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 Note: Final chapter! Thank you all for reading this huge thing! You're probably like, good lord, girl… you've been saying farewell in your author's notes of the last three chapters in some fashion or another… just finish this thing up already. It's like watching the writers try to say goodbye to Tennant as the Doctor. It happened over the course of like, five different episodes. Enough already. ;)

…:::…

Chapter 23: Berlin Part 3

…:::…

Liz argued with Ressler for almost the entire ride back to the Post Office. Just as they pulled into the garage she finally managed to eek out partial permission to pass on all of the information they'd just obtained from the guard to Reddington. She didn't have Ressler's express consent by any means, but Liz decided she should read between the lines and ask for forgiveness later if things didn't turn out well.

Liz met with Reddington just before noon. She opened the back door of the black sedan and slid in next to him, just as Dembe opened the driver's side door and stepped out. He stood just next to the car, facing away from the windows.

Reddington remained silent as Liz ran through the story the guard had told them, and brought him up to speed on all of the other details from the Post Office.

After she'd finished, he seemed to continue to mull over the information, pursing his lips and swallowing. Liz said nothing, knowing he'd speak when he had something to say.

Finally, Reddington looked up at her with a serious expression on his face. "When… exactly… did you come to the United States?"

Damn. "Were you not listening?" she asked, trying to avoid his question. "The guard said—"

"How are you related to this? Are you connected to Berlin?" he asked, his voice quiet, but harsh and accusing.

Liz shook her head. "Red, I promise you, I have nothing to do with this situation. At least not in any way that you're suggesting. You're right—in 1991 I was living overseas. I was seven years old. You know I came to live with Sam in 1994: and that move was necessitated by events that occurred in 1994, not three years before that." Liz looked at Reddington evenly.

"And what were those events?" Reddington asked. "I was in Russia in 1994; and my trip there was—" Reddington broke off. "Did the circumstances that forced you to come here involve me?" His face was suspicious, and beginning to look like he suspected something specific, and wanted confirmation.

"I don't think I ever said I moved here from Russia," Liz pointed out.

"Did you?" Reddington asked.

Liz remained quiet for a moment, but didn't look away.

She should have known better than to enter into a staring contest with Raymond Reddington. After a long silence, she finally sighed and looked away, her eyes directed, unfocussed, out Reddington's window. "The year I took off… after college, traveling the world… I went to France. I went to Germany. England, small villages in Spain, remote parts of Asia… Even a few places in Africa." Liz paused. "And Russia. I spent several weeks in Russia."

"And during that time you never heard the name Berlin?"

"No."

"What did you hear while you were there?"

"Stories about you," Liz answered. "Stories about the man who stole away the body of a dead teenage girl. Shipped her to America in 1991. Stories about what else you'd been involved in, during other trips… other years… People you had had…contact with, in Russia."

"You found evidence that I'd been the one to take that girl and deliver her to the Stewmaker?" Reddington asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes."

Liz wished she could draw the look on his face. It was an amusing mix of perturbation and embarrassment, but he was obviously also fairly impressed. "Well… aren't you clever. Next time I prepare to do something in a clandestine way, I may have you look over my plans first to check for sloppiness," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Really?" Liz asked, flattered.

"No." Reddington shifted in his seat. "And you knew I wouldn't want evidence that I'd ever dealt with the Stewmaker as a client, so you took the only picture you knew of that could implicate me in a crime connected with his…methods?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Reddington followed up immediately.

"Because that's what I do. I protect you."

Reddington frowned. "I'm a criminal. You're the FBI."

"Is that all we are?" Liz asked with a quiet intensity. Reddington held her gaze steadily.

Dembe knocked on the window, and Liz clenched her jaw, trying not to let her disappointment at the interruption show too blatantly on her face. Reddington rolled the window down immediately, taking the phone Dembe held out to him.

"Yes?" he said, unmuting the call and holding it to his ear.

"Hello, dearie. I found him," Mr. Kaplan said. "Got a pencil?"

"I'm listening," Reddington said vaguely.

"5152 Katrine Way."

Reddington hung up without offering thanks.

"Was that the source you mentioned earlier? The one you said had a lead on Berlin's location?" Liz asked, curious and anxious for more forward movement on the case.

"Yes."

"Did he find Berlin?"

