Summary: Ressler deals with his choices. And falls for Prescott along the way.
general, canon divergence
Warnings: Choosing not to warn for anything.
Notes: Attempted the Blacklist. Again. Started shipping Ressler and Prescott. Still doesn't stick. This show slides off like Teflon. Maybe it's too hopeless for me? So don't know how far this fic will go. I'm just playing with these two. And maybe figure out why this show doesn't do it for me when I feel like it should. (This actually bugs me…) Sorry if there's canonicity errors, kinda winging it.
(Not meant to get in the way of the show. Just shipping and figuring things out.)
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~Chapter One~
Donald Ressler stood up, stretching out his shoulders and neck, finished wiping down the black car Prescott demanded he relocate. He and Prescott had carefully worked removing a panel from a wall in the empty garage the car was sitting in, the silence only interrupted when the fixer gave Ressler instructions, supervising his motions to ensure Ressler didn't leave any incriminating evidence.
The revulsion of his participation had nearly vanished. By the time they were done Ressler wasn't struggling with his new status as a dirty fed.
As a murderer.
Accepted that he's crossed the line.
What he was struggling with was a way to get rid of Prescott as the fixer further entangled him as another insurance policy.
"We're not done yet. Come on," Prescott said, leading him away.
"What about the body?" Ressler asked, turning to look at the car they were leaving behind.
"What body?" Prescott replied, his tone flippant.
The response grated. Ressler hated that tone. Hating that he was compromised. But there wasn't anything that could be done for him. It was his fault and he wasn't going to drag his team down with him.
And he refused to go to jail for accidentally murdering an actual murderer. A charge he'd be acquitted from if his mistake hadn't been the National Security Advisor.
His teammates would help. He knew that.
But he wasn't going to give the next corrupt official something to hold over them. This circle of blackmail was going to end with him.
The memory of anger pooling as he drove to Hitchen's home to retrieved his badge returned as he followed Prescott. It had kept replaying in his head— if she hadn't been corrupt, if she had been doing her job, she would have saved the task force out of duty. Exploding in disgust when Hitchen grabbed him. The emotional loss of control finally damning him.
And damning him once more when he sought out Prescott again in rage.
The fixer headed towards the driver side and Ressler's fatalistic mood was broken by the annoyance that Prescott intended to drive his car.
Ressler clenched his teeth from saying anything. He had time to reflect. To realize he's fallen back into old responses when it came to criminals. He shoved a hand into his pocket, fist clenching the tie that Prescott ordered him to take off while they worked.
The resentment switched to curiosity as the smell of earth and flowers hit his nose. He turned, seeing the potted rose bushes sitting in the back.
"Why are there roses in my car?" Five of them. The large red buds partially blooming on thorny green branches, peeking up behind the back headrests. The black plastic pots rested on a gray tarp and he's glad he at least won't have to clean the back.
"We're going to plant them."
Curiosity got him, not even annoyed at the non-answer. "Where are we going?"
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The large house stood empty, waiting for the new owners to move in. The back porch's sliding glass doors have been left open. Airing out the dried pale teal walls wrapped with white moulding still giving off the smell of paint and sawdust.
The large yard was going to be a serene scene once the planted shrubbery started growing into their spaces, Ressler thought, waiting as Prescott finished marking five spots in the prepared flower bed with his shovel after checking no one was squatting inside.
"Mind telling me what we're doing?" Ressler walked over, passing freshly placed irises, keeping close to the white walls, despite the house and surrounding walls blocked all lines of sight to the area they were in. He eyed the empty flower bed suspiciously, wondering if a body laid underneath.
"Planting. Start digging."
Taking a slow deep breath, Ressler took off his suit jacket, tossing it on the dark stone ground, the night's chill hitting him. Prescott tossed him a pair of gray leather gloves.
"Don't worry. I'm not planning on killing and burying your body here," Prescott said when the agent took the shovel from him.
"Didn't even cross my mind," Ressler deadpanned.
"You don't try anything either."
Ressler's mouth twisted and Prescott smiled coldly at him in response. How cute. The dirty fed was offended at the suggestion of premeditated murder.
