It was just supposed to be her first day on the job. Her first goddamn day on the job and suddenly she's working with a wanted criminal who apparently knows her but won't say how or why or tell her any goddamn thing she wants to know and the criminal on his 'blacklist' he pointed out fatally injured her husband.
In her own home.
In their home.
And now he was in a hospital and he might not make it through the night.
She had spent all night scrubbing, fighting to get the bloodstains out of the carpet. His blood. She had sat there in the dark, in the cold, against the wooden doorframe at what could be no earlier than midnight and cried. She couldn't fucking get it out of the carpet. She hid her face in her hands, the swelled burn scar on her right hand trailing down to her wrist brushing against her face. She didn't like feeling weak.
She sat there staring blankly at the carpet after she had finished crying, the last of her tears moving down her cheeks from her red rimmed eyes. She was at a loss with what to do. Miserably, she curled her knees under her chin, biting her lip. She didn't know how long she sat there but she finally, almost automatically, forced herself to get up and find something as sharp as she could. She crouched down on the floor and torn out the carpet until there was nothing left but hardwood floor. It was even colder under her feet and as she rolled up the ruined carpet, she realized how lonely she felt.
And she hated it.
Elizabeth Keen did not cry, she was not weak, she did not get lonely. She was the girl that had let her father burn her to make her brave, she was the girl, abandoned by her father so he could pursue a criminal life but she could not remember anything about him. Nothing. Not his face, not his voice. All she remembered was the burn. Her mother... she wasn't sure. She was almost positive something had happened to her mother, before her father had left. Something bad, she knew, because what she did remember is he did not talk about it and she wished she could remember his face, if he had ever shown any sign of vulnerability.
She snapped out of it, staring down at the shiny, brown floor that had been revealed like a hidden treasure she had not wanted to find. Anger swelled in her and she curled her fingernails into her palms. This was all his fault! If Reddington had not showed up, none of this would be happening! Why her, why her of all the fucking people on the planet?
She desperately wanted to feel proud of herself for stabbing him in the jugular with a pen not a few hours earlier when she felt unsatisfied with his answers to her frantic questions about her husband and the criminal from the Blacklist, Zumani, that had hurt him. Wanted to feel proud to say she had gotten to see an emotionless, closed off most wanted criminal gasp for breath and stare at her in shock. But she wasn't. No, she felt... guilty. He had done his best to please her, to satisfy her questions with all he knew, all his knowledge. She had been too wound up in her emotions to realize that.
But how had he known her nickname? Lizzie? Nobody knew to call her that but those closest to her.
She sighed, scrubbing her red-rimmed eyes and stumbled down the hall. Her fingers found her car keys and her feet found her slippers and she stumbled down the steps of her apartment, feeling numb. Feeling on the edge. Needing. She got in her car and started it, heading for Reddington's hotel. Yes, hotel. The FBI had made a compromise; he would be given immunity if he helped them with his little Blacklist. A long story she didn't feel like wrapping her head around right now. She was new here, knew no one but her husband and did not want to bother her friend. But she knew Reddington would be awake. An insomniac, she could see it written all over his face. A trace of emotional pain, some sort of internal damage even his calm, collected exterior could not hide, despite how hard he might try.

She was not aware of getting out of her car or walking up the steps of the hotel. She was not even aware as she walked up to Rammond Reddington's hotel room; she was too lost in her head, swimming to try to consume the day's events. She was telling herself over and over to keep it together, willing herself to be strong as she knocked on the door.
But as soon as it opened, her face crumpled and the tears came like a waterfall and she sobbed so loud she thought the whole world might hear her. Immediately, she threw herself forward, enveloping this man in a tight hug, burying her face in his neck and sobbing like a little girl. This man, of all people, a most wanted criminal exchanging information for his own immunity. She did not dwell on what her reasons were to come here, of all places, nor did she want to. She just needed someone, anyone.
