A/N Red learns what has happened to Liz and fights his own demons. If Liz is going to survive, she has to be stronger than she thought possible. Angst. Angst. Whump. The whump may be upsetting – it's worth remembering that everything that happens here has been documented happening in US detention facilities, and has even been sanctioned. Thoroughly disclaimed, as ever.

Red sat in a tattered armchair in a hastily procured safe house in Vermont. It was a dingy affair in a run-down neighbourhood – concrete blocks and stucco on the walls. It had the advantages of availability, location, and, crucially, it was well situated for security purposes. He didn't care. She would never see it.

He was waiting for a call. A call and a visit – he didn't know which would come first. Dembe would let him know soon enough. He was gladdened to see his friends again, Dembe and Mr Kaplan both. The circumstances that had reunited them, however, were unbearable.

Mr Kaplan entered the drab, darkened room and placed a cup of tea on the table beside him. He wished it was something stronger.

"I fucked up, Kate. Badly."

Kaplan looked at him sympathetically. "You were ambushed. You did everything you could."

He sighed. "I'm not talking about that."

"You slept with her" the older woman ventured without emotion.

He blinked for a moment. "Yes. But it's worse than that."

"Raymond." Red looked up and saw Dembe standing in the doorway. He could barely bring himself to look at the man. It was one thing confessing to Kate – she was almost a mother figure to him, and certainly had a dark past of her own. But Dembe was a good man who respected him, who always chose to see the good in him despite all evidence to the contrary. He couldn't bear him to know he hadn't been able to resist touching her, to know what he had done to her, and how badly he had failed to protect her.

"You have been intimate with her. Did you tell her everything Raymond?"

Red looked at him in silence, his guilt-filled eyes answering the question for him. He watched as Dembe's head fell slightly in disappointment and snapped at him - "oh spare me your righteous indignation."

Dembe nodded without meeting his eye and left the room. Red shook his head and ran a hand exasperatedly over his face. Mr Kaplan placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "All that matters now is getting her back. Focus on that. Agent Ressler and the task force are on their way. You will get her back."

Dembe returned shortly and held out a phone wordlessly. Red grimaced and put it to his ear.

"I'm listening."

"Mr Reddington." The director's typically dispassionate tones grated on the other end of the line. "I understand that a team from Homeland Security have made quite a coup – Elizabeth Keen, number five on the most wanted list - quite a coup indeed."

Red attempted to slip into character. Negotiating with very unpleasant people was his stock in trade, he had to let it work for him now.

"I'm sure it is, but unfortunately for them it'll be short-lived. Her capture by the security services is bad news for you and your people. Whatever information you can get from her, there's a lot more she could tell them about you. Between her and the fulcrum you are dangerously close to an indictment and you know it. You've made your point. Now you're going to let her go."

"You overplay your hand, Mr Reddington, as usual. This isn't a negotiation."

"Well then, if this isn't a negotiation you can look forward to reading about yourself in your morning paper. I've been saving some particularly juicy tidbits from the fulcrum for a special occasion." Red chuckled mirthlessly. "Kuwait? God that was a mess, fire and brimstone… Or something closer to home – how about Enron? Don't even get me started on that…"

"Yes, your recent revelations have made some of my associates nervous. They feel that an insurance policy is warranted to ensure that no more unfavourable stories come to light." His voice took on a hard quality. "The girl, Mr Reddington. Stop the exposés, and she stays alive."

Red paused. So that's it, he thought. They're going to use her to control him. "I see. And assuming I comply, she won't be harmed in any way?"

"National security procedures must be adhered to, Mr Reddington" the director said casually. "Keen is a terrorist and a spy. She'll be detained in federal custody and interrogated as would any other prisoner of her ilk."

He felt his chest tighten. "Any information she gives them will lead back to you. Is it worth the risk?"

"I think it's doubtful that the warden of a level ten detention facility will give credence to the accusations of a Russian spy."

Red's stomach clenched. During the Braxton incident he'd spent less than 24 hours in the hands of security services at a level ten facility. He had seen things there he never wanted to see again.

When he didn't respond, the director continued. "I hear she was injured during her capture. She was lucky to survive. But then, perhaps when the interrogators get their hands on her she'll wish she hadn't. Pretty girl, isn't she? Like her mother... Behave yourself, Mr Reddington. If you don't, I guarantee she will pay for every one of your transgressions."

