He shouldn't have to be here. She shouldn't have to be here. He'd told himself that this was over. He'd told her that it wasn't a problem anymore. Yet here he was in his bed, his skin paler than normal and shivering coldly as sweat drenched the sheets and twisted them harshly around his aching legs. Barely any light made it through the curtains, drawn shut as his sensitive eyes couldn't handle much. He was glad only the soft light of the lamp nearby dimly illuminated the room, ashamed of how he probably looked.
She walked into the room and placed a glass of water on the nightstand. Sitting on the side of the bed, she took a wet cloth and gently dabbed the sweat clean from his forehead, then his neck, and then his chest. She watched as he tried hard not to flinch at her touch, his eyes shutting tight and his jaw clenching as the shivering continued. His eyes opened when she brushed his damp hair from his forehead, eyeing her with heavy lids and a look of shameful regret. His blue eyes that normally pierced anything he looked at were dull and weak. It was perhaps the most painful look she'd ever seen from him.
"It's not your fault." She said softly.
He turned his eyes down and away from her.
"I know that look; you blame yourself for what happened, but no one holds you accountable."
She was right. No one could have predicted what happened.
They'd been hunting down another blacklister that Reddington seemed particularly intent on apprehending. His name was Dr. Alfred Howler, a former psychiatrist who had a proclivity for bringing down public figures by forcing them to indulge in their addictions, vices, and depravities and then exposing them. He was a sick man who put the "psycho" in "psychotherapy."
Ressler and Samar had finally closed in on him, cornering him in his hideout after Liz and Aram found out about an old warehouse he owned and had been sending some of his most prominent patients to.
He said to split up, saying they'd cover more ground and prevent Howler from getting away. That was a mistake.
Somehow, Howler had rigged up some type of gas throughout the warehouse to knock them out. He'd woken up blindfolded, gagged and bound, with a cold feeling of helplessness as he could feel his bare skin exposed. He sat in an uncomfortable chair, completely confined to it. The worst of it came when he felt a needle pierce the inside of his elbow and a familiar numbness spread throughout his body. He forced his mind to refuse it, constantly mumbling the word, "No!" until his head began to swim and his senses scattered peacefully.
Nothingness. Darkness and silence, though oddly warm and resounding. No sensations, yet recognizing all of them bleakly, as if each tiny movement he could make reverberated through his nerves. He didn't fight. He couldn't. He wasn't completely sure he wanted to anymore. It was as if he was completely lost, yet found at the same time. Both unaware of his thoughts and completely aware of his movements. It was nothing he'd ever felt before.
He didn't know how long he'd stayed in that blissful obscurity; a senseless oblivion that he shamefully relished. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally noticing an incessant beeping while he felt the tiniest, most subtle pain clenching in his chest and the slightest tightening of his throat when he was allowed to feel. He would then slip back into that numbing eclipse and the cycle would start over.
Eventually, his senses came trickling back. His body ached and he felt cold and clammy, barely finding the strength to raise his arms against the restraints. He could barely hear stifled pops and unintelligible voices. He felt as though he was underwater, still floating in the depths of the numbness, though nearing the surface.
He breached through the obscurity and was blinded by the bright light hanging off of the dilapidated ceiling when the blindfold was yanked clean off of his head. He squinted as his eyes struggled to adjust to the brightness. A soft, gentle hand held his cheek as his eyelid was lifted by a thumb. His eyes were still too sensitive to see, but he could hear her shouting faintly.
"Ressler!"
His eyes took a while to adjust, and he didn't know when his limbs were freed. He tried to rub his eyes lethargically and peered into her face. Her brows were stitched with concern as she kept her hand on his cheek, her warm blue eyes searching his dim ones.
"I need a medic!" She shouted, his hearing slowly coming back.
It was difficult for him to accept what had happened. They had found him and Samar in the basement of a large home several miles away from the warehouse three days after they had left the Post Office. It was both a relief and shock to find them.
After they'd been rescued, Ressler quickly began having withdrawal, though more intense than he had ever experienced before, as he had never had Oxycodone administered intravenously. The medics said his heart had stopped twice while Howler had him. Samar had been knocked out and after being bound like Ressler was, she had been beaten and tortured, to the point of having a concussion and internal bleeding. She was hospitalized and was in the ICU for most of the week.
When Reddington found out, he was both guilty and furious. He stopped bringing them cases to give the two agents time to recover, which pissed Liz off to no end as they had never caught Howler. The bastard had gotten away while they were focused on saving Ressler and Samar. However, Reddington assured her that they wouldn't have to worry about Howler again. She was almost scared of the way his eyes got cold and dark at the mention of the heinous blacklister.
Liz stayed with Ressler throughout his recovery. The first few days were the worst, watching him writhe in agony as the aches and pains shredded his nerves. Each touch stung his skin and Liz felt guilty that each touch of comfort gave him so much pain.
She could barely keep herself together as she saw the one man who had always been the group's pillar of strength convulse painfully in his bed. She knew he needed rest, but he couldn't manage to sleep and she was scared that he would slip away if he did.
At some point, she suggested taking a hot shower to relieve the aches and pains of his muscles. It helped a bit, the soreness melted away as the hot water washed down his body. As soon as the water stopped, however, the shivering was unbearable. He shook so intensely that the tightness of his muscles immediately brought back the pain.
As the days passed, the symptoms became a little bit easier. He was still sore and exhausted, but no longer was she terrified of how his body was. He still had nausea and spent most of some days with his arms on the toilet seat as she stroked his back comfortingly. She stayed with him through the worst of it, hell-bent on supporting him and Ressler would never forget it.
"Hey," Liz said, gently prompting his ashen face to look at her. "It's not your fault."
