*MY* Reddington?

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

Author's Notes: Thank you, almcvay1, for being an awesome sounding board and patiently allowing me to work through the issues I had with this chapter, and I'm so grateful for the direction and suggestions you gave me! :)

…:::…

Chapter 16: Ivan

…:::…

Liz was surprised when she'd called Reddington to get his current location and was told he was back in the borrowed house of his friend the hedge fund manager; just weeks after the debacle with Madeline Pratt. "What are you doing back in this house? Don't you usually mix it up a bit more than this?" Liz said as she entered the sitting room carrying a large package wrapped in butcher paper and string.

"I had another place lined up—beautiful, modern lines in the sunroom, you would have loved it—but the owner unfortunately decided to get caught with a large amount of cocaine in his luggage trying to cross from Russia into Japan, along with some questionable documentation that suggests he's been involved in various international criminal enterprises, and Interpol is swarming all of his residences now, looking for more. Such a pity. The wine cellar is to die for."

"Well, it's somewhat appropriate that you're here again because I have a present for you that belongs in this house," Liz said, handing the package to Reddington. He carefully opened the paper and was greeted by the hideous face of Vermeer's girl playing the piano.

"Ugh. I didn't even realize she was missing," he sighed, his face twisted as if he was tasting something bitter. "You know how the cleanliness of a kitchen never occurs to you when the room is actually clean, but you always notice a dirty kitchen?" he said, perturbed. "Put her over there," he grumbled, motioning at the far end of the room. "And how do you have her, anyway?"

"Madeline Pratt took her after your last…encounter. Apparently she thought you'd notice, get mad, and come after her to get it back." Liz paused t enjoy the expression on Reddington's face. "She said she left you a note. Something about Florence…?" Liz added innocently.

"You've spoken to Madeline?" Reddington asked carefully.

"Mmm," Liz affirmed. "She sounded pretty upset. Had lots to say about you."

Reddington's eyes narrowed, but Liz thought she could see a hint of surprise and respect in them. "And you were just… able to track down Madeline Pratt and get her on the phone?"

"Well, I had to go through Yasmine, and Madeline wasn't pleased when she found out how we'd lied to her about who I was—" Liz admitted.

"Yasmine Goddard? How do you know—oh, for the love of—nevermind." Reddington closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. "And just what did you and Madeline discuss, other than her sticky fingers, your actual day job, and the location of that painting?"

"You, mostly," Liz said honestly.

Reddington opened his mouth to continue the interrogation, but was interrupted by Dembe, who walked swiftly into the room, carrying a cell phone. "For you," he said, handing it to Reddington. "It's her."

Reddington took the phone and held it to his ear, glaring slightly at Liz, who tried to keep her expression from appearing too smug. "Sweetheart… not really the most convenient time for me."

Liz's smug expression tightened. Who was 'sweetheart'?

"You're like a human bloodhound," Reddington said, admiration in his voice. There was a pause, and he continued, "How long?" Reddington listened to the response and gave a sharp laugh. "As much as I'd love to see that, it won't be necessary. Perhaps another time, though. And I don't want any indication that you were there, so please put it all back the way you found it."

"'Sweetheart'?" Liz asked, cocking an eyebrow at him as he hung up. "Who's 'sweetheart'?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but that was Mr. Kaplan. She found the body of Lucy Brooks and the man I hired to find her and bring her in. They were buried at a remote location; the whole thing looks fairly professional."

"Tom," Liz said unemotionally.

"I think it's safe to assume," Reddington agreed, dialing a new number on his phone.

"How do you want to handle this?" Liz asked.

Reddington held a finger up, indicating a desire for Liz's silence as the call went through. "Yes, hello, I'd like to report a missing person."

…:::…

Liz had had quite enough of her husband.

As she was leaving Reddington's safe house, she called Aram and requested two things. The first was a list of recent calls to and from a particular cell phone. She didn't mention that the phone had been found on a dead woman named Lucy Brooks—she wanted Aram to have as much plausible deniability as possible. The second thing she asked for was a tracking device to be installed in a toy.

"What kind of toy?" Aram asked. "Like… do you have one already in mind? Or…just…any toy? Is this—" Aram paused and dropped his voice to a loud stage whisper. "—Are we talking 'kid toy'? Or… y'know… the 'adult' variety—?"

"Something appropriate for a fourth grader, Aram," Liz admonished.

