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Indie Raymond "Red" Reddington from NBC's Blacklist. Private. Selective. Mun/Muse 21+. Dark Themes present. Please read rules/bio before following/interacting. Written by Erick

anurbanlcgend:

@criimeconcierge

Getting back home– as close as the place John rented could be called to home. It was relatively secluded, could be nice if he put the time into it, but time wasn’t something he had, always running around the world chasing this traitor or the other– was some small relief, if only because he’s exhausted and he can practically feel the ache in his muscles that would follow waking in the morning. To say nothing of the gash on his shoulder where a bullet had grazed him.

Had it been a combined kitchen-living room, he may have seen the man’s silhouette sooner, but he doesn’t see him, period, until he’s grabbed one of his beers and popped the top off, and moved on to the next room.

John blinks, and it’s the only show of confusion, or surprise, or anything he’s feeling when he flips the light switch. Instead of immediately humoring him with a response, he takes a drink from the bottle, and leans back on the doorway.

[ he’s glad he still has his side arm in its holster, but he knows innately he couldn’t draw it, flip the safety, and get a shot off before this guy did; the gun he had was blatantly ready for that. ]

“So what’s this about?” He asked, finally, green eyes assessing him, running by reasons he should be here and coming up with one solid answer: he shouldn’t. Not the CIA, he knows because he already has a handler, and this isn’t how he operates. He’s running through interactions he’s had lately. None with this man; none with anyone he expected would lead up to a break in of his apartment, something he keeps under one of his aliases - but not the most well used John Reese. That alone was telling, but he’d see what the man said before he got ahead of himself.

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Passive, seemingly indifferent, he spoke again, as if this was normal. [ what was normal in his life, anyway? ]

“Should I get another beer?”

When Raymond Reddington broke into someone’s home, there were a few reasons. This was, of course, one of the most severe. An associate had been murdered–seemed like there was a lot of that going around. But when the CIA was the perpetrator, when this particular agent, even, was the man who had pulled the trigger? Well, it was time for a little sit-down. Unfortunately for Red, there was no stereo system to speak of, so he wasn’t able to listen to music while he waited–a fact which made him slightly irritable by the time he heard the keys turn in the knob and the door open. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his gun on his thigh, waiting. 

A beer, of course. How cliche, though, that the first thing the man would do was get himself on the way to being drunk, letting the alcohol loosen his muscles and joints. Must have had a rough day. Red felt no sympathy of course, but it informed how he would interact with the man once he actually saw him. 

The lack of surprise, of response, was expected. CIA agents are trained to deal with anything that comes up, no matter how off-the-wall or unexpected. Red simply sits there, watches him. He lets him take the drink. “Peter Zimmer.” It’s somewhat of a canned response, but that name was a big enough one that it would have to have stuck out in the agent’s memory.

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“No, thank you. I’ve never been a huge fan of fermented barley, but if you’ve got a good Merlot or even a Cabernet, I’d love a glass.” He knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, “You killed Peter, after bleeding him for information I’m sure, which means that you and I have a problem. He was a trusted associate, and his death leaves a hole in my operations. Not one I can’t repair, but that impudence can’t go unpunished.” He pointed to the other chair in the room. “Sit down, Agent Reese,” Red was certain that was an alias, but he hadn’t been able to crack into his specific file quite yet.

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