disclaimer: not mine
a/n #1: the fic is still behind the show. Currently it's in a post-Milton Bobbit & pre-Berlin "bubble". I still intend to follow milestone canon developments, but I'm taking alternate routes.
a/n #2: thanks so much for the follows, favorites, and comments. I treasure them all, and one day I'll get back to each of you individually.
a/n #3: enjoy!
She silently follows the Assistant Director up to his office.
The rhythmic thumping of shoes against steel abruptly stops, then the door closes behind her, amplifying the mute unease.
"Sit," Cooper says without making eye contact.
His desk is cluttered with various files and classified documents. They are marred by black stripes and red stamp marks.
Liz remains standing, clutching her coat, her eyes drinking in the sea of paper. Some look like medical charts but she can't make out whose name is on them.
Cooper settles into his chair and fixes her with a look.
Soon his voice jars her. She looks at him, confused and a little embarrassed. "Sir?"
"I said, 'Are you all right?'"
She stares at him, her bruised grip on the coat tightening. "Yes. I... I'm fine."
She still won't sit but Cooper doesn't ask her again.
He studies her like he studied her on the day the FBI's 4th most wanted showed up on their doorstep. This time, however, the narrow-eyed suspicion is somewhat softened by the productive months that came after the surprise surrender - by all the lives saved and criminals ticked off the list.
"What happened?" he inquires, the anger he displayed earlier seemingly gone.
She wonders if it's a trick, if he's only pretending. Or was he pretending before? Her gaze flickers to a preliminary police report lying open on his desk. Don't you know already?, the gesture implies.
He catches her glance. "I'd like to hear it from you."
"I shot someone." Vague but true. A careful approach. She learnt it from the best.
"Your husband," Cooper clarifies.
"I shot someone who pretended to be my husband," she corrects him.
The Assistant Director is silent for a long moment and she waits, readying herself. She knows exactly what his next word will be. "Reddington-"
"He tried to warn me. I refused to listen. The shooting had nothing to do with him."
Cooper furrows his brows. This readiness to defend Red - even when he isn't present - is officially a cause for concern. "Are you sure?"
She answers with silence.
"Because these days rarely anything happens around here that doesn't have his fingerprints on it."
"What are you implying, sir?"
"You two spend a lot of time together. By now you seem almost..." he trails off, searching for the least offensive word, "... comfortable with each other." When she doesn't protest his assessment, he adds, "Some might say a little too comfortable."
"My partnership with Reddington, however comfortable it may seem, had no bearing on my decision to shoot the person who was about to shoot me," she remarks, "sir."
"You're saying this was self-defense?"
"Yes," she replies. "But it wouldn't surprise me if Tom remembered things differently. Like he did the last time he was here."
For the longest moment, Cooper doesn't respond. He seems to be putting the pieces together. "So your previous suspicions were correct. The passports, the gun, the money - all his." She nods. "He worked with Zanetakos."
"Yes."
"And what was his interest in you?"
Her gaze briefly shifts to a folder with her name on it, then back to Cooper. "Same as yours, I suppose," she replies. "I'm a link to Reddington."
"So why attack you now?"
"I think he realized we were onto him," she answers, noting Cooper's silent reaction to the word we. "Maybe he panicked. Maybe it was his exit protocol. I don't know."
"You've been investigating him?"
"Yes. On my own time." Cooper keeps staring at her, waiting for a more elaborate answer. "I didn't want to involve anyone from the task force until I had something tangible."
"Did you involve Reddington?"
"Yes."
"In what capacity?"
"He assisted me."
"Assisted?"
"He helped with surveillance and information gathering."
Cooper reaches for a file, pulls out a photo and slides it in front of her. "Did he also help Craig Keen out a hotel room window?"
Liz stares at the picture - the dead body, the blood-soaked sidewalk. "This was a suicide."
"Would that be your professional opinion?" She glances up. Says nothing. "His hands were tied behind his back," Cooper comments.
Liz is silent for a while. She slowly picks up the photograph and studies it. "His real name was Christopher Maly," she says, then slides the photo back on the desk. "One of Tom's associates. And he decided to hurl himself out the window to avoid answering our questions."
