Work Text:
ONE (Agents of SHIELD)
Raymond Reddington sat at the dinner table at the restaurant at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. It was one of the most exclusive hotels in the world, its security was delightfully competent, and its kitchens were reliable enough to suit him, which was saying a great deal. Just now he was trading some amusing travel anecdotes with his dinner companion, whom he'd met just after a rather intriguing business deal involving the acquisition of some extremely advanced weaponry.
He'd slid into an exquisitely comfortable seat at a corner table in the bar, a glass of twenty-five year old The MacAllan being deposited silently in front of him by a uniformed waiter. He hadn't had to place the order; they knew him here. A moment later, an extremely attractive creature in an expensive and beautifully cut suit was in the chair across from him, drink in hand.
"Mr. Reddington."
"Ah, you have the advantage of me." If he was flustered – Raymond Reddington was never flustered – by the approach, he didn't show it. He was used to such approaches, either for business or for sex… which was itself occasionally business, after all. And he was used to approaches for both from people he didn't necessarily know. He looked around casually; his so-called bodyguard should have been two tables over, but wasn't. Though he didn't anticipate any trouble he couldn't handle, the man was supposed to be there. Well, he could always shoot the man and hire another one. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."
"You don't know me, Mr. Reddington, but you might be able to surmise my employer," his surprise guest teased. "You're very good at that sort of thing."
Suit… neatly and unfussily styled hair, jewelry to a minimum – watch, ring, nothing that would catch or could be used against the wearer in a fight. No visible weapons, but… yes, the slightest bulge at the hip. Educated. Reasonably well-mannered for an intruder. And, again, not at all unattractive. In fact… very intriguing. "American, of course… government. It's the hair, I'm afraid."
A slight smile. "Well, yes – longer, and it gets in the way. I'm not… precisely… the government you may be thinking of. I'm with SHIELD."
Now Reddington smiled, rather more broadly than his new companion. "Ah. Nick Fury. How is the one-eyed monster these days?"
"Interested in your new acquisition, if you haven't got a buyer for it. Even more interested if you do have one. I'm authorized to double any offer you've been made for HYDRA technology."
"Have you, now?" It wasn't a surprise. He'd known Nick Fury for years, since before he'd left the military… if Fury was holding to his end of the bargain, the agent hadn't been told by Fury that Reddington had left the States and the Navy in the first place as part of one of Fury's plans. "I've been offered a very great deal for it."
"I'm sure. By an Eastern European group, I believe."
"You're well-informed."
"I worked it out. Might I interest you in allowing us to procure it?"
"And what does SHIELD plan to do with a HYDRA explosive device?"
"Destroy it."
Reddington shrugged. "Its best use, of course. My own business would be ruined if too much of it were too readily findable. I rely on people trying to achieve a balance of power of some sort – these toys skew that too dramatically. I blame Odin, personally." He licked his lower lip. "I'll do it. On one condition."
"What's that?"
"You'll join me for dinner, Agent…"
"Coulson. Phil Coulson."
"Excellent. The chops here are splendid. I recommend the crème brulee for dessert. With raspberries. And I always dine in my suite. It's… safer."
Coulson arched an eyebrow. "For you, or for me?"
"Not for you, Agent Coulson. I prefer eating raspberries in bed." Red's smile was aimed directly at Coulson, in full force.
Coulson smiled back, leaning in. "Call me Phil."
* * *
TWO (Criminal Minds)
It was a gorgeous day, with a sky that might have been painted by Degas. A sidewalk café was the best option, where the sky was visible, where the women walking their dogs were amusingly visible, where the busy shoppers were visible. Street-watching in Paris was always delightful.
His current bodyguard was two tables away, eyeing him occasionally and a cappuccino regularly. The man drank enough caffeine to be alert twenty-four, seven. He was doing a fine job – rare enough in this business.
Why, when one was enjoying a pleasant solitary interlude on a beautiful day, did people insist on interrupting? His bodyguard was reaching under his jacket as a pretty brunette – no, not the least bit French – suddenly eased herself into the other chair at his table.
He raised an eye in surprise. "Agent Prentiss. Why am I receiving a visit from Interpol today? I don't believe I've been as much as a blip on your radar for… weeks."
"Two months, Reddington," she grimaced. "We haven't had word of you in two months. I thought either you were laying low or you'd died."
