disclaimer: not mine
Red's gaze scours the busy war room. He is being stared at by some and ignored by others but he's bothered by neither the curious, nor the oblivious. No. He is searching for something specific, and soon his attention comes to rest on the window of Agent Cooper's upstairs office. Ressler's up there, too, with a third agent. When the man turns, Red's eyes narrow with recognition.
Special Agent Walter Gary Martin.
One of Fitch's many puppets.
And he doesn't look pleased.
"What do you mean you let him go?" Agent Martin asks, incredulous.
"Holding him for any longer would have been a violation of our agreement," Cooper explains.
A dismissive snort is the only immediate response he receives.
"He's been re-fitted with a DARPA tag," Ressler adds. "We'll be tracking his every move."
"You can't be so naive as to think that will keep him in line - or even from disappearing," Martin counters.
"No," Cooper says, sharing a look with Ressler. "The tag won't."
"Am I missing something here?" Martin asks, shifting his attention between the two agents.
"Agent Keen," Cooper offers.
"Oh, yes. Agent Keen," Martin says, sitting down. He motions to a small stack of files on the desk. "Her screw-up is already making waves. The media is spinning it as the Bureau's latest failure to control its agents. Given the current climate, it's a little too effective for comfort." He pointedly looks at Cooper. "So any kind of leniency is strictly off the table."
"She came in this morning voluntarily," Ressler comments.
"With Reddington in tow," Cooper adds.
"Well, that's really very sweet but the fact remains: this mess needs to be contained. The longer it goes on, the more people start asking questions and the bigger our risk of exposure. No agent is worth absorbing that risk, especially not one endorsed by a known traitor."
"What are you saying?" Cooper asks.
"We're gonna expedite the process."
"You wanna throw her under the bus?" Ressler asks, his tone accusing.
"I don't want to," Martin answers. The "but I am going to" part goes without saying.
"Then this task force is finished," Cooper says and Martin throws him a silent look. "Or is that the goal here?"
"Don't act like this is a surprise, Cooper. You've always lived on borrowed time."
There's a pause. A bit of truth sinking in. Then Ressler speaks: "We don't even know what really happened last night. Her husband could b-"
"We know that no other weapon was found at the scene," Martin interrupts. "We know the bullets they pulled from the husband trace back to her gun. We know she left the scene with another man whose description matches that of our 4th most wanted fugitive. And we know," he says, glancing at Cooper, "that it was, in fact, our 4th most wanted fugitive."
There's another long pause and no objections.
"We know enough," Martin adds, looking back at Ressler.
"Yes but Reddington-"
"Reddington's a ghost. And he sure as hell cannot provide an alibi or testify in court. This little charade of his has gone on long enough."
Ressler glances at Cooper, then back at Martin. "Yes, but we still don't understand-"
"We don't need to understand. We just need to make this to go away, and the fastest way to do that is by giving people what they want."
"A scapegoat," Cooper remarks.
Red's gaze shifts away from the office upstairs and lands on the young technician who's typing on a keyboard, busy and blissfully unaware of any criminal presence.
"Hello, Aram."
Aram flinches. His fingers slide off the keys as he turns in the direction of the familiar voice. "Mr. Reddington."
Red bends forward and squints at the screen. "Working on another app?" he inquires with a casual air of menace.
Aram swallows hard and his gaze flickers to the bandage on Red's neck. "I um..." With a gentle sweep of a fingertip, the screen goes black. "I-If you're looking for Agent Keen-"
"I am not."
The young man gives a hesitant nod and the conversation halts for an uncomfortable moment.
Red studies the desk and squints at a mug that reads: sassy, classy & a bit smart assy. "Do you like coffee?" he asks.
"M-me? Um... y-yes. Yes, I do."
"There's a wonderful little coffee shop just around the corner," Red informs him and his friendly demeanor unsettles Aram even more.
"Oh, I-I didn't know that."
"I'm heading there right now."
Aram nods with a strained smile.
"Would you like to join me?"
"You... you want to take me out for a cup of coffee?"
"Yes. Why not?" Red says as if the offer was the most natural thing in the world.
"That's-that's very kind, but I'm-I'm kinda in the middle of something."
Red's attention shifts up to the office window, then back to the young man. Time is running out. "We all are, Aram."
Aram glances up too. "Agent Martin," he says, his gaze now on Red. "He's not here to help L-" he abruptly swallows the rest of her given name, then swiftly corrects himself: "Agent Keen, is he?"
"No, he's not," Red confirms.
There's a nod. And suspicion. "Are you, Mr. Reddington?"
He doesn't answer.
Aram holds his gaze. There's something unbreakable hiding underneath all that fear, and Red lets the young man take these tremblingly brave seconds to reach a decision on his own.
