*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 even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This one, again, is mostly the beginning and the end. This is not an interesting Blacklister, IMO. Hang on, we're going to get more interesting in the next chapter. :)

…:::…

Chapter 7: The Courier

…:::…

Liz had made progress.

She was used to finding information others didn't want her to find. She'd resorted to some pretty decent lies and impressive misrepresentations of herself and who she might be associated with to put together the sum total of her knowledge about Reddington over the years.

She hadn't expected investigating her husband to be as difficult as it was turning out to be, though. It should have been easy. His name was Tom Keen. He was a fourth grade school teacher. He wore glasses.

Except the passports gave him several other names, she was pretty sure he was some kind of undercover operative implanted in her life, and the more she thought about it, his protestations that "my prescription is small—you just can't tell they're corrective—but don't keep them on too long or you'll get a headache" seemed to indicate he didn't even need the glasses.

The date, June 23rd 2012, had stuck in her mind, and while an internet search only taught her that the decathlon world record was broken that day at the United States Olympic trials, it took until the night after she'd been taken by Kornish to remember.

She'd snuck out of bed, opened her laptop, and clicked through her photos until she found what she was looking for. She and Tom had been in Boston that weekend. They'd created a small vacation around a job interview Tom had, and one of the beautiful old hotels in the area was named Angel Station. It was moments before she'd found articles about the murder that had occurred there that same weekend. The murder that had occurred during the hours she'd been alone, Tom having gone to the interview.

But what did this have to do with Reddington? What did it have to do with her? She knew the only reason she was a worthwhile target—the only value she had—was as a source of information about Reddington, or because of their past connection. If this wasn't some huge coincidence—which it likely wasn't—it meant Tom being in her life was a danger to Red.

Liz snuck back upstairs, shot a suspicious glare at the fake glasses on Tom's nightstand, and crawled into bed. It wouldn't do her any good to sleep on the couch and wake up with a sore neck.

She woke up the next morning to Tom kissing her stomach, lifting the edge of her shirt slowly. He was hovering over her, a smile playing across his lips. "Good morning…" he murmured against her skin.

Liz brushed him away uncomfortably. "Tom… I need to talk to you about something."

Tom's playful smile immediately disappeared, his eyes concerned. "Sure. What is it?"

"Remember when we went to Boston? You had that… job interview?"

Tom smiled again. "Of course," he said softly. "Best weekend ever, right?" He sighed, and pushed a strand of her hair off her forehead. "We should do that again. Just book something, and… just go."

"No, that's…" Liz pushed herself up in bed slightly. "That's not what I wanted to talk to you about. A man was shot and killed at that hotel. The weekend we were there."

"Okay…" Tom said slowly, confusion crossing his features. "So, what's the question?"

"Were you involved? In the murder?" Liz asked, her face tight.

Tom stared at her for a long moment before sighing and reaching for his glasses. She watched his hand pass them, move swiftly to open the drawer in his nightstand, and draw a gun, which he swung quickly to point at her chest. "I wish you hadn't asked me that," he said, his voice low and angry. "The people that I work for are very powerful, and now I'm going to have to tell them I didn't get the information they wanted—"

The gun went off, and Liz felt a heavy, sudden weight push into her chest.

"Rise and shine! The day is waiting!" Tom called cheerfully.

Liz started, waking up and opening her eyes to find Hudson had pounced happily on her chest, urged on by her husband, who was now flapping the covers, tickling her, and bouncing the bed as disruptively as possible.

Liz pushed him off of her with force, and slipped out of the bed to stand in the middle of the room, still trying to shake away the last vestiges of sleep.

"Hey—are you okay?" Tom asked, concerned at her reaction.

"Yeah…" Liz wiped at her face with one hand, and turned toward the bathroom, mumbling, "I was just having a nightmare…"

…:::…

"Here's the updated profile I prepared on Reddington," Liz said, walking up to Ressler's desk. She offered him the folder.

"You enjoying the opportunity to follow your childhood crush around and see how much of the stuff you've come up with over the years is correct?" Ressler asked, taking the file from Liz without looking up from what he was doing.

"I also prepared one on you, in case you're interested," Liz fired back. "'Uptight, fueled by an inner rage, capable of the occasional moment of tenderness which likely brings on the desire to stay up all night watching Asian porn.'"