He flagged down a waiter. "Caffe Americano for the lady, thank you." Then he turned back to Emily Prentiss, reaching for his own unfinished cappuccino. "I believe that's still what you drink?"
"You remembered?"
"Every time you've deposited yourself on my doorstep – or at my table in a restaurant – long enough to ask for something besides water, that's what it's been, my dear. I remember things like that. It's a… survival… tool."
"I doubt if it helped in Armenia last March."
Reddington shuddered. "Ah, you know about Armenia. I loathe underground bunkers. Especially ones that leak."
"The Plaza Athenee is more your style, I'd think."
He shook his head. "No, no. The George V. The beds are much more comfortable, and the housekeeping is superior."
"So is the chef, I'm told."
"You're told?" Reddington raised an eyebrow. "And your mother an ambassador, Emily? You've never dined there?"
"Never."
He smiled. "Interpol is used to living dangerously – may I buy you dinner there this evening?"
Prentiss drew back slightly – whether from the invitation, or because her coffee was arriving, was unclear. "Dinner with you at the George V?"
"Dinner. With me. At the George V."
"Reddington! You know I couldn't possibly be seen having dinner with you."
He smirked. "My suite has its own dining room. You'll be quite safe from observation. I have it swept for bugs four times a day." He nodded over towards his bodyguard. "Anton is extremely efficient."
"And is he also your chaperone?" she asked slowly.
"Did you want one, Agent Prentiss?"
"I'm a big girl, Reddington. I'll take care of myself."
"I'm sure you will. Eight o'clock?"
* * *
THREE (Fringe)
Raymond Reddington's chauffeur pulled up into the sweeping Westchester County driveway, parking in front of the sweeping steps of the mansion and opening the Mercedes' trunk. Before he could open the car door for his employer, Reddington was already lazily swinging his legs out of the back seat.
The front door of the brick Colonial was open, and its owner bypassed a uniformed catering waitress who was wandering across the lawn to come to greet him. She stood on tiptoe to reach up to kiss him on the cheek; he returned the greeting fondly.
"I'm so glad you could make it," she told him as they followed behind his chauffeur, who carried his luggage into the house. "The party will be wonderful. You can stay the week?"
"I should be safe. My travel documents are all in the usual innocuous name, and Enrique's a competent bodyguard – better than he is a driver, as far as that goes. I'll be fine unless he wrecks the Mercedes with me in it."
"If he does, you know… we can take care of that. We've done it before." She trailed off as they entered her study, pushing the door shut and locking it behind her. "Let's get just a little business out of the way now. Business first, pleasure later, and all that."
Reddington ensconced himself into a chair near her desk. "I've always found that business is pleasure, Nina. Everything else? That depends on who's involved and what they're attempting."
"If you're confining those remarks to the chef, I'm sure you'll be happy. He's a guest too, singing for his supper, as it were. My regular weekend cook refused to come over until he leaves on Monday – she's offended. Afraid, I suppose, that he'll compare her cooking to his. He only has two Michelin stars – but of course, she has none."
Her guest laughed. "I'll worry when the time comes to face the caviar service. Now, sit. What can I do for you?"
Nina's red hair glinted in the autumn afternoon light that filtered in through handmade lace curtains. "We have some… materials… that we need to dispose of before the government notices."
"FBI? NSA?" He leaned over to her desk, anticipating her answer.
"Possibly both. And the FDA, while we're at it. And… who knows who else. No one wants to approve the product."
"And just what is the product? I need to be able to sell it, Nina. I can't be stuck with five tons of chemical sludge, unless it's sufficiently radioactive."
She pulled her chair in as far as she could, leaning across and dropping her voice to a near-whisper. "Raymond, we've developed a… an organic? A synthetic? Both? It's a… putty."
"Explosive putty? Too cheap, Nina. Too easy to come by. Not my speed."
"No, no." She shook her hands as she spoke. "It's something Walter Bishop thought of once, but he didn't continue with it. I've had my people tinker with it. Say you've lost a hand, or a foot. Shrapnel. Mines. What have you. You mold it over the remaining area. It… regrows. Missing limbs. Down to the original fingerprints on the new hand."
That was intriguing. "How long?"
"Six weeks or so. Eight for a full leg, it seems. Unwise to grow back more than one full limb at a time, apparently… and there does seem to be physical therapy required… It could do a great deal for mankind generally, but we can't get medical approval, and I'm certain some of your… clients… in… shall we say, war-torn… areas… might appreciate being able to get back to their labors as quickly as possible."
