Guarded Humanity

Four days. Elizabeth stares across the room at her traveling companion. Four days they've been in this modified cargo container, which serves as a cabin, unidentifiable as such from the outside. Four days, only stepping outside during the night to look at the stars.

It is, without a doubt, the longest she's ever spent in Raymond Reddington's presence. Even on missions, he's always in and out, there and gone again within the space of hours, a day at most. She doesn't think he's ever spent more than a day with anyone who wasn't Dembe, the late Luli, or perhaps Mr. Kaplan. And yet, here they are, running from Washington in a freighter box with a price on their heads.

If asked, she would say she expected Red to get on her nerves before the end of the first day. He can be, and often is, the most exasperating individual she's ever come across. But either his regular attitude is a front, or he's making an effort to be courteous. He's been polite, giving her space when she needs it, offering company and polite conversation on any number of subjects when the silence threatens to fray her nerves. He's equally willing to talk plans, or books, or travel experiences, or music or...well, just about anything. Anything except the inner workings of his criminal enterprise (which she feels it would be rude to ask about, all things considered), or a few personal memories. And even those, he can be induced to share with the right incentive.

She remembers two nights ago, when she revealed that she had guessed he carried her from the fire of her childhood and asked him to confirm it. The night he bared his back and revealed the scars that long-ago rescue left upon his body. Since then, he's been more open about things regarding her. Not everything, of course, but some things.

Tonight, they're talking about Sam. Her adopted father, whom Raymond swears is the only one worthy of being called her father. She can't say she disagrees, given Sam's raising of her, and that the few memories she have of her birth parents largely seem to involve violence. And the fire.

Knowing Sam and Red were friends, that he was the one to bring her to her father's house, well...it explains how Raymond knew so much about her, even though she'd never met him before that first day at the FBI. Well, not that she could remember. He's already confessed that Sam sent him both reports and the occasional picture during her childhood.

She's thrilled to learn more about her father, even as it brings her mind to one nagging question she isn't sure she should, or can, ask.

Raymond was there when her father died. In fact, he's confessed to killing her father. She's never asked for the details. But the question is there, nagging her. What happened? What were her father's last moments like? Was it an easy death? Raymond said it was, but…

"If those wheels spin any harder, you'll have smoke coming out of your ears, Lizzie." She jolts back to full attention (she was only listening with half an ear), to see Red's amused smile. "What's on your mind?"

She swallows, reaches for the glass of wine Raymond poured her earlier. "Nothing."

He raises an eyebrow. "Come now Elizabeth. Surely by now you understand that I know you better than that."

Yes. He does. She sips her wine, then decides that she might as well go for broke. He won't rest until he gets an answer anyway. "I have a question, but I'm not sure you'll answer it."

"Fair enough." He shrugs. "Still, it is easier to ask. One would say this is the best time, considering we're stuck sharing this charming space..." a languid wave indicates the cargo-box room. "...for at least another six days."

She nods. "I know. It's just..." She pauses, trying to figure out how to word it.

Red tips his head. "I assume, given our recent conversation, that it has something to do with Sam."

"It does." She takes a deep breath and plunges in. "I want you to tell me about his death."

Any and all amusement in his face vanishes. "Lizzie..."

"You were there. You admitted you killed him. And I know you regret it." She does know that, and enough time has passed that she can more or less accept that. "I know you said it was a mercy killing. I just...I want to know why. Why did he want you to kill him? How did you know? And...what did you do?"

"Lizzie..."

"It's my father's last moments. You denied me the chance to be there with him, for him. Even if you're right and that's what was best, what Sam wanted, the fact remains...I wasn't there at my father's bedside because you took him from me before I had a chance to be. And you didn't even tell me, not until Ressler and Aram discovered the truth from the hospital records and the cameras. I think I deserve to know what happened, at least." Yes, she's playing dirty, but she can't bring herself to feel sorry for it. And in some odd way, she suspects Raymond Reddington even approves of her tactics, or would if they weren't being used against him.

She's certain that, before they made their escape together and wound up here, he would have dodged the question. Before she remembered him as her childhood rescuer. But he's been more open lately, so she feels it's worth a shot. Besides, he's right. They're stuck together for the next six days at least, and she can hope that he sees the wisdom of not spending those six days in unhappiness.

