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There should, Harold felt, be some kind of natural balance - even in a coldly uncaring universe.

A balance where, after being diagnosed with cancer, after being put through the wringer of medical trials and ethical dilemmas, after losing his position, after discovering that the doctors had lied, after learning that a friend had used him and that his wife had embarked on an affair, after being forced to work with criminals he distrusted at best and abhorred at worst - after the politics, the betrayals and the heartache - he should at least get one damn day to deal with the backlog of paperwork before being thrown back into the insanity.

Apparently, that just wasn't on the cards.

Ressler finished his, thankfully concise, summary of Tom Keen's activities; Harold folded his reading glasses and dropped them on his desk. He could already feel a blacklist-sized headache developing. "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"Glad you've regained your sense of humor, sir." Ressler shrugged with something like sympathy, or at least mutual understanding. "There's no real way to verify beyond the obvious: we know more than one group wants him dead and we know he won't leave the city. Otherwise, we're taking his word for everything, including his motivations for staying. Maybe it's about Liz," he allowed. "Or maybe that's just what he wants us to think."

Harold nodded in agreement. "What about the names? Do you think they're likely to be valuable?"

"I got the impression he didn't want to cash them in, which would suggest they have some worth. Admittedly, it's possible his reluctance is part of some convoluted plan to give us information that he doesn't want us to know that he wants us to have."

"A page out of Reddington's play book," Harold said, after taking a moment to work that out. He tilted his head back and stared unseeing at the tiled ceiling, considering the angles here, there, and six moves ahead.

"You've spent more time with him than me," Ressler pointed out. With unusual diplomacy, he didn't dwell on the circumstances. "Do you think he's on the level?"

"He might well be planning to use us. On the other hand, regardless of his motives, the vast majority of the names Reddington has divulged have been worth the time to clear from the board.

"Given the overlap in the circles they move in, it's reasonable to hope that Keen's would too. If anything..."

"He might have names Reddington has been avoiding giving us," Ressler finished for him, with a small, hard smile. "Wouldn't that be interesting?"

"It would also explain why Keen thinks Reddington may be willing to bail him out: an exchange for his silence."

"It doesn't explain why Reddington wouldn't just have him killed," Ressler said. "Seems simpler."

"And the one thing Agen- Elizabeth Keen might not be able to work past. She's gifted at compartmentalizing her feelings for the greater good - she's cooperated with Reddington numerous times when she'd rather have walked away - but there are limits."

Ressler's expression wavered uneasily. "If this is moving forward, we need to tell her."

That, Harold had zero internal debate over. "Absolutely not. Keen's no longer an agent and we cannot be seen to include her in any departmental decision making whatsoever. It's the only way this can work. If the higher ups feel we're compromised in any fashion, she's gone and so are we."

"She's… not going to be happy."

"No, I imagine she will not. If it's any consolation, neither will Reddington."

"Pity," Ressler said, not quite managing to keep a straight face.

Harold reached his decision. "Bring Keen's proposal to Reddington," he ordered, already knowing he'd regret it. "Be sure to mention what we're getting out of the deal - I'd be interested to know how he reacts. If he chooses to inform Liz at that point, it's out of our hands."

"Of course." Ressler stood and headed towards the door.

"Do you miss the chair?" Harold asked, as the handle turned.

"No, sir." Ressler shook his head firmly as he left. "I do not."

-o-

A day later, an anonymous text message directed Don to an address halfway down a side street in Queens; he walked past the entrance twice before he realised the door was a door and not rotting siding. Gray primer paint flaked under his knuckles when he knocked.

The door creaked open a moment later, the unlit room beyond it blocked by a vaguely familiar older man with graying, shoulder-length hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He held his hand out and, when Don dropped his gun into the waiting palm, jerked a thumb towards the far end of what looked like a long-abandoned dining area.

As his eyes adjusted, Don was able to pick out flipped tables and broken chairs; a roulette wheel and at least one large, dark stain that the lab techs would skip right to labelling 'blood splatter.'

