Chapter Text
TWO WEEKS EARLIER — MONDAY — 8:38 AM — THE POST OFFICE
The elevator opened and the bullpen adjusted—not alarmed, not surprised. Just aware. Like the building had learned the difference between a visitor and an event.
Dembe stepped out first, calm as a metronome.
Red followed, immaculate, wearing that faintly seasonal good humor Liz had learned not to trust. Christmas cheer on him usually came with fine print.
“Harold,” Red called, as if clearance were a suggestion. “Good morning. Merry Christmas.”
Ressler didn’t look up from his paperwork. “It’s—”
Samar, without lifting her eyes from her screen: “December.”
Ressler blinked, offended to be corrected by both time and Samar. “Whatever.”
Red’s smile widened anyway. “Donald.”
Ressler’s jaw set. “Don’t call me—”
“Donald,” Red repeated, like it was affectionate.
Liz stepped out of Cooper’s office with a folder—and stopped when she saw him.
Red’s attention found her immediately and did that infuriating thing it always did: made the room feel smaller, quieter, more specific.
“Lizzie,” he said, warm like he hadn’t just walked into federal space uninvited.
Liz hated the tiny spike in her pulse. “Red.”
Cooper appeared in his doorway, expression set to principal confronted with a charming problem student. Firm, not unfriendly. “Reddington.”
Red turned, all manners. “Harold.”
“What are you doing here,” Cooper asked.
Red lifted a slim folder. “I brought you something.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Red sighed as if being forced into clarity was a personal insult. “Fine. I brought you information. About someone you’d prefer not to exist.”
Cooper’s eyes flicked to the folder, then to Dembe, then back. “Conference room. Now.”
Red moved like he owned the hallway. Dembe followed. The task force fell in behind them out of habit and mild dread.
Ressler muttered as they walked, “Every time he shows up, my blood pressure becomes a hobby.”
Red glanced back without breaking stride. “Donald, a hobby keeps a man young.”
Ressler’s jaw tightened. “Don’t call me—”
“Donald,” Red said again, pleased with himself.
Samar passed Ressler with serene approval, like she’d just watched a predictable failure of impulse control.
* * *
8:41 AM — CONFERENCE ROOM
Red sat like the table had been waiting for him. Dembe stood behind his chair, hands folded, steady at his shoulder.
Liz took the seat across from Red—close enough to hear him without leaning in, far enough to pretend it wasn’t intentional.
Cooper stayed standing, arms crossed. No wasted motion.
“All right,” Cooper said. “Talk.”
Red opened the folder and slid a photo across the table: an unremarkable man in a neat suit with a pleasant smile. The kind of face people forgot while still nodding politely at it.
“Victor Havel,” Red said. “He has the cheerful demeanor of a kindergarten teacher and the ethics of a raccoon.”
Ressler leaned forward. “Who is he.”
“He sells information he doesn’t own to people who shouldn’t have it,” Red said. “Contracts. Access lists. Schedules. Small secrets that become large disasters the moment the wrong person finds them useful.”
Liz studied the photo. “Where is he getting it.”
Red lifted both hands, utterly sincere. “I have absolutely no idea.”
The silence that followed was briefly offended.
Liz blinked. “You don’t know.”
Red’s expression didn’t change. “I know who. I know when. I know who profits. I do not know how tiny glowing rectangles collaborate.”
Ressler stared. “You don’t understand computers.”
Red looked personally insulted. “Donald, I understand computers. I simply refuse to respect them.”
Samar’s mouth twitched. “That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is, spiritually,” Red said, then turned his head a fraction—an elegant cue, not theatrics. “Dembe.”
Dembe stepped forward smoothly, taking over without making it a performance.
“He uses removable storage and temporary accounts,” Dembe said. “He creates mirrored logins and rotates access. The timing suggests he’s active again this week. Mr. Reddington confirmed the buyer and the handoff window. I traced the pattern.”
Aram’s eyes lit up despite himself. “That’s actually clean.”
Red smiled, pleased. “See? Dembe understands the internet. I understand people.”
Samar, “Between the two of you, that was almost coherent.”
Red accepted that like a medal. “High praise.”
Liz looked from Dembe to Red. “So you brought this because…?”
Red’s attention settled on her, steady. “Because the buyer irritates me.”
Ressler muttered, “It’s always the reason.”
Red didn’t deny it. He added, conversational: “And because Victor Havel has a talent for walking into secure spaces with the confidence of a man carrying catered pastries.”
Liz’s mouth tightened. “He looks harmless.”
“He counts on it,” Red said—voice sharpening for a single beat—then easing again as his gaze returned to her. “You won’t be fooled.”
Liz arched a brow. “Flattering.”
Red’s smile was small. “Accurate.”
He tapped the photo once. “One more thing. Havel panics when he’s watched. Don’t watch him. Let him believe he’s alone—then follow the person he thinks no one noticed.”
Cooper’s eyes narrowed in reluctant appreciation. “We’ll take it. Aram—”
A light knock interrupted.
A staffer leaned in with an envelope and an apologetic smile. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. This was delivered for you—DOJ events office.”
Cooper took it with a nod. “Thank you.”