The director hung up before Red could respond. It didn't matter. He didn't have anything to say. He would have begged them on his knees not to hurt her if he'd thought it would have done any good. But it wouldn't. He felt bile rise in his throat and his chest tightening further, as though invisible fists were squeezing his lungs.

"Raymond?" Mr Kaplan and Dembe were watching him from the other side of the room.

"This isn't about information, it never was" he said, his expression unreadable. "It's about insurance. They're using her to keep me in line." He paused. "The director couldn't resist dropping into conversation that she's being held at a level ten facility. There aren't many of those. Notify Agent Ressler and his team, and let me know when they arrive."

"Raymond-" Dembe began.

"I'd like to be alone, please."

Dembe and Kaplan exchanged glances before exiting the room, leaving Red slumped in his chair.

They'd taken everything now, he thought. Even the safe place in his mind to which he always went for comfort. Her. She was his safe place, but it was no longer safe to think about her. Now his customary thoughts of her laughing and happy – fantasies inspired by his treasured photographs of her at birthdays, at her graduation - turned into thoughts of what she must be going through at the prison. Depending on which facility it was, she could have already been there for over twelve hours, injured, afraid and alone.

In his mind he heard her cry out, though his only reference for the sound was her climaxing in his arms, a memory which made his cock twitch before he quelled the thought, disgusted at himself. Losing her was a punishment. Punishment for his weakness and failure. Now she was gone his greatest comfort had become his greatest fear.

As he stared into the gloom he began to pore over and over the events that had precipitated her capture. What could he have done differently? He wondered if there was one thing, one moment that had determined the rest of the course from that point on. A butterfly flaps its wings and triggers a tsunami on the other side of the world.

If there was such a point, he couldn't help but think that somehow it was the moment his resolve had broken and he had taken her at last, almost weeping with equal parts joy and shame. It was the shame that spoke loudest in the darkness now, and shame, he knew, was a vicious mistress. It was that which led him to the conclusion of this bleakest of thought experiments, to the acknowledgement that it wasn't their joining at all that had led to this, for that and everything that followed had only been the inevitable outcome of events set in motion long before.

Now as he sat alone in the darkened room like a penitent in an empty confessional, he confronted truths he had previously turned from. That day, even as he had sedated her and laid her forlorn, unconscious body down on the bed, her face streaked with tears, he had desired her hopelessly and inappropriately, a need which had been growing year on year like a sickness. It was only a matter of time. Holding her, subduing her, the control - it was like blood to a shark already circling in the water.

He could no longer deny the allure of the power that comes with holding a life in one's hands, and he'd held hers for so long – monitoring her, pulling strings for her - he could barely remember a time when he hadn't drawn on it for comfort, solace, and yes, gratification.

You can watch her or have her watched. Keep her safe, try to ascertain her hopes, dreams, desires. But it's all about you. Salving your own guilt.

At what point had a desire to protect become a desire for absolution, become a desire to possess. Desire on desire on desire, until it's impossible to differentiate and all he knew for certain now was that it would never be enough. When they had finally come together he had expected – no, needed – it to be the redemption and peace he so desperately craved, but it wasn't, and it wasn't the next time either. No. It was gasoline on a fire inside him that had started in a house twenty-seven years ago. That was the moment.

Fool. Wretched, wretched, fool.

He longed for the bottle, alcohol-induced stupor now being his only refuge from the thoughts that plagued him. It wasn't an option – he had to stay clear headed. He reached for the cup of tea on the table, but as he did so his breath caught in his chest and he coughed, spilling the tea. It splashed on his fingers, causing the delicate china handle to slip from his grasp. It clattered on the table before rolling off and on to the carpet, its contents leaving a brown stain which complimented the others that adorned the carpet in the shabby room.

That evening, Dembe knocked on the door and entered, with Agents Ressler, Navabi and Mojtabai in tow. Red watched from his chair as their eyes darted furtively about the room, taking in the drab surroundings and the tea cup which still lay on the floor. None of them would dare to mention it. He wasn't going to waste time.

"You three are here because you have accepted a truth of the existence of a global conspiracy, a conspiracy which has claimed the freedom of two of your colleagues. You are here to offer your services in recovering them and you understand the risks you assume in taking this path."

Ressler stood silently, stony faced, while Samar offered a small nod. Aram was the only one who spoke. "Mr Reddington, there's nothing we want more than to help. It's clear there's something very wrong here. When they arrested Director Cooper I knew…" he trailed off under Red's hard gaze, and averted his eyes. "We're happy to help" he finished abruptly.