Turning his back on Agent Ressler, Prescott neatly set his own jacket down, ignoring the gaze he could feel on him.
He almost stopped short at seeing the agent's expression when he turned back.
"What?" Prescott asked as he walked back up.
Ressler looked at the fixer's jacket lying flat on the large navy stone slates and back at Prescott, brow furrowing. His eyes flickered up and down Prescott's form again just to be sure.
"You're not armed," Ressler said in disbelief, his own service weapon a comforting weight on his hip.
"Surprised? Must be easy for you to kill people if you're working with someone like Reddington." Prescott smirked at him and Ressler's temper flared again at the contempt thrown his way.
"Really? Taking a high ground?" It was the truth and Ressler hated that this lowlife was getting a rise out of him. "I can't see it being a problem for you either. You worked for Hitchen," he growled back.
Prescott smiled tightly, sharp and cold. "At least I can control myself and not accidentally kill someone. I would have even caught her in time."
Ressler's eyes widened. He didn't tell Prescott anything.
"How do you know what happened?!"
"I can read crime scenes, you know," Prescott snapped, indignant. How does someone working for Reddington keep underestimating him?
"You think I didn't track your movements after taking Reddington to one of my caches? Hitchen's trip to the courthouse? Identify her victim before I stored her? I know what she's like. Pretty sure she tried to coerce you to do something," Prescott said, rubbing the fact in as viciously as possible. Before Agent Ressler, who's looking more stunned at the revelation by the seconds, did something stupid that he'd have to deal with.
"I told you. I'm good at what I do. Get that through your head. Now. Dig."
Ressler's anger evaporated, the shovel in his hands forgotten. "You know what she's like …. " Ressler said hollowly, the irony that Prescott was the only one who could help hit him once more. "You're a fixer. Can you prove Hitchen killed Reven Wright? Can you get me acquitted?"
"Now why would I do that?" The request had Prescott taken aback. The plea to bring justice for Hitchen's victim surprising him even more.
"She tried to force me to be her lackey. Kinda like what you're doing."
"You did it first. And twice. You don't get to complain," Prescott scoffed at him.
Ressler stood in silence for a moment. "So you're mad," he quietly said, watching Prescott's reaction of disdain sweep over his face. "How long are you going to keep doing this?"
"Well, I was going to let it go. Seeing you're working with Raymond Reddington, of all people. But then I discovered you were a dirty fed."
"What?!" Ressler choked, stunned voice coming out hoarse and cracked. It was the truth though—once he chosen to cover up Hitchen's death. But it still hurt to be finally called that and he felt pinned under Prescott's sharp eyes.
Prescott felt a half sneer forming as his patience started to wane. Goddamn did this fed pissed him off. These types always did. Inept crooked cops who thought they were better than the criminals they hunted. But still very willing to hire him. He's got it handled on setting up these problematic clients into eliminating themselves. A simple matter to extract himself if it weren't for the fact that Raymond Reddington was involved.
Thinking about the crime lord was pissing him off again.
"Donald Ressler, the point man for the task force dedicated to bringing Raymond Reddington to justice. Actually his lackey. And to think, I once thought you were a decent, honest agent. Wow, was I wrong."
Ressler was speechless and stood there staring at Prescott.
"How did you keep anyone from discovering you were his mole?" And Prescott only had his bumbling asset who didn't know what he was doing to take his anger out on.
Whom he originally, vastly overestimated.
"Or was everyone else just as incompetent?"
That snapped Ressler out of it.
"What?!"
"You're a crooked cop who's become a liability. Eventually he's going to kill you." The flinched hurt following the bewilderment just irritated him more. So Ressler was an idolizing follower. Did this fool not know what he's gotten himself into?
"Is admiring loyalty all you have to offer? You do know that Reddington executes anyone who betrays him, right? I'm pretty sure going behind his back to call me is a breach of trust."
"Wha—I'm not—" Ressler clamped his mouth shut, catching the inside of his cheek. Off balanced by the reappearance of Prescott's shearing confidence that once again caught him by surprise.