She heard him inhale sharply, but was surprised when he did not pipe up with some catty remark, some cat-and-mouse shit mind game to play. His shoulders tensed slightly but quickly relaxed and he hesitated before quietly inquiring in that calm voice of his, "Lizzie, why are you here?"
"I don't want to be alone!" she wailed, snivelling and sobbing harder, her grip tightening. She wasn't positive, but she was almost sure she heard him make the quietest squeak of surprise, the smallest falter in the armor. "I s-shouldn't have s-stabbed you with that p-pen, I'm s-so sorry..."
"You're apologizing to a criminal," Reddington quipped matter-of-factly, but his touch was gentle as he rested a hand on the small of her back and pulled her inside his hotel room, quietly shutting the door. "You've nothing to apologize for. If anything, I deserved it."
She sobbed, shaking her head, rocking on her heels unsteadily. Her entire body trembled and she felt her knees buckle. She was surprised somewhere in the subconscious of her mind when she felt him start, lurching forward to grasp her firmly under her arms and haul her upright. "Lizzie? Lizzie! Elizabeth!"
Elizabeth's lower lip wobbled, and she shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was mumbling incoherently, her shaking growing worse. She was going into shock. Reddington frowned, concern sparking in his eyes, allowing himself to be vulnerable, just for a second. Emotions got in the way of being a criminal. But he would do anything to protect her. He would make it personal, should anyone lay a hand on her. He gently guided her arms to wrap around his neck. In the depths of her shock, he doubted she would notice. Her grip tightened, little whimpering sobs escaping her. "Up we go, Elizabeth, alright? Steady now, hang on. Hang on, everything is going to be okay..."
For once, his vocabulary was a step down from the usual intelligent, formal jibber-jabber. It was late. Sometimes even he needed a break. With surprising tenderness, his fingers found the spot just under her knees and lifted her up into his arms, his free hand resting on the small of her back again to support her. She clung to him feebly. For someone possibly twice her age, she being twenty-one, he was surprisingly strong. Then again, she was as light as a feather.
She was only just aware of him carrying her to the couch of the fancy five-star hotel room and tenderly laying her down. He would be right back, he assured her, and he was gone. But he did come back, as promised, with a cup of tea and settled beside her. He offered it to her, but she was still snivelling pitifully and shaking so badly she spilled some of it. She whispered a shaky apology but he just smiled, placing his hands over hers and raising the cup to her lips. If she had not been so out of it, perhaps she would have noticed it was not the broad, arrogant smile he usually gave her, but a smaller, meeker one. Not as cheerful as the one he usually gave. Not as lively as the cheerful act he put on, she knew, to hide some sort of damage, some kind of secret, perhaps many years of pain and suffering.
"Drink slowly, don't choke yourself," he murmured as she drank, sniffling. She pulled away finally and he averted his eyes to the cup, settling it down on the table. Unexpectedly, her arms curled around him and she was hugging him, sobbing again. He frowned, allowing his fingers to stroke her hair, allowing himself to rub her back in slow, gentle circles. "Hush, Lizzie. Hush now. It's been a long day, but it's over now..."
She tried to say something but hiccuped instead. His hands stopped moving, one stilling over her shoulder blades, the other on her head, his thumb brushing over a tense knot in between her shoulders. "Shh..."
Eventually, she quieted, swallowing hard. He held her for he didn't know how long before she pulled away, rubbing at her eyes. His brown eyes fell on the scar on her wrist. She seemed to notice because she caught his gaze, sniffling, before murmuring, "I guess I never did let you... examine it."
Reddington simply shook his head, for once at a loss for words. She held out her wrist and he did a double-take, hesitating before asking, "May I...?"
Elizabeth gave him a wobbly smile and nodded just slightly. He gently grasped her wrist, pulling it forward to look at it. He touched it, lightly, but hid his expression, willing the memory not to show on his face. "Well, it seems whoever gave this to you had... good intentions in mind, just a bad way of carrying them out." She just shrugged, her hair falling around her shoulders, staring down at the couch blankly. He guessed her mind was not processing his words. He let go of her wrist and tenderly tilted her chin up.
