in the Box on the monitor above him.

"Sixty people are dead because you don't return my calls, Harold. You want to save lives and catch the bad guys, pay attention," Reddington replied disrespectfully, sitting calmly in the chair, his shackles back in place.

"They're not going to grant you your deal," Cooper warned.

"That's unfortunate," Reddington said, his tone bored. "The next name on my list is an absolute snake."

"His list?" Liz asked, stepping forward. "He has more people he wants to give up?"

Cooper turned to glare at the junior agent, and Ressler was quick to grab Liz by the bicep and back her up several steps, a look of admonishment on his face.

"The train. How did you know?" Cooper began again.

"I know lots of things," Reddington said confidently, not bothering to look at the camera. "But the train I didn't. I knew the time, the place, but the train was a big surprise."

"We've ruled out terrorism," Ressler chimed in.

"Ah! Good afternoon, Donald. No, this was not terrorism. Look at the list of casualties. You'll find some councilwoman from Albany. Apparently she's been tangling with some rather cunning, powerful people."

"You're saying the derailment was an assassination attempt?" Ressler asked, dubious.

"I'm not saying anything to you, Donald," Reddington said, glancing back up at the camera. "I thought I made that part clear." He tilted his head and a smile played across his face as he narrowed his eyes. "Where's that pretty agent from a few days ago? The clever one?"

All eyes in the room turned to look at Liz, who felt like she's just had a bucket of ice water dumped down her back. She swallowed, and looked up at the monitor, where Reddington's image appeared to be staring straight at her as he added, "Elizabeth Keen…?"

…:::…

"Tell me about the train wreck." Liz had again been granted permission to get close, approach Reddington. She sat on the bench beside him. She wished she'd had more luck convincing them he didn't need to be tied down to his chair—she felt badly about his treatment, and knew he had to be getting uncomfortably stiff, unable to move for hours at a time. She wondered when the last time he'd been able to stand was.

"Agent Keen. It's lovely to see you again." Reddington smiled at her.

Liz took his avoidance of her question as a cue to try a different topic on conversation first. She tilted her head, studying him. "I understand you traveled quite far to see us, Red."

Reddington quirked an eyebrow at the nickname. "How's your husband?" he countered.

"Still on the ventilator," Liz said without hesitation or emotion. "Why did you travel all this way to turn yourself in, with no guarantee of an immunity deal?"

"You're asking the wrong questions today, Agent Keen."

"Why don't you call me Liz." Reddington's eyes had dropped to her right hand, but they flicked quickly back up to her face as she continued, "Since it appears that we'll be working fairly closely with each other for the next little while."

"Will we?" he asked, his voice carefully light.

"I understand you have a list of names. The train wreck has something to do with the next name on that list." Liz shifted forward, leaning toward Reddington, her face serious. "You turned yourself in for a purpose. Let's get back to that. Tell me everything you know about the train wreck."

After a long moment, Reddington bobbed his head, and began to explain the man called The Freelancer. Liz listened carefully. "He's responsible for a slew of other premeditated killings just like this one, disguised as accidents." Reddington paused, then asked, "Shall I go on?" He looked down at his restraints pointedly, turning his hands over as much as he was able to, his palms up. When he glanced back up to Liz, he could tell she was doing her best to hide a smile.

…:::…

Liz watched from her perch on the edge of a desk as Reddington went into great detail about their next target, standing in the center of the main floor of the Post Office, obviously enjoying his platform and the attention. 'ENTJ' she thought to herself, reveling in the chance to profile Reddington in person. 'Charisma, confidence, able to project authority and command a room…' Reddington made a particularly cold comment about an assassination that took the lives of more than a hundred innocent bystanders, and she mentally added, 'with a ruthless level of rationality.' She was sure he'd planned his surrender out ten steps ahead, and she mentally tried to remain on task instead of giving in to the urge to grin across the room at him like an appreciative schoolgirl. She adored his intelligence. She couldn't wait to see what his end game was.

"And where is this intermediary you need to meet with?" Ressler asked.

"Montreal… I'll set a meeting." Reddington nodded in Liz's direction. "You should come."

All eyes were once again on Liz. "Me? I should-? Why?" She fought to keep her face professional.

"It'll be fun. Just the two of us. No wires, no clumsy agents in the bushes." Reddington tilted his head vaguely in Ressler's direction. "You keep asking me personal questions; this should give us a chance to actually have that conversation."

Ressler bristled. "Agent Keen is a profiler, she's not one of our usual field—"

"Donald, if you want me to make an introduction, you need to trust me with my source." Ressler fumed, but waved a dismissive hand in Reddington's direction as he turned away. Cooper nodded reluctantly. "Wonderful! What fun." Reddington tilted his head and looked back at Liz. "You'll need a dress."

…:::…

Reddington had insisted on having a car deliver them both, together, to a restaurant to meet his contact in Montreal. Ressler held the car door open for Liz outside the safe house the team was working from. "Remember, you meet Reddington's contact, you get the name of the Freelancer's next victim, and you get out of there. Understood? You're not here to socialize," he told Liz.

"I agree with you completely, Donald," Reddington said over the roof of the car before bending to get in on his side, swinging his door closed behind him with a muted thump. "But it is a restaurant," he said quietly to Liz, now that they were alone. "And it is dinnertime." She rewarded him with a slight smile, the corners of her mouth turning up.

…:::…

"Anyone asks, you're my daughter," Reddington said quietly into her ear as he led her to the table, his hand on the small of her back.

"Absolutely not."

