Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way.

AN: So guys, I have decided to begin writing this fic while I work out Chpt 3 of the Silver Lining (because it has been a pain to write, but will be posting Chpt 3 fairly soon)! You can have writer's block for one story yet, have so many other ideas to offer that do not fit into ongoing projects. I really couldn't fit it into TSL's events, so this was the result. Now I know some of you do not like reading about our favorite FBI agent in a story with Ressler (I'm a huge Lizzington fan myself and ONLY ship them) but for this first chapter, Ressler had to take part in it in order to push the story forward, serving as a plot device, that will ultimately result in Lizzington. And I do apologize ahead of time to Keenler shippers…plz don't hate me lol! This was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but after handwriting it out, I realized it was going to have to be a multi-chapter fic with around 3-5 chapters. Hope this is to everyone's liking! This story is dedicated to hestia-Prytaneum and FrostyFingers for keeping my spirits high through this hiatus, because it has been an evil witch! I would not be able to get ANYWHERE without the words of encouragement, wonderful conversations we have, and the amazing fics you two write! And thanks again for everyone's loving reviews/follows/favorites of The Silver Lining, because if not for everyone's wonderful responses, I never would have went on to begin this one! Red does not make his appearance until Chpt 2.

Song lyrics provided by Delta Rae – If I Loved You

Chapter 1

Misunderstood Vibrations

Cause if I loved you, I could be happy

I would make you the light of my world

I wouldn't wait, love, I'd marry you tomorrow

And we'd make love, and I'd be your girl

But I don't love you, much as I want to

I don't love you, no, it would be a lie

And you deserve love, you're better than a good day

And you'll find it, but just not in my eyes

'Cause it aint here love, no

And it just breaks my heart.

"Do you remember how pissed you were that first day I walked into the black site?" Lizzie recollects teasingly as she presses the cool tip of the bottle of beer to her lips to take a generous sip. Following a victorious week of apprehending the task force's latest blacklister, Isaiah Lewiston (aka The Emulator), Ressler had extended an informal albeit celebratory invitation to Liz. It entailed dropping by his apartment after the two left the Post Office in order to commemorate the closing of the case with a few drinks and friendly banter.

They were sitting on Ressler's new onyx leather sofa facing one another slightly, an ice cooler within arm's length containing the last two beers of the twenty-four pack they had gulped down over the last three hours. Ressler drapes his left arm across the back of the sofa, Lizzie's shoulders just a few inches within grazing distance of his fingers. Soft background chatter from the television fills the cozy living area, helping to stave off any redundant awkwardness.

She rouses from the murk of intoxication at the sound of Ressler's alcohol-rasped voice, "I wouldn't call it 'pissed'. More like cautious, now that I think about it. But, yeah, how could I forget that day? I remember how giddy you were when Cooper called you into the office. Then, after you spoke with Reddington for the first time and came back into the control room? Whoa. The look on your face was priceless, Liz. You looked like someone who was just told they were actually born with two heads, and had been walking around their entire lives with no knowledge of it."

Reddington.

Red.

Shit. I can't even have a normal conversation with someone without that infuriating bastard distracting me, even if he is a half a world away!

Prior to leaving town two long weeks ago, Red deemed it of the utmost importance that Lizzie meet with him in front of his current safe house, saying he had the next name on the Blacklist prepared for her. He had provided her with intel essential to detaining Lewiston in the form of a black file folder. The kind he was fond of using frequently since it had become rather a signature article in his business with the FBI. Then, without so much as a single derisive comment uttered in her direction, Red told her he had business to attend to in Belgium, and would be in touch with her soon. He drove away, leaving Lizzie wanton and forlorn as she squinted to observe his Mercedes evaporating into the distance. She recalled how desperately she wished she had enveloped him in a crushing embrace before he had climbed into his car.

Lizzie would not dare cite her concerns to Ressler, but she was aberrantly afraid she would not see Red again for a great while.

Not being able to shake the instinctual sensation of doubt, Lizzie contemplates about how strange it was for Red to have such a curt demeanor as he was departing. She chides herself for her seemingly unwarranted paranoia, acknowledging that the past few months have been quite difficult for the both of them. Feeding her concerned nature, she continues to hurl her conscience headlong into guilt over the speculation that she could be the potential cause for his sudden clipped conduct. The fear for Red's safety that dangles in the forefront of her mind she feebly disguises as meager incertitude for the future of the task force. Liz has consistently been agonizingly aware that her feelings should be divergent from those that inevitably cast a hazy cloud, hovering motionless above her consciousness. Ultimately, these traversing emotions slide a warm layer of affection over her heart, sending electrifying shivers that jar her bones any time she is in Red's company. Or when she is within earshot of his alluring voice. Or when she spots his ridiculous fedora perched on the desk in her office. Yep, Elizabeth Keen has it bad for Raymond Reddington.

