A/N: For now, at least, we're going to be following alongside canon as Red & Liz get to know one another. So, if you see some dialogue you recognize, I borrowed it, with thanks, from its bountiful creators. I also owe the brilliant Mike Mignola for some inspiration, and our own Catherine Medici for the idea of making Lizzie into a superhero…
It had been such a nice, normal morning, Rose thinks ruefully, as she sits in the dim, quiet room, waiting to be questioned. All her regulars coming through, with a nod or a smile; some of the friendlier agents even say hello. She'd just finished her coffee when it happened.
Seemed like nothing at first — handsome, well-dressed man with a nice smile and charming manners. It's a little odd to show up without an appointment, but he seemed so… proper. And then… he just dropped to his knees and it all just went to hell in a blur — lights flashing, sirens blaring, gates crashing down in a clamour, armored men with assault rifles swarming her lobby.
Here and she thought this job would be quieter than the courthouse. Her husband's right, she thinks, a little sulkily. She needs a new line of work.
He sits in the little glass box, waiting, smiling. He had forgotten how much he hates being in restraints, cuffed and trapped, but he knows that his distaste and discomfort doesn't show on his face. He wonders if she's awake yet, if she's ready for what the day will bring.
She can't possibly be ready.
She rolls over and snaps awake, inhaling sharply in pain. She takes a moment to breathe, slowly and deliberately, and then rolls up to sitting, grunting a little at the unexpected effort it takes. She glances at the clock, but it's okay — she's awake before the alarm and has plenty of time to get ready. Good thing, too, because it seems like she'll need it.
She swings her legs off the bed and examines her right calf — it's clotted nicely, and she's glad she was right, and she didn't need stitches. She pulls up her thin, black tank to examine her torso, wincing as her arms lift. As she feared, black and purple smear across the right side of her ribcage; she palpates the bruises, gently but firmly, with her fingertips. At least two ribs cracked, she thinks, but nothing broken. Not so bad, considering the ferocity of the fight she'd been in.
He's getting impatient, in his transparent cage. He generally tries to keep his ego at least somewhat in check, he really does, but he expected a better response. Time is, as always, a factor here. His arm itches in a irritating way at the injection site of the RFID tag (amateurs); but then it emits a short double beep. Ah, he thinks, at last, we're in business.
"Evidently someone with the authority to make decisions has arrived," he announces cheerfully, letting just a hint of arrogance and smugness into his carefully modulated tone. "I think I smell the stench of your cologne, Agent Cooper. Smells like hubris."
He takes just a moment to chuckle inwardly. He's actually missed toying with authority…
"You must have many questions, so let's begin with the most important one — why I'm here. Remember the 1986 attack on the U.S. embassy in Damascus, the abduction of six foreign nationals from the French consulate in Algiers in '97, or the 2002 breach of the Krungthai Bank in Bangkok? You see these events as unrelated. I can tell you one man is responsible for all three. His name is Ranko Zamani. You want him. I want him. So let's say for the moment that our interests are aligned…"
She steps out of the shower and pats herself dry gingerly, careful not to strain her ribs or loosen any scabs. She frowns as she dabs herself meticulously with a soaked cotton pad, and the citrusy scent of her soap is replaced with the astringent smell of antiseptic. She might as well just wash in iodine, she thinks, a little bitterly.
She bandages the cut on her calf, just to be on the safe side, then stands up as straight as she can to wrap and tape her ribcage. There are many, varied ways in which she misses her father — sometimes his loss weighs so heavy she thinks she can't bear it — but right now, it's his strong, sure hands that she misses. The way he would gently tend to her hurts, telling her each mark is worth it, reminding her why she needs to fight, night after night.
"Were you wrong?" he asks, pleased things are going exactly as planned.
"I was wrong." Cooper, clearly, is not pleased.
"Yes, you were wrong." God, he loves this. "At least it's not the first time. Familiar territory. Now, I'll give you Zamani, but first…"
"No 'but firsts.' You don't decide anything," Cooper barks.
"Agent Cooper, you've overestimated your authority. I said I'll help you find Zamani, and I will. But from this point forward, there's one very important rule. I speak only with Agent Elizabeth Milhoan."
Dressed and fed — and wondering, for the umpteenth time, what it might be like to wear a colour, and not just black or grey — she screws the lid on her travel mug and heads for the door. She pauses outside on the steps of her apartment building to drop her keys in her bag and adjust one of her boots.
As she straightens, she thinks she can hear… is that a helicopter? Now there are sirens, too, and it's a mad cacophony of sight and sound as a helicopter does swoop overhead, and two huge black SUVs roar up the street and screech to a halt in front of her.
A tall, built, square-faced blond man approaches the steps, flipping open a familiar badge holder as he does so.