"All hail Massive Dynamic," Reddington murmured. "How much do you have? You can name your price for it – I'll mark it up a few hundred percent, and they'll still pay for it. I can make arrangements to get it shipped out of the country while I'm here."
Nina Sharp, CEO of Massive Dynamic, gloated. "I'd say we have enough in storage for… oh, let's say… five thousand hands or feet… less, if you're replacing full arms or legs… what's a hand worth?"
Reddington calculated quickly. "Islamic? Loss of a right hand? Priceless. At ten thousand a hand, fifty million dollars. More… would not be impossible to get. Not if I'm marketing it to Russians. I think I could make us both very happy with this."
"Would you care to celebrate?" she asked him.
"What did you have in mind?"
"I'll leave my door unlocked later. We'll… think of something?"
* * *
FOUR (The X-Files)
The conference table was full. Spender was rattling on as usual, and the Brit wasn't having it. Not any of it. Reddington thought that the Brit was right. The old men that made up the bulk of the actual conspirators, rather than their lackeys, minions, or henchmen, were mostly insane aside from the Brit, whose tailor was as admirable as his sense.
Still, Reddington thought, he didn't have to be part of it – he just supplied certain necessities, saw that certain cargo on certain ships was diverted to certain places, and he was paid his usual handsome brokerage fees for the less-than-onerous work. He preferred using his own associates to using theirs, though he understood that they wanted to supervise.
Alien takeovers? He'd have thought, until Spender had suggested bringing him in, that humans preferred fighting to switching sides, but this crew really was anxious for evil alien overlords to run the show. Disgusting, but… they paid. Handsomely. And, in theory, as their well-beloved concierge, they were planning to cut him in on the survival and domination of other subject humans.
He knew what that job was called – kapo. The prisoner with the happy and exalted position of dominating lesser prisoners. He knew something about it, not just the terminology, and he didn't like it. There was no way that aliens were going to take over, do their thing, and just leave this crew of mad scientists and bureaucratic morons to control the world themselves afterwards.
He wasn't sure how to fight it, and he preferred being alive and rich to dead and anything, but he was certainly more intelligent than Spender. He wasn't sure about Strughold. The Brit? The Brit was the genius here, and he had this figured out, as well.
And the Brit – Sir John, someone called him; Reddington hadn't worked out his full name yet – was inviting him for a drink afterwards now.
They found a private corner at the Brit's club – quiet, private, plushly carpeted – and a Scotch was thrust upon him the likes of which he'd not had the privilege to sample before.
"A whisky like that," his host commented, watching Reddington sip at it, "is proof enough that we do not need to be controlled by anyone other than ourselves. Wouldn't you agree?"
A raised eyebrow. "You're not in league with the rest of your own cabal?"
"Oh, I suppose I was, once. But there are certain things – art, literature, human intelligence, even love, Mr. Reddington – things that make up the human spirit – that I do not believe we can live without. A world of human slaves, ruled by slightly better-off slaves? I've watched you, Mr. Reddington, as I've seen you watch me. You are not inclined towards this goal, either."
"No. I'm inclined, I admit freely, towards my own greater good. I've little interest in others, except so far as what they can do for me, but I can't see this, ultimately, working in my own best interest, and it bodes unwell for anyone that I think could do anything for me."
"You're honest. I appreciate that. And a certain amount of enlightened self-interest is more useful here than all the scientific knowledge available. I have a plan or two." And his host began to talk.
He talked intelligently, thoughtfully, philosophically. Reddington liked him. In other circumstances, it would have been pleasant to become friends with the man, but survival in a plot like this relied upon not being too close.
"I have someone who can assist you, Mr. Reddington. Spender believes that he works for him, but he's my man. He can go between you and certain other people to make arrangements. Alex, could you come over here?"
A young man – an exceptionally attractive one, with black hair and green eyes, and a ridiculously pretty mouth – came over. Reddington checked him over thoroughly. "Privet. Kak dela, Alex?" he asked.
The younger man spluttered. "I – you speak Russian?"
"Ty govoris pa-russki. Pardon my accent. I'm aware it's atrocious."