"You can sleep in my bed tonight. I'll sleep here."
Lizzie started to protest, but he cut her off. He might not seem like the type of man to sleep on the couch rather than a fancy-shmancy king-sized bed, but they both knew that though well-dressed, he'd had rough patches like everyone else where he'd had to sleep somewhere other than a warm bed.

He came in sometime later, when she had passed out on the hotel bed. He was silent, as any criminal in experience would be. He watched her from across the room for a moment, contemplating, before he shuffled across the room, careful so as not to wake her. Slowly, he leaned forward, brushing his lips over her forehead just slightly. Then, rather than in the polite, cheerful way he would always say hello to her, he whispered in a quiet, broken voice, "Goodnight, Lizzie."

Reddington was helping Elizabeth with another man on the Blacklist. A Chinese spy that sought out important political figures to assassinate them. Elizabeth posed as Rammond Eddington's assistant who could decode the message which would reveal who the spy would be after next. Wujing was the spy's name, if she could recall correctly. However, as they had been prepared to leave, Wujing had realized that the information had been sent to the FBI. At first, he had seemed to point suspicion to her (which, in all honesty, it was her; Reddington felt immensely relieved that, clever as the spy was, he did not figure out it had been her) but then turned his attention to one of his worker bees, of sorts. He'd beat him and kicked him in front of the two and the rest of his crew.
"We have to help him," Elizabeth whispered, biting her lip.
Reddington grimaced. She had so much compassion, unlike he, who turned a blind eye to people being killed every time. "No," he replied quietly, "There's nothing we can do." He heard her whimper and it made his heart twist painfully. God, she was going to be the death of him. His kryptonite.
Suddenly, he grabbed the gun Wujing was holding and shot the man in the head, putting him out of his misery. He tossed the gun to the floor, hiding any emotion behind his calm exterior. "I hate to intervene, but we really must be going. You know I can't have the FBI on my case."
Wujing stared at him with a mixture of shock and anger. Probably because Reddington hardly seemed the type to kill. In fact, he rarely did. But it seemed he'd be doing that a lot more now; he had killed Florencia, a human trafficking overlord, just the other day. Or rather, set off a deadly allergic reaction, of sorts. He supposed, in a way, he was caught between being the bad guy and the good guy; helping Lizzie with his Blacklist of criminals, giving false identities to other criminals. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.
His train of thought returned to Wujing when the Chinese picked up the gun and aimed it at him. Reddington did not move a muscle, but his expression turned to a dark scowl when Wujing turned the gun to Elizabeth. "You kill one of my men, I have to kill one of yours."
With sudden ferocity and a protective gleam passing over his eyes for a mere moment, he side-stepped in front of Lizzie, growling, "Wujing, we both know you were just planning on torturing him for ten, maybe twenty, more minutes before shooting him yourself. If you kill her, you kill me or I kill you. That would be bad, though, wouldn't it? I'm a highly respected man around here, after all."
Wujing faltered, hesitating, before slowly lowering the gun with a slight nod. "I'll take you out the back way. Come on."

Later, she would get in the car with him and demand he answer a question in return for her cooperation with the encryption. "Why me?"
Reddington paused, sucking in a breath. He was quiet for several long moments. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her why he'd left, who he was to her, everything. But he knew he couldn't. She had too much on her plate as it was. He would take it one step at a time, unravel the web of lies she'd been comfortably settled in for years. Baby steps, he told himself. "...Because of your father," he finally replied, looking down at his hands. She seemed to wait for him to explain further, but when he said nothing, her eyes grew frantic.
"How did you know my father?"
He raised his eyes to hers, meeting those large, innocent brown eyes. The innocence was deceiving, he knew. She felt broken up by her past on the inside damaged beyond repair. He wished he hadn't screwed everything up but it was too late to fix it. But he was here now, that was all that mattered. As their eyes connected, she searched his, and he wondered if she could see the awful truth, see right through him into his soul despite the mask of calmness. If she did, she showed no sign. Finally, he replied, "The... question is almost as complicated as the answer."
