*MY* Reddington?

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

Author's Note: These two were tougher to combine. And if some good lines or fan-favorite scenes seem to be missing, don't fret. I may just be saving them for later. ;)

…:::…

Chapter 12: The Good Samaritan and The Alchemist

…:::…

Liz came up with a half-hearted explanation for the surveillance van that—for the foreseeable future—was parked outside their residence. Tom made a show of being bothered by it, bringing it up several times the first night, suggesting that Liz's job was getting to be too much, complaining that this was no way to raise a child, and reminding her again that they hadn't even talked about starting the adoption process back up again since he'd been attacked in their own home—something else he pointed the blame squarely at Liz for.

Liz tried her hardest to play her part, all the while assuming Tom's main problem with the surveillance van was that it made it more difficult for him to do… whatever it was that he did.

…Besides being a fourth grade teacher.

…Like whatever he'd been doing with Gina Zanetakos, for example.

Liz shook her head and tried to follow what Tom was saying. "…in Lincoln. Before you throw that coffee cup at me, just hear me out. Okay? There are great schools. There's low crime. There's an FBI field office. I just want to be a normal, boring couple…"

Liz looked at him like he'd lost his mind. Which was probably true: she had half a mind to just break character and remind him that if his end-game was information about Reddington, moving to Lincoln, Nebraska was not going to further his mission. He was desperate, and grasping at straws. He'd been nervous and slipping since her father's funeral, and she wished she knew why, considering how careful he'd been up until that point.

"Nebraska," Liz said in a monotone. "Lincoln… Nebraska."

"Yes. Just think about it; promise me? They've asked me to fly out for an interview this week. I already have a flight booked."

"You understand the only family I had in that state died less than a month ago?" Liz asked, not bothering to hide her contempt for the idea of relocating.

"Liz, I know, but you grew up there, I thought—"

Liz's phone buzzed. "We need to talk more about this," she said, pointing at Tom as she answered the phone and walked into the next room in an attempt at privacy.

…:::…

All of the members of the task force were submitted to rigorous interrogation, polygraphs, and interviews over the next several days. Liz, Aram, Meera, Ressler, and even Cooper had to give their statements over and over and over again, repeating the details to multiple people. They were grilled on specifics, including where the hell Luli's body disappeared to: sometime between Liz and Red being led away in restraints and the final smudge of blood being wiped from the floor, they lost a corpse. This was something ODNI kept coming back to, as if Reddington's ability to steal back the body of his employee was somehow worse than an incursion by a violent group of mercenaries and the death of twelve agents and FBI staff. Thirteen if you counted Luli.

Liz did her best to answer appropriately.

She missed Reddington.

If she just had some indication that he would resurface again at some point, it wouldn't make things seem nearly so bleak at work, because while they were tasked with hunting him down and bringing him back in, Liz knew that unless Reddington wanted to be found, he wouldn't be.

…:::…

Reddington, for his part, had decided to clean house.

He found members of the surveillance team.

He found the EMT who had removed the tracking chip from his neck.

He found the man who had presided over his torture and interrogation in the warehouse.

Each swore they'd never worked with the others ever before, were paid cash in small bills for their services, and didn't have any way to contact the people who hired them. No phone numbers, no locations, no names.

He killed every one of them.

…:::…

Liz's phone rang twice in quick succession as she juggled the groceries on her way from the car to her kitchen. After managing to place all of the bags on the counter without dropping anything, the phone in her pocket began to ring again, and she pulled it out hastily, assuming she was about to get a stern talking-to from Cooper or Ressler about answering her phone promptly—

"Agent Keen."

"Red—" Liz immediately forgot about her groceries. "Where are you? It's been days—weeks—"

"I have something for you."

Liz paused, trying to gauge his tone, but she couldn't ascertain anything from him over the phone. "Last time we talked it was 'Liz'. We're back to 'Agent Keen' again?" she asked, her voice tight with disappointment.

"The next name on the Blacklist," Reddington continued, ignoring the question. "There's someone I think you should find."

As Reddington explained who The Alchemist was, and what he was able to do to his victims on behalf of his clients, Liz struggled to pay attention.

She was just relieved to hear his voice. She had no idea what had been done to him by Anslo Garrick, but based on the location of the warehouse, the blood found at the scene, and the restraints hanging from the ceiling, she guessed she didn't want to know.

"So… does this mean you're back? Are you still working with us?" Liz asked when he'd finished.

