Chapter Text
The red, blinking numbers of the alarm clock flip from 6:59 to 7:00am and a shrill beeping begins to sound in the quiet darkness of the bedroom, interrupting the silence for the first time in hours.
A hand reaches out to shut off the alarm clock, pressing a button and silencing the incessant beeping, before floating back to land in its previous position.
Silence returns to the room and another ten minutes pass before there's a soft knock and the door eases open a crack, letting in an unwelcome sliver of light as a familiar head leans in.
"I'm awake, Dembe," Red murmurs without looking, his voice deep and scratchy from disuse, not moving from where he's lying on his back on the bed.
There's a quiet sigh from the door before it eases shut again and Red goes back to staring at the ceiling, eyes open and unblinking, with his hands folded on top of his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles, in the same position he's been in all night.
Red never sleeps anymore.
(He sees things when his eyes are closed that he would much rather not.)
With a heavy sigh, Red finally heaves himself upright and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He sits there for a long moment, his mind blank and numb, as he attempts to put aside his crippling grief and self-loathing, if only for long enough to stand.
It's a daunting task.
Even with all the weight he's recently lost, his body somehow feels too heavy and cumbersome to drag around, and he knows it would be so much easier to stay in bed and waste away. But another soft knock on his door ruins that plan, so Red puts his feet on the floor, stands, and forces himself to start the day.
The day - such as it is - starts as every day has for the past three long months, with a series of tedious tasks that Red robotically completes with no enthusiasm or real sense of accomplishment.
He starts with a shower, a methodical washing of his body that he only completes every day out of consideration for the people around him. The thorough scrubbing of his skin is almost painful as he stands under water so hot that it fogs up all the mirrors in the room, and Red gets a bland sort of satisfaction from not having to look at his pale, haggard face staring emotionlessly back at him when he emerges from the stall.
After his shower, Red crosses back through his bedroom to the walk-in closet, a towel draped half-heartedly around his waist. He picks a suit at random from his extensive collection with no thought to what matches or compliments, instead finding all the necessary pieces of his armor with an eye only for the darkest colors he has, preferring the fabric that now hangs off his body to be as black as possible. The only item he forgoes is his signature fedora, leaving every one of his hats lined up neatly on their shelf to gather dust, as he closes the closet door without a second glance.
(He hasn't been able to bring himself to put a hat on his head since the night he took the last one off and laid it symbolically on the sidewalk.)
Once he's dressed, Red stops by his bureau to clip on his back holster, load his gun, and pocket his current burner phone. At that point, ready purely in the physical sense, Red puts one hand on the doorknob and takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut and trying in vain to prepare himself to venture outside of the safe haven of his dark bedroom and face the real world.
(Although nothing much has seemed real to him since his life made the shift from beautiful fantasy to absolute living nightmare.)
Opening his eyes and giving one last fervent wish that the day was already over, Red forces himself to open the door and head out to the kitchen. As usual, that's where he finds Dembe, already dressed and standing at the stove, cooking something in a pan that looks delicious, healthy, and filling.
The smell makes Red's stomach turn.
"Good morning, Raymond," Dembe greets him with a smile that's a little too bright. "Sit down, breakfast is almost ready, I am making -"
"No, thank you, Dembe," Red interrupts emotionlessly. "I'm not very hungry this morning…"
But Dembe levels Red with a look that's become all too familiar over the past few weeks. "Raymond, please. You must eat. Sit down."
Red hesitates, unwilling to try and eat and wishing desperately that they could just skip it all and be on their way, but also not wanting to insight Dembe's wrath. He flounders for a moment too long and Dembe clearly isn't interested in waiting.
"Raymond, please sit," he demands, pointing his spatula firmly at the nearest kitchen chair.
Exhausted already, Red gives in, knowing there's no use in trying to argue with Dembe. He only wants what's best for him. With a heavy sigh, Red slumps into the indicated chair at the breakfast bar, resting his elbows on the marble counter and hanging his head.
Dembe nods curtly in approval and turns back to the stove, putting the finishing touches onto whatever he's fixing. It's only another minute before he turns to place a plate in front of Red with a flourish.
Red stares at the beautifully prepared meal with no enthusiasm.
There's a large egg-white omelet packed with fresh vegetables and cheese, several strips of crispy bacon, and two pieces of buttered toast with grape jam, accompanied by a tall glass of orange juice and a steaming mug of coffee.
Dembe places a fork pointedly next to his plate.
"Raymond. Eat."
Belatedly, Red picks up his fork and Dembe waits until he takes a reluctant bite of the omelet before finally turning back to the stove to fix his own plate. Red chews mechanically, sure that Dembe's cooking would be marvelous as always, if only he could manage to appreciate it. As it is, the food is tasteless in his mouth.
(He has lost all his passion for food since that night, resenting anything that provides sustenance when he would just as soon prefer to waste away.)
Dembe joins him at the bar a few moments later, sitting across from him so he can keep a watchful eye as he digs into his own identical breakfast. Red swallows as many bites as he can for Dembe's sake, not wishing to insult him, but there's only so much he can stomach before he starts pushing what's left around on his plate listlessly, only sipping his coffee to give his hands something to do as Dembe wolfs down his breakfast.