"See, this is why I keep you around. You're always spot on," he said sarcastically.

"Uh huh. And I don't follow him around like a puppy," Liz said.

"You do," Ressler replied, looking up at her with a small measure of actual concern. "He's ruthless, and dangerous, and you need to remember that, otherwise you run the risk of him chewing you up and spitting you back out. If he doesn't just swallow you whole—"

"You really resent the fact that Reddington wants to work directly with me instead of you, don't you?"

Liz's cell phone buzzed, and she drew it out of her pocket.

"Speak of the devil…" Ressler said.

"He's not the devil—" Liz hissed as she answered the call.

…:::…

"What am I doing in Baltimore?" Liz asked, approaching where Reddington sat on a low couch, surrounded by books and tchotchkes. "What is this place?"

"Something of a hideaway," Reddington answered. "Belonged to a strange little man, prolific writer… I bought the place for him when he could no longer afford to keep it himself, and sadly he died without ever being published, but this place is chock-full his work… manuscripts, poems, unsent letters… and lots and lots of this…" Reddington raised a mason jar with a cloudy liquid in it to his lips and took a sip, hissing and baring his teeth slightly after swallowing, as if it burned.

"What is that?" Liz asked, somewhat horrified.

"No earthly idea. Some sort of distilled alcohol, I think. There's bottles of the stuff stashed everywhere. Would you like me to pour you a few fingers…?" As Reddington leaned precariously, twisting to look for another glass, Liz got the sense he'd sampled a little too much of… whatever that was. And she didn't want to go near it.

"No, thank you," Liz said, perching on the only other empty surface in the room: a small end table. "Red, why am I here?"

Reddington looked at her with what Liz thought was a flash of disappointment before he placed his drink on a short stack of papers and began to describe the man known as the Courier.

…:::…

"I did my job here, I gave you a Blacklister," Reddington insisted, standing in the Post Office later that day, watching as Ressler and Meera ineffectually questioned the man they'd chased down through a farmer's market.

"What was he supposed to be delivering?" Cooper demanded.

"I don't know, Harold." Reddington raised an eyebrow. "Might it be conceivable that your people actually missed something?"

"You're not telling us something," Cooper insisted.

"Let me put your mind at ease. I'm never telling you everything." Reddington rocked back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. Liz was amazed at how a man almost a full head shorter than the Assistant Director could look so imposing when staring the taller man down.

"He's got a knife wound in his chest; scars all over his body," Liz noted, watching the interrogation through the one-sided glass. "Do you know how he got them?" she asked Reddington.

He paused, and tilted his head, considering something. "That's interesting…" he said finally. "I always wondered if the stories were true. I think you may need to call a doctor."

...:::…

Liz hadn't protested when Ressler called the Courier a psychopath, but she'd spoken up when he'd likened him to Red. Her arguments fell on deaf ears, and she was sent out to Baltimore one again to see what other information she might be able to obtain from Reddington.

He was, once again, without a tie, in an open vest, and smelling like a distillery. Liz wondered what had him so rattled that he felt the need to be this inebriated throughout the day. It really wasn't like him.

"—and he wrote to the editor of the Washington Post almost every day—"

Liz stepped to the side as Luli swept into the room with a tray of food and handed it to Reddington. Liz looked her up and down quickly: she was wearing extremely tight sleep shorts, a black tank, and had one of Reddington's dress shirts on over it all. Liz fought the urge to glare.

Reading from something he pulled from the top of a nearby pile, he chuckled, "Listen to this one: 'Dear Mr. Bradley, what's with all the rabbits—'" Liz snatched the papers away, needing his attention, and not in the mood to play, jealousy causing her patience to wear thin.

"I need to know what you're not telling me about the Courier. He's taken a boy, Seth, who only has a few hours to live if you don't help us."

"And what do I get in return?" Reddington's jovial demeanor slipped away so fast that Liz was slightly taken aback. He had definitely been drinking, but it didn't seem like he was as drunk as she'd initially supposed.

The immature part of Liz's brain wanted to begin listing all of the things she'd already done for him over the years, but instead she just crossed her arms and nodded toward the door Luli had just disappeared through. "Something you need she's not already taking care of for you?" The implication was clear.

Reddington's eyes narrowed. He didn't contradict her, nor did he agree with her assumption. After a moment he demanded quietly, "Tell me what you've learned about your husband."

