So our Ressler Prompt group tossed around a few ideas and came up with the idea of seeing Ressler drunk in this weeks prompt. Yeah, hard to imagine, but that's what we came up with for this week! But what we found amazing was that all four of us pictured Ressler in the same way! It was so cool to see how close we got him with no collaboration at all. So, as per last week, we shared them privately once all were written, and are publishing them today. Another one next week!
Ressler Prompt #2 - Drunk Ressler. Choose a reason why, and who he is with. Any time, any place, any season. Angst if desired.
Ressler stands in Cooper's office – his temporary office as Acting Director - with Lauren Hitchin and Reven Wright either side of him. He's being forced to work with and share intel with the smug bastard Peter Kotsiopolas. It's a mistake. A HUGE mistake, and he can't believe Wright is going along with her BFF Hitchin on this one. But apparently his boss believes this is in the best interests of national security.
He disagrees. Utterly and totally. There is no way in hell he's doing this, not after today. Still reeling from seeing Liz 'dead' on the television cameras at the hearing, this is the final straw.
"And if I'm not willing to cooperate?" His voice is taut, barely controlled.
"Then you'll be replaced by someone who is." Laurel Hitchin is equally as calm, getting her point across quickly.
Ressler doesn't reply, clenching his jaw as she speaks. He's not going to let rip with what he really wants to say. Or do. Because the CIA Director is about one more condescending look from getting his nose permanently rearranged. And if Ressler grits his teeth any harder he's going to have to call that expensive orthodontist downtown.
Hitchin's words are still hanging in the air as the son of a bitch Peter Kotsiopolas stands and looks through the windows, taking in the view of the war room below.
"Seems you've upgraded this place. Love to have a tour."
Ressler is more than willing to give the Director a bird's eye view of the war room on his way through Cooper's office window, right before the smirk is wiped off his face on the concrete floor below.
"That will be all, Agent Ressler. I trust we have your full cooperation," Hitchin finishes, motioning her hand toward the door.
He's being dismissed from his own temporary office. Without a word, his eyes turn from the Director and meet Hitchins. He takes pleasure in seeing the flicker there. The momentary doubt before she hurriedly composes herself again. He turns away from Hitchin, unable to stomach the sight of her a second longer.
"Ma'am," he nods respectfully to Reven Wright as he turns and exits the office, his heart thundering in his chest. He drops to the bottom of the stairs and sweeps past Aram and Samar, all but barging right between them. Grabbing his car keys and briefcase he exits his office and prudently leaves the door open. Because if he attempts to close it he'll slam it and he damn well knows they'll hear that upstairs. And there is no way in hell he's going to give Peter Kotsiopolas that satisfaction.
"Heading out, Agent Ressler?" Aram looks up from his desk as Ressler strides by.
He doesn't answer. Of course he is.
"Okay… goodnight, and see you in the morning," Aram calls out. Ressler doesn't even hear him over the blood rushing through his ears. Nor does he see Samar and Aram exchange looks and both raise their eyes toward Cooper's office.
Ressler's jaw is screaming for relief and his nails are digging into his palms as he stands in the elevator. Work with that corrupt bastard? Share intel on Liz and Reddington's whereabouts? Let the corrupt, Cabal infested CIA in on their leads? Like hell he will. Like fucking hell he will.
###
He doesn't remember the drive home. But since he's not currently being extracted from a wrecked car that's wrapped around a lamp post, he must have done it right. Depositing his briefcase by the front door, his tie is already loosened and flung aside, top shirt button undone as he walks to his bedroom. In a disciplined ritual, his suit is off and hung up, shirt tossed in the hamper (with far more force than usual), and dark jeans and a t-shirt are thrown on. He's barefoot on the carpet before padding down the hallway to his kitchen.
Pulling open his fridge door reveals only 3 beers. That's barely going to put a dent in things. He grabs the first one and paces around his living room, drinking it down.
"Son of a bitch," he curses, now stalking from one end of his small apartment to the other. Front door to the kitchen, and back again. He tosses the empty bottle in the trash, scoring a perfect three pointer from the kitchen door. Perhaps he should put a picture of the Director on there. Or pin one on his dart board. He flings open the fridge again, swipes the next beer and pops it open then takes a long swig.
"If that son of a bitch thinks I'm-" he chews off his words, flooding them with another mouthful of beer.
He does not need this. Any of it. And now he's got one aim in mind. One single goal. To get rid of every sight and thought of his entire screwed up day. That bastard Director and Laurel Hitchin. The damn commission grilling him. The sickening sight of Liz dead. And if it takes him getting blinding, stonking drunk, then he's damn well going to do it, and do it well. Shit faced is the name of the game.
He gulps down the second beer, turns and tosses it to the trash and nails a three pointer once again. Beer isn't going to cut it though, and this time the full bottle of whiskey on the bar is firmly in his sights. The shot glass is slammed down before whiskey splashes into it. He grips it tight and downs it in one gulp.
