*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 one was really hard! I knew what I wanted to have happen in a general way during the course of this episode, but damn if the PTB didn't mess with timelines when they created StewGirl, and I didn't want to end up in the same trap, so I had to sit and flesh out who the hell she was, and how she'd fit into my story, and who knew about her, and HOW THE FUCK OLD SHE WAS. Because those sorts of things are important.

…:::…

Chapter 6: The Stewmaker

…:::…

Despite the redacted ballistics report, Liz was determined to continue investigating the contents of Tom's Box (even in the continued absence of proof that he was the one that put it there, Liz found herself referring to it as his). Heading in to work early, she stopped by the evidence archives, and despite her not being cleared to be there, and before she was chased out by security, she managed to eke out a phrase—'Angel Station'—and a date: June 23rd, 2012.

…:::…

"Good morning, Agent Keen. I've just been reading about your prior achievements," Reddington said as Liz joined him on a park bench in the sun. "Very impressive." He folded the newspaper he'd been studying and placed it nonchalantly between them, an article detailing the Hector Lorca case facing Liz. She gave a small, proud smile. He was looking in to her past. Learning about her. This was good. This was… progress.

"And it looks like we both have a very busy day ahead," he continued. "You're due in court in three hours, and I'm due… elsewhere," he finished vaguely. "But I thought I should do you the professional courtesy of letting you know that Lorca reached out to me. It seems like your case is about to go sideways."

Liz frowned. "Why? What happened?"

"Normally, I wouldn't bother you or the team with someone this petty—he's a vicious little drug-lord thug—certainly nothing about him that warrants inclusion on the Blacklist. But since it concerns you… I thought I'd pass the information along."

"What's he asking for?"

"Transportation out of the country, new identity, passport, bank account, credit cards, as well as the proper introductions to reestablish his operations elsewhere. And he wants it by tomorrow night. For whatever reason, Lorca is under the impression he's about to be a free man. I wanted to let you know I'm working on his request."

"What? Why?" Liz asked with a small flare of anger. "You know I worked on this; you know we're trying to put him away."

"Because I'm a criminal, and that's why I'm enjoying this arrangement with you and your team right now. The minute I cease to be a criminal, the minute I cease to move in the circles that provide the information you want from me… that's when your bosses tear up that immunity deal I so carefully crafted, and I disappear into a dark government hole, never to be heard from again."

Liz sighed in frustration. Of course he had to keep doing this. She knew that. "Can't you just act like a criminal on other agent's cases? Not mine?" Her voice had a pleading note to it, but she shot Reddington a resigned smile to let him know she understood.

Reddington stood, laying his folded jacket smoothly over one arm. "I'd wish you luck, and tell you to have a good day in court, Agent Keen, but it looks like that's no longer in the cards." Reddington touched the brim of his hat in farewell, and strode off down the path.

"Liz…!" she called after him, half-heartedly reminding him of her first name.

…:::….

As predicted, Liz's day in court went badly.

Standing in the parking lot of a shady motel that night, red and blue lights flashing around her as techs and agents swarmed back and forth, Liz felt a rush of anticipation when her phone vibrated and she noted the number.

"You were right," she said as she answered.

"Of course I was. What happened?" Reddington asked.

"My witness is gone," Liz told him. "Whoever took him, we tracked them to a motel. Desk clerk said the man who checked in had a large black duffel bag. I'm there now, we're going over everything, but there's not much to find. A few fibers of hair on the bedspread, not human, we think it's canine. The clerk said the man checked in with a dog. But that's it. No latent prints, no evidence that anyone's been in this room. Ever. Which—it's a motel—this place should be a petri dish, and there's nothing. But we did find traces of adhesive on the walls; we think he used tarps or plastic sheeting, and wiped the place clean afterwards. And the bathroom…"

"What about the bathroom?" Reddington prompted.

"It smells terrible. Like a… strong chemical… I know this might sound crazy, but… I've heard—well, nothing much more than ghost stories, but—stories about a man who disposes of bodies this way…?"

"And suddenly your case interests me," Reddington said. "I agree, it seems the Stewmaker is in town. This is a true Blacklister, Agent Keen, and he's not just a ghost story. He's the only fellow to engage when one has a particular sort of disposal problem. He's a chemical expert who turns his victims into chemical stew, thus the nom de guerre. No DNA. No nothing. He makes corporeal problems literally disappear. But it's much more than the proficiency of his tradecraft that gets him on the list. He's a…" Reddington trailed off, and shifted in his seat. "…trophy collector. He takes… remembrances of his victims. Memori morti." Reddington cleared his throat. "He's the key to closing hundreds of unsolved murders and disappearances."

"And you can help us take him down?" Liz asked.

"I suggest you encourage Mr. Lorca to share some information. If he doesn't have his name, he at least knows how to make contact."

