Gestalt

Chapter 12: Raymond Reddington

Disclaimer: They're not mine! I make no money from this!

Author's Note: I can only apologize profusely for the delay in posting this. "MY Reddington?" kind of took over my fic writing time for the better part of the fall, and as much as I wanted to finish this (I hate having out-standing, unfinished stories; it bugs the hell out of me), I just couldn't find the next step for this. Anyway, this is dedicated to Becca, the best guest reviewer ever who I can't reply to, and almcvay1, who sweetly explains how I should fix my fic problems every time they occur. :)

…:::...

Liz looked at the single, small window high up on the far wall in the basement. It was pitch black outside, and the harsh light from the single hanging bulb made it impossible to see anything other than a distorted reflection of a small section of the room.

She figured it must be the early hours of the morning, but neither she nor Reddington wore a watch, and their cell phones had been taken from them as they were dragged downstairs.

She yawned, and rolled her shoulders. "Do you think I'm bad luck?" she asked.

There was a pause, and for a moment Liz thought maybe Reddington had had more success trying to fall asleep than she'd enjoyed.

"No." His voice was deep, and low. He sounded exhausted. "Why? Do you think you are?"

Liz shrugged, even though the action couldn't be seen. "I've been operating under the belief that ever since you entered my life, things have gone wrong… It never occurred to me that I screwed up your life when you met me… My presence in your life has been just as destructive as your presence in mine."

"You're not a broken mirror, Lizzie. You're not just some black cat that wandered across my path."

"My name has thirteen letters in it," she pointed out.

"The name you use now. Not your given name," Reddington corrected.

Liz struggled to sit up straighter, and twisted sideways, trying to look at the man on the other side of the column. "Excuse me?"

There was a sharp knocking—the sound of knuckles on glass—and both of them stopped talking. Reddington was the first to realize who it was.

"Dembe."

Liz craned her neck around to see that Reddington had his face turned up toward the small window.

"How do you know? You can't see a thing through that window!"

"We can't see him, but he can see us," Reddington said matter-of-factly. He shifted awkwardly on the ground and raised his right hand, dragging Liz's left with it. He held up four fingers, then just a single one, motioning upward. He nodded at the window.

"What was that?" Liz asked. "Did you just tell him to take out Felix and her grandsons? Red?"

"I told him there were four people upstairs," Reddington replied nonchalantly.

"Let's circle back to how you know that was Dembe," Liz said uncomfortably, her sleepiness from a moment before now a distant memory.

"I know his knock."

"You know his—? Okay. Sure." Liz sighed in frustration. After a beat, she asked, "Is he going to kill them?"

Reddington pursed his lips and bobbed his head from side to side noncommittally. "Depends on if they shoot first."

Liz opened her mouth to reply as the sounds of muffled gunfire and shouts disturbed the quiet of the building.

"Yes, he's probably going to kill them," Reddington amended.

Less than three minutes later, the sound of the deadbolt sliding back heralded Dembe's arrival at the top of the stairs. As he hurried down towards them, Reddington made a sound of disappointment. "Dembe, as soon as we're out of here, you and I are going to have a frank discussion about how long it's acceptable to wait if I've been detained. You don't happen to have the keys to the handcuffs, do you?"

Dembe knelt next to Reddington and looked down at the restraints tethering them around the column. He looked back up at his employer. "No, I don't. And you told me you wanted to spend the day alone with Elizabeth. I was giving you space." Dembe turned to Liz. "Can't you pick the lock?"

"'Giving him space'?" Liz repeated in disbelief. "Is this why you didn't expect him sooner?" she asked Reddington, pulling on the cuffs with her left hand. "You told him to clear out? What was this, a date?"

"Elizabeth's right hand is broken," Reddington explained in a business-like tone. "You're going to need to find something to—"

"Reddington!"

"—cut through the metal, or break it… And no, Lizzie. I don't generally take the women I'm interested in to bookstores run by evil old ladies in orthopedic shoes. I haven't found that to be a particularly effective aphrodisiac." Reddington nodded toward the corner of the room, off to his left. "Dembe, try that."