"He wouldn't have done that if I didn't do it before." He spat out weakly, staring at the ceiling as he lay in his bed.
She sighed and looked at the wall of his dark bedroom. She knew how stubborn he was.
"How is she?" He asked, prompting her to turn towards him.
She gave him a gentle smile. "She's good. Aram's been with her the whole time. He said she's getting out of the hospital today."
That was the first time she saw relief on his face since that week began. It was another side of the problem. Another mistake that she knew he blamed himself for.
"I shouldn't have told her to split up."
"Ressler. Come on." She argued softly. "Samar can take care of herself. You two just got blindsided."
"I keep thinking how differently it would've gone if we hadn't split up." He sighed. "...Like with Meera."
"Oh, Ressler…" She moves to hold his hand, but decided against it, worried it would hurt him. "You are not the bad guy here. Howler is. Just like Berlin was when Meera died. Nobody doubts you. Nobody blames you; why do you?"
"Four years of sobriety down the drain." He muttered, ignoring her assurances.
"Hey, look at me." She ordered.
He turned his head towards her.
"You didn't do this. You didn't swallow any pills. You didn't fall off the wagon. You had no control over it. No choice and no mind to do it. As far as I'm concerned, you're still sober."
He looked into her eyes for a moment and found something he had been depriving himself of - understanding. It was a look that could give him everything he was looking for and everything he needed.
"You're right." He exhaled after a moment of contemplation. "I'm sorry."
He watched as she gave him a kind smile, one that made him feel a little less drained.
"I'm also sorry you had to see me like this, Keen." He said, embarrassed. "You shouldn't have to watch me vomiting my guts out."
"Ressler, I'm your partner, I don't mind."
"No, really, the worst of it is over. You don't have to stay, I can manage." He said with a placating smirk.
"Just because you can handle it on your own doesn't mean you have to." She said with a glare.
"Keen-"
"Ressler, I'm not leaving you!" She yelled, causing his brows to raise in surprise.
He regarded her, confused and cautious as she seemed to fight herself in her mind, suddenly finding the wrinkled sheets interesting.
"You had to go through this by yourself last time...I left you alone even though I knew…" she said quietly.
She turned to look at him, and the sight of her eyes growing misty caught his breath. "And every time I had a problem, you'd drop everything and help me through it."
He was speechless as she spoke sincerely.
"You've always been there for me, Ressler...please...let me be here for you."
He looked her in the eye and nodded. "Okay."
She smiled at him, wiping her eyes free of the tears that were beginning to spill over and sniffling a little as he cleared his throat.
"How bout we watch a movie or something?" He suggested, wanting to move on from such a heavy subject. "Not very fond of being the star of the show."
She laughed then asked, "Can your eyes handle it?"
He nodded reassuringly.
Liz reached for the remote and turned on the TV as he forced himself to sit up. When she looked over and saw him squinting a bit, she worked through the settings and lowered the brightness. Then, she promptly shifted up on the bed and gently motioned for him to move.
"Scoot over, I'm not watching a movie uncomfortable."
He scoffed, "The sheets are all sweaty."
"And?" She challenged.
"And I'm half-naked."
"I'll try to resist getting handsy. Now move."
He shook his head with a grin and complied, pushing up the pillows and making room for her. He sat quietly as she scrolled through Netflix, looking for something to watch, until she broke the silence.
"I meant what I said back then, you know." She said, her eyes not leaving the TV. "I haven't forgotten."
"What's that?" He asked, looking at her profile in the dim light of the screen.
"The prospect of having to live without you...it's terrifying."
He watched her face, seemingly lost in thought as she looked through uninteresting titles.
"You have no idea." He said, his eyes on hers as she stopped scrolling and turned to him.
He'd often thought about it. What they'd both been through. What they might go through. In their line of work, prospects were probably all terrifying. Pile Reddington's involvement and being targeted by powerful criminals and shadow organizations on top of that, and their prospects were downright unthinkable.
Tears threatened to flood over again; those stone-blue eyes of hers were beginning to drown in shame and regret.
"I'm sorry." She whispered. "I'm so sorry."
He knew how much she regretted what she did. To him, to the team, to Reddington. It was perhaps her greatest mistake and he knew she carried it with her. A painful moment that served as both shameful contrition and a meaningful lesson. It was that regret that he knew she'd cling to if she ever began straying away from herself. The same way that he embraced his own regret.
"It's okay." He said, holding her hand as tightly as his tired body would allow. "For now, you're here. That's what matters."
Her eyes searched his. For what, he could only guess. Resentment, anger, dishonesty, regret. Probably all of those. Though he was certain she would find none. He gave her one of his boyish grins and settled back against the pillows, his hand still clasped around hers. He sighed peacefully when he felt her resting her head lightly on his shoulder.
"Not just for now..." She said. "How about we go to one of your meetings when you're feeling better?"
"I'd like that."
"Then it's a date."
It was the first time that week that his skin actually felt soothing warmth from a touch, rather than the cold, painful sting he thought would never end. He breathed deeply and no longer felt the soreness in his lungs or the heaviness in his chest. The aches were beginning to melt away. His stomach fluttered not with nausea, but with excitement.
She gasped when she found a movie and loaded it up. He could only smile to himself at her enthusiasm.
"Casino?" He chuckled. "We chase terrorists, serial killers, and crooked politicians every day. And you wanna watch a gangster film?"
"Shh! It's starting." She hissed, bringing up her right hand and placing a finger to his lips.
The smile stayed on his face as he laid his head over hers, looking wistfully at their hands still intertwined, her thumb lightly brushing over the back of his hand. He didn't pay much attention to the movie as it began. The relief he'd felt from overcoming yet another harrowing trial and the comfort she was giving had his mind drifting off into daydreams.
Maybe not all prospects are terrifying.