Viewing Ressler as a type of proxy for Red's absence, Lizzie had wanted to spend time with him in a more social setting. The incontrovertible truth of the matter was she felt abandoned. It was her reoccurring pangs of loneliness during any given moment she was not with Red, which had Lizzie anxiously cringing over the return to her hotel room following each workday. In addition, sleep was out of the questions since the nightmares had returned shortly after the death of Berlin. God, the nightmares of the fire were so lucid that she would wake up clinging to the sheets of her bed in a startled sweat, gasping instinctively for air due to the overwhelming thick veils of smoke stifling her lungs. As she and Red's relationship became more devoted with each passing day, new nightmares began manifesting themselves in her sleep. Visions of death and torment plagued her thoughts frequently in the waking world, spilling over into her subconscious at night. REM sleep was not something Lizzie had the luxury of receiving often. However, when she did, it was full of moving pictures causative to Red's suffering and demise. There was just one solitary fear that petrified her the most: to lose the man whom had been continuously devoted to her, and her psyche did good to remind her of it relentlessly.

She needed to fill her time in the presence someone whom she knew cared something about her, and who could take her mind off all of the alarming deductions and sentiments she had been internally battling within her soul. That someone happened to be Ressler.

The only dilemma was that Ressler perhaps cared a little too much. He realized long ago that he was in love with her, but knew expressing such may create ineptness between them at work if she did not reciprocate his feelings.

The duo erupts into a fit of bellowing laughter proceeding Ressler's impression of Cooper's "Dad" face, the expression he gives the team when he is exceedingly displeased with them. Lizzie snorts uncontrollably at the bizarre noise coming out of Ressler's mouth, covering her face and nose as she does it. "I don't think I have ever heard you laugh before, Ress! Oohhh my gosh. Whew!" She exclaims as she grins appreciatively, her face and stomach beginning to hurt from laughing with such intensity. All she can think is how grateful she feels that she is able to spend time comfortably with a man without the stress of expectations or strings. After all, Ressler is her partner at the bureau, as well as her trusted confidant. "Yeah, well, I'm quite a serious guy." At that, both Liz and Ressler lose it once again, chuckling so uncontrollably they are nearly dumping their beers in the floor and all over one another unapologetically.

Stilling his movements after he quiets his laughter, Ressler tenderly extends his right hand to tuck away an errant strand of Lizzie's locks that had become adorably stuck to her mouth and eyes during all the hilarity. He glares at her admiringly for a beat too long, not being able to resist the overwhelming engrossment at how delicious her lips must taste.

Lizzie admonishes a charming grin, using her free hand to give him an appreciative pat on the hand. As she reclines back into a sitting position with her legs propped atop the wooden coffee table, Ressler keeps his eyes trained on her glowing face. He leans in gradually. Lizzie turns her head a fraction of an inch, as if to look away, only to realize what he is doing. He comes within a hair's breadth away from her lips, and remains there idly. She swallows rigidly, unsure of how to diffuse the situation without coming off like an absolute bitch. Her baby blue eyes flicker back and forth amidst his. She holds her breath reflexively before parting her mouth in hesitance to articulate her riposte.

"Ressler?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't . . ." Lizzie whispers in a mouse-like fashion, in hopes that the low volume of her voice will console him during her disallowance of what he aims to accomplish. "Don't what?" Believing Ressler would take her reticence as acceptance, she realizes he will not halt his maneuvers unless she outright rebuffs him. She is afraid to do so since she is struggling with how this is going to affect their friendship in the long-term. The last thing Lizzie wants to accomplish here and now is breaking Ressler's heart, but she knows she has to put an end to the situation before it reroutes itself into the realm of peculiarity.

Lizzie places both hands on his chest to push him away easily, lowering and shaking her head in discomfiture. She does not long for Ressler. Not like that. She values him in incalculable ways, their companionship being one of a kind and of great importance in her life, but she does not want to do anything crass to jeopardize their bond nor their working relationship.

"Liz, look. We're adults, right? Can you just humor me? Just . . . one time? Just this once. I have to know what it's like to kiss the Elizabeth Keen." He says as he smiles half-heartedly, a trace of doubt evident in his features. Bracing for impact, he knew he had to give it at least one last shot before giving up entirely and making a fool of himself.

"Ress, this is not a good idea. At all."

"I thought . . . ? I thought you were into me, Liz? I'm sorry. It's just . . . I thought . . . maybe . . . you felt the same? I thought I was getting the same vibes from you?"