Liz waited silently, unable to see Dembe as he crossed in front of Reddington behind her. When he reappeared at her right side holding a large, flat-headed axe, she instinctively drew her injured hand in toward her body, pulling Reddington's arm back with the handcuffs. He hissed, but said nothing, making no move to fight against her pull. "Sorry—sorry—" Liz said quickly, replacing her arm on the box beside them. She looked up at Dembe. "If you're going to do that, I'd rather you aim at the other side. And be careful of him," she added, nodding backwards. "He's got a few broken ribs."

Dembe gave a quiet, quick countdown from three before he swung the axe toward the pole, catching the midsection of the cuffs square on. The force wasn't enough to split the metal tether between them completely, but one of the links was damaged enough that Dembe was able to work it loose.

"Good enough," Reddington said, taking Dembe's offered hand and climbing to his feet. He rounded the column and, still attached to Liz's injured hand, held her right forearm steady as Dembe helped her stand. Liz stretched stiffly, and nodded.

"Let's go."

…:::...

Reddington opened the door to the backseat as Dembe climbed into the front and started the car. Liz paused for a moment, looking down at the handcuffs between them.

"I'll go first," Reddington said, already sliding across the seat.

On their way out through the smashed front door of the bookstore, Liz had spotted their cell phones sitting on a counter, and had dragged Reddington back inside to grab them. She still held them in her uninjured hand, and Reddington motioned at his, silently requesting it. She passed it to him without comment.

"Dembe, we're going to need to head to the clinic," Reddington said, raising his voice toward the front seat. He quickly dialed a number, and held the phone to his ear. "Giang, darling, it's been far too long, and I've missed your beautiful smile."

Liz turned away and looked, unseeing, out the window beside her.

Reddington laughed, and continued, "Of course I'm still getting into trouble. Better busy than bored, I've always said. Tonight being no exception, I'm not suffering from boredom, but rather a few pesky broken ribs and a small head wound. And I have an associate with me who'll need your healing touch as well—" he paused, listening. "No, don't call the whole team. You're all we need tonight." Another pause. "Thank you. Of course." Reddington hung up the phone and tossed it on the seat between them. "Dembe, I neglected to ask—do we need to call Mr. Kaplan, or the FBI to clean up the mess we left back at the bookstore?"

"One of the men is dead," the man in the front seat answered calmly. "But the woman is alive. The other two will need medical attention."

"FBI it is, then." Reddington turned to look at Liz and pointed at the phone in her lap. "Go ahead and wake up Agent Ressler. It's not like beauty sleep does him any good."

…:::...

By the time they were done with x-rays, splints, and bandages, the sky was turning from inky black to a silent dark blue. Liz had been given an initial dose of painkillers at the clinic, and the doctor had handed her a generous bottle to take home, with strict instructions to follow the label and not take more than indicated. The remaining handcuffs had been removed before the imaging was performed, and as Liz staggered from the car—outside what she assumed was another one of Reddington's safe houses—she couldn't imagine taking any additional medication. Her head felt like a balloon barely attached to the rest of her, and she'd only taken one.

Liz stopped, attempting to get her bearings. Reddington saw her sway and gestured to Dembe, who had a strong arm around her waist almost immediately.

"I'm staying here tonight," Liz said, aware that she should have phrased her statement as a question, but unconcerned that she hadn't.

"Yes, you are," Reddington said, slowly following the other two through the front door.

Dembe lowered Liz onto one of the couches in the large main room, and retreated quickly, taking his cue from Reddington, who made a beeline for the small bar in the corner of the room as soon as they were alone. Liz watched him, frowning.

"I don't think you're supposed to mix alcohol with whatever pain medication the doctor gave us…"

Reddington took a sip of his drink and turned back to face Liz. "I didn't take any."

Liz's eyes dropped to his midsection. "Why not?" she asked, concerned.

"Well… look at you. Dembe may be strong, but he can't carry both of us." Reddington moved into the center of the room and lowered himself gingerly into a large armchair across from Liz. "How's your hand?"

Liz looked at her bulky splint and sighed, but said nothing.