…:::…

Despite Meera's more than intimidating demeanor and the charges brought against him for money-laundering, Lorca refused to discuss the Stewmaker.

As Liz led him to the helipad, she made one last play for the name. "Once I turn you over to Homeland, it's beyond my ability to help you!" she yelled over the noise of the approaching helicopter.

"You've helped me enough, Agent Keen," Lorca said sarcastically. "You disrupted my business. My life. You've embarrassed me, my family. You think you know me, with your profiles? You have no idea."

The confident smile he gave her made Liz suddenly regret not requesting additional back-up.

A minute later, as she lay on the pavement, having been flung backwards when the helicopter exploded, her ears ringing and her head spinning, she decided additional back-up really would have been the way to go.

…:::…

Ressler wanted nothing more than to deck Raymond Reddington as he stood there, completely calm. Number four on the FBI's Most Wanted list, un-restrained, in the middle of a government black site. Basically a free man, able to leave at any time.

He really wished he'd been successful in Brussels.

"What did you know about the transport attack?" Ressler demanded. "How did he know where to strike? I swear to God, if you had anything to do with—"

"What you're forgetting is that our desires are well-aligned today, for once, Agent Ressler." Reddington watched the surveillance footage from the airport as it played on the screens above them. "And I have a way to fix this for both of us. I have a contract with Lorca to personally hand him a new identity."

"That's never gonna happen," Ressler spat.

"Your witness is dead, you lost Lorca, and he took Agent Keen. I'd say my meeting with Lorca might be the equivalent of you falling on your ass and landing in a pile of Christmas."

"We'll need time to set up a sting," Ressler began.

"Sure. I have all the time in the world. You however… I'm sure another opportunity will present itself for me in terms of the Stewmaker. But you're working against the clock. If we do this, we do it my way, no surveillance, no wires, or you can find what's left of Agent Keen yourselves." Reddington took Cooper and Ressler's silence as a form of agreement. To solidify his argument, Reddington added, "I meet with Lorca alone. When confronting complex equations, the simplest solution is most often the correct one. I want the Stewmaker, you want your pet profiler back. You lost the trail. I can find it again. It's that simple."

"I'm coming with you," Ressler demanded, his hands on his hips.

"Good. It'll give me a one-on-one chance to repay you for the fun we had in Brussels." Reddington turned to walk away. "Lorca will have questions about you," he tossed over his shoulder as an after-thought. "You'll need breviloquent answers."

…:::…

Reddington was mostly pleased to see Ressler rise to the occasion and smoothly rattle off a believable cover story for himself.

If he was going to be honest, he'd have to admit he wouldn't have minded Lorca's men roughing the young agent up just a bit more before things settled down. Reddington really was still holding a grudge about Brussels.

After hashing out the terms of their arrangement—information on the Stewmaker's whereabouts in exchange for the travel documents requested—Lorca raised an eyebrow. "You're awfully insistent on that agent's safety being part of the deal. You seem to have a problem with me disposing of this bitch. She took everything I have—this should be the price she pays."

"See, that's the problem right there. You let your emotions get the best of you, which is how people wind up in jail, Hector. Stupid people. I need the name and location of the man holding Elizabeth Keen."

"Are you sure it's not you who's acting on emotion? This sounds personal," Lorca pointed out.

Reddington gave a laugh. "You got me. It is personal. I want the Stewmaker. Agent Ressler here is the one who wants the woman back, though I don't know why—she sounds generally difficult, and I've seen pictures—" Reddington shrugged. "I suppose she'd be pretty enough…" he mumbled, looking back at Ressler, "…if she could just sort out her hair…"

Ressler rolled his eyes. "Point is, I save her, I look good with my bosses, I get to keep doing what I'm doing and providing assholes like you with envelopes like this." Ressler held up the folder with Lorca's new identity in it.

Lorca sighed, and motioned for Ressler to hand over the documents.

…:::…

Reddington immediately dropped Ressler off back at the Post Office, and Dembe began driving to Maryland. They both had the name, Stanley Kornish, but Reddington was confident that he could track the man down first, as long as he wasn't hampered by the FBI. Remembering the dog hairs from the motel, Reddington asked Dembe to dial the Maryland State Office of Animal Control, and within ten minutes, they had a location.

"Pull in the next time you see a shop, Dembe. We're going to need meat."

…:::…

Liz had been trying to form a connection with the Stewmaker since he'd hauled her from the trunk of his car. Giving him her name, detailing the people in her life who loved her and would miss her. She'd brought up the name "Stewmaker" in an attempt to align herself with him, compliment him and make it seem like she was on his side, while the rest of the world—the world that called him by that disparaging, disrespectful name—was the enemy. Not her.