Regarding him with a sympathetic tilt of the head (courtesy of spending too much time with Raymond Reddington), Lizzie tries to explain, "Jesus, Ressler. I am . . . into you that is. You're my best friend. I'm . . . I'm sorry. Really sorry. Ressler I care about you so much, you know that. You have been there for me, and you have covered my ass countless times, as I have for you. We're partners. Friends. And I even feel a sort of familial connection to you, as if you are my older brother. I am eternally grateful to have you in my life, in so many ways. But, it just can't be that way."

Ressler narrows his eyes at her, seemingly offended by the stark contrast of the confession he had anticipated from her. The impression she had left upon his weary heart in these past, dark few months had been entirely wrong.

They have both consumed a copious amount of alcohol, significantly more than they are accustomed to, making the pair emotionally compromised and lowering their ability to steady their composures and judgments. "A brother, huh? Well that's just perfect." Ressler stands unexpectedly from the sofa, Liz staring up at him, blinking her eyelids frantically as he does it. Her admission has hurt his feelings and humiliated him, but she could not embrace his intimacy solely for his own sake. Reevaluating mindfully what just occurred, she shifts her position on the couch, jutting her head in a backwards motion. Her eyes brim with frustrated tears as she crinkles her eyebrows, physically emphasizing her huffed annoyance of the now encumbered air oppressing her.

Lizzie removes herself from the couch and crosses the room, padding her way in the direction she witnessed Ressler go. He is opening cabinet after cabinet with jittery hands, on a quest for something. Leaning her left side against the doorframe, Liz tries to console him ruefully, "Ressler, I have to admit. It would make sense. Us being a couple. We are two broken people who have been through hell in the past few years. I wish . . . I wish I could . . . love you like that, because you deserve that. You deserve someone who will love you unconditionally, despite your faults. Laughing with you in the light, and taking your hand while you linger in the darkness." Yet again, Lizzie finds herself unconsciously quoting Red. She knows she is more like that man than she is willing to recognize.

Ressler does not breathe a word, willfully refusing to look in her direction. He advances on his current task: searching for the pill bottle he tucked away months ago in a plastic food storage container. He is fuming with alcoholic rage inwardly, knowing if she does not depart soon, this demeaning plight is going to end in dissolution and ruin for the two of them.

Huffing in disappointment, Lizzie walks away, then calls back to him over her shoulder as she withdrawals from the charged tension, "I have to pee." The beer is working on her bladder like a water hose someone forgot to disengage, so now would be the perfect opportunity to go "use it" before she does something involuntary. After she finishes in the bathroom, she staggers back into to the living area, grabbing the remote off the coffee table. She is lost in thought with nothing to declare, so she stays seated on the couch with her last beer perched between her thighs as her head lolls drunkenly around her chest. Undecided of when or how to take her leave, Lizzie shakes her head at the ridiculousness of it all. Why could he not just remain friends with her, and leave it at that?

She hears commotion in the kitchen, and the resonant crash of breaking glass accompanied by Ressler shouting profanities. Launching herself from her seat and nearly nose-diving into the television, Lizzie stumbles into the kitchen to witness Ressler hovering over the sink with blood dripping from his hand, a ruby red-drenched towel swathed horizontally across the wound.

"Jesus, what happened?!"

"I- - I'm fi- - fine, Liz. You should go home. And call a cab because you are definitely not driving."

"Ressler! What. Happened?!" She attempts to walk over to him so she can assess the damage since he possibly may need a few stitches. As she extends her hands, Ressler tugs his injured palm close to his chest. Sighing loudly, he begins to lose his patience and is frankly ready for Lizzie to see her way out. She has inflicted enough damage for one night.

"Dammit, Liz! I just broke a drinking glass, that's all. Now. Go. Home . . . LEAVE."

"Look, I- - I was just trying to - -"

"To what? Drive me insane by hanging around after making me feel like a complete idiot? Do us both a favor and go home. And, it would be best if one of us didn't go to work tomorrow. I will call Cooper, tell him about my hand. It'll make it easy for you to - -"

"What in the hell is your problem, Ressler? What do you want from me? I cannot help how I feel."

Ressler stares at Liz with such disproval that it elicits a crawling sensation underneath the surface of her skin. She cannot discern why he is being so tactless.

"Reddington." Ressler cites through gritted teeth. His expression is becoming more and more hostile by the second.

"Huh?" The whites of Lizzie's eyes beam like spotlights at the mention of Red's name. Ressler has honestly taken this whole thing with Red too personally, ever since the commencement of the task force. She can comprehend his loathe for the man, since he blames Red for Audrey leaving him. But, this is taking things to the edge of the map of sanity. A flash of insight strikes Lizzie between her eyes: Ressler is evidently covetous of the relationship Liz has with Red.