"No," Reddington replied. "I'm not 'back'. But I am still working with you—just you. There's a leak in your organization, and I'm doing my best to track down the problems on my side of the line, too."

"'Track down'?" Liz repeated. "For what purpose?"

There was a pause before Reddington replied, "I think in this particular case I'm going to allow you continued plausible deniability. So I'm not going to answer that."

"How can you be sure I'm not part of the problem?" Liz asked. "You're still willing to work with me." Liz paused, wondering whether she should ask. "Why?" she finally managed.

There was a long pause. "I've had my people thoroughly checking your background, your associates, your movements, and your financials since you volunteered to be my liaison at the FBI," Reddington explained carefully. "And while there have been several interesting things that have come up during the course of their…research…" Another pause. "…including what amounts to veritable nonexistence prior to the age of ten…" Liz swallowed and closed her eyes, but Reddington continued, his voice steady. "…there has been no indication at any time that you might be working for anyone other than the FBI. You most certainly have your own agenda… but I don't believe you mean me any harm. Am I right in that assumption?"

"Yes," Liz replied quietly. "Yes, you are." She cleared her throat, and continued, "The EMT who removed the chip from your neck was found dead in an alley behind the hospital where she worked. That was you, wasn't it." Her tone didn't indicate it was a question.

Liz took Reddington's refusal to answer the question directly as a 'yes'. "Those directly involved were easy to find. The second tier of people involved in the incursion and my… detainment… are proving slightly harder to identify." There was a short silence. "But it's just a matter of a little leg work," Reddington finally added.

"Is there anything I can… help you with?" Liz asked before she had a chance to fully think about the consequences of the offer. She was an FBI agent, proposing a criminal allow her to help him track down other criminals for the purpose of retribution and revenge. Liz frowned and knit her eyebrows together, wondering how to back-pedal.

Reddington was obviously surprised by her offer as well, as it took a long time for him to speak again.

"I've got to go."

"Reddington, wait, please—" Liz broke off when she heard the line go dead, and sighed in frustration as she tossed her phone on to the counter in front of her.

…:::…

"I've got something," Liz said, striding in to the Post Office.

"You've spoken with Reddington," Ressler assumed. "When? Did you report it?"

"Not yet. But he gave me the next name on the Blacklist."

"We're all under suspicion here, Keen. He called, and you didn't report it?" Ressler's limp seemed more pronounced when he was angry. He was still using a cane after the surgery to repair the shattered bone in his lower leg, and as he jerked to his feet and hobbled toward her, Liz couldn't help but notice how ineffectually he was using his cane. He must be really upset.

She could only imagine how much trouble he'd have if he knew what she'd done in Brussels in 2008. He'd probably drop the cane and tip right over on to the floor.

"I will report it; I'm on my way to Cooper's office now—but Aram: while I'm upstairs, there's something I want you to start working on—I need all the information you have on Pytor Madrczyk. He's a Serbian mob informant—"

"Was," Aram interrupted.

Liz faltered. "What?"

"Was," Aram repeated. "Past tense." He spun his computer monitor toward Liz, showing the top news story: a plane crash, with no survivors. "Pytor Madrczyk is dead."

…:::…

Liz called Reddington's new cell phone number as soon as she got into her office and shut the door. When he picked up, she got straight to the point.

"You said the Alchemist had been hired to protect Pytor Madrczyk. But he's dead. His plane crashed earlier this morning. No survivors."

"Pytor Madrczyk is alive," Reddington responded almost immediately. "Your medical examiner will tell you the body recovered from the wreckage is his, but it's not. DNA, dental prints… the Alchemist can change all of that. He's an artist who paints in blood and saliva samples. Human tissue is his canvas. I'm not ashamed to say he's even better than me at helping people disappear, which is why Madryczyk hired him and not me."

"Wait, Madryczyk tried to hire you?" Liz said, suddenly understanding how Reddington had the information he did, and why he'd suddenly been able to point the FBI at the Alchemist with a small amount of certainty about his current job. "Do you know where he was planning to end up?"

"If I tell you, promise me you'll try the fertilized duck eggs. It's a daring and unique dining experience. You'll think you've died and gone to hell."

"That's supposed to make me want to eat them?" Liz asked, a smile playing across her lips; Red was joking with her. She'd worried that the Garrick debacle and their recent time apart had irreparably damaged whatever relationship she'd managed to establish with him, but here he was, trying to bring some levity to the proceedings. It gave her a small amount of hope.

"Fine, you don't have to eat the duck eggs. You can tell me why you saved my life in Brussels instead."