He headed towards the light spilling through the swing doors at the back of the room and pushed them open. While the decor of the restaurant looked like it hadn't made it out of the eighties, the kitchen gleamed with modern fittings.

He made the executive decision not to speculate.

No Liz. Only Dembe, reading a magazine next to the bank of refrigerators, and Reddington, jacket off and shirt-sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring some red sauce in a huge copper pan.

"Donald!" Reddington greeted him genially. "Just in time."

Don dragged a stool away from the main counter and took a seat; this was clearly going to take a while. "For?"

"Dinner, of course. Dinner, I hope," Reddington amended after a beat. "When I was very young, we had a neighbor who made the most incredible all'arrabbiata. Nonna Maria: a retired zoologist - the stories she could tell. I digress. Every Sunday, Nonna Maria would make this wonderful dish, because she swore her children would cross oceans for it. When they invariably didn't, we were the happy recipients.

"I've tried numerous times to recreate the recipe, entirely unsuccessfully. I can only conclude there must be some key ingredient I'm missing."

"I'm familiar with the sensation," Don said dryly. "And I already ate."

"Really? What a shame." Reddington gave one more stir, then lifted the lid on a bubbling pot of penne. "Business it is. I'm afraid Mr Keen is thinking far outside the box and deep into the wishing well."

"He seems to think you'll consider hiring him again."

"Because he's deluded." Reddington wandered along the enormous herb rack, casting an eye over the labels. "Tom Keen can be trusted only to zag left at the most inconvenient moment - no one of sound mind would ever consider taking him into their employ, and certainly not twice."

Don nodded sympathetically. "It's only fun when you're the one making sudden turns, huh? Look, it's no skin off my nose: I only told him I'd ask, not that you'd agree. He'll give us the names either way."

Jar in hand, Reddington headed back to the sauce. "Well played," he finally acknowledged as he added a pinch of some herb or other. "I await the reveal with baited breath."

"Didn't that make it into the message?" Don smiled brightly. "Turns out you're not the only one with a list. There's no doubt you're being completely transparent with us, but you know the FBI: we like to be sure."

"In my experience, what the FBI likes most is the credit," Reddington said, expression hardening. "Tom Keen can't help you maintain those budget-enrichening solved records. I can." He frowned pensively into the simmering pan. "Perhaps it's the oil," he murmured. "I'm given to understand it's always the oil. I assume Elizabeth is aware?"

"Not from the task force, and Keen was planning to stay out of her way that last time I saw him."

"And if his plans weren't breathtakingly terrible, that would be a comfort." Red gestured to the dishes stacked on top of the counter's gleaming chrome hood. "Three dishes, if you please. If you're quite sure you won't have any?"

Obligingly, Don pulled three bowls down. Shrugged. Added another. The sauce might not have been Nonna Maria's, but it still smelled pretty good. "You don't think he cares about Liz?"

Dembe clattered through the cutlery drawers; Reddington drained the water from the pasta. Don had seen the Twilight Zone as a kid and this, this little scene, was definitely a candidate.

"In my more whimsical moments, I might concede that Mr Keen believes he loves her," Reddington said as he stirred the sauce into the penne. "That he might, with countless hours of therapy, even be capable of some reasonable approximation.

"But what you must understand, particularly if you're planning to extend him a similar arrangement to mine, is that no child who entered William McCready's training program did so without matching a very specific psychological profile. And Keen was, even by McCready's admission, a perfect fit."

"Until Liz," Don prodded.

"Until Elizabeth," Reddington agreed sourly as he portioned generous amounts of pasta into the bowls.

There was enough left over that Don wondered exactly how many people he'd been expecting.

"Given their natures, how do you think McCready ensures the reliability of his assets?" Reddington glanced up. "They're not loyal to a cause, or an ideal, or even devotees of the almighty dollar. They're loyal to him. At a fundamental level, they are conditioned to need his direction.

"Clearly, something happened during Keen's time with Elizabeth that transferred this attachment to her. You cannot, you must not, confuse that with love. He's simply not capable of it and when his focus switches to another handler, and it inevitably will, it's very likely she will be his first target."