Perhaps he does. Or perhaps he was always planning to tell her, and was just waiting for her to be willing to ask. Or perhaps he has other reasons. Whatever his reasons are, Raymond (he's always Raymond in these moments) finally sighs, then leans forward to refill his glass. He sips the drink, then sighs again and closes his eyes, tipping his head back in what she would consider a subconscious gesture of vulnerability and surrender with anyone else.

With him, she's absolutely sure that there is nothing subconscious about it. When Raymond shows her his throat, it's a white flag, and a warning. He's giving her an opening to hurt him, and the damage she can do is incalculable. She doesn't want to hurt him, but the warning is clear. She'll need to be careful.

Red speaks into the silence, still gazing at the ceiling. "Sam called me shortly after he spoke with you. Once he knew the hospital had contacted you, he knew it was only a matter of time before you discovered the severity of his condition. He wanted me to know first, so that I could make any preparations I needed to make, given that he intended to tell you the truth about your arrival in his home before he passed."

Raymond looks at her then, quiet and solemn in a way he only is in the darkest hours, the confidences that have burned between them with nightmares and anguish on both sides. "I came to him as soon as I could. Sam was my friend, like a brother to me. And, of course, I wanted to speak to him. It was my intention at the time to provide whatever help he needed, anonymously of course. But when I arrived and spoke with him, I knew."

Raymond sips his wine, then sets the glass aside, folding one leg over the other and lacing his hands together. The pose looks casual, but she knows him well enough to know it's anything but. Still, she can't help the question that escapes. "Knew?"

"Sam wasn't the type to give up. He was strong. Determined. He would have moved mountains for you and, to a certain extent, for me. But when I arrived, there were no monitors, no machines. Not even a heart monitor, or a pulse/ox clip. No IV bags either. And he told me that he'd had them all removed. Taken away. That he had asked for that meant that he believed there was no cure, no option. That the doctors had complied meant that they agreed with him. It was his way of saying, subtly, that he was giving up."

It makes sense. He's right about Sam's strength and determination. She wants to argue that Sam just didn't want her to worry too much, and she knows that's true, but she also knows that Raymond is right. If he was no longer accepting treatment, then there wasn't anything that would work.

Raymond keeps speaking. "I asked him, of course. I thought he might just be being stubborn. That was when he told me the cancer had metastasized. Spread. He'd officially reached the terminal stages." He shakes his head, and she can see the pain in his gaze. "I knew he'd been ill, I'd been helping pay for his treatments through anonymous donations and cancer charities, but he hadn't told me he was getting worse. Not until then."

He sighs, and his eyes are far away. "We talked. About different things. You, mostly. That was when he told me he planned to tell you the truth. He'd always promised he would keep my secret to his grave, and I never knew Sam to break his word. And that's when I knew the other reason for the missing monitors. I knew what he was asking me to do."

"You thought he was...asking you to..." She can't form the words.

Raymond shakes his head, and a bitter bark of laughter escapes him. "Not asking. Sam wasn't the type. But he was giving me a reason to kill him, if I was willing to do it. Motive, opportunity...it was just a matter of whether I could find the means and the will to do the deed. I looked at him, and I could see how tired he was, how much pain he was in. How much he wanted to let go. I looked in his eyes, when he spoke of you, and I saw that he hadn't told you. Not about his condition. He didn't want you to know. And even though he had every intention of being honest with you, he didn't want to tell you. He was afraid, if you knew, if you heard from him, that you'd no longer consider him your father."

Another bitter laugh. "I told him you would always consider him your father."

That, at least, she can answer. "I do. And I will."

"I know." There's a brief moment of calm in his eyes. "In any case...I knew. And, well, you know me, Lizzie. I'm not one to shy away from the difficult tasks." She wants to wipe that self deprecating smile off his face, but she can't move. "So, I said my goodbyes. And then...I stood up, and he just looked at me, asking me without words what I would do. And for the life of me, I can't remember if I responded, not even to this day. But..."

He shakes his head, and his eyes are gazing into the past again. "Sam hated hospital pillows. They never really measured up, he said. And they do seem so very flimsy. But it was enough. I took Sam's pillow, and I lifted it. He could have gotten away, gotten out of the bed, attacked me or called for help. He didn't. I even gave him a moment to be sure, but he just looked at me. And then, I put the pillow over his face and held on."

Suffocated. Her throat constricts. He suffocated….