While he set up his tools and she alternately stroked his ego and probed him for information, Liz was able to free her hands from the zip tie at her back. She was sure her skin would be raw around her wrists for days if she was actually able to escape, but… Free hands were definitely Step One. She made no large movements, and maintained her position, not giving away the fact that she'd made progress. The next obstacle was the large metal restraint around her right ankle, and the length of chain that tethered her to the wall on her left. She knew there was a key to open it, but she'd been blindfolded when it was applied, and she had no idea where Kornish had put the damn thing. She'd been scanning the shelves to her left unobtrusively, but couldn't see it anywhere. There were bottles, and jars, and what looked to be a large, leather-bound album—Slides? Photos?—

The large grey dog that had been sitting quietly on a pile of blankets by the door got up and lumbered over to where she sat, sniffing at her hands. Kornish turned to look when he heard the distinctive jingle of the dog's collar and tags.

"Hey, you don't have to watch this. Go on," Kornish said kindly to the dog, who made no move to leave. "Come on, let's get your dinner, and you can play outside while I finish this up." Kornish left what he was doing, apologized to Liz for the delay, and walked the dog out the door, locking it behind him.

Liz was out of the wheelchair where he'd placed her in an instant, and moved over to the bench and shelves, her tethered leg barely allowing her to reach. She glanced at the surfaces, looking for a key, but saw none. She opened several boxes and drawers, and slammed them shut in frustration. Pushing a box back into place, the leather-bound album toppled over and opened.

Hundreds of photos, sometimes stuffed one behind the other, filled the pages. Liz was momentarily distracted, and flipped several pages, horrified by the sheer volume of lives this man had taken.

She froze when one particular picture—of a girl about 18 years old—caught her eye. Labeled '91', with no other markings. She grabbed it out of its place and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans, shoving a loose photo into its place so an empty slot wouldn't be noticed. She replaced the album, and moved to the other side of the room, unable to stretch far enough to reach the cold, flat metal bench that held Kornish's tools. Liz strained, reaching, but the tips of her fingers fell several inches short of the nearest sharp instrument she wished she could defend herself with.

Figuring broken glass was better than nothing, she turned back toward the bench with the jars and glasses and came face to face with Kornish.

A sharp backhand that she didn't see coming left her sprawling on the floor. Without a word, he lifted her back into the wheelchair, placed zip ties individually on each of her wrists, securing them to the arms of the wheelchair, and before the cobwebs had cleared, she felt the burn of an injection pierce her skin.

"What did you give me?" she asked weakly.

"A sedative. It'll eventually cause paralysis, yet maintain your sensitivity to pain. I've been asked to make you suffer," Kornish explained gently, but without sympathy.

Kornish went back to arranging his instruments as Liz felt the heavy effects of the drugs take effect. She slumped sideways in the wheelchair, and her eyes lost focus. She found herself wishing the rest of her senses would dull, but apparently that was the whole point. She could still feel, and she could still hear.

She wished she could hear his voice. Just one more time.

Her eyes heavy-lidded—almost closed—and her head lolled to the side, Liz thought she must be hallucinating when she saw a man's shape appear behind Kornish and swing something heavy at the back of his head. Through her hazy vision, she wasn't sure who it was at first, but the close-cropped hair and blue jacket…

Her heart leapt. She was going to be okay. Not only had she been saved—she was going to be okay—but he was the one that—

Her elation and relief were quickly tempered as she watched Reddington's shape move to the wall of human trophies and glance over them quickly, scanning for something in particular. When he found the album, he began flipping through it purposefully. After a long moment, rechecking several pages, he closed the album firmly, with a muttered, "Damn."

Turning back to Liz, he made his way over to her. She wanted to jump up out of the chair, she wanted to scream at him, she wanted to be able to give him some sign—even if she could just blink—

Reddington moved to Liz's side and pressed two fingers to the pulse in her neck. It was steady, and strong. He could see her chest rising and falling gently, shallowly, but the movement was there. He leaned down and scanned her face, but saw no movement or signs of awareness. Just as well. She shouldn't be burdened with the knowledge of what he was about to do.

Liz wondered if she could cry while still under the effects of the drugs. He hadn't come for her at all. He'd been so intent on the contents of that album that he'd looked for it first, before even checking to make sure she was still alive.

Liz wished she could dig her fingers into her scar. 'No, this is good,' she thought. 'This is a reminder. Raymond Reddington is not mine; he never was. And he never will be. He doesn't *know* me… and it should stay that way.'

From her slumped position in the wheelchair, Liz watched Reddington inject Kornish with the same cocktail she'd been given. He hauled Kornish up to a sitting position and arranged him at the end of the bathtub that held the chemical concoction initially mixed for her. Her heart pounding, she willed her hands to move, her mouth to work, her eyes to flutter. Anything.

When Kornish finally came around and became aware of his predicament, he took it surprisingly well. Liz's eyes had begun to focus, and she could see the two men clearly, a mere fifteen feet in front of her.