Nevertheless, Dembe can clearly see the point when Red gives up and he knows by now not to push. He just sighs and wordlessly takes Red's plate, placing it on top of his own empty one, and finishes off Red's remaining half an omelet, two pieces of bacon, one piece of toast, and half-full glass of orange juice without a word.
They do this every morning.
Dembe's insatiable appetite and extraordinary metabolism have been blessings in the past few weeks, always allowing him to finish any and all food Red cannot bring himself to eat.
(Dembe has been extremely well fed as of late.)
Once Dembe is finished, they finally move on with their morning routine. Grateful, Red stands hurriedly and puts the dishes in the sink while Dembe heads for the entrance hall to grab their coats. And then, as they have every miserable morning for the last month and a half, they lock up the safe house and walk out into the brisk autumn air toward the Mercedes.
As usual, Dembe slides into the driver's seat and Red climbs in the back, shutting the door and blocking out the bright sunlight with a grateful sigh, the tinted windows of the expensive car the closest thing to his dark bedroom. Dembe starts the car and pulls away from the curb, beginning their daily, too-short drive, and Red leans his head back against the headrest and squeezes his eyes shut.
The food he forced himself to eat at breakfast sits uncomfortably in his stomach as Dembe hits the open highway, guiding the car smoothly at high speeds to their destination. The sun rudely manages to shine on Red even through the blessedly tinted windows of the car and he scowls at the audacity, retrieving his sunglasses from the pocket of his coat to shield his sore eyes.
(As far as he is concerned, the sun has failed to rise every day since that fateful night on the sidewalk, plunging his world into the darkness of night.)
Far too soon, Dembe takes an exit off the highway and heads into the confining streets of inner city D.C. and Red wishes they could turn around. He hates anything to do with the city anymore, and this daily meeting is absolutely no exception.
"Raymond," Dembe says quietly from the front seat. "We are here."
Red feels the car slow to a stop with a growing sense of dread, trying desperately to rally himself. Dembe turns the car off and waits patiently, knowing how hard this part is for Red, eyeing him subtly in the rearview mirror. Red takes a few deep breaths and tries in vain to resurrect his Concierge persona for some emotional protection, something boisterous and witty to cover the fact that he feels the exact opposite, but it's no use.
(What was left of the Concierge of Crime died three months ago on the sidewalk.)
With one last deep breath, Red squares his shoulders and meets Dembe's eyes in the mirror.
"Ready?" Dembe questions softly.
"No," Red says hoarsely. "I never am. But the sooner we go in, the sooner we can leave."
Dembe sighs quietly, nodding once before getting out of the car and coming around to the back to open Red's door for him. He offers Red a helping hand out of the car and Red takes it gratefully, also gripping the door frame when, as he stands, his head swims.
It's been doing that a lot lately.
When he's ready, Dembe shuts and locks the car and they start walking without a word, heading for the familiar, innocuous door that houses the secret government facility where everyone is waiting for him.
Red hates the Post Office now.
They make it all the way inside without a problem, until they step onto the clunky yellow service elevator and the doors slide shut and, as he is every morning, Red is trapped inside with all his memories.
Arrivals filled with anticipation and departures filled with regret, terse discussions and loud arguments, teasing remarks and flashing blue eyes -
The doors shutter open loudly, interrupting Red's painful torrent of memories, to reveal the war room and the four people clustered at the computers there who all turn in unison to look at him.
(And with four pairs of eyes on him, Red can only see the one person who's missing.)
Red grits his teeth and steps off the elevator.
The Post Office was always a rather sober place, but it's become truly morose in the past few months. The surroundings feel like a metal prison, every surface cold and unfeeling, almost clinical in its sterility. The lighting is minimal and flickering, as if the facility itself is barely operating, casting shadows in places where there was once bright light and bustling agents. The blinds are always down in the windows of all the offices, leaving the place unfriendly, dingy, and miserable.
(Red hasn't stepped foot in any office out of sheer unwillingness, not even Harold's, let alone the one that is now solely Donald's.)
For their part, every member of the team looks as though they've aged several years in a matter of weeks. Harold looks worn down, with dark circles under his eyes and thinning hair on top of his head. Alina speaks only when spoken to in terse monosyllabic answers, any other kind of interaction wholly unwelcome. Donald often arrives with several days of growth on his chin, unkempt and scraggly, with bloodshot eyes and wrinkled clothes. Aram has lost the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face, his zest for life and work completely gone.
None of them want to be here anymore.
When Harold called them all two months ago and asked to meet them at a coffee shop near the Post Office, Red nearly declined, so thoroughly depressed that he couldn't fathom the idea of seeing anyone other than Dembe. But the man himself urged him to go and see what Harold wanted, so Red showed up, in loose-fitting plain clothes, a baseball hat, and dark sunglasses to meet the rest of the team, who all looked much the same.