Cooper raises eyebrows at that. "You were there?"
She doesn't answer. She may have told too much already.
Her boss grows silent, unsure what to make of the situation. He decides to shift the conversation. "And last night..." he says after a pause, "Why did you leave the scene last night?"
"I was scared," she admits, her voice cracking slightly. She clears her throat. "I didn't know if Tom had back-up. I didn't quite trust the police."
"I take it you didn't trust us, either."
A pained expression crosses her face. "I just... I didn't feel safe."
"But you trusted Reddington," Cooper says. "You felt safe with him."
She swallows. Hesitates. Then confesses. "There and then, yes."
Cooper gives her a small nod, not liking the admission but appreciating her candor. "So not anymore?" he prods.
She doesn't know how to even begin to answer that question.
"You were with him until this morning?"
"Yes. At a safe house not far from here."
"Did he leave at any point during that time?"
"No." Cooper doesn't look convinced. "He stayed with me. We..." she trails off. She should have stopped after that "no". Keep it simple, she hears the gravelly voice echoing from a distant corner of her mind. She quickly silences it. She can't have him inside her head. Not now.
Cooper raises his eyebrows. "Yes...?"
"He didn't leave the house, sir."
"How can you be sure?"
The question - the assumption lingering behind it - ignites her anger but she is quick to rein it in. Her jaw sets, then: "I'm a light sleeper." And we shared the couch - among other things.
Cooper doesn't seem to appreciate the underlying tone of insolence. "Local PD is still very interested in pursuing this matter, as am I, Agent Keen. You have no immunity deal to hide behind, so I suggest you take this very seriously."
"I do, sir. That's why I'm here. That's why we need to talk to Tom."
Cooper inhales deeply and leans back in his chair. "That, I'm afraid, might prove slightly problematic."
Ressler opens the door to the interrogation room and motions with his head. "After you."
Slightly baffled, Red looks at him. "Is the cage being cleaned?"
"Move."
Red steps in.
"Sit down."
Red obeys - this time without commentary. Ressler leans down and unlocks one cuff, then pulls Red's arm up, securing the free cuff to the thick metal hook on the bolted down table. He pulls on it to make sure it's locked correctly, then nods to the guards.
The soldiers step out, closing the door and leaving the two men alone.
They are silent for a long moment, staring at each other, then Red leans back as far as the handcuffs allow him. His seemingly relaxed pose is in stark contrast with Ressler's rigid frame.
"You look stressed, Donald," he remarks. "Is everything all right?"
The younger man scoffs. "You think you're funny, don't you?" he says, rounding the table and taking a seat across from Red.
"You know, my uncle was a comedian of sorts," Red remarks and smiles fondly. "He was a wonderfully chaotic man. Unstillable. Always robed in thick cigar smoke. He had this ragged little touring theater group," Red remembers with a soft chuckle. "It didn't pay well and he spent most of his life on the road, but he had the most fascinating stories. He believed there was nothing more powerful than a tale well-told." Red drifts into silence and something dark shifts behind his green gaze. It's blinked away soon enough and the carefree tone returns. "Of course as a kid, I often found myself tempted to follow in his footsteps." And in a way, he did. In a way, his mother's older brother lives on, carefully woven into the intricate tale of the Concierge of Crime.
"You would have done the world a favor by picking a different career path, that's for sure."
"Well, sometimes the path gets picked for you," Red says, his smile fading again. "And you do your best navigating it."
"Is this your best, Reddington?" Ressler asks, fingers tapping on a closed folder in front of him.
But the question is brushed aside.
"Why am I cuffed to this table?"
Ressler doesn't answer. His hand remains resting on the thin folder, his eyes locked on the criminal in front of him, searching for an answer his dull and dry manila facts have apparently failed to provide.
"Or is it a secret?" Red teases but there's no trace of genuine humor in his tone.
The eye contact breaks and the folder is flipped open. "Where were you this morning between 6:30 and 7:30 a.m.?"
"Home," Red answers. "Well, a home," he clarifies. "It's not mine."
"You were trespassing."
"House-sitting," Red corrects him. "For a friend."