She stared at him in confusion for several long moments, a slow frown forming. He bit the inside of his cheek. He was almost sure she'd be clever enough to get what he was saying. Eventually, she sighed, looking away. She opened the car door, muttering, "Whatever. Keep playing your stupid mind games."
She paused, though. He held his breath, willing himself to hang onto his composure just a little longer despite the feeling of his heart dropping in his chest. Or what was left of it.
"Rammond?" she questioned hesitantly, unsurely. She had never used his first name before.
"Yes, Lizzie?"
"...Thank you. For saving me."
Reddington smiled though she had her back turned, silently glad that she couldn't see the sadness in his eyes.
"I always would."

Elizabeth Keen had been kidnapped. And it was driving Rammond Reddington insane. He barely noticed himself getting out of the car and entering the building, being guided to the back where Lorca was hiding out at, too busy lost in his mind, his brain working to create a plan. Lorca had been getting transferred to the facility when his henchman had blown up the helicopter, killed the other FBI agents, and kidnapped Lizzie. The thing was Lorca had given Elizabeth to a man that Reddington himself knew only as The Stewmaker, a man on his Blacklist who had killed hundreds. However, unlike the other three criminals he had caught or killed so far, he never had known The Stewmaker in person.
But it angered him and at the same time, he was so worried for Elizabeth. What if he was too late? What if she was already dead?
Yes, he may not have met the Stewmaker, but he knew him oh-so-well. Not in his usual knowledge of his targets' habits, though. No... long ago, the man had kidnapped his wife. The love of Rammond Reddington's life, the only woman who had ever humbled him away from his criminal background. He had loved her with all his heart and the daughter she had bore him. Elizabeth Reddington. Lizzie. Though she did not remember that she was his daughter, he could not help but protect her in his own way. He would tell her eventually.
The Stewmaker had taken his wife away and killed her. He had not coped well. Okay, he'd really not coped well. He had ended up abandoning his own daughter, something he regretted deeply he was desperately trying to make up for now. He had just been so devastated; so what if he hadn't fulfilled one request on time? That gave them no right to hire him, that monster, to kill her, to dissolve her body in an agonizingly painful crimson bath of chemicals! He couldn't bear the thought, even now, of her calling for him, hoping he'd come rescue her like he had when they had first started taking the relationship seriously so many years ago and he'd neglected to make sure she didn't wander from his side. He could barely handle confirming the body's identity. He had felt so weak then, so vulnerable. It was then he had finally learned he had to detach himself from everyone he loved to be sure they would not be hurt.
And yet... here he was.
Making the same mistakes.
He snapped out of it as he entered the room Lorca was seated in, his chin resting on his hands. Reddington remained standing, more on edge than usual. He set the case on the table, clearing his throat and calmly explaining to Lorca when he could leave and the specifics.
"I have provided for you a new identity. In return, I request you provide me with a name and location of where Agent Keen is being kept, should she still be alive."
Lorca's eyes lit up with vague interest, snorting with contempt. "I don't have anything to offer you."
Reddington smiled, that broad, arrogant smile that fit well with his mask of a calm, collected exterior. Except it was darker than usual, cunning. He pulled the case up, turning for the door. "Very well, Mr. Lorca. Good luck getting out of the country."
"Wait."
Reddington paused, turning his head slightly. "Yes?"
"I don't have a name or location but I have a contact I can give you."
Reddington turned to him, returning to the table and settling the case back down, folding his hands over it. He smiled again, but the gleam in his eyes was surprisingly venomous. "While this is acceptable as a trade, I am inclined to tell you, Lorca, you're an idiot. You let your emotions get in the way and that is why you will always get caught whereas I will not."
Lorca growled, but did not protest. Suddenly, he smirked. "This girl... it's personal, isn't it? You're taking this personally. Certainly one to talk."