Aram steals another glance upstairs, then locks eyes with Red. The decision is made and it comes with a complimentary divulgence of information: "They are tracking her, too. Her new cell phone."
Red's gaze hardens.
"I spoofed the signal," Aram adds quickly and he can feel the tension dissipate. "They didn't see her... with-with you in there."
Red flashes a small grin of feigned ignorance. "In where?"
Aram only hesitates for a second. "Nowhere."
Her index finger hovers over the dial pad.
Warm hesitation mixes with cold air as the dial tone drones on.
The receiver is slowly placed back, then forcefully yanked off the hook again, and a string of numbers is punched in in quick, almost angry succession.
It's ringing.
One.
A deep inhale.
Two.
A misty-white exhale.
Three.
She glances around.
Four.
This is probably a bad idea.
Fi-
The ringing abruptly stops but nothing follows. She listens to the fuzzy void on the other end.
It's him.
She hears a faint rustle.
He fidgets.
It spreads an even fainter, unconscious smile over her chapped lips.
"It's 2 in the morning and 40 degrees outside," he informs her with a strange note in his tone. It's either drowsiness or expensive scotch.
"Have you been drinking?"
"Yes."
"Are you drunk?"
No answer.
She tries again - a bit uneasy. "I just..." but she trails off, unsure.
"You are not at the motel."
"I needed to clear my head."
"Where are you, Lizzie?"
A volume of concern.
"I thought you had me followed."
There's a pause, then: "They lost you 30 minutes ago at the corner of 13th and Shepherd."
She kicks the question back to him. "Where are you?"
"I thought you had an app," he replies, rolling the tracking chip between his thumb and index finger.
He should have given it to Dembe. They should have relocated to a new place already. Yet he is sitting on the same couch in the same house he shared with her yesterday.
He is lingering.
Waiting.
Hoping.
It's dangerous.
Borderline sadistic.
"It becomes pretty useless if you dig out the tag."
He lets out a soft chuckle.
It ends too soon. "How was it?" he inquires. "The evaluation?"
Only he can make disdain drip from a word like that.
"I survived," she says. "They let me go. For now, anyway." She pictures him giving a curt, pursed-lipped nod. "But it's best if we don't see each other until this is over."
His fingers close tightly around the small chip, and a sharp edge bites into his skin. "Yes."
It's a winced yes. And quick. Too quick. Too agreeable.
"I mean it, Red," she insists. "You need to stay away."
A counter offer: "I'll stay away if that's what you want."
Then a clumsy confession of sorts: "It's not wh... This isn't about what I want."
He hesitates for a short moment. "Is this about what Agent Martin wants?"
Her temple comes to rest against the top of the booth. "Agent Martin wanted me to reach out to you and set up a meet," she says. She is betraying. She is protecting. Her hands are so cold. "Just stay away," she repeats firmly. "Please."
She already has plenty to worry about.
Please. His eyes close and his jaw clenches. It's always the small things. Paper cuts of emotion. They are the most painful. Like that soft syllable of care so badly craved but never fully merited.
"I will find a way to be useful from a distance, then," he says.
"I'm sure you will."
There's a moment of waiting - a confusion of feelings mixed with burning alcohol and cold night air.
"There's no case against you," he says, "at least not until Tom wakes up." Aram was more than useful and fully complicit in digging up sensitive details of the investigation. And the coffee was excellent, too.
But she doesn't ask how he knows. Her mind is occupied with something else. Someone else. "Do you think he planned this?" Tom did hesitate and she shot him. Or did he let her? Did he want her to? He created a situation where a gun and a handful of bullets remained her only way out. "To gain leverage, something to trade?"
Something to further entrap and manipulate you with. The other end of the line is silent for a while but then: "I'll be sure to ask him when I visit."
"Red-"
"You should head back," he interrupts. "Before you freeze to death."
"You can't kill him," she reminds him. He can't. Not when she has so many questions gnawing at her.
Anger and frustration ignite some of the scotch pooling inside him.
I can.
I want to.
Tell me.
Let me.
But no such request is forthcoming. No changing of mind. The order remains and it's coated in her voice - stubborn and beautiful.
He rolls his jaw, shakes his head. "As you wish," he says with forced ease, trying for a light shift in the conversation, but the words come out seared and deformed. "I'm sorry," he adds after a long pause.
"For what?" she asks with a soft sniffle. It's the cold.
A sad half-grin twists his mouth. For what? Oh my dear Lizzie. That's another long list. Maybe the longest, and despite his best intentions - or perhaps because of them - it only seems to be getting longer. Everything. But one step at a time: "The motel was the smart choice," he squeezes out. It is true and he hates it.
She knows. "It's really not that bad, you know."
"It's depressing. Smothering - even with those mirrors."
The mood shifts.