Raymond keeps speaking. She doubts he's oblivious to her turmoil, but it seems that, having begun this story, he is determined to finish. Or perhaps he can no more stop speaking than she can stop listening. "I held the pillow down. He struggled, of course. No matter how suicidal someone is, no matter how much they long for death, they always struggle. Some deep-seated, atavistic reaction, I suppose. And yet, it was so strange. He didn't kick, or twist. Just….flailed a bit, grabbing onto my arm. It was almost like he was trying to push me away and pull me closer at the same time. His fingers kept tugging at my sleeve, letting go, then gripping me again. I felt his grip get weaker and weaker, and then he stopped. He just went limp in my arms. I checked his pulse. It was faint, but then it faded away. So...I pulled the pillow away."

His eyes are shining too brightly in the lights, and she can't look away. "He'd closed his eyes at some point. He looked...well, he honestly looked like he was sleeping. It was the most peaceful I'd seen him look in years. I had to double check to be sure I'd finished the job. Sam would have hated it if I hadn't, after all of that."

And he would have. Sam hated for things to be left unfinished, and he probably would feel that way about his own demise, if Raymond hadn't done the job properly.

Raymond sighs, but this is less a breath and more like he's trying to clean out the depths of his soul with one outburst of air. "After I was sure, I put the pillow under his head, to make it look like he was resting." He shakes his head with a pained smile. "If I'd doubted the truth before then, I did after. Sam would have hated me fussing over him. And then I said farewell, and I left."

He's right that Sam never liked people fussing over him. She knows that. But she also knows something else. "What else? What aren't you telling me?" She knows he's hiding something.

The bitter smile creases his mouth again. "That, my dear Elizabeth, is for me to know." He rises, the movement sudden but still with his usual grace. "If you don't mind, I believe I've answered your question. And I think that's enough story-telling for tonight." He doesn't give her a chance to answer, just tops off his glass and goes to the door, then through it and onto the deck.

A part of her wants to follow him. To demand to know what he's hiding. Even so, she doesn't move. She can't. In part because he's right, he answered he question, and her head is still whirling with everything she's learned, still struggling to process.

In part, she remains because she understands.

It takes a lot to get past the mask of Raymond Reddington, Concierge of Crime. But when the glimpses of the man behind the persona appear, it's as devastating as his persona's cool-headed violence. Perhaps worse, because his violence can terrify you, destroy you, even kill you, but the humanity he shields deep inside can rip apart a soul with it's depth.

She saw it the day she found out the truth about Tom, when he held her close and stroked her hair as she cried, while a music box played a familiar lullaby. Sam's lullaby, given back to her through days of painstaking effort on his part.

She saw it when Luli died, when he begged Cooper to save her.

She saw it when Dembe was held at gun-point, when he knelt with bloodied hands at the glass and spoke prayers of another culture, his voice strong and unfaltering for his friend, his brother, despite the torment and grief in his eyes.

She saw it when Anslo Garrick dragged him away to be tortured and killed, his eyes watching her as he gave himself freely into the hands of his enemies.

She saw it, flickering and burning under the surface of his masks, when she asked him how he could stand to be such a monster and he replied, "because I did it to protect you."

He is a monster, of that she has no doubt. But the depths of his violence and his rage and his cold-blooded darkness springs from the depths of his love, given sparingly but fierce and deep once it is given. And for that, she cannot hate him. For that, she understands why there are those who would die for him, burn the world for him. He gives his loyalty in the same measure he receives it.

Except for her, apparently. To her he gives loyalty and love with little reward, often receiving scorn and rage in return, rarely ever an apology for using him as the scapegoat for her temper. He fights back sometimes, but far more often waits her out, until she comes to him for help, for succor, which he gives willingly.

And that's why she cannot follow him, and will not demand answers to what he's hiding, the last details of Sam's death. She doesn't deserve them, doesn't have the right to bare whatever wound was dealt to his humanity and his heart when he took the life of one of his oldest and dearest friends.

Someday, she may ask again. Someday, he may choose to tell her. But not now.

For now, let him keep his silence and his memories. She knows enough.

***GH***

He stands on the cargo box supporting his own 'safe-house', staring at the night sky. It's beautiful, he supposes, but he has to admit he doesn't see it. The air is cool and comforting with a light breeze, but he can't say he really feels or appreciates it.

His mind is elsewhere. Remembering.

He moves the pillow aside. He's already checked three times for Sam's pulse, but he still isn't sure. Still expects, on some level, that Sam will drag in a sudden breath, heaving and gasping for air before glaring at him.