"Why? You seem to know more about him that I do. Tell me why you sent Zamani to kill him, and I'll tell you what I found in a box under my floor boards as I was cleaning his blood off the carpet," Liz said coldly.

"His other identities, most likely. Passports? Cash? Contact names, addresses. Probably a weapon." Reddington calmly listed off the contents of the boxes he kept similarly hidden in various safe houses around the world.

'It really wasn't fair,' she thought. In a perfect world, she could tell him what she knew, and he could do the same with her, and—

'And *what*, Liz?' she questioned herself miserably.

Liz sank into a chair across from Reddington. In a small voice, she admitted, "There was a gun. It's connected to an open homicide. Happened in Boston last year. I was there…with Tom. For the weekend. A Russian tourist, Victor Fokin, was murdered, but the details…" Liz swallowed. "They're classified."

Reddington nodded, watching her carefully. He seemed to come to the conclusion that her information was enough to warrant something in return. "The Courier has a taste for the poppy. I know someone who has his finger on the opium pulse; a friend. There's a good chance he could be helpful in locating the Courier's safe house."

Liz nodded, and stood. "Thank you."

"No, Agent Keen, thank you."

"For what?" she asked, tired, not bothering to correct him to 'Liz'.

"For being honest with me about your husband. You haven't told anyone else, have you?" Reddington asked. Liz shifted her weight uncomfortably and shook her head. "Not even Cooper?" Liz shook her head again. Reddington pursed his lips and frowned. "I recommend you keep it that way," he said finally.

…:::…

By the time they discovered who had hired the Courier, Seth had less than 10 hours of oxygen left.

"Laurence Dechambou, ex-French intelligence, makes a handsome living selling secrets of a technological nature, and runs a nightclub on the side," Reddington explained. "And if you really want her to talk, I should meet with her."

"Every time you 'meet', someone ends up dead," Cooper pointed out.

"We've gotten off to a rocky start," Reddington admitted.

"You've killed three people and arranged safe passage for a drug dealer to flee the country."

"That drug dealer insulted me, and I arranged for him to flee the country on my jet." Reddington raised an eyebrow at Cooper, and his voice dropped. "Do you think his passage was actually safe?"

"So I should have said 'four people'?" Cooper asked, his expression making it obvious that he did not find this correction an improvement.

"I'm not perfect," Reddington said, shaking his head. His gaze skipped over to where Liz leaned against a desk, an unreadable look on his face. "Just ask Agent Keen; I think she can attest to that statement."

"I'll do it," Ressler said. "I can do this."

Reddington laughed, the strange look immediately erased. "Oh, Donald, you're going to love Laurence's club. Last time I was there, we had a great deal of fun, until she tried to strangle me with her stocking…" Reddington went on to describe the night in greater detail—including the exact location of a 'lovely little freckle' he'd been enamored with, which Liz found to be a completely unnecessary inclusion—finally advising Ressler that if the operation went south, he should just bend over any available piece of furniture and let her slap him on the ass. "She loves that," he added, smiling.

Liz trained her eyes on the floor and stayed silent.

As the unofficial briefing broke up, Liz's cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and inwardly cringed. The last thing she needed right now was to have to talk to the husband that she didn't trust, the hollow feeling still sitting painfully in her gut after Reddington's story of his last encounter with Dechambou.

"Tom, this isn't a good—"

"You need to come home." Tom's voice was tight and insistent. "Okay? I don't care what's going on at work. You and I need to talk."

"Something incredibly important's come up—"

"I don't care! You and I need to talk about something, and it's more important."

"I promise," Liz stressed, "we'll talk as long as you like, but later." She hung up, and stared down at her phone for a moment. The more she thought about Tom, the more her gut twisted. She just wished she could tell the difference between mistrusting her husband, and guilt over how often her mind strayed to Reddington, despite having no right to do so, and with no encouragement on his part. She was a married woman.

The question remained, though… who was she married to?

…:::…

Reddington, surprisingly, didn't say the actual words 'I told you so' when the team returned to the Post Office with a non-communicative Dechambou, an escaped Courier, and a continued lack of information regarding Seth's whereabouts. The sentiment, however, was clearly written all over his face.

"Let me talk to her," he suggested seriously when they brought Dechambou back into an interrogation room. "She may not know where Seth is now, but she knows where she dropped him off last night. Release her. Let her go."