"Oh, oh, right, of course, I just… I never want to assume, y'know, thinking too linearly can be a bad habit to get in to, and—"

"Thanks, Aram," Liz said, cutting him off. "Estimated time this will all be done?"

"End of day, if not before," Aram replied confidently.

"I owe you one."

"You owe me several at this point, but I'm not actually counting."

…:::…

The next morning, as Tom was making coffee, Liz sat down at the table behind him and cleared her throat. "This…" she said, sliding a blue plastic hippo across the table toward him, "…is Uncle—"

"—Flippo. Yeah," Tom finished, a look of confusion on his face. "My kids are all nuts about that thing. Personally, I don't get it, but… why do you have an Uncle Flippo?"

"It's an olive branch," Liz answered. "A ridiculous, popular, plastic, physical embodiment of an apology. Tom… I'm so sorry. I've been… insane, lately. I know my work has been crazy, and I've been terrible to you. I saw this at the store last night, and I know it sounds silly, but… it made me remember all the things I love about you." Liz gave what she hoped was an honest and entreating look. "You're silly, and funny, and a hard worker, and… your kids at school love you, because you're smart, and a great teacher, and I'm so lucky to have a stable guy in my life I can count on. And I know…" Liz looked down, trying to keep her voice appropriate as she lied through her teeth. "I know you're going to make an awesome dad one day. I thought maybe… this weekend? We could talk about the adoption process again."

Tom paused a second too long, and Liz noted it, but didn't react. "Really?" he said, his face breaking in to a surprised, hopeful smile. "You… I thought you were done with the idea, after last time; you haven't wanted to talk about it in over six months, you took us off the list—?"

"Well…" Liz gave a small smile. "Maybe I'd be okay with putting ourselves back on that list sometime soon. Or at least talking about it. This weekend? Can we talk?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Liz, I love you," Tom said, crossing the kitchen and sitting across the table from Liz. He reached out his hands, and grabbed hers. "I know things between us have gotten really strained lately, but… I want to fix this. Of course we can talk—about all of this."

Liz smiled broadly. "Ok. Then take Uncle flash-light-butt, and get going, because I know you have a dentist appointment this morning, and you're going to be late if you don't leave now."

Tom smiled back at her, and she was amazed at the ease with which he did. She'd checked with the dentist: he hadn't been in since his last cleaning a year ago, and had no upcoming appointments scheduled. "Flash-light-butt is going to get me some serious cred at school," he agreed with deadpan sincerity before winking at her. He grabbed the toy, stuffed it in his bag, kissed Liz quickly, and headed toward the front door.

Liz got up to pour herself a cup of coffee when she heard a crash and an aborted curse from their foyer.

"Babe?" she said. "What was that? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just—I tripped over these boxes—they're blocking the door. What is all this, Liz?" Tom asked. Liz rounded the corner and found him rubbing one knee, his face contorted in a wince.

"Some of my dad's things—my aunt boxed up the really sentimental stuff and sent it to me as a gift. She figured I'd want to—" Liz broke off as she looked down and saw a large, old wooden box upended on the ground, the lid hanging off wildly on one hinge, and at least one crack in the glass, as far as she could see. "Oh, no…" Liz sank to her knees and righted the box.

"What is that?" Tom asked.

"It's a music box…" Liz said quietly. "It was… nevermind. You should go; you're going to be late for your appointment…"

"Okay, and hey—just put that to the side—I'll take a look at it tonight," Tom said, opening the door to leave. "I'm sure it's not broken too badly, and I'll see if I can put Humpty Dumpty back together again."

…:::…

Reddington arrived on Liz's front stoop later than he'd originally estimated.

"You're late," she said glumly from the floor of her living room. She didn't bother looking up from the music box, which she'd moved to the coffee table in order to better inspect the extent of the damage.

"Something came up. Did you get the phone records for Lucy Brooks' cell phone?" Reddington asked, walking into the room. "Is everything all right?" he added, noticing her demeanor.

"Yeah, fine."

Liz wasn't bothering to lie well, and Reddington motioned to the mangled music box. Liz had managed to completely remove the lid in order to look at the mechanism inside more closely. "What is all this?" he asked.