Liz bit her lip and looked at the floor. "Do they put any kind of… sauce… on the duck eggs…?"

Reddington gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Budapest." He stepped from the car he'd been waiting in and shut the door with a heavy thump. "Now I've got some business to attend to right now, so I'm going to have to discuss the culinary choices available in Hungary at some other time. Good luck." He hung up, and dropped his phone into the pocket of his black, hooded jacket. Bathed in cold winter sunlight, he walked across the street to the club he'd parked in front of.

Reddington had tracked the payments made to the players in his abduction back to a man named Fyodor, and after entering his club and shooting everything that moved—including Fyodor, once, in the leg—he grabbed the pleading man from the floor and tied him to a chair before sitting down next to him, and placing his gun on the table in front of them. After being doused in alcohol and having lit matches waved in his face, Fyodor finally gave up the name of the banker used for Garrick's mission. Reddington considered lighting a cigar and torturing the man for a few more minutes, but time was of the essence. One last bullet and the club was silent as Reddington made his way back out into the harsh light of day, and returned to his car.

…:::…

Two pieces of information came in almost simultaneously the next day.

The first was the exact location of Pytor Madrczyk. Ressler, Meera, and a field team had flown to Budapest, and based on solid intel, they now knew where their target would be that night, provided Reddington was correct and Madrczyk was not, in fact, a ghost.

The second piece of information came just minutes after Cooper's phone call with Meera and Ressler, during which Aram explained how he'd managed to track down the best possible exact location to apprehend Madrczyk. Separately, he'd also been searching a particularly large database of banking information in the background on his computer—another angle in the internal mole hunt investigation—and when Cooper excused himself back to his office, Liz and Aram were left alone at his workstation. Aram minimized a window in order to check the progress of his search, and there, unmistakably, was a picture of himself.

His face blanched, and Liz, standing over his shoulder, frowned. "Aram? What is this?" she asked in a low voice.

"I... I-I don't know," Aram stammered, scrolling back to check he'd set the parameters correctly. "This… this says I'm the mole. This says I…" He turned to look at Liz, a horrified expression on his face. "This says I got paid by the people involved in the incursion. This says my name is Louis Coogan. This says I'm the mole," he hissed, panicked.

Liz leaned forward and without asking permission, deleted the search, closed all of the windows on Aram's desktop, and shut down the computer. She could tell the poor man was obviously shaken to the core, because he usually got fussy if someone so much as touched his computer screen with their fingertip, and here she was, being allowed to lean over his lap and use his own keyboard and mouse to close programs and shut down his machine without uttering so much as a peep.

"Come with me; don't say anything," Liz murmured under her breath. She steered Aram toward the exit, and before shoving him into the elevator, she instructed him quietly to get in his car, drive straight home, and stay there.

"But—Agent Keen—I don't understand what you're planning to—"

…:::…

"Agent Keen, what can I do for you?" Reddington answered the phone on the second ring. "Have you managed to track down and apprehend the ghost of Pytor Madrczyk?"

Liz clicked the door to the stairwell shut. "Actually, this is about something entirely unrelated. This is about the mole in the FBI. I think I found it—or at least, who they want us to think is the mole," Liz corrected herself quickly.

"You have my attention."

"Aram tracked the money, and found a $250,000 payment through Gestalten Landesbank to a covert account belonging to Louis Coogan."

"Who is Louis Coogan?"

"It's an alias. For Aram." Liz hurried on. "But it wasn't him. I can't prove it, but the look on his face when he realized what was going on… He was horrified. And confused. This is not a devious criminal mastermind we're dealing with here: Aram is one of the most honest and honorable people I know."

"Who else knows?"

"No-one. We were alone at his station when the results came in. I deleted the search and shut his computer down, and told him to go straight home. He's on his way now. Reddington, if my team finds this information, they won't look into it any further, but I know they'll have the wrong person. It wasn't Aram," she said firmly. "And I bet you can help me prove it."

Reddington nodded, even though Liz couldn't see him. "Thank you," he said. "I'll take it from here."

"Red, listen, he's not involved, I know he's not—I didn't tell you this so you could—Red, don't hurt him, I know he wasn't part of this—" Liz looked down at her phone to see the call was ended. She redialed, but Reddington didn't pick up.

All she could do at this point was trust Reddington, and hope she'd done the right thing.

…:::…

Reddington had intended to visit Henry Krueger—the man responsible for bank rolling Anslo Garrick and his team—that night, but now that Aram had been implicated, he delayed his visit to Henry in favor of having poor Aram snatched off the street outside his apartment by a few loyal thugs, who threw the frantic man in the back of an unmarked van and pulled a black bag over his head.