Ressler shook his head. "We're here. But don't think for a minute that I trust you. This is about getting Liz and Cooper back. After that, all bets are off. As far as I'm concerned, you're the one that belongs in prison."

Red's mouth spread into a plastic smile. "Look at us all working together, just like old times. Let's get started, shall we?"

~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~

When Liz woke up, she thought she was drowning again. Her hair was damp, her nose stung and there was something wet and heavy on her face. Her chest burned badly and a radiating pain spread from her shoulder in deep, agonizing bursts.

Shot, I was shot. It hurts. Please. It hurts so much.

She needed to scream, to externalise the pain somehow, but nothing happened except a small gurgle in her throat that made her think of blood.

There were people around her. She could hear them, voices getting closer. She opened her eyes but could only see shapes through the cloth. She had a strange sensation of falling although she wasn't moving.

"Again." she heard.

And then it came – more water, cold and musty tasting like hose water, in her face, up her nose, in her mouth. She convulsed, coughing and blinking, drawing water fizzling through the damp cloth as she tried to breathe.

Shortly afterwards, the rag was removed from her face. She was on her back at an incline, which gave her an uninformative view of a concrete ceiling. As she coughed and shivered a man came into view.

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Keen. Or do you prefer Miss Rostova?"

She closed her eyes again.

She barely heard anything after that. She just felt. The pain in her shoulder was exquisite – she could feel that the wound had been bandaged, but if she had ever been given pain medication it had long since worn off. The bandage was sodden, either with water or blood, or both. She couldn't tell.

She had no idea how long they kept her there, only that, by the end, she began to crave the water. The shock of the cold became a welcome distraction from the pain, the fight to breathe a reminder that she wanted to live. She'd almost let go last time – without him, she would have. Now she had a chance to fight for herself.

Like a baptism she thought. My sins are being washed away.

Eventually the table on which she lay was tilted back to a horizontal position and the straps roughly unbuckled. She was pulled to her feet but her legs gave way underneath her. She felt strong arms wrap around her, and it was horribly familiar.

Drowning and pain and fear.

The voice, when it came, was different. It was deep, yes, but lacked the emotion that seemed to punctuate Red's gravelly tones.

"You're going to need to be stronger than that to survive in here."

She nodded mutely and tried to take a step forward, but her head and body didn't seem to communicate with one another. She stumbled forward and an arm caught her round her waist. A moment later she was off her feet, being carried like a child, a child that no one cared about.

Minutes later she was dumped onto the floor of a concrete cell, illuminated by a single fluorescent light and distinguished only by a wide metal bench and a grate in the floor. She pushed herself into a sitting position, shivering, her sodden grey jumpsuit clinging to her skin.

"You'll freeze to death in that" the warden said, matter-of-factly. "Take it off."

She didn't respond, except to pull her arms around herself.

He wrapped his fingers around his baton. "Do it. If you behave yourself I'll bring you a new one."

She began to unbutton the jumpsuit, her hands shaking, keeping her eyes on the floor.

"Bony little thing aren't you?" he said conversationally as she peeled the damp cloth down over her hips.

So familiar. But no tender touch. No warm bed. No 'Lizzie'.

"I don't know what Reddington saw in you."

Red. She looked up at the warden then, scanning his weather-beaten face for something, some clue.

"Oh, so that got your attention, huh?"

She swallowed, willing her vocal chords to work. "Is he.." she whispered. "Is he.."

"Dead?" the warden supplied.

There was so much gunfire. So much smoke.

"As far as I know he's still out there, surviving like a damn roach, but it won't be for long mind you. I'm sure they'll get him on death row soon enough. He might even go before you."

She felt a sudden surge of adrenaline and sprang up from the floor, lunging at the warden, as grief and rage flooded her heart. She had next to no strength but he was taken by surprise and staggered backwards. Recovering quickly, he shoved her down onto the concrete floor.

"Watch your temper kitten or I'll throw you in with the other prisoners, just like that." He nodded at her naked form sprawled on the floor. Don't get many women in a level ten facility. Some of these animals haven't seen a woman in years."

He grabbed her jumpsuit from the floor and turned towards the door, but paused when he reached it. After a moment he turned back towards her, a strange look in his eye.

"You've got some fight left in you after all. Good. You're gonna need it."

TBC