Locking himself down as the fixer's inaccurate accusations hit too close for comfort.
Ressler actually held himself well under the scrutiny, making Prescott feel better. Yet studying how the agent was refusing to speak to defend himself… there was something Prescott wasn't getting. The defensiveness wasn't about Ressler's own corruption being exposed.
"Oh, I see," Prescott said calmly, hiding the tightening fury that was building. "You're not a mole. Reddington works with the feds."
"The hell gives you that idea," Ressler snapped, aware he was losing his temper again as the burn of failure in his chest spread. Confusion mixed with disgust at himself for the lack of emotional control.
Prescott was right.
He was a liability.
Prescott sneered in contempt. "Wow. The great Raymond Reddington is a snitch. So he uses the feds to control his competition and maintain his empire."
"Hey, screw you!" Protectiveness swelled and Ressler's temper finally broke loose at the condescension. Hearing the truth from Gale was one thing, but this scumbag didn't get to pass judgment on them.
"His rivals thinned these past few years. I'd say the feds traded your task force for his intel. And the rumors of Reddington's fall from power? Something did happen. That's why he went after Hitchen." Prescott shut down his rage, putting it away for later, and changed plans. Reddington working with the feds was a different matter.
"You know what," Ressler threw his shovel down violently, "maybe I'll just turn myself in after all. At least I'll take you down with me."
"You sure about that?" Prescott said dryly, completely unruffled by the threat. "I'd get a deal. Probably the same immunity as Reddington."
An exaggerated bluff, of course. He doesn't have Reddington's level of information; the man was a whole other league. "I might even get to work with your team." Prescott grimaced at the thought. "If they're like you, I'll be sure to do something about them and get new agents," he mocked.
At that Ressler strode up to him, getting in his face. "Don't you dare think about going after my team," he snarled, showing teeth, while Prescott remained steady and unmoved at the unexpected fierce protectiveness.
"Reddington must be really desperate to keep you around." Prescott's mind raced. So loyalty to his team wasn't the same as his loyalty to Reddington. The protective display reflected the Donald Ressler he heard about.
"Or maybe it's because he can work around you." A good agent, but too short-sighted to keep up with the Concierge of Crime.
And why would Reddington even bother wrangling this hothead? There wasn't evidence of volatility from any reports.
"Or is he keeping you because of someone else?" Prescott kept pressing Ressler, the man wasn't backing down, but he saw the verbal hits expose doubts and insecurity.
"The Donald Ressler I heard of wouldn't stand working with a criminal of Reddington's caliber. I've seen your photo before. Didn't recognize you."
Ressler's expression closed off and Prescott recognized he overdid it. The widening wounds in Ressler's ego vanished, sealed away by a self-assurance backed by professional competence that Prescott saw when he first met Frank Sturgeon.
This was the one he saw that day in the woods. Approaching him with dangerous restrained loathing.
"Are you done?" Ressler asked, his voice aloof and empty.
Prescott bared his teeth at him in a grin.
"For now." Prescott stepped away, pulling on thick garden gloves and grabbed a pot. "Start digging. It's getting late."
Ressler ignored him, watching Prescott tip a pot onto its side. "So, what? Gonna keep jerking me around?"
"Consider it revenge for ending my career," Prescott said, as he gently worked the rose bush out.
"What?" Ressler blinked, his stony face breaking. Inwardly, he was embarrassed how quickly he lost his composure; Prescott catching him off guard again.
Prescott tilted his head to look at him, shook his head and sighed.
"I have a reputation to uphold. I'm done. Thanks to you two." Prescott loved his job, but he's been in the underworld long enough to recognize it was finally his time. Knew once he led Reddington and his bodyguard to the woods he had to pull up the stakes and get out. Hitchen's death by Ressler's hand only confirmed it.
"I had a good run. So. You," Prescott declared, jabbing a finger in the other man's direction, "are helping me close up shop."
"Wait. Because you violated your own rules you're quitting?" Ressler heard the strain in his own voice; the irony of it all.