"It was a music box. It was my father's—Sam's. My aunt sent it to me, and Tom knocked into it on his way out the door this morning." Liz sighed. "I didn't even play it yesterday. I was busy, and I wanted to wait until tomorrow, because I figured…" Liz shook her head and pushed herself up off the floor to sit on the couch. "I should have taken a moment to listen to it. I'd give anything now just to hear it one more time…"

Reddington pursed his lips and peered down at the box. "You know, I'm decently handy with this type of thing. This damage may be beyond what I'm capable of repairing, but I've done a little restoration on mechanisms similar to this…"

Liz looked up hopefully. "Would you… would you take a look at it? Just see what you could do?" she asked.

Reddington bobbed his head, and by his expression, Liz could tell this consultation would come with strings attached.

"But I never do something for nothing, Agent Keen. What do I get out of this?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Are you kidding me?" she shot back, ready with a rebuttal. "Yesterday I returned a forty-million dollar painting to you!"

"It's not my painting, and besides, I don't want that girl anywhere near me, so really: you did me a disservice by bringing her back."

The pair of them stared each other down for a long minute, and just as Reddington was about to give in and agree to do what he could to repair the music box, Liz said, "I snuck out of the hotel room we'd set ourselves up in… in Brussels. I'd heard Ressler say over the com that things hadn't gone to plan, and he'd been given authorization to stop you—by any means necessary. I knew that meant he'd kill you. And I couldn't let that happen." Reddington stayed silent, hoping she'd continue, which she did, squaring her shoulders and sitting up a bit taller. "The only thing I had in the pocket of my jacket to write on was a lottery ticket I'd bought the day before I'd left for Europe with the team, so I scribbled the note on that, and grabbed the first kid who passed me on a bike. Gave him the note and a handful of cash and promised him the same amount in three hours if he delivered the note to you." Reddington's eyes narrowed. "I knew the specifics of your meet that day. Which bench you'd be on outside Waterloo Station. What you looked like. What you'd probably be wearing."

"You could have lost your job. You could have gone to jail for obstruction of justice, aiding a—"

"I know," Liz interrupted, looking up at Reddington with her jaw set.

"Why?" Reddington asked.

"I told you; I owed you a debt. Saving your life was a good first step towards repayment. I spent a good many years hating you at first, until persistence, research, and perspective made me realize what kind of man you really are, even if the government is unwilling to admit it."

Reddington tilted his head at Liz and studied her. "And what kind of man am I?" he said, his voice low and quiet.

Liz gave him a ghost of a smile. "The kind of man whose life warranted saving in Brussels," she answered, the finality in her tone indicating she was done offering information. "So… will you look at the music box?"

Reddington inclined his head. "I'll do what I can."

…:::…

Reddington had taken the remains of the broken box with him when he left, after they'd discussed the current case they were working on over a quick cup of coffee. Liz was just locking the front door when her phone buzzed. She paused on her front steps to fish it out of her pocket.

"Aram, hi. What have you got for me?"

"I know I said I'd have those phone records you asked me for by end of day yesterday—"

"Dammit—" Liz swore, stopping halfway down the steps, her eyes closed.

"What?" Aram asked, immediately concerned.

"Nothing, no…" She'd completely forgotten to tell Reddington about the tracker she'd had placed in the toy Tom had walked away with this morning, and in her preoccupation with the shattered music box, she hadn't even checked the GPS yet. "I just forgot to do something. Go on."

"Okay, so Agent Ressler's—" Aram's voice dropped, and Liz almost had to ask him to speak up so she could hear him. "You didn't hear this from me, but Agent Ressler's girlfriend left him a few days ago, and—"

"Well, that explains the worse-than-usual mood he's been in," Liz said sourly. "I didn't even know he was dating anyone?"

"Anyway, he had me running double and triple checks on that car we recovered—turns out the airbag was deployed remotely, prior to the car crashing, which means—"

"Aram, I'm sure I'll get this briefing when I get in today. Was there a specific reason for this call?" Liz interrupted, walking toward her car.

"Yes, sorry, right. The phone records for the number you gave me—I finally got them back this morning. Mostly other cell phones, one in particular, but unregistered, a pre-paid. I did manage to pull location data from the cell towers. I've got the address where most of the calls originated from. You got a pen?"

…:::…

Liz pulled up to the warehouse at 1896 La Vista Street. She knocked, and after a second attempt and waiting what she considered to be an appropriate amount of time, she dug a lock-pick out of her coat and set to work on the mechanism, glancing up and down the deserted street occasionally to ensure she wasn't being watched, unaware of the small, mounted camera trained on her as she worked.

