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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

lionessamiele:

A slender brow arched at his defiant statement. She recognized immediately that even he didn’t believe the lie, but let it be. Clarice knew when pick her battles and this was not the time.

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She’d been in all the rags and the legitimate news about he the rescue of Catherine Martin and the Buffalo Bill case. Whenever someone thought they needed to hurt her, cut her to the bone, they would use the cheap blow of bringing up Dr. Lecter. Her skin had thickened with the realization that it spoke more about them then her when they lashed out.

“I’m not going to force you to do anything, Mr. Reddington. I don’t have the power. I’m only asking you to help me finish what you started with my colleague Special Agent Keen.”

Harold was probably sitting back somewhere behind a one-way mirror enjoying the ever-loving shit out of this, needling him when he was down. Red was good at compartmentalizing, but he had also gone on a week long opium bender and had a full-scale episode in Cape May. Probably perfectly normal. He’d only mentioned Doctor Lecter because he’d had the opportunity to meet the man, set him up with a good documents person in order to fly off somewhere, he’d mentioned Italy, but he couldn’t be sure. 

“Did you know her? Or are you claiming the title of colleague since you both happen to work within the enormous conglomeration known as the FBI?” They were both behavioral science people, it was not out of the realm of possibility that they’d met, perhaps worked on the mobile unit together, and as close as he’d kept watch over her, he hadn’t known everything. He pondered for a moment, before a story bubbled up, a distraction that might just change the subject far enough. 

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“You ever hear of Big Johnny Castigone? He was the grandson of Alessandro Castigone, the iron-jawed ruler of the New York mob. Johnny wasn’t one for large amounts of bloodshed, nor anything the day-to-day of la cosa nostra had to offer… in fact he was an amazing art historian and a painter who could hang his work up with even some of the Renaissance greats. His favorite subject was delightfully intricate landscapes of Italian villas…He felt obligated to take up the torch once grandpa Al died, and quickly realized that he was not cut out for the life. But he continued to tell himself he didn’t have a choice, that this was the path he and his family were meant to walk for the rest of eternity.” He paused, for some sort of dramatic effect. 

“He was shot dead in a dingy alleyway when a drug deal went sideways. He hadn’t painted anything in years.” Leaning forward, the veritable curtain of smoke from his cigar is parted as he closes the distance between them. “This life is unpleasant, fleeting and lonely. Why waste your time tending to what someone else built when you have your own path to carve, Agent Starling?”

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