The bag was removed as Aram was shoved down in a chair across a table from Reddington.

"Hello, Aram."

"Wait…what is this?" he said warily as he recognized Reddington and looked around at the basement he found himself in. "Where am I?"

"You're going to do something for me," Reddington explained calmly. He passed a piece of paper to Aram, and slid his laptop over to the younger man. "Account numbers, routing information. You're going to steal five million dollars from that account and place it into one of mine. I expect the transaction to be untraceable." Reddington's voice was matter-of-fact and unemotional.

Aram's was not. "What? I can't—!"

"Aram," Reddington interrupted him, and brought his attention to a gun he placed on the table. "This is a Colt .45 1911. I can strip and reassemble this weapon in well under two minutes."

Aram saw where he was going with this, and swallowed harshly. "Mr. Reddington, please."

"Once I have it reassembled," he continued, "I'm going to reload the mag, and if at that time your task remains incomplete, I'm going to empty that mag into your head."

"That's really messed up," Aram stated, quietly horrified.

"Oh, don't look so stricken," Reddington said comfortingly. "The first shot will kill you."

The younger man stayed frozen, staring at Reddington until he began to move, picking up the gun in front of him and beginning to disassemble it with practiced, deliberate movements. Aram frantically grabbed the computer and began to type.

Reddington was relatively sure Aram had had nothing to do with the incursion or his capture. He was somewhat proud of his ability to read people, and this agent appeared to be one of the few decent human beings left on this planet.

And Agent Keen had vouched for him. Reddington was slightly surprised to find that he valued that piece of information quite heavily, and slowed his movements just a touch as he began to reassemble the weapon. This served two purposes: it gave Aram extra time to complete his task, since Reddington didn't particularly want to have to explain to Agent Keen why he'd had to kill her friend and colleague, and it also ensured he'd get his five million dollars. He couldn't physically go after Alan Fitch, but he knew the man had secret bank accounts in the Caymans, and there should be some negative—and immediate—consequence in exchange for the torture. Five million didn't make them even, but Reddington felt it was a good first step.

As the magazine was reloaded and Reddington clicked a bullet into the chamber, Aram spun the computer toward him. "Wait. Wait wait wait wait—I did it. It's done. Look. It's untraceable, like you asked."

Reddington eyed the screen suspiciously. "How? Explain."

"I used a ripple exchange to have the Fiat currency converted to e-cash and then into coin. I ran the whole transaction through a randomized cryptographic extension at the protocol level, then trough a two-tiered secure laundry service I know I can trust. No one's gonna catch you. I promise."

Reddington nodded. "Congratulations, you're innocent."

"I am?" Aram asked, confused, before dropping his voice and repeating himself with a more confident inflection. "I mean…I am." Confusion clouded his face again. "Wait…of what?"

Reddington chuckled. "The team that broke into the black site was paid through Gestalten Landesbank. My contact there traced a $250,000 payment to a covert account belonging to Louis Coogan, which is an alias." Reddington nodded at Aram. "For you. Someone is attempting to implicate you as a mole by creating a money trail that leads directly to you. But you're obviously too clever to have accepted payment that was so easily traceable."

"So…you're not going to kill me?" Aram clarified.

"No. I'm going to visit a banker, and he's going to tell me who was actually behind this whole debacle. And I'm going to kill them." Reddington stood up, but the muscle standing behind Aram put a heavy hand on his shoulder when he attempted to rise, too. "Unfortunately, since we can't have you waltzing back into the FBI without proof of your innocence, you're going to have to stay here awhile." Aram looked around the dank room with no small measure of despair. "Cheer up," Reddington advised. "You're still alive."

…:::…

Less than twenty-four hours later, Aram walked back into the Post Office, clutching an armful of files and folders, all detailing the payments made by the banker Henry Krueger in the process of planning the incursion. They also proved that the quarter of a million dollars in Louis Coogan's account had nothing to do with him.

Liz breathed a sigh of relief, and made a mental note that she once again owed Reddington a favor. She smiled across the office at Aram, who returned her smile and inclined his head toward her subtly, but gratefully.