"Not going to happen," Cooper replied quickly.

"You don't have time for this, Harold. Pick her up in a week, in a month. Right now, let her go. I'll make her talk."

"How?" Liz asked.

Reddington swung his gaze to her, and the curious look passed over his face again. "I get the feeling you don't want me to answer that," he said, his voice deep and quiet. Liz couldn't decide if he was referring to her discomfort with the use of force against the woman because of her association with law enforcement, or whether he was starting to realize—

"Okay, release her," Cooper said. "But if you screw me on this…"

"I'll consider it a bonus," Reddington said, a grin popping easily back onto his face.

…:::…

Reddington arrived back at the Post Office with enough information to dispatch Meera and Ressler in pursuit of the Courier, and after looking earnestly at topographical maps of the area, hunched closely over a desk with Liz, they had a decent idea where to find Seth.

A small amount of Liz's recent disappointment in Reddington lifted. He was working quickly, the jokes had stopped, and he wasn't smiling anymore. While the boy only had forty minutes of air left, Liz felt like she could suddenly breathe more easily as she stood, shoulder-to-shoulder with Red as he stabbed a finger at the most probable location on the map spread in front of them. He was still a good man. Or at least a part of him… was still the good man she knew him to be.

"With Dembe driving, we might just make it," he muttered, sweeping the map under one arm, and guiding Liz to precede him out the door with a gentle push to the small of her back.

She'd think about that later.

…:::…

He'd gotten down in the dirt next to her, in his four thousand dollar suit. Reddington, Dembe, and Liz, all kneeling, scratching at the dirt frantically. Reddington had been the one to wrench open the refrigerator door when they found the handle, and he leaned over to yank the boy upright so Dembe could get his arms behind him to lift.

He was still a good man, no matter how many jokes he made about how the boy might be able to express his gratitude for them saving his life.

…:::…

His jokes, of course, gave Liz the idea. She stopped by the boy's room at the hospital, explained the need for secrecy, and made a single request. He'd pulled out his laptop immediately, and within minutes she had the entire unredacted file from the 2012 shooting at the Angel Station Hotel in Boston.

The man leaving the scene of the crime looked like Tom.

Was Tom.

The thought of going home left Liz feeling nauseated, and she found herself pointing her car in the direction of a funny little home in Baltimore instead, full of manuscripts and—hopefully—an international criminal and FBI informant.

When she got there, she walked slowly into the room, hugging the far wall. Reddington was seated on the couch, another glass of the cloudy liquid in one hand, light streaming in over his face.

She so very much didn't want to go home to her husband.

"You look upset," Reddington noted, glancing up at her. He licked his lips and raised an eyebrow. "You've looked upset through this entire case, in fact."

"Circumstances are… far more complex than I originally thought," Liz allowed. "Work… Tom…" She shook her head, willing herself not to cry. "I found…" She trailed off, and started again, a tear slipping down one cheek. "I don't know who else to talk to."

Reddington looked down at his glass, and back up at Liz, stretching his hand toward her, offering the drink. Leaving the comfortable distance she'd maintained against the far wall, she walked toward the man on the couch, and reached out to take the mason jar from him. His eyes locked on her face, and he kept his grip tight around the glass for a moment longer, their fingers brushing against each other. Liz swallowed, her gaze on their hands. Finally he let go, and leaned back into the couch. Liz took a seat next to him, a large pile of papers and books between them.

"There's a photograph… I think Tom was the shooter at the hotel in Boston," Liz said quietly.

Reddington looked up sharply at Liz. "What hotel?"

"The Angel Station…" A look of recognition passed over his face, and Liz was quick to catch it. "Red… what else do you know about my husband?" she implored.

Reddington shook his head and turned away, looking out the window. "Funny… all these manuscripts, and my favorite thing about this place is still the view from the sofa." He lifted on hand to gesture, not looking back at her. "I love how the light breaks through the trees."

"You won't answer my questions about him, will you?" she asked, grateful he wasn't looking at her. She hated that she couldn't keep the silent tears from falling, now that they'd started.

"When are you going to tell me how you know so much about me, Agent Keen?" he countered, not unkindly.

Taking a sip from the terrible liquid in the glass she'd be given, she murmured, "Liz," and settled back into the sofa, resigning herself to silence.

For now.

…:::…

TBC.