"Agent Milhoan? Donald Ressler, Washington field office. I need you to come with me right away."
She evaluates him warily; his ID corroborates his statement, as far as it goes.
"Really?" she says, with her skepticism clear in her voice. "I was heading there anyway, which, if you know who I am, you already know. You give this treatment to every new kid on their first day?"
"Hardly," Ressler scowls; he sure seems pissed off. "These are extremely special circumstances. Now get in the car before I have to cuff you and drag you off like a perp in front of your neighbours."
Not much of a bedside manner, but he couldn't be more typical FBI agent if he was on an "Uncle Sam" poster — and it's not as if she can't get away from him easily enough if things aren't as they seem.
She climbs into the first SUV alongside Agent Ressler, wondering just what form this twist of Fate will take…
Well, she thinks, focusing carefully on not fidgeting, on not showing anything at all but the mask of calm she has spent years perfecting. That was unexpected.
Meeting Assistant Director Harold Cooper, inside a secret FBI black site no less, hadn't come anywhere near what she had planned for her first day as a profiler. And now, a face-to-face chat with infamous international criminal Raymond Reddington — why not?
Keep cool, Liz, she says to herself firmly, allowing herself a small, tension-relieving inner snicker. She walks down the metal stairs, heels clanging faintly, watching as the glass box opens up and recedes mechanically, keeping her eyes trained on the face of the man inside, who is staring just as intently at her, a faint smile on his face.
She's sure that she had never seen him before, but there's something about him… she can feel the all-too-familiar tingle in the back of her neck, the first hot whispers starting to sing in her veins and mentally clamps down as hard as she can.
Who in hell is this man?
As the last ringing beep dies away and she seats herself primly in front of him, his smile grows from faint to full. It transforms his world-weary face completely, changing him into someone softer, warmer, welcoming.
"Agent Milhoan," he rasps in a deep, velvet voice that arrows straight into her — but there's something a little strange about the way he says her name. "What a pleasure."
"Tell me about Zamani," she demands flatly, determined to start off on the right foot here. "And why involve me? I'm nobody. It's… my first day."
"Oh, I think you're very special," he answers, his voice warmer than ever, his eyes searching. Then he straightens a little and becomes brisk. "Within the hour, Ranko Zamani will abduct the daughter of U.S. General Daniel Ryker. There'll be some kind of diversion, communications will be scrambled, then he'll grab the girl. He wants to be out of the country within thirty-six hours. If you don't move quickly, she will die. That's what I know."
"And how do you know that?" she asks, mind racing. What the hell is going on?
"Because I'm the one who got him into the country."
"And I'm supposed to believe you?"
He laughs, and he actually sounds genuinely amused. "No, of course not! I'm a criminal; criminals are notorious liars. Everything about me is a lie. But if anyone can give me a second chance, it's you…"
The long, long day swirls nauseatingly around in her head as she drags herself into her building and up to her apartment, her last image of Beth's frightened face fixed stubbornly in the forefront of her mind. Is this a typical day as a field agent, she wonders, a little desperately, still not quite able to grasp the insane blur of events.
She makes to unlock her door, but it's already open, it's not quite latched. Her senses flick alert; she draws her gun and holds it at the ready, nudging the door open with her foot. The apartment is dark and quiet, but this just serves to put her more on edge. She slides inside as silently as possible, with her back up against the wall.
Breathe quiet, she reminds herself, make yourself invisible. She listens as hard as she can, but hears nothing — where is the intruder? She's absolutely sure now that someone's there; she can feel the difference in the air, a heaviness in her space that doesn't belong.
Then, before she even registers the sound of a breath, something hits her wrist, hard, and the gun drops from her hands; a mere instant later, she feels the touch of cold metal on the skin of her neck. Dammit, she thinks, dammit, no! She breathes in once, carefully, and the light flicks on.
Zamani, she has just enough time to think, then he is prodding her into a chair.
"So," he says, sounding almost friendly, but for the gun aimed at her face. "You found my friend the Chemist. I'm quite pleased to avoid having to pay him. What else have you found out about me?"
"Nothing," she says flatly, thinking hard, wondering how on earth he found her, found her apartment, and why.
He cocks the pistol and leans in; she doesn't speak, or even flinch. He slaps her face, hard enough to make her ears ring and her eyes water.
"What else do you know?" he asks, more menacing now. He presses the gun into her temple and raises an eyebrow at her.
"Not much, I swear," she says, angry again, but cautious. "There's a bomb, but we don't know what or where."
He gives a bitter little laugh. "Not so clever, then, as my friend Reddington says. Oh yes," he continues, seeing the change in her face. "He speaks of you often, too often. He is obsessed with you, yes? And there is a bomb, and there will be many casualties, Agent Milhoan, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it."
