Terms of Endearment

AN: The usual disclaimers. Own nothing. Just having fun in the sandbox before Bokenkamp, Eisendrath, & Co return to torture us for another season.

"You never call her Lizzie."

Don glanced up from his bourbon to find that Satan—er, Red—had somehow materialized on the opposite side of the booth. Lack of sleep and the misguided idea that here, of all places, he was safe had dulled the normally sharp senses that kept him alert to any shift in his surroundings.

Or it could simply be that Red was Satan and able to materialize out of thin air.

Maybe if he ignored him, the son of a bitch would dematerialize right back to the Underworld.

"Bourbon? How very… American of you, Donald. I don't suppose you have any Herradura Suprema, do you? No, I wouldn't expect you to. Let's just make it easy then, hm? Bring me the finest tequila you have along with the proper accouterments."

The waitress stood there, eyebrows knit together in a frown as she stared at Red. Boy, could Don ever relate.

With a sigh he said, "Just bring plenty of salt and lime with the tequila. And put my drink on his tab." Because if the man was going to interrupt his private time with whatever nonsensical Reddington BS he'd concocted, then he damn well was going to pay for it.

Red shook his head at the waitress' back. "Good help is just so difficult to find." He tossed his fedora to the table. "Just imagine her consternation if I'd asked for a Taittinger Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs?"

"The horror," Don muttered as he tossed back the contents of his glass and waved for a refill in a single fluid motion.

"Why Donald, I do believe you're developing a delightfully droll sense of humor. Who knew you even had it in you?" Red's laughter was that singularly irritating combination of smug and… and… gay, was the only word Don could use to describe it. Somewhere beyond cheerful yet just shy of outright humor. He was literally the only human being Don could imagine with the ability to pull off that nails-on-a-chalkboard sound.

Which brought everything back full circle to Red not being human at all.

Satan.

"What do you want?"

"Ah, there's the dour Agent Ressler we all know and love. Some more than others of course." He smirked and studied him as the waitress deposited the tequila, salt, and limes in front of Red and for Don, the entire bottle of bourbon with a grim smile. Red was wrong. She was clearly quite competent at her job.

"Do you have some legitimate reason to be here or is your sole aim simply to give me shit?" Don poured himself a healthy shot and downed it, then poured another, resolutely ignoring Red's obvious attempt to draw a response from him. Especially considering what his opening salvo had been.

"Tsk. Such language. One might imagine I'd have hit a bit of an exposed nerve."

"Only if tracking me down on my time for… what, exactly—to trade witty bon mots as only Red Reddington can—constitutes an exposed nerve."

"And again with the droll. You're learning to temper those bull in a china shop tendencies, Don. I'm like a proud father here."

Don shuddered at the thought of Red as any kind of a paternal figure to him, shared blood notwithstanding.

"Red, it's Saturday night, it's been a bitch of a week, and all I wanted was to have a quiet drink before I go home to my even more quiet apartment. So for once in your misbegotten life would you please get to the goddamned point?"

"You should move."

Of course he wouldn't get to the goddamned point. Because that would be too easy.

"Who has the time?"

"You make the time." Red calmly poured a shot of tequila and went through the ritual of lick, salt, lick, shot, lime with a practiced ease. "Ah yes—questionable quality aside, it's a tequila sort of night." He poured another. "The memories—they're poison. Besides, you need a clean slate before you can move forward."

"Who says I want to?" Don muttered into his glass before downing yet another shot. Things were starting to get fuzzy around the edges and he was beginning to regret not having taken the waitress up on her offer of one of the Happy Hour appetizers she'd offered when she first took his order.

"You never call her Lizzie."

On the surface, the most random of non sequiturs, but Don knew Red chose his words as deliberately as he chose each day's tie. The seeming randomness was nothing but a smokescreen. A diversion designed to give him a means by which to observe his opponents at their most unguarded.

It was the man's true superpower.

Well, that and the materializing out of thin air.

"Why do you care?"

No point pretending he didn't understand. Well, he didn't—at least, not why this was so important to Reddington, but to pretend complete ignorance would only prolong the entire painful experience. If he was lucky, the man would get to the point quickly enough that Don would be able to enjoy at least one drink in relative peace and quiet.

"You know I care about everything with respect to Lizzie. That I've devoted myself to her protection and well-being."

"Odd how it's only been since you barreled into her life that it's been at risk."

"Don't be naïve, Donald. It's unbecoming to both of us." Red went through the tequila ritual once more. Biting down on the wedge of lime with an appreciative hum, he sucked briefly then said, "Knowing what you know now about Tom Keen, you know damned well her life would have been not only in danger, but in all likelihood, extinguished by now if not for my, and dare I say, your involvement in her life."

Softer now he added, "You never call her Lizzie."

Don stared down into the amber depths of his drink. "So?"

"So nothing. I just found it curious is all. The why of it."

"Never gave it much thought."

Another one of Red's patented laughs—the one with the hard mocking edge that Don was entirely too familiar with—resonated through the secluded booth. "Now why would that surprise me not at all?" He shoved aside the bottles and leaned forward. Resting his forearms on the table, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone as he said, "That is, if I actually believed it."

Son of a—

"Look, it just doesn't suit her, okay?"

"But it does." Red leaned back and studied him. "Everyone who's ever loved her—and yes, I include Tom Keen in that list at least on some level—has called her Lizzie. But you never have. Not once of which I am aware."

"Stands to reason then."

"Actually—it does."

Don kept his gaze resolutely focused on the booze, the smooth, cool feel of the glass against his heated palm, the mellow light the single hurricane-shrouded candle cast over the scarred, battered surface of the table, highlighting every scratched ode to love meant to last 4EVAR—or at least until the liquor wore off.

"More and more, Donald, I hear you call her Liz. Not Keen or Agent Keen, but Liz."

Don gripped his glass tighter. "Red, please don't do this."

"Do what?" he queried, deceptively innocent. Right. Raymond Reddington had probably last been innocent in kindergarten. And Don wasn't even too sure about that. "I am merely making an observation."

"Why?"

"Because my stock in trade is observation. It's my currency in this world. And it's what's kept me alive to this point."

The desire to reach across the table and punch his lights out was exceeding even his normal level of wanting to punch Red's lights out. "Why this?"

"Because it's important, Donald." Impatience crept into Red's voice. "And you, of all people, should know that."

He'd be damned if he was going down without a fight.

"It's just a name."

"Not to you it's not. You see her differently. And she needs that. She needs someone who doesn't see her as Lizzie or Keen or Agent Keen or even Elizabeth. She needs the one person who sees her as no one but Liz."

By the time Don steadied his breathing enough to look up, Red was gone.