Reddington cast an eye over the gently steaming bowls. "Dembe, would you mind taking one to Baz?"

With a nod, and a warning look in Don's direction, Dembe left the room, bowl in hand; Reddington watched with just a little too much anticipation as Don picked up his fork.

He stabbed a piece of the pasta and hesitantly put it in his mouth.

Blinked rapidly.

Considered spitting or swallowing, swallowed against his better judgement, and was suddenly a hundred percent sure that Dembe's warning had not been about polite behaviour.

Reddington beamed encouragingly. "Good?"

"Hot," Donald managed.

"Arrabbiata does quite literally mean 'angry," Donald. What were you expecting?"

Don cast about for a glass of water; miraculously, one appeared in front of his face. "Thank you," he gasped, drained half immediately, and considered nominating Dembe for sainthood.

When he could speak again he looked back to Reddington. "You seriously ate this when you were a kid?"

"I did say I couldn't get it quite right," Reddington pointed out, sounding aggrieved.

"It's not the oil," Don said, and put the fork down. "Look, if you don't help Keen, he's going to die. I know you can live with that, but can you live with Liz knowing you didn't do everything you could to help him?"

"Absolutely," Reddington said, and Don wasn't sure he'd ever heard the man sound more sincere; probably should have recorded it for baseline response purposes.

"Okay, then if you won't do it for her, and you really think the names on Keen's list won't be a problem, here's another question: how good a profiler do you think Liz is?"

Reddington's eyes narrowed as he tried to work out where Don was going. "She's incredibly talented. At times I might wish she were less so."

"And what are the chances she isn't aware of everything you just said? Somewhere between slim and none?" Don shrugged and finished the rest of his water while Reddington considered. "You may not like it," he said into the silence. "Hell I don't like it. But it seems to me this isn't your decision."

"I will do whatever it takes to keep Liz safe and if Mr. Keen feels the same, as he professes, the best thing he can do is leave the city and go far, far away."

"That isn't going to happen. Honestly, I don't think he can."

"Then put him in protective custody." Reddington speared a piece of pasta, popped it into his mouth and chewed with no particular sign of discomfort. He swallowed. "Unless, of course, you have concerns about any deals he may attempt to make or ears he may pour his poison in. In which case, you can simply wait - it sounds like the problem will shortly resolve itself."

"Or I tell Liz what's happening," Don said, and stood. "Do you think she'll run into the firing line before or after telling you to go to hell?"

Reddington's jaw tightened; his expression flattenened. "Perhaps a temporary arrangement can be made."

"We'll wait to hear from you. Don't take too long."

-o-

Red settled himself comfortably in the hotel suite's over-stuffed leather armchair, tumbler of Macallan in one hand and cell phone in the other. Disappointingly, the call connected; he'd been really quite hopeful that it wouldn't.

"Before we begin a tiresome back and forth of veiled threats and petty insults," he said lightly, "I must ask. William, how on Earth did you persuade Gina Zanetakos to set foot on American soil again?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," McCready growled, voice thick with sleep. "How did you get this number?"

"Of course you don't," Red soothed, ignoring the question. "But, please, do pass on my regards to whomever managed it. Quite the coup. Kudos."

"Get to the point, Reddington."

"I thought you'd prefer to savour the moment, but as you like. Call off the bounty on Tom Keen, I wish to purchase his services."

"We're both a little old for prank calls, don't you think?"

Red paused. He had been sure that this had been an obvious ploy of The Major's: hire Gina to approach Keen, encourage Keen to approach the FBI, use the Feds to twist his own arm and finally McCready would have his reputation restored.

If McCready was genuinely unaware it changed nothing for the purposes of the call, but it did add an intriguing new dimension to the board.

"You may consider this your final act of reparation," he said at last. "Business is seen to be done: we are happily reconciled, the reliability of your services is no longer in question and..."

"Jacob's yours, I never want to hear his name again."

"Marvellous." Red sipped his whiskey. "Now, as we're such good friends, I wonder if I might trouble you for a moment longer?"