He laughs again, then his gun hand moves suddenly; a bright light flashes behind her eyes, and there's nothing else.
Awareness comes back to her slowly; she feels dizzy and sick, and there's a piercing pain in her temple. She puts her hand to her head — ouch — and it comes away sticky with blood.
Ugh, she thinks, pistol whipped.
As first days in a new job go, this one is turning out both extremely long and extraordinarily painful.
She can feel the anger building as she tapes up her head in the bathroom; the heat swirls in her veins, and she can feel them starting to pulse. Not safe, she thinks, not safe to go out tonight, hurt and tired and already so angry.
In a clean t-shirt and panties, her head bandaged and pounding, she sits on the floor beside her bed and starts the breathing exercises that Sam taught her so many years ago, to channel calm over anger, to quell the sparks of her rage and quiet the fire within.
Tomorrow, she tells it, tomorrow, you can have Reddington.
It's very early when she strides through the hotel, paying no attention to the beauty of her surroundings, letting her anger eke out and spark through her, feeling it getting stronger and hotter as she walks. She slams into his room, ignoring the agents on the door — Reddington doesn't look even a little bit surprised to see her, adding weight to her suspicions about him.
"Did you send him?" she demands, breathing fast, clamping down inside. "Are you the one who brought him to me?"
"What are you talking about, Lizzie?" he asks coolly.
"He was in my house," she yells, control loosening in the face of his cavalier calm. "He broke into my home. He hit me…"
"Calm down and tell me what happened."
"Don't play stupid," she spits. "You're the only thing connecting us. How else would he have found me? Why else would he even bother? He told me you're obsessed with me."
"Did he mention the girl or the bomb?"
"We're not a team"
"Zamani."
"I'm not your partner."
"What did he say?" More insistent now.
"He… mentioned the Chemist… something about casualties, and… he talked about you."
"So, the bomb's still in play."
She's never spoken with anyone so skilled at evasion, and the cool, assertive tone of his voice just enrages her further. Her control slips, infinitesimally, but it's enough. In a split second, she feels the spark leave her hand; as fast as a blink, she moves her arm to knock the lamp beside her onto the floor, so the explosion of the light bulb will be lost in the smash of the lamp base. She clenches her fists, reining in the fire — who is this man, and what does he want with her?
"Why was he in my house?" she screams, needing the release as much as the answer.
"Why did you let him threaten you? Hurt you?" he asks, ignoring her outburst, cool and placid as a lake. "Why didn't you stop him, Lizzie? We both know you could have."
It's panic, now, that fills her veins and makes her dizzy — what does he know about her and how does he know it? What the hell is going on? She needs a distraction, and she needs it now.
Without really thinking about it, she picks up his heavy metal pen from the table in front of him, and jams it into his neck as hard as she can.
Striving to match the calm that he has smothered her in since she walked in the door, she starts talking.
"Now, you know I just punched a hole in your carotid. Best chance, one minute before you pass out. Now, tell me how to find Zamani, or I let you die right here. Understand?"
"Yeah," he says, finally showing a touch of strain. "But if I die… you'll never know the truth about yourself…"
"You know nothing about me," she snaps, willing it to be true. "Whatever you think you know… you don't."
She yanks the pen back out of his neck and drops it, coated in his blood, back on the table, and flees from the room. She's angry still, but now she's afraid too — so afraid she thinks it might overwhelm her.
The choking fear stayed with her the rest of the day, spurring her to move quicker, think faster, be better, better than she thought she could be. She found herself, against her will, reaching out to Reddington again and again, needing not just his guidance, but also the slant he puts on her thinking, the way he nudges her out of familiar patterns.
The worst part is, it worked — with him, she finds Beth, sees the bomb disarmed, and saves the day, just like a hero.
His piercing gaze captured hers as Ressler came pounding up to handcuff him again. "We're going to make a great team," he said, smiling a boyish smile at her even as the cuffs tightened around his wrists.
She can't banish the image of his face as she paces her apartment, wondering, worrying. Is it possible he does know something about her, has even an inkling of the truth that she and Sam worked so hard her entire life to conceal?
She has to know what he knows — she can't hide anymore. She knows he's back in a holding cell, awaiting Cooper's response to his… proposal. She makes her way across town to the Post Office, trying and failing to come up with a plan, with something to say that will make him talk to her.
When the cell door opens, she can only look at him, his commanding presence diminished by the institutional blue jumpsuit. His face is pale, his eyes squinting almost shut against the sudden light — but she knows he recognizes her. She looks at him and waits, her heart beating hard, her palms sweaty, the fire flickering inside her.
He gives her a faint half-smile as he squints into her face.
"I knew your father, Lizzie. I knew Sam."