Give it some love on Ao3!
...Red sits at the center of a poker table, his wrists chained to the surface. Despite the unfavorable circumstances—as far as he's concerned, a temporary inconvenience—he is glowing like a polished chip, smirk clung to his face.
He glances around, searching for familiar faces. Men, confined in tuxes, cufflinks glistening under the ceiling lamps. An assortment of women's attires, each teasing a décolleté, more ample than the other. Gems on necklaces, magnified in the champagne glasses.
The guests—delinquents, criminals, crooks of all sorts—are clustered around the table, all eyes on him:
the Raymond “Red” Reddington himself, flesh and bone.
“How's your wife, Jamal? Filed for divorce, I hope?”
Two security guards rush to the table, and, after fruitless attempts to reason with the man, escort him out.
The floorman, a golden griffin embroidered on his jacket's sleeve, approaches the croupier, leans over, and whispers something in his ear.
Red doesn't need to hear the words to know what he says: their table needs an eighth player. Vetted by whoever is behind the curtain for tonight’s game.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay...”
The croupier, wearing an apologizing smile, shuffles the deck of cards, occasionally asking someone to pick a card and memorize it. A trick as old as the hills, yet almost everyone falls for it.
Red accepts his Martini cocktail from a waitress—his chain is loosened just enough for that—and takes a sip. A burst of citrus hits his nose; the liquid permeates his palate, swirling on the tongue between pure coldness and floral sweetness, slight bitterness imprinted at the tip.
Savoring the taste, he contemplates.
Death threats have already become a part of his routine—almost like a steaming cup of Hacienda La Esmeralda, and a pain au chocolat in the morning.
However, now is different. Someone in his team has been compromised—a kidnapping like this isn't planned overnight. Surely, Dembe must have figured it out already. If he knows, the cavalry is on their way...
“Mister Reddington, fancy to pick a card?” the croupier asks him, a polite smile on his face.
Red finishes his Martini, watching the floorman approach the table. He gives a small bell near the croupier a tap and announces:
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We're delighted to inform you we're all set. Our new player is Ronald Powell...”
Indifferent to whoever is about to join the table, Red takes out a toothpick from his cocktail glass and sucks off a green olive.
To his utter disbelief bordering with disappointment, Red recognizes the FBI's one and only, Special Agent Donald Ressler.
At least, he's made an effort to blend into the environment; instead of the usual off-the-rack nightmare—a black tailored two-piece contrasting with his ginger mane, this time messy, not gelled.
Dembe went to the feds? Could he, really...? Unless... If—and that's a big if—by some wondrous coincidence, the FBI has located him first, it'd be foolish to refuse considering the circumstances.
“Red,” Ressler grins at him, taking an empty seat.
The words halt on his tongue—Ressler sits way too far to exchange something meaningful than a courteous greeting.
“Glad you could make it, Ronald. The flight must have cost you a fortune.” Ressler holds his gaze for a moment, his face acquiring a delicious “Don't-you-dare” expression, and Red takes another Martini off the waitress's tray. “Don't look so glum, enjoy the show while it lasts,” he salutes him with a drink.
As Ressler makes himself comfortable at the table, the agent's facial expression—an unparalleled example of a poker face—seals his decision.