Reddington slid the phone into an inside pocket of his jacket and looked critically at Liz, as if he were sizing her up. Trying to decide if she was worth the gamble. Worth his trust.

"Yes."

…:::…

Reddington and Liz left Dembe at the entrance to the apartment building, armed and alert as always.

As they quietly ascended the stairs, they both noticed that all other floors and rooms were empty. The entire building was vacant.

They finally arrived at a closed door with the sounds of a television's muted mumbling through the thin walls. Liz nodded at Reddington, who shot the lock, and shoved through the door. Liz quickly followed him, their guns drawn on the one man standing alone in the room.

"You must be the one they call 'Berlin'," Reddington said. "Sit." He motioned to a chair.

The man reluctantly sat, glaring at Reddington and all but ignoring Liz. Reddington kept his gun trained on him, and Liz moved forward, grabbing a roll of duct tape from the table.

"I must say, I'm very good at finding people," Reddington said, watching as Liz methodically secured the man's hands and then feet to the arms and legs of the chair he sat in. "I've tracked enemies far and wide. I once found a hedge-fund manager hiding in the Amazon with the Yawalapiti on the banks of the Kuluene River," Reddington boasted with a smile. "You know what the key to finding your enemies is? Remembering everyone's name. It's critical to my survival. Anyone knows the head of some drug cartel in Colombia; some politician in Paris. But I know their wives, girlfriends, children, their enemies, their friends. I know their favorite bartender, their butcher."

Liz backed away from the man in the chair and retreated to the doorway, standing just on the threshold so she could glance down the hallway periodically.

Reddington leaned forward, closer to their prisoner. "I remember the name of the baker I stole the strawberry bismark from when I was eleven years old, and his wife—Trudy Svoboda. But you—I have no idea who in the Sam Hill you are. I have not a clue what I've done to you; what I've taken from you. And yet, of all the people I've hurt, none of them have come after me with half as much vim and vigor as you." Reddington stopped and gave a loud, frustrated laugh. "I don't even recognize your face." All humor left Reddington's expression and he leveled a steely look at the man in front of him. "I'm stymied. And yet… here we are. You found me," he growled.

"Through your weakness," the man added with a sneer, his Russian accent slurring his words. "I searched for one for years—a weakness that would allow me to get to you. I nearly gave up. And then…" He craned his neck around, cutting his eyes to Liz. "…I find out about her."

Liz's blood ran cold. She took a step out of the hallway and into the room, but went no further.

"Seemed so implausible that someone so careful," he went on, looking back to Reddington pointedly, "could be so careless as to leave any survivors." He gave an insincere smile. "So I exploited. You'd already found her, actually. Made it easy."

Reddington frowned, his jaw set. Liz glanced, worried, from the man in the chair to Reddington and back again. Reddington had found her? When? She'd seemed so sure he didn't know anything about her that first day at the black site—

"So here we are… thanks to Elizabeth Keen," he finished, leaning forward against his bonds in a challenging way, as if daring Reddington to retaliate.

Rather than immediately resorting to violence, Reddington leaned back against the desk that sat along one wall. Liz was acutely aware of the fact that since he'd started talking he hadn't looked at her. Not even a glance. Not once. Liz, on the other hand, couldn't take her eyes off of him.

"Help me understand what horrible thing I did to you that could possibly make all of this worth it. Who on God's green Earth are you?"

The man mumbled something under his breath, causing Reddington to lean forward. "What was that?" he asked irritably.

From the chair, the man spat upward, spraying across Reddington's face. There was a beat as no one in the room moved.

Reddington took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face, and the man began to laugh at him. Before her conscience had time to weigh the potential problems associated with her actions, Liz walked forward swiftly, pressed her gun to the back of the man's hand where it rested palm-down on the arm of the chair, and pulled the trigger. He let out a primal cry, and Red looked up in surprise. 'Really?' he seemed to ask.

Liz raised an eyebrow, and shrugged, as if to say 'oops'. Reddington sighed, and nodded in the direction of the doorway, banishing her back to her post. "I'll take it from here, thank you," he said, quiet sarcasm lacing his words.

Liz backed away, and Reddington turned his attention back to the man in the chair, whose groans were dying down slightly as he heaved deep, painful breaths.