The minute Tom saw her approach, he'd begun frantically breaking down the site. Photos and files were shoved in bins and set ablaze, quick keystrokes erased hard drives and memory banks. Just before Liz successfully clicked open the front door, Tom managed to slip out the back to the enclosed area behind the warehouse, kicking himself for not installing a ladder, rope—anything—he could have used to get out of the dead end he found himself in.

Liz walked slowly into the silent room, the red strings and pushpins on the large, main, now-empty wall confirming that this had once been a base of operations for someone. Most likely, Lucy Brooks.

When her attention fell on a low table in the corner, she drew her weapon. There were more than a dozen different guns spread out across the surface, but no-one in sight. Moving farther in to the space, Liz rounded on a computer screen, still showing four different angles of the exterior of the building. If someone had been here when she arrived, they'd known she was on her way up well before she'd managed to pick the lock.

Just outside the door Liz heard a crackling noise, and she spun, her weapon aimed but her finger off the trigger. As she walked slowly through the door, she began to smell smoke and the unattractive scent of burning photographs. She walked over to a metal drum, the flames from the contents leaping up above the rim of the container.

At least one of the photographs was of her. She watched it for a split second as the edges of her face curled and distorted with the heat before she turned to clear the rest of the space. She checked behind the hanging tarps, finding nothing, but she was unable to shake the sensation of being watched; that there was someone else there with her.

As she crept back into the main building, her suspicions were confirmed. The large wood door swung heavily into her, slamming painfully into her right shoulder. She stumbled forward, attempting to stay on her feet. Strong hands shoved against her back, and she hit the ground in front of one of the tables with a grunt, her gun clattering out of her hands. She swung her head, trying to get a visual on her attacker, and was greeted by the sight of the folding table, tipping, spilling its contents as it crashed on top of her. She cringed and braced herself for the impact of the metal, curling in on herself protectively. Something solid slid from the table top and slammed into her head, causing Liz to momentarily see stars. Her vision cleared in time to watch the back of an average-build man run with a slight limp to the front door and disappear through it.

…:::…

Less than an hour later, Liz sat, holding an ice pack to her head as she described the events to a local investigator. "The place was ransacked before I got here," Liz told him. "There's even a cache of burned documents outside in a bucket, but they're ashes now."

"You get a visual on the suspect?"

Liz crinkled her nose with a non-committal shrug. "Over six feet. Caucasian, dark hair. Slight… limp…" Liz trailed off, frowning, remembering the way Tom had favored his left knee as he'd left the house that morning after smashing it into the music box.

"Agent Keen? Are you alright?" the investigator asked.

Liz nodded quickly. "Yeah, sorry, I'm just… I just remembered I need to check in at work with something…" She pulled her phone from her pocket and loaded the tracking info Aram had given her for the GPS unit in Tom's Uncle Flippo.

The blinking red dot perfectly covered her current location on the map. Liz stood, and began looking around again, ignoring the investigator's questions and offers of medical attention. After less than two minutes, Liz had located the blue plastic hippo in one of the unburnt garbage cans.

Her attacker was Tom.

…:::…

The rest of Liz's day was spent at the computer next to Aram's, running down details and advising Ressler and Meera on negotiation tactics and ways to better relate to the high-tech, teenage stalker on whom they'd finally pinned the theft and borderline cyber-terrorism. Meera managed to subdue him after chasing him onto the subway, and the boy was brought in.

It served as a convenient and thorough distraction to keep her mind off of what she'd learned about her husband that morning.

When she finally left the office for the day, she pointed her car towards Reddington, and not her own home. Dembe opened the door for her when she got there, and wordlessly motioned for her to proceed down the hall.

Liz found Reddington with his vest unbuttoned and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, tinkering with a mechanism from the music box. She had walked casually into the room and collapsed into an arm chair before she'd even looked at him properly: he looked at ease, his hands moving with sure precision, and a calm look of concentration on his face. She liked him like this.

Liz sighed. "Quick. Say something nice to me. It's been a dreadful day."

Reddington glanced up from what he was doing, and then back down to flick the moving part. It spun smoothly. Apparently satisfied, he went about installing it back in its rightful place within the box. "What made today so horrible?" he asked absently.

"I put a tracker on Tom, and it coincided with the address that Lucy Brooks made the majority of her calls from on her cell phone. There were cameras outside the warehouse, so by the time I'd let myself in, Tom had already liquidated and burned almost everything useful—"

Reddington put down what he was doing and looked up at Liz. She had his full attention. "You brought Tom in today?" he asked sharply.