"Can anybody verify that?"
The initial response is a slight, silent head tilt. Are you serious?
"Dembe," Red answers at last, wondering what exactly Donald hopes to accomplish with these questions. "And Agent Keen," he adds with a slight shift in his tone, watching the other man's reaction. "We were together but I'm guessing you already know that."
Ressler shoots him a look. "I know that she's been evasive. I know that last night she nearly killed her husband, and I know that soon after the two of you dropped off the radar."
"Just don't mistake knowing for understanding."
"Oh I think I understand more than you think."
"What are you insinuating, Agent Ressler?"
"Did you manipulate her into doing this?"
Red feels a stab of anger. His gaze grows hard and the cuff chains clink. "Do you still think so little of your partner?" The measured words resonate with icy reprehension.
Ressler hesitates. Considers the question. "Then tell me what happened."
"You will have to ask Agent Keen. I wasn't present at the... altercation."
"But you were there shortly after," Ressler says, briefly consulting the file in front of him.
The pathologically curious neighbors probably gave a fairly good description of him - good enough to be instantly recognizable by his former case agent.
"We agreed to meet but I got stuck in traffic," Red explains with some reluctance. "By the time I walked in, there was..." he trails off. Rolls his jaw.
There was a destroyed living room. Broken pieces of furniture. The sharp crunching of glass under wet shoes. Dark patches of blood. An oppressing stillness.
"Reddington...?"
He swallows. Swiftly recovers. His eyes re-focus on Ressler but he doesn't finish the sentence.
"There was what?"
"There was nothing to be done."
She was scratched up, wide-eyed and wired. She swung around, aiming her gun at him when he stepped into the cold room. For a split second, he was sure she'd pull the trigger. Her muscles were taut with fear and tension, but ever so slightly,the gun wavered and her grip loosened. His gaze swept her body from top to toe. Are you hurt? He never actually asked but she answered anyway - with a hollow I'm fine - and he had to fight back the urge to touch her. Tom? She nodded and her gaze shifted. He followed it and saw a sticky trail leading to the back door - blood that wasn't hers. Not hers. That was all that mattered.
Wails of approaching sirens were drifting in through the front door he'd left open.
Knowing it was a mistake, he gently took her hand.
Knowing it was a mistake, she let him lead her out to the car.
There was a reaching out and a giving in. It was unclear who did which.
He can still hear the rubbery dance of the windshield wipers.
Feel her shivers and her cold hand on his thigh.
Smell the rain on the jacket he wrapped around her.
Taste the residue of fear on his tongue.
She shrank back into the car seat, pulling herself into a tight knot.
So impossibly small.
A looming explosion.
Unexpected and inevitable all at once.
"What was this 'meeting' about?" Ressler asks. "We don't have any active cases at the moment."
Red's lips twist but he doesn't answer. The two men sit in the sterile silence of the room.
The question is quickly re-phrased. "Was Tom supposed to be there?"
There's a long pause of deliberation followed by a short answer. "No."
"Why did you disappear?"
Red scoffs. "I didn't want to end up on some local cop's tally sheet, Donald. It would have reflected poorly on both of us."
"Why take Keen with you?"
"It wasn't safe for her there."
"And of course the safety of others is always your number one concern."
Red smiles a smile that dissolves as quickly as it appears. He intends to take his time with the response. He wants to browse among several neatly polished and safe versions in his head but his mouth moves before cold reason could freeze it shut.
And a simple truth tumbles out.
"Hers is."
He inhales slowly. His teeth silently abuse the inside of his cheek. He isn't quite himself today. Or maybe he's more himself now than he's ever been in the past two decades. Either way, it's disconcerting. His second skin, 20 odd years in the making, is peeling away in spots. She's brushed off chunks of cushy deceit and fake mirth and now he's here, feeling exposed yet pining for more.
He wonders if she knows, if she feels it too - that craving that clings to you like wet clothes, sending chills to your core. He wonders how she might react if one day he tremblingly stripped himself down to nothing but the truth - to all the flawed choices, disfiguring despair, and scar tissue?
Would she finally turn away in disgust?