"Well, I suppose the seal's been broken now, hasn't it? No way to undo that," he said, staring at the man's bleeding hand with a comically wide-eyed expression. "Being shot in the hand is just an absolute bitch—all of those little bones. At least it goes right through. Worst part, honestly, is needing somebody to help zip your fly," he added conversationally. He waited another beat before commanding softly, "Tell me your story."

No response.

"I'm not leaving here without a story," Reddington reiterated.

When information was not volunteered, Reddington lifted his gun and shot the man again, high up in his left leg. As the man bellowed in pain, Reddington cringed and shook his head. "Being shot in the hip, on the other hand… Jiminy Cricket. Thick bone, large artery… not to mention the fact that it makes walking upright forever impossible." Reddington continued talking over the man's now incessant moaning. "Just don't pass out. Stay focused. The story," he repeated. "What did I do to you?"

The man in the chair hung his head, breathing heavily.

Reddington bobbed his head. "How about the kneecap?" he asked, pressing the muzzle of his silencer to the man's right knee. "The IRA always loved a good kneecapping—"

"Beirut!" the man finally ground out. "2010!"

"Beirut?" Liz asked from the doorway, confused. She searched her memory. There was nothing of any consequence…? She knew there was the Campolongo incident, but that wasn't nearly—

Liz looked at Reddington, whose face was momentarily just as bewildered as hers. Liz opened her mouth to ask another question, but froze as Reddington swung his gun up and leveled it straight at her head. She took a sharp breath. Did Beirut mean something to him that it didn't mean to her? What had she missed?

Did he remember her…?

She heard Tom's voice just as she felt the cold metal of a gun press into her temple. "Hey babe," he said lightly, quickly relieving her of the weapon she held in her right hand. He tucked it into the waist band of the back of his pants and wrapped a tight hand around Liz's upper arm. He raised his voice, directing his next instruction at Reddington. "Slide it over here. Slide the gun. Now."

"No," Reddington said firmly, not taking his eyes off of Tom.

"Do it!" the man in the chair ordered. "Kill her! Pull the trigger; do it! Now!"

"Don't do it," Liz said, her voice quietly imploring. She couldn't imagine that her husband had any sentimentality when it came to their marriage, but on the off chance he had even a sliver of affection for her, she aimed to capitalize on it.

"Do you hear me?!" the man shouted. "Shoot her!"

"Tom. Please," Liz said, mentally kicking herself for not watching the hallway as she'd been assigned. How had Tom gotten past Dembe?—oh God, Dembe—

"This man—he take everything from me!"

Liz's mind skipped between different topics like a stone flung across water. If they got out of this, Reddington would never trust her enough to take her out in the field with him ever again—why was Tom using her as a shield instead of just shooting both of them?—what had happened to Dembe?—if she could just keep herself between Tom and Reddington, with Tom's gun pointed at her and not at him—

"For what? For nothing!" the man in the chair continued to bellow. "For money—for business. He snaps his fingers and my life was—"

With that, Reddington made a sharp movement with his weapon and shot the man in the head, silencing him. "Well," Reddington said, spreading his arms wide. "That simplifies matters. Just the three of us."

Liz let out a sharp breath. Fine. If Tom couldn't be swayed by sentiment, maybe she could get him angry enough that he'd make a mistake and she could get the gun away from him. Or force him back out into the hall. "I know, Tom," she said tightly. "I know you killed my father."

The hand around her bicep tightened slightly, but Tom didn't say anything.

"Mmm, yes, I suppose this hasn't been addressed yet, has it?" Reddington asked, tilting his head at them. "You were in his hospital room when he died. Did you see the drawings? Of me?" he asked. Again, Tom didn't answer. "I know you did," Reddington went on. "Your fingerprints were found on them."

Liz had let her eyes drift to Reddington's gun, held loosely at his side, but at his words her eyes cut sharply back up to his face. He hadn't told her Tom had found the drawings.

"What do you know?" Reddington asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. "About her connection to me?"

"Red—"

"Quiet. Tom and I are having a conversation, Agent Keen, and it's rude to interrupt." Reddington took a slow step around the chair where the dead man was slumped.

"He'd have to be talking for this to be a conversation, Red," Liz answered testily. "Tom, make the right choice here," she urged. "Put the gun down before you do something you regret."

"Regret?" Tom repeated.

