Author's note: Hey, everyone. Thanks for all your support on the last/first chapter! I really wasn't expecting anyone to read it. Or to keep going. But thanks to my friend who has somehow never seen The Blacklist, I definitely have a direction now. Bear with me as I sort through some necessary intro stuff. ;)

In a panic, her hand shot forward, fingers lunging for her phone. Seeking the flat Android blindly on the table, her gaze dropped after a dreadful second, unable to find the device. Her fingers, in an anxious flurry, lifted from the linen and fluttered hysterically to her jean pockets.

"Your instinct will be to call Assistant Director Cooper. I implore you not to, if for no other reason than that I simply can't stand the man."

She had never paid much attention to him, not because he was not of interest, but because her attention was always directed to more immediate concerns to her. It was the murder at 1st Street and Frederick that had Elizabeth's attention, not the long-gone naval graduate. She regretted that now.

Raymond Reddington had always been Don's fixation. He had chased the man to the corners of the globe, only to have him slip through his fingers again. Don had complained often of it. Hunting Raymond Reddington was like reaching out for smoke. He slipped through the cracks of his hunter's fingers, effortlessly evading their grasp, disappearing without a trace.

He was a character so deplorable that he bordered on being a Bond villain. The name "Raymond Reddington" bore the same notoriety as Timothy McVeigh and Jim Jones. He was known for the danger that he posed to the nation, like an untraceable Edward Snowden. He sold secrets. His decisions were unconscionable, made regardless of the threat against his nation and those he once fought for.

"Besides," he drawled, snapping her out of her numbness, "I offer a package that can make a man disappear in 30 seconds. You can only imagine how far away I'd be by the time he got here. So stop looking for your phone, Lizzie. It's in good hands."

Elizabeth would never be able to say why she didn't just run in that moment. Maybe it was the intensity of his stare, the calculated way he looked at her, or how reasonable he seemed despite how exposed he was. Maybe it was because she couldn't imagine a scenario where she escaped unscathed. Maybe she was simply paralyzed from the waist down, unable to do anything but wrap her arms around her tense body and await his judgment.

"Please—" there was a quiver in her voice, an undeniable trace of weakness. Had Elizabeth been more conscious of this, she would have been embarrassed.

She prided herself on the strength that she exuded under pressure. She was calm under duress, capable against the odds. Her self-concept disregarded the last few years of struggle, during which she fought to preserve a modicum of dignity while shrouded in black mourning veils that only she could see. Elizabeth saw herself as stone—a stone girl carrying a stone heart.

"What do you want from me?"

She sounded so vulnerable. His own smile grew softer at that, "You have a gift."

He was so placid and yet in control that she couldn't imagine speaking up then. Elizabeth only stared, seeing right through their server's arm as a pair of ceramic cups were laid gently before them.

"Thank you," Reddington supplied graciously, never missing a beat. He turned his gaze to Elizabeth with a curious expression on his face. "Careful. It'll be hot."

A brief silence settled then, filled by the distant sounds of chatter from other patrons and the faint noise of cutlery.

"I think we'll make an excellent team," he said rather decisively.

"What?"

"Lizzie, I need someone in the FBI. I need to know when my people are being watched by your people," he paused to sip his coffee, reacting only slightly when he found it too hot. "In exchange, I'll hand over a few nuisances to the FBI—"

"People who get in your way," she said slowly, leaving her fear in favour of reluctant comprehension.

"Exactly. People so good at being bad that you don't even know they're out there," he laughed here, as if he thought this especially funny, "My little blacklist, if you will. But, yes, I believe a good business deal should be tit for tat."

His politeness and ease only made her incredulous. The less she saw immediate reason to fear him, the more Elizabeth succumbed to her disbelief, "Do you honestly think," she leaned closer to him over the table, "that I would turn on the FBI and work for you?"

"Someone with your intuition would be invaluable in my world."

He seemed less reasonable with every word he said, even though he said it with such unwavering decisiveness.

Pride and patriotism spurred her answer, "There's not a chance in Hell."

How were they speaking about this so reasonably? She was in the FBI, through and through, a profiler of reasonably good repute and a promising career ahead of her. She had never stopped thinking of herself as an agent. She had cracked down after Don's death, had not stopped to grieve properly; she countered his absence with her diligence. Her part in his death contributed largely to her revitalized need to do her job with exceptional skill. She was an agent, and if she was not a lover, that was all she needed. Elizabeth did not realise that that was fanciful until Reddington continued.

"I know your father."

Her heart skipped a beat. She mistook his calm statement as a threat, "Sam?"

"No."

He couldn't have approached her at a better time if he had planned it. Later, she would realise he probably had. The only way he could have manipulated her better was if he had tied strings around her wrists and head and played the part of the malevolent puppeteer. She was his invalid marionette. But he was no Geppetto. Rather than looking upon her with nurturing tenderness of a father, he was methodical. He had drawn her out at her most vulnerable, and he knew that.

Elizabeth's abandonment ate away at her often. First at birth, then in love by death, she was plagued with loneliness, unbearably aware that she had no one to rely on, and tormented by her independence. The suggestion that someone could resolve this perpetual cycle was enticing. The tenuous connection to that disappointing biological father had shimmered before her briefly when she started working at the FBI. The thought of exposing his elusive profile thrilled her, though she was later disappointed to find it nonexistent. Reddington was baiting her with the perfect worm.

The pure quality of his insight rendered her inept. Beneath his intent stare, she fumbled over her words.

"I—what do you—"

"Lizzie, let me make something abundantly clear: You need me, I don't need you," he leaned back in his chair, studying her with interest that wavered on genuine. "If it's not you, I can always find someone to do what I want. Maybe it's the fellow from the newsroom who delivers your mail. Maybe it your colleague with the daughter in an expensive private school. Maybe it's the man who parks his sedan next to yours who you've never seen in your life. It doesn't matter, Lizzie. There will always be someone with a price. You need me. I don't need you."

Perhaps it was the way that he said it—with such hard-hearted conviction—that caused her to nod mutely. A moment ago, she was ready to run. Now, she wanted to shake hands with the devil and accept his ultimatum. There was only one price in the world that she would accept, and it seemed that Raymond Reddington was the only man who could offer it.

10 weeks later: Shaky camera. Fluorescent lighting. A metal wall, a triangular window. A body lying on the ground outside. A chair. A close-up. Liz. Bleeding from a gash in her forehead. Her lips pulled apart, a lightbulb in her mouth. More shaky camera work. A face snuggling into the frame with Liz's. A familiar droopy mouth, a blind eye. "Hi, Red."