Until I Collect Him
Disclaimer: He's not mine in the sense that he's Lizzie's, he's not mine in the sense that he's Death's, and he's not mine in the sense that I own absolutely nothing associated with The Blacklist.
Author's Note: I started reading The Book Thief. So... then this happened.
...:::...
Chapter 1
...:::...
The first time I met Raymond Reddington, he was four.
Mind you, I was still an apprentice at the time, so the extent of our interaction was a brief once-over performed by me while his parents brushed the dirt out of his hair and scolded him for thinking he could climb such a steep embankment. I was supposed to assess the likelihood that he would try a stunt like this again, and estimate the probability that the next time would kill him. Then I was supposed to report back, which I did.
The official paperwork (it's not really paperwork, obviously—we do things a little differently—but I'm trying to put it in terms I think you'll understand) listed him as someone I anticipated would need a designated case worker. Most people lead the kind of lives that don't require individualized attention. They go about their business—without endangering themselves on a regular basis—and in the end are scooped up without ceremony by one of the mid-level collectors.
Others lead the kind of lives that necessitate closer observation and monitoring.
If someone is going to continuously and frequently put themselves in the kind of situations that require a collector to be present, it's just more efficient to have one of us specifically attached to that person.
By the time Raymond Reddington had been visited another five times (his teenage years were busy for all involved), I'd finished my apprenticeship, been promoted, and, as luck would have it, he was assigned to me.
Or rather, I was assigned to him. However you want to look at it.
The next time I met him, he'd fallen from a tall platform during basic training. Sprained something, broke something else, but no lasting damage. He was out cold for a few minutes, wandering around above his body, confused but docile, so I left him alone rather than trying to herd him in any particular direction. While I watched him I took stock of the situation and privately congratulated myself: I'd predicted exactly the type of man he would become when I first saw him at four years old. My job is generally a solitary one, but in that moment I wished I could share my triumph with someone else. "I never tire of being correct," I said softly, to no-one.
After another sixty seconds or so, he lay back down and woke up, and I went on my way.
I popped in for a visit several more times during his early and mid-twenties while he was in the navy. Blows to the head while boxing, a misfire of live ammunition, a truly stupid stunt on a jet-ski while on vacation… the list went on and on.
Suffice it to say, I wasn't bored.
In his late twenties I was sure the assignment was up. I began showing up a little early, just to watch the events unfold. We aren't supposed to get attached, but this one fascinated me in a way my others didn't. When the odds weren't in his favor, he fought, and scratched, and clawed at life, and on more than one occasion over the years I honestly thought he would turn and see me—without his life being in danger at the time—and thumb his nose at me.
Or tell me to fuck off. Though he's usually less crass these days with his language.
He began smoking cigars. I added that to my reports.
The closest I got to collecting him in his twenties was also the night I first met the girl. I'd see her again, obviously, but I didn't know that at the time.
She's got one of us assigned to her, too, incidentally. The days when we both show up are the days that I…
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The night I met the girl involved guns, knives, fist fights, and threats, all before the flames even started. The girl hadn't been assigned to anyone yet, and it was a busy night, so I was there in an expanded capacity. I was there to observe my charge, the girl, her parents, and anyone else in the house and surrounding area that may need to be collected.
In the end, I didn't leave empty handed that night, but I was relieved that I didn't have Raymond Reddington with me. His body lay burned on the ground while he stood above it, staring at the flames. I was waiting to collect the girl's father: he was taking quite some time and I didn't want to scoop in too early and jump the gun, if you'll forgive the expression. "Oh my God, the suspense is killing me," I muttered sarcastically. It really is a waste of everyone's time when there's no changing the outcome, but they just won't loosen up enough to be grabbed. A minute later he was ready, and by the time I'd collected the girl's father, my charge was back in his body and I had other places to be. I wrapped up the scene and headed out.
I popped in to see him several more times over the next few days and weeks, since the burns were severe enough that keeping a closer eye on him was not unwarranted.
The next big year was 1990. He kept me very busy that year.
And over the next two decades we kept in touch. At least once a month it seemed I'd end up watching him for an hour or so at least, sometimes due to an actual threat, and other times just to monitor a slightly sticky situation, if I didn't have anything else pressing at that exact moment.
Marrakech was the first time he saw me.
...:::...
TBC.
...:::...
A/N: I have four chapters written and complete. How fast should I post these? (Each is pretty short...)