He would understand.
Or would she still want to curl up against that human wreckage? Would she still want to nestle into the sharp, quiet space and rest comfortably in his jagged embrace?
He hopes so.
A wry smile curls his lips.
Hope.
It's a foolish luxury he recently caught himself indulging in.
A perfect storm is gathering behind her eyes - a coiled strength unwinding, a deeper sense of self stirring from its lie-induced slumber -, and her touch leaves the most sublime destruction in its wake. Clocks corrode and old wounds ache in her presence, granting him a different sort of existence.
He was being modest when he said thieving wasn't his strongest suit. He is an expert but it's not money or precious stones or priceless works of art he's after.
No.
He steals moments.
He pilfers minutes of shared existence.
He buries them deep in his soul like a magpie building a home of shiny fragments.
But he's been getting greedier lately and she is quickly becoming his worst kept secret.
And of course the safety of others is always your number one concern.
Hers is.
His honesty is soft-spoken. Some might mistake it for a weak, desperate attempt at a lie. So he waits, wondering what was heard - if it was heard at all. Truth has always been his most precious commodity, and Agent Ressler one of his most clueless buyers.
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"
Red shakes his head. It seems Agent Ressler hasn't changed much in this regard. He heard the words but failed to listen. On any other day Red wouldn't take offense but today is shaping up to be exceptional in more than one way.
The agent's ignorance is no longer a bliss for either of them.
"Honestly, Donald, I don't care what you believe. You've clearly made up your mind, so I suggest we dispense with this pointless charade."
"Oh no, we are not-"
"I am done talking to you," Red clarifies.
"Fine. I'll talk then. Tom Keen was already subjected to a thorough, in-house investigation, which concluded that he'd been set up. Your pal, Zamani, nearly gutted him a few months back. Liz shot him last night, then this morning somebody messed with his infusion pump during shift change at the hospital.
"I wasn't there."
"Maybe not. Maybe you sent someone else. Delegation seems to be your M.O. when dealing with this guy."
"Is that a fact?"
"You're the common denominator here, Reddington," Ressler persists, "and that's exactly why you're cuffed to this table." Red eyes him but remains silent. "And if it were up to me, you'd never be allowed anywhere near Agent Keen again."
Red shifts slowly, eyes unblinking. The chair creaks and metal scrapes against metal. The stuffy air hums with tension. The younger man seems determined to get under his skin and now he feels compelled to reciprocate the gesture.
"What's bothering you, Donald?" he asks. "That she chose me or... that I chose her?" There's a pause, then, "Do you feel left out?"
"Liz did not choose you or any of this. She never got the chance," Ressler counters. "You waltzed in here with your cryptic demands and dragged her into this mess. Your mess. You forced her into situations she was neither trained, nor prepared for. You clearly had it in for her husband from the get go and now you say you're just protecting her?"
"Sometimes the best way to protect someone is to teach them how to protect themselves," Red explains. "Unfortunately, there's only so much to learn in a secure underground cubicle."
"That's what last night was? Another lesson? Huh? Some sick test she had to pass?"
Red doesn't answer.
"Well, guess what," Ressler says, rising to his feet. He collects the folder, all his facts, ready to leave. "Her husband is still alive. You failed. Again."
Red smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the handcuff around his wrist, watching the light play on the metal surface.
"Maybe you're getting old."
"Maybe."
Ressler looks at him for a long, odd moment.
"Anything else you wanna get off your chest, Donald?" Red asks absently.
There's another long pause. A deliberation. "She could be facing charges."
Red's gaze shifts and locks on the FBI agent. For what? Defending herself? he wants to say but he made a promise not to vouch for her. It would do more harm than good. Besides, he isn't sure what exactly her partner is trying to do here. Is he baiting him? Is he asking for help? Both?
Red opts for silence but he sees it. He sees the same thing his pursuer of five years sees clawing inside him: concern.
But knocking shatters their scrupulous silence.
Ressler tears his gaze away, crosses to the door and pulls it open.
"Doctor's here. They are all set," the guard informs him.
The agent nods, then steps back to the table to free Red's hand. "Let's go."
tbc