"I said, Reddington."

"Yeah I heard you the first time. What's your angle, Ressler?" He knows he has struck a nerve within her. He can see it in the method her body is responding to his presumptions, radiating an aura so momentous that she is practically screaming that his mentioning of the Concierge of Crime disgruntles her on an abysmal level. Expressions of shock, hurt, and truth cross the planes of Liz's face. Propping her hands on her hips with elevated irritation, Liz questions if maybe Ressler is dishonest about his sobriety. He has never had any issues with alcohol, albeit the reason why she agreed to drink with him tonight without having any reservations. But, his behavior is beginning to seem rather suspicious.

"You don't get it, do you? Here. Let me put it into perspective for you. Now, seriously. Just picture this. Pretend I'm Reddington. I bet you would want to kiss me now . . . wouldn't you?"

She bores holes into his sockets, refusing to react in any way that would allow him to draw conclusions. All at once, her emotions merge into one general category: rage. Ressler's sardonic tone is adding fuel to the fire burning inside of Lizzie. She is furious not only because he was the last person she thought would ever throw Red in her face, but because Red is not here to speak for himself. Or for her. She is astounded at her own self for how badly she desires to safeguard Red, no matter what is being said about him, no matter who it is doing the talking.

"You know that I'm right! I would put money on it that if he was here and made a move this instant, you would kiss him. You've got problems, Liz. You say you feel like I'm more of a brother to you? Ha! Why should that stop us? Hell, you legitimately thought Reddington was your biological father, but twenty bucks says you would still jump into bed with him if he walked in rig—"

Not having time to finish his insolence, Lizzie smacks him across the face with an open palm, using enough striking force to break the skin of his bottom lip. Ressler turns his head slowly toward her. He gives her a smug grin, darting out his tongue to lick the crimson liquid dribbling down his mouth and chin, lightly dabbing it with his forefinger to examine it. Her maw hanging agape, she stares at him with the most incredulously piercing gaze he has ever witnessed. She feels the culmination of dozens of emotions ascending in her throat and igniting a blistering fury of fervor in her chest; all bundling together to plaster themselves around her widened mouth and saucer-like eyes. She realizes the hot liquid that is cascading down her reddened cheeks are tears, and quickly swabs them away with her shirtsleeve.

Alcohol has a strange way of taking a seemingly minute misconception, and converting it into a fucking global pandemic.

With sorrowful eyes and a heavy heart, she speaks in a desolate tone, "I hope you're proud of yourself, you insecure, hypocritical asshole." Her pitch is barely an audible murmur, but her point still reaches him. Regardless if what Ressler said was indeed a fact, she never could have predicted he would speak such a disgustingly despicable assortment of words to her.

She can no longer stand in the same vicinity, the same room, or even the same building as him, because it is making her nauseous. Ressler does not articulate another word, but simply observes Liz walking out of the confines of the kitchen. He hangs his head as he hears the front door open, only to swing shut with a thunderous slam. Crossing his arms as he leans back against the smooth marble countertop, Ressler rebukes himself for unloading on Lizzie. "Shit." He could easily blame it on the alcohol. Knowing he should not have said such insensitive remarks, he mentally notes to be certain that when he sobers up he must express his contrition to Liz.

He screwed up royally tonight. Luckily, he would not be going into the Post Office in the morning, so Liz should have a little time to cool from her anger. He is relieved Red was not nearby to overhear his unwarranted outburst. Regardless of his egotism and his admonishing of a peacock-like attitude whilst in Red's company, he was surreptitiously afraid. Not of Reddington, per say, but, rather of his methods. He understands more than anyone that Reddington would move mountains for Liz whilst destroying everyone in his line of sight, especially if a person such as himself had intentionally hurt her.

After carefully bandaging his lacerated hand in gauze, Ressler maladroitly staggers his way to his bedroom, bumping into pictures on the wall every other stride. Shutting his eyes as he slumps into his empty queen-sized bed, the agent's last thoughts before descending into a dreamless slumber were of the kiss that could have happened, had it not been for Raymond Reddington worming his way into the heart of Elizabeth Keen. What he is not aware of as he falls asleep, is that he has irreparably altered the course of their friendship forever.

TBC. . .

P.S. : Please leave me a review to tell me what you think! I count on you all's honesty and coolness to keep me going ;) And please, don't beat me up too badly over Ressler. l I know that Donald isn't exactly acting like Mr. Nice Guy in this story, but that's just how I imagined it in my head if the situation arose, since he has his own demons he struggles with. At any rate, I still love you guys and thanks for taking the time to read!