"There's one of you. Two of us," Liz pointed out as Reddington took another step forward. "You shoot me? He'll put one between your eyes before you can release the trigger. There's no good way you walk out of here. Because if you shoot him…" Liz paused, thinking of Sam. "It doesn't matter if I'm unarmed. I swear I'll kill you with my bare hands—"

Reddington advanced again, and Tom pressed the gun harder into Liz's temple. "Stop right there," he ordered.

"She's right, Tom," Reddington said, ignoring his instructions and continuing forward. "You need to decide what you're going to do here, and decide fast. Because when I get over there… I'm gonna take that gun away from you," he promised in a low growl.

Liz felt the shift in Tom's stance; the way he rocked back on his right foot for balance. She noticed as he stepped away from her side, tucking himself in even more behind her body as his right hand turned the weapon out toward Reddington.

Liz lurched forward abruptly, throwing her weight toward the hand that held the gun. Tom's arm, not braced on anything, swung wide as Liz's shoulder shoved it to the side, and the gun went off loudly.

As Liz tumbled to the side, she heard the sound of Reddington's silencer, twice in quick succession. She caught herself painfully as she slammed into a low table, and spun around to see Tom, slumped against the far wall, already ashen. Blood was seeping quickly through his shirt.

Reddington strode quickly toward the man on the ground, his gun leveled at his head.

"No!" Liz said, stepping forward. She winced, and caught at Red with her left hand.

"We can't leave him alive," Reddington said, his voice low.

"Please go," Liz said. "I'll finish it. This is between us."

Reddington stood for a moment, staring down at Tom, who was looking up at him with a resigned, exhausted expression. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head and drew in a ragged breath.

"Red…" Liz stepped forward, and pulled at Reddington's wrist, lowering his gun. "Go check on Dembe," she pressed.

"Do it quickly. Meet me back at the house." With that, Reddington swept out of the room.

Liz knelt in front of Tom, her face impassive. He gave a weak shake of his head and looked back at her, subdued. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No, you're not," she murmured back sadly. "People think Reddington's a monster… Our friends think you're the perfect man. If only they knew that he has saved my life…" Liz tilted her head and regarded Tom evenly. A brief thought that barely had time to register told her she'd been spending too much time around Red—she was starting to mimic his movements. "You, on the other hand… cheated on me, lied about almost every aspect of our lives, beat me—multiple times—and now…" Liz shrugged her right shoulder. "You've also shot me. I wonder… given this information? Who would they think was more of a monster?"

"He's not who he pretends to be, Liz," Tom said, his voice strained.

"Neither am I," she replied coldly as she leaned in to her husband, her face inches from his. She wrapped one hand around his waist as his face softened. She pulled back, holding the gun he'd taken from her. She stood and walked away down the hall.

…:::…

Liz arrived at Reddington's safe house just as he and Dembe were packing the last of their things into the trunk of their car. Liz swallowed, suddenly terrified that he was leaving. He'd been arrested and escaped custody, the state of his immunity agreement was ambiguous, and he'd just eliminated Berlin… There was nothing to keep him here.

"So is this it? You disappearing?" she called as she stepped out of her car in the driveway. She'd purposefully blocked Dembe in, and the look he shot her told her he was well aware of the intent behind her specific park job. They weren't leaving until she'd had a chance to talk to Reddington. As Liz approached them, she raised her eyebrows at Dembe, silently asking if he was okay. He wordlessly inclined his head and pointed to an impressive cut and large bruise high above one ear. Liz cringed in sympathy, but Dembe shrugged it off and thanked her for her concern with a small smile.

Reddington led her inside, and they sat, side by side on the massive marble staircase. He sat first, and she took the opportunity to sit on the same step, close to his side.

"Was Berlin the whole reason you turned yourself in?" Liz asked, dreading his answer.

"The man I killed wasn't Berlin," Reddington replied.

Liz's eyebrows shot up. "How do you know?"

"He spoke of Beirut, 2010. A regrettable situation, but Berlin's attacks on my business started years earlier."

"It also had nothing to do with the Russian girl…" Liz added, putting together more pieces of the puzzle. The 'Berlin' he'd shot in the apartment earlier hadn't made sense, and she was pleased to find out she hadn't missed something. "Why would her name be in the paperwork regarding Berlin's arrival here if his entire issue with you began with something as inconsequential—and recent—as the Campolongo incident?"