Reddington tilted his head slightly, considering for the briefest moment, before finally simply replying, "Perhaps." But nothing more. Not a clear yes or no. He showed no sign of vulnerability. Besides, even if he had, Lorca would not have given a rat's ass; they both knew Rammond was far more cunning and capable to kill him at a moment's notice. He wouldn't have dared mock him. His life did, quite literally, depend on it. Or at least, to him, because he did not know what could be a wrong move to set this mysterious, calm man off. It could be anything.
There was another brief silence before Reddington said calmly but coldly, "I believe you'll find it filed under 'none of your damn business'."

Elizabeth could not move. The Stewmaker- Stanlee, was that his name?- had injected her with a drug that had paralyzed her. After manipulating him into talking about his family and feeling sympathy for her, she had escaped the wheelchair he had tied her to and ran into the woods. However, his dog had found her, since she had crashed into a tree and the drug had set in. He had dragged her back, muttering dark things she couldn't quite make out.
As she sat there, her head lolling onto her shoulder, she watched him draw the... chemical bath, of sorts. Then, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eyes just when the man turned to take a picture of her before he would send her to her death. He had a habit of taking pictures of his victims, apparently. She focused on the camera until it flashed but then her eyes moved back to behind him. There was Rammond Reddington, still finely dressed, with only the slightest trace of dirt from the forest on his shirt. She cracked her mouth open, swallowing the best she could before quietly saying, to Reddington rather than the man, "I think I was wrong about you..."
"You're not perfect."
The man seemed to catch on suddenly she was not talking to him, turning around. He was somewhat bent forward, so Reddington seemed to tower over him. His face was not calm and collected; it was serious and dark, and something about the look in his eyes and the his body language, Elizabeth thought, seemed almost protective. Then, his fist hit the man in the face, knocking him out temporarily. He watched him crumple to the ground, his usually calm brown eyes dark. He looked up at Lizzie then, the darkness fading and she thought she could see a flicker of... concern? Worry? It quickly changed to calm and cool as he stepped forward to the wheelchair, crouching in front of her. He touched her neck, feeling at the skin cautiously.
He smiled at her, meeting her eyes. "Hello, Lizzie."
He rose to his feet, turning the wheelchair around and wheeling it into the other room. He paused, trying to ignore the feelings inside him, resting his hand on her pretty brown hair, stroking it gently. He leaned forward, pressing a fleeting kiss to her temple, shocking her. "It's temporary. You'll be able to move again soon."
He turned away, heading back over to the man. He was stirring. Reddington jerked him up, roughly, forcing him to sit on the edge of the tub. He leaned in close, examining him closely. "A farmer comes home one day. His crops are burned, his land scorched, his heart destroyed. Broken, he looks for a way to fill a void and make things right and turn them around. So he starts to hurt people, take away their loved ones, tear families apart... and then one day, he realizes, instead of making a difference, the farmer is now the one who burns, scorches, and destroys. Maybe he can change..."
Reddington paused, his last sentence a purr. Then, his eyes narrowed to slits and he said coldly, tonelessly, "But then again, maybe not."
He pushed him into the chemical bath and didn't hang around to watch him die. Instead, he turned away and left the room, grasping the photo album absently as he left. He flipped it open, going through the pages, and then he found the picture. His wife.
His.
He willed himself not to break then and there, stuffing it in his pocket. He walked up to Lizzie, hearing the FBI agents outside calling orders. They burst in and he smiled at them warmly.

Once outside, when he had finished discussing something with Agent Ressler, he was walking toward the EMS ambulance when he saw Elizabeth running toward him. Well, not really running. The drug was still partially in effect so she stumbled. He probably looked dumb-struck and confused for the first time since she'd 'met' him, until she had thrown her arms around his neck and begun to sob against his neck. He abruptly dropped the photo album, stiffening. He slowly drew his arms around her, holding her close. "Shh... Lizzie, hush..."