The face beneath the pillow is pale, slack and still. Sam's eyes are closed, his hair slightly disordered. The lines of pain have smoothed away, lessened with his passing. He looks...peaceful. Peaceful in a way he's rarely looked or sounded since he took custody of the tiny child that Red brought him. Relaxed, in a way he hasn't been since cancer, and the treatments for it, began to ravage his body.

And that's what convinces him. That peace. No one in his world is ever so at peace. Not even Dembe, who has made an art form of being a soothing presence at his side. Sam is gone.

He lifts Sam's head, slides the pillow underneath it and carefully fluffs it. It's a thin, old pillow, and fluffing it does little good, but he can't help the gesture. A part of him laughs, painfully and bitterly, and the idea of making a dead man more comfortable. But it's a small part, buried under the aching pain at what he has done. Even with the best of reasons – mercy, secrecy, honoring a dying man's last request – the fact remains that he has taken the life of his friend. He was as gentle as he could be, but he knows well that there is no gentle form of untimely death. Only the difference, in this case, between the long-lasting agony of terminal cancer and the relatively quick passing of suffocation.

The pain threatens to overwhelm him, to break him, and he knows he cannot afford it. Lizzie is on a case, and could call at any moment. Tom, her husband and his operative (not that she knows that yet), is there, and if he sees him, it could be a bad situation.

Still it hurts enough that he cannot simply turn away. And so he cups Sam's face in a gentle gesture that Sam only rarely permitted him. Lays his hands on cooling flesh, oily hair and rough stubble (all things he barely notices). He holds him for a long moment, then leans in and gently kisses his brow, shifting one arm to embrace the shell that is all that remains of his friend, the man who has guarded his greatest treasure for over twenty years.

It's a farewell, the only gesture he can make. He won't come to Sam's funeral. He can't. He wouldn't be welcome even if Lizzie doesn't find out the truth. Although, he doubts that she will remain ignorant of the circumstances of her father's demise for long. He saw the cameras in the hospital. Sooner or later, someone will look at the footage, even if it's a routine check because of the death of an agent's family member. They will check. They will know he was there. And it won't take much for Lizzie to guess the truth from there. Once she does, he knows she'll confront him. And that he will be honest with her. He owes her that much, having denied her the chance to say goodbye to the father she loved.

The thought of her rage, her cutting fury when she discovers what he has done, would be a knife in his heart at any other time. Now though, he can barely be bothered to consider it, drowning as he is in his grief for Sam.

He needs to leave. He lowers Sam's body to the bed, arranges the sheets to look as though he is sleeping peacefully, and leaves. He even stops to tell a nurse that Sam is resting. It's not a lie, exactly, but it will keep them from disturbing Sam's room for a while. Long enough for him to be far away when they do discover his passing.

He leaves the building, dodges Tom's watchful eyes, and makes his way outside, to Dembe. Within an hour, he's on a plane, making his way to join the FBI in their hunt for the latest Blacklister.

He allows himself to mourn for a few minutes, then buries his pain deep beneath his persona as the 'Concierge of Crime'. He knows Dembe will say nothing of the anguish he cannot fully hide. Nor of the tears that they are both pretending he has not shed.

By the time he lands, he's immersed in his public facade again. Mourning is put on hold.

He has a monster to catch, and a young woman to console. And a target to present, when her pain becomes rage. Everything else, everything human of him, will have to wait.

He comes to himself with the night air cool on his face and the stars shining like diamonds overhead. He recalls a legend he once heard, that the stars are the souls of loved ones gone ahead, lighting the way for their family and friends on Earth. A comforting thought, that Sam might still be there, somewhere, watching over him. And Elizabeth.

His cheeks are damp with tears, and he lifts a hand to wipe them away, grateful that Elizabeth didn't follow him, hasn't witnessed this moment of humanity. He's not adverse to showing her his human side, but this is a memory and a sorrow reserved for someone else. Not something he would have her witness, for all that he told her that taking Sam's life was one of the hardest things he's ever done. His mourning for Sam is a private thing. The ache in his heart, still there after over a year, is still too raw to be exposed, even to someone as precious as she is.

He is both monster and man for her, and he's fine with that. He chose both roles and has not regretted them, in spite of the pain they sometimes bring him. But having given her the monster who murdered her father, he finds himself unwilling to reveal to her the man who still mourns his passing.

Perhaps, someday, he will be willing to tell her. And she will be willing to listen, as she listened tonight. But for now…

For now, he will protect both of them from the humanity he harbors under his mask, until they can both endure it's exposure.

Author's Note: Yeah...Couldn't help it.