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Turn the Summer Into Dust
"Something filled up my heart with nothing, someone told me not to cry. But now that I'm older, my heart's colder, and I can see that it's a lie. Children wake up, hold your mistake up, before they turn the summer into dust." - Arcade Fire
Chapter One
Don Ressler never got drunk.
Sure, there were those nights in college with his fraternity buddies where he let loose not knowing better, the situation getting the better of him, but he was just a boy who didn't have a worry of his life back then. Now, he's Special Agent Don Ressler, a man devoted to his work, his mind committed, having only one aim or purpose – to catch the bad guys.
He was a logical man and a sound one at that. The years of working made him guarded and he hated anything that made his mind clouded or lose focus. He hated opening himself to vulnerability and losing his focus that made him the veteran field agent that he was today.
Of course there were nights that he had drinks with his colleagues at work, but Don Ressler made it a point to never drink enough to be drunk. Just two bottles of beer, he knew his limit and he was going to keep by them.
But one day, Red entered his life once again. His fiancée died. His best friend betrayed him and killed himself. He was working with a criminal. He didn't know who his friends or enemies were at this point. His fiancée could have been pregnant and she died. All because of him. Over and over again he would repeat these facts in his head, but the death of Audrey was something he couldn't quite get over.
He grieved silently. He wasn't a man of many tears, but he did grieve. He found it hard to go back to the house they once shared; he found it hard in general to continue his life because he couldn't stop thinking about her. He knew time would make him heal, but that itself made him feel worse because he didn't deserve to feel better. His fiancée whom he loved died because of him, and he shouldn't get to deal and forget about what happened. But it was making him miserable.
He made it a point to be busy with work; he was bad at showing emotion, and he didn't want to. The busier he was, the less he felt. It was better for him to be catching the bastards that did things like terrorize and kill innocent people than to mope around not being able to bring justice for her death. So that was what he did. He put all the energy that he had into his job. Some were worried about him, including one Elizabeth Keen, but he didn't want her sympathy. He was not close with her, in fact, she's the reason why all these troubles entered his life. He didn't want to, but he knew deep inside that she was a good person, but he wasn't going to let it show altogether.
Time was passing by without him realizing it. Keen was still worried about him, wanting him to take some personal time off. He refused because he was okay. He shouldn't have been, but he was. He knew he was.
He's been having several good days on the job. Don, along with Elizabeth and other field agents, were able to bring down another number something on Reddington's list, including other terrorists that were related to the assignment they were handed with.
He was in a better mood compared to most days, and remembered going out for drinks with some of his colleagues. Everyone had a stressful few weeks and wanted a night of relaxation, if they can call it that. From what Don remembered from a year ago (yes, it was that long since the last "night of relaxation"), it was a few hours of drinking and small talk, the self-called funny guys making jokes here and there, and everyone hits home before it gets too late because they're tired and they have work the very next day.
The night was dark and its air cool on his skin. By the time he stepped into the bar, people were already celebrating with a few drinks. He even saw Cooper mingling with a few people.
Don was okay. Really, he was. He made the accepted small talk with people he normally does not get to work with. There wasn't a great number of people that were recruited to work at the black site, but that didn't mean he talked and formed a close relationship with all of them. He only talked to those whose help was needed in an assignment. So, he was making an effort this time, because he was okay. He even laughed at the ridiculous attempts of jokes made by a fellow agent to lighten up the mood.
But one drink here turned to five drinks there and before he could stop to think about his limit, he couldn't even count the total number of drinks that he had. What was worse was that Don wasn't a loud drunk. He would act just like he normally would, except a little nicer. His speech might slur from time to time and he would lighten up a little, get off of his high horse, he remembered a friend telling him a long time ago. But the problem with alcohol and any man - it made him do things without thinking.
So, he didn't know how he managed to get out of the bar or how he managed to find his way back home to his bed. He couldn't remember how many drinks he had and he couldn't remember anything that happened after Cooper, too, tried to loosen up himself and make a pathetic joke – even Don couldn't laugh at that one no matter how drunk he was.
It was a miracle that his eyes even opened in the morning. He was hung-over. He could feel it even though he was half-asleep. He closed his eyes again, but the sun light beaming on his face was making him feel much worse than he felt. He put his arm over his eyes to block it.
And that was when he realized that something was off.
He never had the curtains drawn in his room. He actually never got any sunlight in the morning because of the direction his room was facing.
He awoke from his sleep fully now. His mind was busy trying to get a sense of things. He kept his current position, on his back, arms drawn over his closed eyes and tried to decipher where he was. That's when he realized that it wasn't just the fact that he wasn't at his house that was off, it was the soft pressure on his other arm. Something that did not feel like it was a part of the bed. Something that felt strangely like a human hand. A female hand. A female hand that started to detach from his arm because the person to who the hand belonged to was beginning to stir, slowly awaking.
He silently cursed in his head. This was why he never got drunk.
He did what he thought was the sensible thing to do in this situation. He lowered his arm from his eyes and opened them. He was lying on a bed that was obviously not his. The sun was shining especially bright that morning, allowing him to see literally everything. He didn't recognize any of what he saw.
He slowly turned his head to the right and was faced with a sleeping face of a woman who he also didn't recognize. She seemed to be young, younger than him anyway, and had long, light brown hair that cascaded around her head, messy and tangled from whatever activity they partook in last night. He couldn't remember a thing.
He looked at her face again and was slightly taken back to find that she was now fully awake like him, her eyes meeting his and looking as surprised and confused as he was when he woke up.
She didn't say anything. Instead, she tried to get up. He watched her face redden a little as she got back down because of her lack of clothing. She gathered the covers to cover her body and faced him again. She looked as though she wanted to say or do something, but didn't because she didn't know what to do. She seemed even more dumbfounded that he was not taking any action, but just there next to her on the bed watching her.
Normally, his mind would be functioning correctly to let him know that he should hurry up and leave, but this morning his mind went blank. It was as though both of them did not know how they got to be in this bed. Together. Without any clothes.
He's always been raised to be a gentleman, to respect women, so he did the first thing that came to his mind.
"Hi. I'm Don Ressler."
He introduced himself.
Of course, he felt a bit idiotic after the words came out of his mouth, but the way she was staring at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, hands fist-full of the covers she used to cover her, he felt bad.
She lowered her eyes after staring at him for a moment.
"I know, I'm Madalene," She let out quietly, forced to share her name with a stranger on her bed. She gathered the covers to get up from the bed. Her face reddened and quickly turned around, realizing the man now had nothing to cover himself with. She let her eyes wander around the room so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes or look at his very naked form.
Don eyed their clothing spread all over the room. He rubbed his temples with his hand; this day was starting off so perfectly.
"Okay, Don," She cringed slightly at how awkward that sounded. "I'm sorry, but I'm late for work..." She let her words hang, trusting him to have the good sense to leave.
That's when his mind started to come to its senses and prompted him to get up and get the hell out of this place. Her place, he assumed. As he put his clothes back on he heard her leave the room. So, she knew who he was. Maybe he met her at the bar and introduced himself to her last night. It didn't matter. All he needed to do was hurry up and get to the Post Office and out of this ridiculing situation.
He left the place without looking back.
He took a good look around the neighborhood as he stepped outside. He knew he was still in DC, he could see the Washington Monument from a distance, but where the hell was he? His location wasn't his greatest problem, though.
"Where's my car?" He grunted to himself as he looked around to find his black vehicle.
Yes, Donald Ressler never got drunk. But by chance if he did, luck was not on his side.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or any of the characters in it, including Don Ressler.
A/N: A character study of Don Ressler. I plan to draw out all his angst and character as the story progresses.