He opened it with the practiced calm of a man invited to too many things he couldn’t refuse.
Liz caught the embossed lettering first.
WIDOWS AND CHILDREN’S FUND — DOJ WINTER CHARITY GALA
“The gala,” Cooper said, already tired. “Panabaker would like the task force to attend.”
Samar exhaled. “She would.”
Ressler muttered, “Why do we always get assigned to rooms with hors d’oeuvres.”
Cooper skimmed. “Press line, donation wall, photos. They want us standing still while people talk at us.”
Liz leaned in despite herself. “They want the Bureau visible,” she said. “Stable.”
Cooper didn’t argue. “They want what they can sell.”
Samar glanced at the fine print. “Black tie.”
Liz felt her shoulders tighten at the thought—standing in a room full of polished people and sharper expectations.
Liz set the envelope down like it might bite. “So this is happening.”
“It’s happening,” Cooper confirmed. “Two weeks.”
He drew a breath, already turning obligation into logistics. “We show up. We do what Panabaker needs. We leave.”
Liz muttered, “That’s optimistic.”
Red’s gaze drifted to the sponsorship section—table packages, patron tiers, neat little numbers with commas. Doors, disguised as donations. He didn’t comment; he simply filed it away.
Dembe watched him file it away and understood—without a word—that they’d be shopping for tuxedos.
Cooper’s voice cut back in. “Back to work. Havel first.”
Red rose smoothly, straightening his jacket like he hadn’t been sitting. “Do your due diligence with Victor Havel,” he said, nodding at the photo. “He looks harmless. He isn’t.”
Cooper gave a short nod. “We will.”
Red’s attention flicked to Liz—brief, private—then he turned toward the door.
“Try not to let anyone with a title drain your will to live,” he said lightly.
“No promises,” Liz replied.
The corner of Red’s mouth lifted like he planned to remember that.
Then he left—unhurried—without waiting for permission.
* * *
THE NIGHT BEFORE — THURSDAY — 9:18 PM — LIZ’S APARTMENT
Liz stood in front of her closet like it had personally betrayed her.
A black dress lay on the bed—simple, clean, appropriate. She held it up, then dropped it again like the hanger had burned her.
The shoes were worse. They looked innocent. They were not.
Liz took three steps, wobbled, and caught herself on the dresser.
“This is ridiculous,” she told the mirror.
She tried again. Slower. With more hatred.
Wobble.
Liz exhaled, glared at her reflection, and said with feeling, “I’m going to arrest whoever invented heels.”
No one objected.
Her phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number.
Liz frowned and answered, cautious. “Keen.”
“Lizzie.”
His voice landed the way it always did—warm, calm, faintly amused, as if he’d called from a world where nothing sharp could reach her.
Liz’s shoulders went tight on reflex. “Red. It’s late.”
“Forgive me,” he said, unhurried. “I’m calling to deliver something useful before tomorrow turns into endurance.”
Liz glanced at the dress on the bed. “If this is about the gala—”
“It is,” Red replied. “You’re walking into a room designed to reward patience, punish sincerity, and convince competent people they should smile more.”
Liz shut her eyes. “…Accurate.”
“I try,” Red said lightly. Then his tone softened—just enough to feel private. “I’m not calling to lecture you, Lizzie. I’m calling to give you an exit that doesn’t require an apology.”
Liz opened her eyes again, wary. “An exit.”
“A phrase,” Red said, as if explaining a tool. “If someone corners you and starts talking like you’re a networking opportunity—smile, say dessert emergency, and leave.”
Liz blinked. “You’re serious.”
“Utterly,” he said. “It’s absurd enough that polite people won’t question it, and practical enough that no one can object without sounding monstrous.”
Liz stared at herself in the mirror, then let out a short laugh she didn’t mean to. “Dessert emergency.”
“Yes,” Red agreed, pleased. “Say it like you mean it.”
Liz tried it under her breath, testing it like evidence. “Dessert emergency.”
“Better,” Red said.
Liz exhaled. “Why are you calling me about this, Red?”
A pause—small, careful. Not evasive. Considered.
“Because I’d like you to have a good night,” he said simply. Softer than his usual precision, still controlled. “Not a tolerable one. Not a survivable one. A good one.”
Liz went still.
He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it sit there—patient, steady—like he wasn’t afraid of what it might reveal.
Liz swallowed. “Fine. Dessert emergency. Anything else, since you’ve apparently decided to run field ops for my social life?”
A soft exhale—almost a laugh. “Yes. Eat something before you go in. It’s harder for people to wear you down when your blood sugar isn’t conspiring against you.”
Liz stared. “That might be the most normal advice you’ve ever given me.”
“I contain multitudes,” he murmured.
She hesitated, then said quietly, “Goodnight, Red.”
“Goodnight,” he replied—and then, like an afterthought he allowed himself very carefully, “You’ll be stunning tomorrow.”
Liz closed her eyes. “Red.”
His soft laugh was brief. “Sleep. You’ll need your strength.”
The line went dead.
Liz stood there for a long moment, phone still in her hand, the quiet in the room suddenly louder.
Then, almost against her will, she tried the shoes again.
This time she didn’t wobble.
Much.