"Fine. You can be my girlfriend from Ann Arbor," Reddington allowed, holding Liz's chair out for her before sitting down opposite her. Liz noticed he'd arranged them in such a way that he was in the seat that afforded him a clear view of the entire restaurant, his back to a solid tiled column. Protection and observation. And he'd managed to pair this calculated positioning perfectly with smooth, gentlemanly behavior. She'd gone to dinner with James Bond.

"What would you like to drink?" he asked as the waiter arrived at their table, and Liz was suddenly loathe to admit she knew nothing about fine wine or craft cocktails. She refused to order her usual glass of chardonnay in front of this man.

She smiled smoothly, nodding her head in his direction. "You're the one who speaks French at this table, not me. And you know the restaurant. What should I try?"

Reddington turned to the server and ordered for both of them before turning back to Liz. "You know I speak French."

"I know you speak several languages," she replied.

Reddington tapped the table and regarded Liz appreciatively. "Tell me about your job. I realize you are a profiler, but… you still seem to know a lot more about me than you should."

"It's my job to know a lot about you."

"Hmm. How close to the truth do you think you can… really get? Tell me my profile."

Liz smiled and shook her head. "Trade secrets."

"Please. Our drinks aren't even here yet. We have to talk about something. Tell me my profile," he insisted.

Liz took a deep breath. "You're a loner. You keep your distance, partially for protection but mostly because 'larger than life' personalities tend to overpower others, and that makes it difficult for people around you to get close. You're versatile and adaptable. You're comfortable here, ordering a glass of expensive scotch, but you'd be just as comfortable sleeping in a cave with rebels or sharing dinner in some hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. You're detail oriented, with a memory for names, faces, dates… You pride yourself on planning for every eventuality, and always being able to see several steps ahead." Liz broke eye contact and scanned the restaurant to her left, giving him a moment. She didn't want him to feel like a bug under a microscope, no matter how much she longed to continue to study his face as she talked. "That's why you're so intrigued by me. I know things about you, preferences and details that shouldn't be out there in the world. I make you uncomfortable, because the level of information I might have… might make you vulnerable."

Just then, the waiter arrived with their drinks, and as Reddington picked up his glass, he cleared his throat and said, "You mentioned you don't speak French. How did you know I'd ordered expensive scotch?"

Liz gave a coy smile. "I didn't. But I know that's generally your drink of choice."

Reddington nodded at the martini glass that had been set in front of Liz. "Try yours. Aviation cocktail, from the 'twenties."

Liz reached forward and took a sip. She raised her eyebrows in approval. "Tastes like spring," she said.

Reddington smiled and shifted in his seat, crossing his legs casually. "Now… your turn," he said quietly.

"My turn?"

"Tell me your profile."

"Why would I do that?" she asked, a teasing note in her voice. When he continued to gaze at her expectantly, Liz gave in. The man deserved something, and she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit that she yearned for him to know her better. Know her as a person, not an agent. Her voice lowered as her smile slipped and her expression became more serious. "My colleagues call me sir," she admitted. "They think I'm a bitch. I can be withdrawn, disconnected. I have a deep yearning to understand and relate to the criminal mind. I'm hesitant to have a child or even adopt one, because I know I can't rewrite my childhood by having kids of my own." Liz stopped, wondering why she'd suddenly chosen to give so much away.

Reddington pounced on the information. "You husband's the one that wants children. Does he know you as well as you know me?"

Liz mentally scrambled to find a new topic; she was not in the mood to discuss Tom. Not until she'd had a chance to do some digging about the box she'd found under her floorboards. "Where is your contact? He's late."

"Tell me about that scar," Reddington said suddenly, looking down at her wrist. Liz realized she was running two fingers along it, her hands on the table in front of her. She quickly moved them into her lap. Reddington narrowed his eyes, confident he'd hit on something important. "I've noticed how you… stroke it."

Liz's stomach clenched, and her chest ached. 'Damn him,' she thought. Why did he have to be so observant? "Where is your contact?" she asked again.

"What's the story of your scar?" Reddington pushed, ignoring her question. When Liz refused to answer, he sighed, accepting that he'd pushed too far.

After a moment, however, Liz leaned forward, her voice hushed, despite the fact that she knew they were not being monitored on audio by Ressler and the team. Her brow was furrowed, and she asked hesitantly, "What if I were to tell you… that most things people have come to believe about me are a lie?"

Reddington's eyes locked on hers, and just when Liz had started to regret speaking again, his gaze cut sharply to his left. If Liz hadn't already been staring at him intently, she would have missed the brief flash of annoyance that passed over Reddington's face. He looked back at her, gave a regretful smile, and murmured, "Please excuse me for a moment." He stood gracefully from the table and moved away toward the back of the restaurant.

Almost immediately sirens blazed to life outside on the street, while inside the restaurant the noise level increased with the addition of the fire alarm. Liz shook her head. 'Here we go,' she thought, standing calmly and moving toward the exit.

Minutes later, RCMP and FBI officers swarming the premises, Ressler cornered Liz on the street outside.

"You let him go!" he barked at her as they walked toward the main surveillance van.

"He's not gone," Liz corrected him. "And you were the one that compromised this op—what's with the sirens and the show of force? How about a little more finesse next time?"

"There won't be a next time, Keen, because you let him go! And what do you mean, 'he's not gone'?"

"He's not done with us. He hasn't gone through this whole charade—turning himself in, the Post Office, restraints, Zamani—just to run. He's going to turn back up. I know him. And besides—" Liz paused as they arrived at the door to the van and Ressler reached for the handle to swing the door open. "—he wants to talk to me again."

The door to the van swung open to reveal Reddington, sitting nonchalantly in Ressler's chair. He continued to study the bank of monitors calmly, not bothering to look up as he greeted them with a sarcastically surprised, yet bored tone of voice.

"Hey there, guys."

…:::…