She sobbed harder. He glanced around, catching a few agents watching the scene, seeming to be silently trying to guess what was going on between the two. He held her tighter, giving her the faintest of squeezes, propping his chin on top of her head. "Shh, Lizzie, come now... You're in no condition to overexert-"
"Shut up, you idiot!" she hissed shakily in between heavy sobs, "Just shut up for once, will you?"
He did. He stroked her hair gently, pushing his nose against the top of her head, whispering sweet nothings, the best he could offer. He cradled her against his chest, rocking on his heels until her sobs finally ceased. She was shaking badly, before he realized some of it was involuntary muscle jerks. He sighed, sliding one arm under her knees, lifting her up against him, leaning down with surprising flexibility to pick up the photo album. He tucked it under his free arm, carrying her back to the ambulance. He set her on the bench, placing the photo album in her lap. "Since it means so much to you... here. Give this to the families that lost their loved one."
Lizzie sniffed, looking down at it. She frowned, looking up at him as he backed up. The ambulance started.
"You didn't have to kill him," she whispered, "You're a monster."
Reddington felt a sting in his heart but refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he simply replied, "Yes."
"How can you live with yourself...?"
Reddington smiled slightly. He tucked his hands in his pockets. "By saving you."
Confusion lit up on her face but she didn't have time to dwell on it before they shut the doors and the ambulance drove away, leaving Rammond Reddington standing alone in the forest, watching after the ambulance, his smile disappearing.
It was going to be a long night.

He was on the balcony of his hotel room, staring down at the picture of his wife he'd taken from the album. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth as the tears finally found their way out of the impossibly calm man. He did not sob, just cried silently. For his wife, for his daughter, for royally fucking up at being a father.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered brokenly.
He tensed when he heard the door to his room open. But who...? Nobody had a card to his hotel room except...
"Reddington, what the hell are you up to? This album is missing a photo. Give it back so I can give it to the family- Oh, God, are you...?"
He turned around, meeting her eyes. He couldn't cover it up this time. He smiled shakily. "It won't do you much good," he croaked hoarsely, letting a few more tears slip down his cheeks, "I am the family."
He held out the picture, the sharpie neatly scrawled out at the bottom, "Reddington." The first name was smudged out.
Elizabeth stared at him in shock, her mouth hanging open. She paused, hesitating, biting her lip before cautiously holding out a hand, doing as he once had and murmuring, "May I...?"
Reddington placed the picture in her hand, pressing it to her palm. Elizabeth withdrew her hand, examining it. "Wow, she looks just like... my mother..."
Reddington smiled shakily, wiping his eyes. "Lucky coincidence."
"No, I'm serious... same facial structure and..."
She looked up, her eyes wide, twisted with confusion and shock. She opened her mouth, before closing it firmly and clearing her throat, opening it again. "That can't be... it would mean..."
Reddington's shaky smile turned into a wobbly frown and suddenly, everything he'd worked so hard to hide broke free and seemed to crush him. He hid his face in his hands, sobbing.
He was surprised to find a pair of warm arms curl around him and hug him tightly. He whimpered pitifully, swallowing hard. Weak, he was weak, this was going to ruin his rep-
"You finally came home."
A silence.
"Of course, Lizzie."
"You saved me."
"Always..."
"Why did you leave?"
He hesitated, pulling away, wiping at his eyes. "I just... needed some time... and then I got... distracted by my... criminal reputation. It was dangerous but I always kept looking out for you, I promise. You just... never knew."
Elizabeth frowned, having trouble processing. She fixed the collar of his shirt, saying in a hushed whisper, "You should go get ready for bed. We've... all had a rough night."
Reddington paused before nodding slowly. He hesitated a moment longer before retreating away from her, disappearing into the bathroom of the hotel.

She helped him prepare for bed. It turned out to be more entertaining than she thought it would. She tucked him in, as he had done the night she'd crashed in his bed. He practically lived in his hotel room, anyway. She curled her fingers around the collar of his shirt, leaning down and pressing a cautious kiss to his temple. "Goodnight... dad."
Rammond Reddington smiled in his sleep.