"And you know all of the details surrounding that unfortunate mess?" Reddington asked tiredly, swinging his head to look at Liz. He wasn't even bothering to feign surprise anymore.

She nodded. "Uh huh."

"Of course you do," Reddington said, shaking his head with a soft, huffed laugh.

Loathe to lose the pleasant tone of their conversation, Liz hesitated with her next question. "Red… the man in the apartment, earlier… He said you'd already found me. What did he mean by that?"

Reddington nodded thoughtfully. "He also accused me of being sloppy, leaving you alive." Reddington turned to meet Liz's gaze. "When did I spare your life when I shouldn't have?" he asked, his eyes intense.

Neither of them spoke.

"It looks like we've arrived at our usual impasse," Liz said finally.

"Looks like it," Reddington said, looking away across the bare marble floor of the foyer.

Liz pointed at the front door. "You didn't answer me before. You're all packed." Her heart squeezed. "Is this it? Are you done? Is this you…leaving?"

Reddington shook his head. "Just to a new location. There's still work to be done. Berlin still needs to be found. And I still need answers." He dropped his eyes to look at her hands, folded together in front of her. "Some of them from you."

Liz felt relief wash over her. "I tried some of the champagne," Liz offered, changing the subject. "Last night."

"Any good?"

"Honestly… I couldn't even tell you. Loosing Meera… left a sour taste in my mouth," Liz admitted, frowning.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as the celebratory type after a loss like that," Reddington said seriously.

"Actually, coming home to a house without Tom, full of flowers and alcohol was probably the best case scenario after the day I'd had." Liz looked sideways at Reddington. "Thank you, by the way. The flowers are beautiful."

Reddington didn't look at her, and didn't reply. Liz looked down at her hands. "Are you going to go back to your maiden name now that Tom's gone?" Reddington asked, breaking the silence.

"No. Tom Keen never existed—Keen wasn't his name. I'm keeping it. It's mine now. Besides, I don't want to confuse you…" she said teasingly. "I'd never be able to convert you from Agent Keen to Agent—"

"I think I'll just switch to 'Lizzie' now, actually," Reddington interrupted smoothly. "'Agent' isn't nearly so versatile."

"My name is Liz, not Lizzie—"

"Yes, but you know me well enough to know I'll refuse to follow instructions… if at all possible… so it's 'Lizzie' or 'Agent Keen'. Take your pick."

Liz couldn't hide her grin. "I guess I can live with 'Lizzie'." After a moment, she added, "You know, when you asked Tom about what he knew…about you…and me… You called me 'Agent Keen' again… After a few days of 'Lizzie' I thought we'd taken a bit of a step backwards…"

Reddington cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. "Remember the story I told you when we were locked in the box? During the incursion at the black site?"

"Which story…?" Liz said. "You talked a lot," she said with fake sincerity.

Reddington didn't appear amused, and didn't take the bait. "I value loyalty," he explained. "But allegiances shift. Loyalties change. I can't promise you that the information you're hiding from me…" Reddington stopped to roll his jaw and reconsider his words. "I can only assume that you refuse to tell me these things because they are, in some way, harmful to you. To our working relationship. I assume, when someone is this adamant about secrecy, the thing they're keeping shrouded from view is damaging… and destructive. If your secrets are as horrific as your tight lips make them seem… I can't promise that I'll always look on you…" Reddington trailed off, searching for the right word. "…favorably," he finished.

Liz nodded thoughtfully. "But… for the moment… you do look on me favorably?" she asked carefully.

Reddington narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his lips quirked up a bit. "'For the moment'," he agreed.

Liz looked out across the foyer with a relieved, satisfied smile. "I can work with that," she said.

…:::…
END.

Author's Note: And that's it, folks! Season One rewrite: FINISHED. This story is complete, but as I said—look for Season Two possibly starting over the winter hiatus. :) Thank you thank you thank you thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed! You are all awesome, and I can't tell you how flattered I am that some of my favorite people and favorite authors have left me such lovely comments. Thank you EVERYONE for sticking with me through 23 chapters and over 100k words! This is by far the biggest thing I've ever written!

…okay… partially written…

…blatantly plagiarized…

*sighs* Oh whatever. ;)