"No, he got away; I spent the rest of the day taking down Ivan with the team. Turns out a seventeen year old whiz kid had been using your Ivan's name, directing suspicion away from himself while he—"

"Start from the beginning," Reddington interrupted again. "What happened after I left your house this morning?"

Liz gave him a coy smile and looked pointedly at the music box. "I'll talk, as long as you keep working. You stop, I stop." Reddington set his jaw and didn't move. Liz rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, leaning her head back in the chair as she sighed theatrically. "You know, I need some wine. Preferably the entire bottle." She groaned as she pushed herself forward, moving to get up. "Maybe Dembe can help me find the kitchen, I'm sure you have something—"

"Talk," Reddington demanded, picking up the small screwdriver he'd been holding a moment before. He glared at her and began working again.

Liz smiled, satisfied, and reclined into the plush upholstery again.

"I got to the warehouse, and like I said—he saw me coming. When I got upstairs there was a monitor with live feeds from four different external cameras; they had a pretty decent set-up. Almost everything worthwhile was burning in metal drums in the back." Liz's eyes dropped to the floor. "He got away, and I called it in."

"You realize if you had let me know—if you'd let me plan this—instead of running in there, alone… he might not have had time to destroy the paperwork that could have led us back to his employer." Reddington picked up the unattached lid of the music box and swung the box around, fitting the first hinge back in place and tightening the screws. "While it's likely that he killed Lucy Brooks and the man I sent after her, we have yet to confirm that, and you just went to this warehouse alone? And now he's in the wind?"

Liz's shoulders tightened. "I'd try to argue my case, but honestly? I'm too tired. You're right. I screwed up." Liz leaned back into her chair again. "But he's not in the wind. He texted me today—I didn't get a good look at him when he ran, and he doesn't know I put a tracker on him. I don't think he knows that I know."

"And you found nothing useful there?" Reddington asked.

"The information was destroyed very thoroughly. He worked fast, I'll give him that. I found one half-burned photograph of me, but I didn't see anything else specific. Maybe forensics will be able to get something off one of the computers."

"No evidence connecting any of this to me?" Reddington asked, his eyes glued to the second hinge as he tightened the screws into place.

"No."

"So you believe they were only surveilling you from that outpost?"

"Why would anyone have surveillance on me if not as a way to gain information about you?" Liz asked.

Reddington pointed the screwdriver he held in his right hand at Liz with a raised eyebrow. "That is a terrific question," he said pointedly. "Why did you start researching me in the first place—following my life? Why did you feel you 'owed' me something in Brussels? What was it I did for you?" Reddington put the screw driver down and concentrated his attention on Liz.

"I can't answer that."

"You can't or you won't?"

"Well, that's a matter of interpretation."

"Not to me. Just once I'd like to hear the whole truth from you, instead of this dance you've been doing, feeding me bread crumbs to try to keep me just interested enough that I don't request another contact on the task force. You do know I've done some terrible things to people who have irritated me far less than you have so far, don't you?"

"Then why have you let me get away with this for so long?" Liz asked.

Reddington clenched his jaw, but remained silent.

Liz studied Reddington tiredly. "You don't have many people who challenge you, do you? I don't mean 'threaten' you; I mean 'rival' you. In secrets, in information. I don't claim to have much in the way of power or clout with the scary people of the international criminal scene, but I do have information. You gain information by being splashy about it: you're bold, and loud, and you rely on your name and your presence. I've collected a lot of knowledge by being quiet over the years. Gentle inquiries and displays of intelligence, loyalty, and discretion can get you pretty far." Liz sighed and sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees. "I know you're used to holding all the cards… but now you're dealing with someone who has her own, and I understand that it frustrates you, not knowing what I've got. I get that. And I'm sorry, but I can't show you my hand right now."

Reddington took a deep breath, and leaned back in his chair. "How did Tom manage to get away without you seeing him?" he asked quietly, resisting the temptation to continue hounding the infuriating woman in front of him for answers regarding their past.

"He hit me with a door. Pushed me to the floor; knocked my head into the ground. Tipped a table over on top of me while I was down. Piece of electronic equipment clocked me pretty hard." Liz lifted her hair and turned her head to show off the impressive bruise and small cut she'd earned. "Took me a minute to get up."