They huddled at a corner table with hot beverages that none of them drank and listened to Harold lay out an offer, loosely approved by his superiors and completely up to them to accept or turn down. It was an offer that Red wanted to decline on the spot, but Harold urged him - and the rest of the team - not to answer right away and think about it instead.
So, they went their separate ways once again and Red thought long and hard, turning to Dembe for council, and found that he couldn't argue that it was the right thing to do, however painful it may be. And, somehow, over the course of a week, the rest of the team - Alina, Donald, and Aram - came to the same conclusion, all calling Harold individually and accepting.
And so, they agreed to finish the blacklist.
As a result, this is where they've been meeting every morning for the past month and a half, working themselves ragged for a single purpose, despite the physical and emotional fatigue plaguing them all. They meet to share and gather intel on the remaining criminals on the list, the worst of the worst, and plan their operations to take them down one by one. It's slow, grueling work, but they're all firmly committed to seeing it through.
(For her.)
They arrested number eighty-one on the list last week and today they're back after an all too brief weekend to start on their next target, number sixty-five.
Making his way across the silent war room now, Red nods curtly at each member of the team, before he takes his seat at the table next to Aram's main computer console, Dembe joining him on his other side. They all look morosely around at each other for a long moment before Harold, ever their rallying leader, breaks the silence.
"All right," he says quietly. "Let's get started."
They work all day, Red presenting what information he can on the target while Aram does his usual calculations and triangulations on his multiple computers, Donald and Alina chiming in with questions, suggestions, plans for apprehension. They lose patience more often than in the old days, one of them often having to storm off for a fresh cup of coffee and a bathroom break to gather themselves, but they manage to be gracious with each other for the most part, considerate of everyone's short tempers and injured souls as they work together, the minutes stretching into hours.
"Isn't this one a well-known bomb-maker?"
"We have no hope of getting any kind of jurisdiction in Madrid, you'll have to lure him to the U.S. somehow or we just hope he travels…"
"I don't care what you say, I'm not putting an entire group of agents at risk to grab him, we'll have to think of another way!"
"I'll make some calls, he has a residence nearby, it could be a very simple anonymous tip-off and arrest."
"We're starting to go in circles with this one…let's table them for now. Who's next?"
They wrap up sometime after six in the evening, leaving one by one with terse goodbyes, Red and Dembe the first ones in the elevator. After a long day trapped underground with his heartbreak and memories, Red can't wait to leave. He nearly beats Dembe to the car in his haste, sliding into the dark backseat gratefully, and only leaning his head back and resting his aching eyes when Dembe starts to drive, putting some distance in between them and that dreaded place.
"What would you like for dinner, Raymond?" Dembe inquires from the front seat.
"Indian," Red answers at once, not out of any personal preference for the food, but merely a knowledge that it's Dembe's favorite.
Dembe's mood brightens at the decisive answer and he steers the car in the direction of their preferred restaurant, already calling ahead with their order. He knows Red's favorite dishes and orders them all, probably in the vain hope that Red will actually eat some of it, and Red will endeavor to have a few tasteless bites just to placate him.
He dozes lightly in the backseat while Dembe arrives at the restaurant and briefly leaves him to pick up their order, and the next thing Red knows, they're parked back at the safehouse and Dembe is leaning in his open door and waking him with a gentle pat on the arm and his softly murmured name.
(The only time Red gets any rest is in these brief spurts of blissfully dreamless, exhaustion-induced, blackout sleep.)
Red comes quickly to wakefulness as they head inside, and Dembe wastes no time setting the table and loading two plates with huge amounts of Indian food. They go through their normal nightly ritual, which is mind-numbingly similar to breakfast, except that they sit at the large dining room table instead of the breakfast bar. Once again, Red picks at his food until Dembe sighs and finishes his plate for him, giving him unspoken permission to finally leave the table and head for his study.
Red gives Dembe a chaste kiss on the top of the head and a pat on his shoulder as he passes, aware of how hard he's trying and unspeakably grateful for his efforts.
(He only wishes he could somehow stop disappointing him.)
Entering his dark study with a grateful sigh, Red turns on a single, dim desk lamp and pours himself a glass of scotch, a rare indulgence that he only allows himself this time every week. With his drink in hand, Red sits down heavily at his large desk and reaches for the left middle drawer, opening it and removing several half-filled notebooks before pulling a key out of his pocket and bending to remove the false bottom from the drawer.
Reaching inside the hidden compartment, he pulls out the concealed contents.
A single burner phone.
At the familiar feeling of it in his hand, Red's heart rate starts to increase, his face flushing slightly in excitement that he rarely ever feels these days, except for once a week in this room. With a shaking hand, Red flips open the phone and presses one on the speed dial, calling the only programmed contact. Red waits with bated breath as it rings five long times before, without warning, someone picks up.
"Hello, Red."
And something tight and painful unwinds somewhere in the upper left portion of his chest, and he releases a breath that he's been holding in all week, the sound of the cherished voice in his ear giving him a denied pleasure so visceral that his eyes well up with tears, and he can only breathe one word in response, soft and sacred.
"...Lizzie."