"Mr. Reddington, this is Alex Krycek," Sir John said. "Alex, I want you to work with Mr. Reddington as you would with me. He and I have discussed matters, and we see things… similarly. He will be more able than I to engage in certain… activities. You will help him in any way he sees fit – do you understand?"
"Perfectly. Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?"
"No, no, I'm fine. Mr. Reddington, I've made arrangements for you and Alex to be able to talk in a private corner of the visitors' lounge after I leave, but I should advise you not to stay too long."
Reddington rose as Sir John did, reaching over to shake hands with the Englishman. "Thank you."
"We shall talk again shortly. Alex will facilitate that."
Alex seemed able to facilitate a great many things. Shipments. The FBI – he'd been in the FBI, it seemed. Spender's moods. And… as Reddington discovered without asking… stress relief. That mouth did considerably more than simply look pretty.
* * *
FIVE (The Blacklist)
Oh, God, these FBI agents… really, they'd no business trying to arrange a domestic-interest assassination abroad – that was the CIA's department. Not that the CIA was any more competent at assassination – they'd been hopeless since Castro.
It had been so easy to avoid the incident. They'd set a fairly new agent to following him, to work out his schedule. Of course he'd recognize the tail – did they really think he wouldn't? He'd been in Naval Intelligence. He'd worked with the NSA. He was better trained at spying than this one was – better than the whole lot of undercover idiots that had no business here in Barcelona.
Apparently they didn't teach FBI about honeytraps, either. Especially when the target decided to play honeytrap himself. Really, what were they teaching new agents these days? You could get anyone to talk after sex. Especially when they talked in their sleep.
* * *
AND ONE TIME HE DIDN'T (The Blacklist)
She threw herself against Red's chest, arms around him. He reciprocated; he hated to see her cry, wanted – no, needed – to offer her some form of comfort. Her head was against him, tears soaking into his tan linen vest. He made no effort to stop her – she needed this, needed to let go. It had all been too much – first her husband, then two agents' deaths in rapid succession, then… finding the children's bodies had revolted him as well. He hadn't expected that from the man. If he had, he'd have killed the bastard himself, and to hell with his plans to use the FBI to do his dirty work.
And for Lizzie to see it? No. It didn't do. It offended his sense of propriety. The one he had that associated Lizzie with strawberries, puppies, and sunny days in the park, even though they'd waded knee-deep through the equivalent of charnel houses together more than once.
He admired, liked, strong women. He had no concern with using women who made themselves available – it was their business, after all, to do so. But Lizzie – yes, Lizzie was strong, smart, competent. Yes, she could have been his daughter (and thank whatever powers there were that he'd long quit believing in, that she wasn't). None of it meant that… occasionally… the proverbial cold shower wasn't in order. She might be strong, she might be smart, she might be almost chillingly competent at some things, but she was a very attractive younger woman, and he was human, no matter what she chose to think of him from time to time.
He moved one arm around her waist, the other along her back, hand over her shoulder, squeezing it gently. A kiss planted in her hair – green apple shampoo, he noted absently, which was far too innocently charming – seemed appropriate, as did the closer hug… though perhaps not that close, because he was… human… and it would be preferable if Elizabeth Keen didn't notice that particular proof of it.
And – damn, she was pressing herself completely against him, directly into his stirring erection, the one she really shouldn't be anywhere near, and – no, her emotions were out of control; she was throwing herself on him, and while the offer should be tempting, there was nothing imaginable that was worse than that.
"Red – I – please—"
He disengaged her from him gently, releasing his own arms from her, shrugging out of her embrace, and taking her hands and forearms, putting a slight distance between them. "No."
"Red… I… please, I need…"
He dropped one hand from hers, reached it up to cup her face, to tilt it towards his. "I know what you think you want. What you need is a hot bath, a glass of wine, something reasonably light to eat, and some sleep. If you don't want to be alone – I wouldn't blame you, after that – you can stay with me. I don't particularly care what Cooper thinks about it. But no, Lizzie. You don't need sex right now. Least of all with me."
"Why not?"
"Because we're partners. Or close enough. Come on." He waved a hand to Dembe, his bodyguard and driver, to bring his car closer to them. He bundled her into the back seat before he climbed in, sliding an arm around her. "Dembe, call Luli. Lizzie needs a nightgown and a change of clothes for the morning. She's staying with us."
"Welcome, Miss Keen," Dembe murmured across to the back seat. "You will be fine. Just rest."