…:::…

Later that night, as Liz was opening a bottle of wine, she heard a key in the lock of the front door, and her heart sank. Tom was supposed to be on a plane right now. She'd been looking forward to a night alone, without having to lie or put on a performance for her husband, but Tom had obviously decided against his hare-brained idea of interviewing for a job in Nebraska, coming home to try to smooth things over with her instead. Liz swallowed, tried to arrange her face into something approximating an appropriate expression, poured a second glass of wine, and called out, "Thank you for coming back. I don't want to fight; let's just talk—"

Liz stopped short at the sight of Raymond Reddington standing in her living room. "Oh thank God," she breathed, closing her eyes briefly.

Reddington cocked an eyebrow. "Number four on the FBI's Most Wanted list just broke into your home late at night. And you're…relieved…?"

"I thought you were Tom," Liz explained, and after another beat, her face slowly broke into a smile. "But at this point I'd much rather share this bottle of wine with you than with him," she said, extending her hand to offer him the second glass. "Truth be told, I'd much rather have a root canal than spend one more night in this house faking my marriage."

"Have you made any progress on that front? Found anything else incriminating in regards to your husband?" Reddington accepted the glass of wine and took a sip before setting it on the coffee table and shrugging out of his suit jacket.

Liz watched his movements for a few seconds too long, elated by the show of trust: he was comfortable enough in her house to shed one of his usual layers. She realized he'd asked her a question she hadn't yet answered when he looked up at her, expectant.

"No. We've been working non-stop on the Alchemist, and in any down time we searched for you."

Reddington nodded and sat on her couch. She took a seat across from him. "And the Alchemist?"

"Ressler and Meera picked Madrczyk up at a club in Budapest and immediately flew him back to DC. Eric Trettel—your Alchemist—was apprehended trying to impersonate Madrczyk's lawyer. We think he was trying to get close enough to kill him in case he talked." Liz took a sip of wine and studied the man in front of her. "Thank you. For the information. For coming back. For helping Aram."

"I'm not in the business of punishing the innocent, Agent Keen. He hadn't done anything wrong." Reddington worked his jaw, trying to decide how much more to say. "And I appreciate you passing the information regarding his supposed guilt on to me before reporting it to your superiors. Though I'm not entirely sure why you did."

"I knew he wasn't involved, and I knew you…and whatever methods you might employ…would likely clear his name faster than the FBI and its red tape and propensity for jumping to conclusions about people's guilt. Something I'm sure you're familiar with."

Reddington looked up from the wine glass he'd been inspecting, but said nothing in response, choosing instead to ask, "Do you know the name Lucy Brooks?"

Liz took a moment to adjust to the change in subject. "No, I don't think I've ever heard the name. Do you have a picture?"

"Not on me," Reddington replied. "But I'll get one for you."

"Who is she?" Liz asked.

"Someone has been making…inquiries about me. Her name came up in the course of my investigation. As did Gina Zanetakos' name. The same investigation that put your husband on my radar."

"You found evidence that Tom is looking into you? What evidence?" Liz put her wine down and leaned forward in her seat, eager.

Reddington shook his head. "For the moment, I'd advise you not to mention the name Lucy Brooks, and don't attempt to look her up in any official database. They'll have her flagged by now. You'll undoubtedly come under additional suspicion, and I need you fully functional and in good standing with the FBI for the foreseeable future. This also means I need you to continue to play your role at home, with Tom."

"But—"

"No. I don't have anything concrete yet, and you're perfectly placed to monitor him and provide intel."

"So I'm just an asset," Liz said, disappointed, her voice cold. "While the FBI believes you're our informant…I'm actually yours."

"I'm sorry, but that's the way this has to be for the time being. After what happened with Anslo, I have to draw a line here, for my own protection."

Liz leaned farther forward, her elbows on her knees. She stared intently at Reddington before murmuring, "You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand? With a breath of air, they disappear."

The silence stretched between them as they held each other's gaze. Reddington finally blinked, and asked, "Were you able to bargain for a list of the Alchemist's clients?"

"Yes," Liz replied, before doing the math. "Is that what you want? To see the list? Who is it that you're looking for? Do you expect to find Lucy Brooks on that list?"

Reddington stood up, shrugging on his jacket. "I'd love to talk more, Agent Keen, but I still have some unfinished business tonight."

He made his way to the front door, and Liz remained seated, refusing to do him the courtesy of showing him out. As his hand grasped the door handle, Liz's voice stopped him.

"What would have happened if I'd said I was your daughter?"

Reddington turned back to look at her, his expression unreadable. He stared at her a long moment before pulling the door open. "But you're not." After another beat, he dipped his head, turned up his collar against the cold wind, and disappeared into the night.

…:::…

TBC.