Reddington's face darkened. "He hit you?" he asked in a low voice.

Liz bobbed her head and gave a small shrug. "I've had much worse. And I'm tougher than I look."

"You said he texted you today; you seem to think he doesn't suspect that you know it was him at the warehouse. Why? What did he text you?"

In response, Liz pulled out her phone and passed it to Reddington.

/

TOM (CELL)

11:47 Hey. Did you invite Ellie to dinner tomorrow?

12:07 . . . No, I thought you were going to call her?
12:08 . . . How was your dentist appointment?

12:10 You're right. Forgot to call. I will right now.
12:11 Clean bill of health from the dentist.
12:17 Ellie's in for birthday dinner.

12:20 . . . Great. Thanks, babe.

12:22 You know I love you, right? :)

12:23 . . . Love you, too. I'll see you later tonight. Will probably miss dinner. Work still crazy. I'll tell you about it when I get home.

12:35 Okay. Be safe.

/

Reddington passed the phone back to Liz. "It's a pity you two don't work for the same side. You're both very good at this."

Liz rolled her eyes. "At this point he makes my skin crawl."

"Whose birthday?" Reddington asked.

"Mine," Liz answered unemotionally, not meeting Reddington's eyes. When he didn't respond, she looked up at him. "I mean…" Liz shifted in her seat. She had already shared way too much with him in the past two days. What was wrong with her? It's like she couldn't stop talking. "…it's not actually my birthday. Not my real birthday. It's the birthday Sam chose when he adopted me. Still… finding out your husband is a murderer and a liar, and then having him beat you to the ground? Not the greatest of birthday presents." Liz shook her head and ran her hands along the arms of the chair. "Tomorrow shouldn't even really matter all that much to me, right? But nobody knows my real birthday, so this is the only one I've had for… twenty years."

Reddington tapped one finger on the table in front of him. "You were ten years old when you were adopted. You knew your own birthday." Liz didn't look up from the pattern of the chair fabric between her fingers and stayed silent. "Why didn't your adoptive father use your real birthday? Why didn't you get to keep your name?" Still nothing. "When is your actual birthday?" he asked quietly.

Liz finally looked up at him, but only to give him a thin-lipped, sad smile.

Reddington nodded, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get answers tonight. Taking a deep breath, he put both hands on either side of the music box, and pushed it forward on the table, toward Liz. "Well, then," he said. "If you refuse to tell anyone your real birthday, then I suppose today is the only one you get, and we should all celebrate accordingly, even if it's part of a manufactured past." He opened the lid and the familiar melody from her childhood began to play. "And I'm glad I was able to finish the restoration today, because I didn't get you a gift. A restored music box will have to do this year; next year I'll plan better."

Liz pushed off from the chair and moved toward the music. Her lips parted, she trailed a hand across the edge of the lid. "You fixed it," she breathed.

Reddington stared up at her, watching her face. She seemed so sad, and yet so overjoyed at the same time. Her face was beautiful, and she seemed like she'd forgotten he was even in the room as she pored over the intricate workings of the inner mechanism. The song ended, and she looked up at him with such a grateful, guileless look on her face that he couldn't help but smile back.

"This song…" Liz started the music box over again. "When I was a little girl, my mother would hum it for me. I missed it so much once I got to America, and Sam, he couldn't hold a tune to save his life, so he… he found this for me. He'd play it when I had nightmares."

During the first few years it had happened with exhausting frequency: she'd wake up feeling as if she were back there, choking on smoke, the harsh burn of flames licking at her. She'd sit straight up in bed, screaming, and Sam would invariably appear in her doorway. For a long time he respected her space. She didn't want to be held by him, so he'd just sit in a hard wooden chair at her bedside, set the music box going, and hand her a sketch pad. 'Draw your dream,' he'd say. 'It's the best way to get it out of your head. Pull it all out and stick it on the paper instead.'

Liz flashed Reddington another smile. "Thank you for fixing this," she said, stressing every word. "This means so much to me."

Reddington nodded, silently accepting her gratitude. "I've got one more present for you," he said after a moment. "I think it's high time I helped get Tom out of your life. Tomorrow: let's start working on how to bring him in."

…:::…

TBC.

(Seriously, though, 1x17 and 2x17 aired the same week in April. Even in the canon events, Liz's birthday fell the same week as Ivan, and Tom punching her, and the music box! I was so excited when I did the math to include this detail in Gestalt!)