Prescott stood up, hands at ease away from his sides, slightly flexing them in annoyance.
"I'm a professional. Keeping secrets and managing conflicts of interests are part of the package. Clearly, I can't do that anymore. Not when the Concierge of Crime is threatening to throw my name around each time he wants something."
Ressler locked eyes with the fixer, seeing— actually seeing— Henry Prescott for the first time. This man he dismissed as another unimportant scum after seeing him before Reddington and stared down by Dembe. Despising Prescott on sight for working for Hitchen.
Hating Prescott for making him feel ashamed for putting the task force at risk.
Pushing away thoughts he didn't want to examine, Ressler quashed the slow rise of belligerence at being shown up by Prescott.
"Is that what I'm doing?" Ressler asked instead, recalling the times he felt out done by Reddington in the beginning years together, troubled that the crime lord made a better cop. Before he begrudgingly came to respect the man.
"Consider yourself my retirement insurance." Prescott waved a gloved hand at him. "Dig," Prescott ordered, waiting with the uprooted rose at his feet.
"Why would you want me doing this if you're quitting?" Ressler asked, not budged by Prescott's impatience. "Making me complicit means I'm a liability."
"Retirement. Insurance," Prescott repeated. "Better follow instructions and not screw up. Like you keep doing," Prescott quickly added, taking a swipe at Ressler before he demanded an elaboration, catching the slight twitch of Ressler unconsciously curling into himself.
Ressler straightened. That stung. And the realization of it bothered Ressler more than the insult itself. Criminals never could phase him with verbal attacks. Too beneath him. Not even Reddington's own flair of insults got to him.
But now… Ressler took a deep breath, slowly letting it out, and picked up the shovel again, not taking his eyes off Prescott.
"Don't like it when someone questions your competence, huh? Really annoying, right?" Prescott said snidely. "Just think, if you actually had some respect for me none of this would have happened."
Drained. That's what Ressler was feeling. Drained and disappointed and trapped by the feeling that he's a fraud because now he couldn't deny he was one of them. Because he did screw up and Prescott kept voicing the doubts and self-flagellations still lurking under his decision to accept what he's done.
Ressler shut his eyes and sighed.
"I'm sorry I questioned your skills. I'm sorry Reddington threatened you. I'm sorry I threatened you. Please stop blackmailing me."
He hadn't meant to say the last part out loud, but what the hell.
"Okay."
Ressler jerked, startled. He opened his eyes at Prescott still standing before him. He misheard that, right?
"Do the feds have a file on me?"
Ressler blinked at the abrupt question, still in shock, and reflexively shook his head before he could stop himself.
"Okay," Prescott repeated blandly. He's willing to accept the apology. "As long as you keep Reddington and the feds away from me? We're done." He really didn't want anything to do with Reddington.
Ressler just stood there, dazed, the world tilting.
"Would you hurry up and dig?" Prescott said, finally exasperated.
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Finally. It's almost morning, but now he can get some rest. After his trip with Agent Ressler he still had other tasks to attend to. Putting in motion the closing of operations and collecting final balances. Reevaluating safeguards and clients, soon to be ex-clients.
Prescott flipped open the burner phone passed to him. The communication delivery dedicated to only one person.
He scrolled through the contact lists, mentally decoding the message, working his jaw when he saw the meeting date was also another message.
Will find you.
Hopefully soon.
He needed better intel and this rare occurrence of Matias Solomon reaching out was fortuitous, even if he was calling on a debt. He's heard the merc had been hired to deal with Reddington multiple times recently.
Prescott sighed and trudged upstairs, the wooden floorboards creaking. An oversight on his part when he took Ressler's call. Quickly putting together what Reddington had in mind, he had assumed in his haste to play along. And now Ressler was a potential problem he couldn't deal with.
Later, after some sleep, he's retrieving better intel on Agent Ressler. The old profile and current dossier weren't enough. The fact that he again misjudged and revised his opinion of Ressler set off misgivings. He's rarely wrong about people—especially someone so easy to read— and he wanted to know why.
Just in case. Because he didn't trust Ressler at all.
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