Reddington didn't press her. He raised his glass, stared down into it for a moment, and took another sip.

"Do you… how do you do this?" Liz asked.

Reddington ignored her half-formed question. "Lizzie, why don't you get some sleep? Dembe will help you into your room when—"

"How do you live your life this way?" Her voice was soft, but clear. "People trying to kill you… Never having a place to call home… The FBI and half of the criminal underworld trying to capture you, or kill you, or rob you. How do you keep a decent sense of self through all that? What is it that keeps you grounded? Most people under these conditions would end up with some kind of sociopathy… or psychopathy…"

Reddington balanced his drink on the arm of the chair, and ran his fingers absently up and down the sides of the glass. "'Love. Love madly. Love more than you can, and if they say it's a sin, love your sin, and you will be innocent'." When Liz looked at him with surprise, he clarified, "Shakespeare."

Liz shook her head, as if the motion would help her understand his words through the fog, but it only served to make her dizzy. With a groan, she tilted sideways and curled into the deep cushions. "It's too late and I'm too tired for Shakespeare. What does it mean?"

"There are many ways to interpret the Bard… which is why his work is so timeless and resonates with so many people."

"What does it mean to you, though?" she prompted, her eyes already closed.

Reddington sighed and shifted in his chair with a wince. "You mentioned sociopaths… psychopaths… and I know I don't need to explain the finer points of each of those diagnoses to you—you already know—but both do have a propensity for violence and an indifference to others' suffering or rights. Psychopaths can't form emotional attachments to people, but because of their intelligence and ability to manipulate…" Reddington trailed off, wondering if Liz was asleep. Her eyes were still closed, and she hadn't moved a muscle.

"...they're talented at convincing others they do care… they're charming..." she mumbled softly. "I'm awake," she insisted. "Keep talking."

Reddington rolled his tongue against his teeth and sipped his drink before he continued. "They're difficult to capture, and generally have things planned out five steps ahead of anyone pursuing them."

"You're not a psychopath, Red," Liz sighed, pulling the decorative blanket from the back of the couch down over herself without opening her eyes.

"Well, I certainly hope not," Reddington replied. "I never want to arrive at the day I lose… humanity. I've done terrible things in my life, Lizzie. Some of those terrible things I've done to you. Or to those you care about. But that quote… To me it means that I'm not an irredeemable monster if I still have the capacity to love. And even if I choose something that isn't perfect, as long as I love it…" Reddington looked out the window behind Liz, to the gradually lightening sky. He gave a small, tired exhale that was a sad imitation of a self-deprecating laugh, and shook his head. "I can't even say 'as long as I love it, I'm innocent'. I can't say 'as long as I love it, I'm still a good man'. I often think the things I care about would be better off without me. But I can't sit by and do nothing when the world threatens those I hold dear. If I love something, I'm willing to give up everything… sacrifice anything..." Reddington realized he wasn't making much sense, and wiped an exhausted hand across his eyes. "I suppose that makes my selflessness quite selfish, actually. Narcissistic. Even if my involvement causes you pain, I refuse to stand idle or leave you alone, because I believe I know the best—or only—way to resolve the problem." Reddington drained the last sip from his glass and set it down on the small table next to him. "Now that I think about it, that's a terrible quote. 'Love something ferociously,'" he paraphrased, "'and even if that love is harmful, just keep at it.' Maybe Shakespeare got it wrong. It's actually just awful advice, beautifully disguised in elegant language." Reddington glanced down at his empty glass. "Like a murderer in a three-thousand dollar bespoke suit," he added, his voice barely audible.

After a long pause, he looked over at the woman ensconced on the couch. Her face was smooth and unworried, and her slow, even breaths came softly through her slightly parted lips.

"I'm so sorry that I love you, Lizzie," he apologized in a low, ragged voice.

There was no response, as he had expected.

With a sigh, Reddington pushed himself up out of the large chair and reached under the lamp shade near where Liz lay, clicking it off and plunging the room into a pre-dawn grey that still allowed him to navigate out into the hall toward his bedroom.

…:::...

TBC. Gotta go after Verne, right? ;)