"You know what I find smothering? Being stalked 24/7." Her voice is low and cold now, and he almost says it, almost defends himself: I don't enjoy it, either. It's not fun, it's not right, it's just... necessary. But the flimsy justification dies in his throat. He is going to keep her safe, no matter the cost. He's going to keep her alive even if resentment is the only 'thank you' he'll ever receive. After all, one has to be alive to resent.
He tilts back his head, eyes drifting shut, fingers curling into a fist around the tracking chip.
Tired. He is so tired.
She listens.
There's a deep intake of breath followed by a slow, even exhale.
He listens.
There's a siren wailing faintly in the distance.
There always seems to be a siren wailing in the background of this circular tale of longing and clutching and letting go.
"Your phone-"
"I know," she assures him, her voice softer now.
Neither is willing to hang up.
Both are grasping for things to say.
She is shivering and he is burning up.
"Tell me," she prompts.
"Tell you what?" he asks, eyes still closed. His thumb slides back and forth along the edge of the phone, as if caressing it.
She picks at a faded, peeling sticker. "That there's a point to this..." she trails off, slowly smoothes the sticker back. "... mess."
His eyes drag themselves open, his mouth twitches and he grips the phone a little tighter. There was a point once. A clear path and a ruthless plan. But plans change. Fires are set. Priorities shift. Emotion bleeds into strategy.
And you end up on a different path.
Your steps unchoreographed.
Your destination fuzzier.
Seductive, even.
It's a dizzying ballet of rage and desire, fear and love, relentlessly keeping everyone on their toes at all times.
Maybe you don't know what you really want anymore.
He hears her sigh.
He stares at the ceiling. He didn't notice the cracks before. All his attention was focused on her. Sleeping. Warm. Soft. Only his to hold, to admire, to breathe in just for an hour or two. A privilege.
Her voice pulls him back to the present. "You know, one of these days we'll have to have a frank discussion."
"Our discussions are always frank," he counters, the teasing is once again evident in his tone, and his eyes shift to the folder on the coffee table.
"Frank but incomplete," she remarks.
He is quick to use the opportunity. "Agent Martin will not make a move without sufficient fabricated evidence. But you probably realized that the moment they let you go."
"So?"
"So why did you really call, Lizzie? It wasn't just to warn me."
Hesitation is her first answer. Then,
"I had a nightmare," she confesses abruptly. "The same I used to have as a child. The one I told you about. Remember?"
Her clumsy frankness is followed by a silent twitch of emotion.
This is unexpected.
He can barely make his lips move. "Yes." Fear rises inside him but he swallows it back. And waits. Listens.
"But this time it had a new detail."
He doesn't ask what.
He doesn't have to.
"You were there..." she volunteers the information, "... burning."
He winces, head bowing and teeth baring for only a split second as a hot jolt scrapes across his skin - a memory flaring up. Then comes a complete, breathless stillness. Sometimes he dreams of those flames, too. Flames that ate flesh and kept secrets. Flames that unmade him into something not quite human - something dark, lonely, and selfish that could thrive among people-shaped monsters.
Flames that screamed and marred and devoured.
A fire that ended several lives and welded two.
She doesn't say more. He feels he has to. "I'm fine, Lizzie." It's not a lie, he tells himself. Physically, he's fine. The wounds have turned into scars, the screams into mere echoes, and that night into a bad dream.
"Yeah, I know," she says quickly with a clear affliction of smiled embarrassment. "I know," she repeats more solemnly.
Just a bad dream.
A bad dream.
"What you're going through now, it's..." his voice fades into another wince, and his jaw moves mutely in search of the right words but there aren't many of those left, "... it's a very difficult adjustment."
"And you won't feel like yourself for a while," he adds. "Sometimes you won't be able to see even one step ahead, and there will be moments, days even, when you get... scared..."
"... when you think the only way out is going back."
Her mouth curves and unshed tears sting her eyes.
"But you can't." His throat tightens. "You can't go back."
Going backward is dying.
Moving forward is surviving.
You're like me. You survive.
"What would I go back to?"
An apartment filled with splintered memories of a fake life.
Her years with Sam packed up in two yellowed boxes.
Some charred relics of a redacted childhood.
One dog.
The full inventory of a painfully incomplete, shredded existence.
But he worries.
Because Tom lingers and Tom is a hidden item on her list - an item that's no longer his to remove.
Tom is her moving backward.
She sniffles and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, pulling herself together.
He gets up from the couch and steps to the window. The capital stares back at him from outside - a muted patchwork of light and dark.
"Tell me where you are. Let me send someone to pick you up."
She clears her throat. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Wandering alone at night is not a good idea."
"I have a gun."
He opens his mouth but the words get stuck. He hesitates, his teeth worrying his lower lip. Then it just slips out:
"You have me, too."
That's the current inventory of their relationship:
She has him.
He owes her.
So much.
tbc