"Stanley. Hello. My name is Raymond Reddington." Liz saw a flash of recognition at the name cross Kornish's face. The drugs hadn't dulled his expression yet.

Reddington saw it, too. "Mmm." He stepped back, tilting his head at Kornish, studying him. "Shall we get started?" He nodded, as if answering his own question. After a long pause, he began, "A farmer comes home one day to find that everything that gives meaning to his life is gone. Crops are burned, animals slaughtered, bodies and broken pieces of his life strewn about. Everything that he loved, taken from him."

Liz felt sick. She knew Reddington was talking about himself, and despite her earlier wish to hear his voice just one more time, listening to it now—so heavy and deep with loss and regret—she wished she could turn away, block him out, stop him.

Reddington continued, looming over Kornish's slumped frame. "One can only imagine the pit of despair, the hours of job-like lamentations, the burden of existence. He makes a promise to himself in those dark hours. A life's work erupts from his... knotted mind. Years go by. His suffering becomes... complicated."

The fact that he didn't believe any of this story would be remembered by anyone—the fact that he felt like these words were only being spoken in front of a dead man and an unaware girl—made the confession even worse.

He wouldn't be saying these things if he thought she could hear him.

What would he say if he knew she understood his references? That she was brutally aware of his 'life's work' and 'complicated' suffering?

"One day he stops. The farmer, who... is no longer a farmer... sees the wreckage he's left in his wake. It is now he who burns. It is he who slaughters. And he knows, in his heart... he must pay. Doesn't he, Stanley?" Reddington advanced toward the other man. "I'm sure there are those who would say he might be able to change. Maybe he's not damaged beyond repair. Maybe he could make amends to all those that he's hurt so terribly." Liz found the ability to blink, and squeezed her eyes shut. "Or maybe not," Reddington added.

Liz's eyes flew open at the sound of splashing and bubbling. Reddington took several quick steps back, careful not to let the concoction near him. His jaw clenched, and he grimaced, watching the bathtub for a moment before turning away toward Liz.

Seeing her eyes open and focused on him stopped him in his tracks.

"Agent Keen," he said in a low voice. "How much of—" He stopped, his jaw working soundlessly. "I should have turned the chair around," he murmured to himself, gazing down at her with a look of regret and shame.

'You shouldn't have killed him,' Liz wanted to reply. She knew she was gaining some control over her expression again, and could only guess at the disappointment in it.

At that moment, Ressler and the rest of the team burst through the cabin door, and Reddington stepped to the side, placing his hands on the back of his head in a show of submission to the armed agents.

"Where's Kornish?" Ressler demanded.

"We've had a little incident," Reddington replied lightly. "And I believe Agent Keen needs medical attention."

…:::…

Liz sat on the back step of the ambulance, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She watched as Reddington walked the length of the driveway toward her, the leather-bound album under his left arm. When he reached her, he held it out for her to take it. She did, placing it on the floor of the ambulance beside her.

"It's horrifying, but at least you can give peace of mind and closure to some of the families."

Liz shook her head, attempting to keep any trace of pity from her face. "I know what those pictures are. And I know they're the reason you came out here today."

Reddington straightened, his face a careful mask.

"Saving me…" Liz shrugged, her face contorting briefly before she got control of her urge to cry. "…that was just a side effect, wasn't it? An… accident." She gave him a sad smile. "The timing just happened to work out."

"Agent Keen—"

"You call everyone else by their first name," she interrupted. "Donald. Harold. Yet you continue to address me formally. Why?"

Reddington took a long moment to answer. "Because you asked me not to," he finally responded, his voice quiet.

"You do it just to be contrary? Because you know I'd rather you call me something else?"

"I just murdered a man by tossing him into a chemical bath right in front of you. And you're worried about what I call you?" Reddington asked, confusion hardening his tone.

Liz shook her head again. "I had no idea. I didn't realize you'd become…"

"…such a monster?" Reddington supplied, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you knew, better than anyone, what I'm capable of."

"You made a beeline for the trophies and that book as soon as Kornish was unconscious. You didn't even check to see if I was still breathing."

Reddington had the good sense to look contrite. Glancing down at the ground, he said, "I'm sorry you had to go through this today, I really am. And I don't mean to be rude, but you're making this all about you." He shook his head. "Don't."

"Oh, I'm not. I promise," Liz assured him, her voice gaining some strength. "The truth is…for me? This has always been all about you." She leaned to the side, reaching into her back pocket for the picture she'd taken from the album. She extended her hand, offering it to Reddington. "I think this is what you were looking for." Reddington's mouth opened as if to speak, looking down at the photograph. Liz didn't give him the chance, and instead climbed into the body of the ambulance, pulling the doors shut behind her.

…:::…

TBC.