"Gaahh," he grimaces as the alcohol burns all the way down his throat. That's more like it. That's the ticket.
Another glass is filled. Downed quickly. But why do one at a time? 3 more shot glasses are lined up beside the first as he fills them, barely stopping between one glass and the next. And so he drinks them. All 4 in quick succession.
The boy scout in him makes his presence known as he's lining up the shot glasses again. But he kicks that dude to the curb and silences him when he tries to make his voice heard again. Not tonight. There is no one here to stop him. No one. He picks the first of the next 4 shots and downs them again, one at a time.
Slamming the shot glass down, he can see the Director sitting there eating his – HIS – red velvet cake pops. "Bastard," he snarls. "Fucking Cabal bastard." He paces again, slower now and most definitely not as steady on his feet. He sways, leans against the wall and then regains his balance. He hasn't eaten in eight hours, and what he did eat came back up at the shock of seeing a 'dead' Liz. The alcohol is rushing headlong into his system. Not unlike the Oxy used to do.
At that he stops. He's willingly traded drug dependence for a night of drunken oblivion. Because his method of choice is always to chemically numb the pain. He scowls and flings the empty shot glass against the wall, causing it to shatter with a satisfying crash.
He snarls, grabs another empty glass at hurls it at the wall, shattering against the imagined face of the Director. "Take that, Peter." The name leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. And it's not just the beer and whiskey he's drank in quick succession.
But no more shot glasses. They're too small and fiddly for hands that now feel like they'd be more at home on Wreck it Ralph. And besides that, the remainder of his shot glasses will no doubt join their companions and end up smashed against his living room wall. What's left of the formerly full bottle is now in his hand as he flops down onto his couch. And still he can see that smug bastard Kotsiopolas and his enabler Hitchins as he tips the bottle, drinking straight from it in the semi dark. Night is falling, but he makes no attempt to turn on a light. The singular pursuit of drunkenness is a lonely, unlit affair.
And it's working. Finally, his body is responding with the buzz and thrum of a thousand bees. Which is a relief since the whiskey bottle is now less than half full. Or half empty. He's a pessimist tonight. Either way, he's not going out to get reinforcements. The drunk may have kicked the boy scout to the curb for the night, but the boy in blue is still keeping him firmly locked inside his apartment for this event. His blurry eyes descend upon the bar in the fading light. A Christmas present of a bottle of rum sits unopened on the top shelf and its fate is looking decidedly precarious at this point. At that he chuckles humorlessly.
He drinks alone as the sun sets, leaving him in darkness with just the outside light filtering through his open curtains. He tips his whiskey bottle in silent salute. "Here's to you, Peter, you corrup' son of a bi'ch." He swigs down another mouthful, grimacing at the harshness in his mouth. "And 'ere's to you too, woman," he says out loud, tipping the bottle to Laurel Hitchin. His voice is thick but he doesn't notice. He's too focused on the targets of his anger. But he's giving Reven Wright a hall pass on this one because even he can see she's a silent victim in this mess. Perhaps she's at home working on getting three sheets to the wind also. He chuckles again, and this time it really does strike him as funny.
He bursts out laughing at the thought of that tiny woman tossing them back and toasts his boss. "…to you, Reven Wrong." He laughs again, a long drawn out deep laugh as he leans forward. And as he settles, his hand wipes his wet cheeks and he can't tell if he's laughing or crying. "Aaahh…shit," he sighs, taking another swig.
He quiets, takes another sip and presses his fingers into his forehead, behind which a little drummer boy has set up his drum kit and is really getting into a good rhythm. Yet the once clear picture of the Director is now hazy, interspersed with Laurel Hitchin and Reven Wright giving him the merits of national security. To hell with national security. He leans back on his couch, feeling the throb in his temples as the drummer boy kicks it up a notch. "To 'ell with all of you."
He's hugging the bottle against his chest, taking another sip here and there. The desire to force it down has now lifted as his body is well and truly flooded with the stuff. For a moment he lowers the bottle, stares at the blank wall as the boy scout ventures to hold up his hand and ask just what the hell he's doing.
"Gettin' drunk. Doin' a damn good job of it too…"
Except he's not getting drunk. He IS drunk.
"Huh." Once again he lifts the bottle in toast. "…to me. Job well done…ya drunk bastard." He shifts a little on the couch, trying to get more comfortable and failing.
As his eyes lower from the wall and land on the blank screen of his TV another memory of the day emerges through his ethanol soaked brain cells. A TV in a court room, of images, of voices. Peter's voice. Smart bastard. Of a reporter on TV announcing that Liz was dead. Liz lying in a pool of blood. Killed.
"No, it wasn't… wasn' real." He hugs the bottle to his chest again. He nods, reassuring himself of that. It was all a hoax. "Not real." He stares at the blank TV, seeing in its place the image on the court room TV.
"Felt real." He drops his head to his chest. "Really real…"
"Why'd you do that, Liz…why?" He knows why. At least, the boy scout does but he's struggling to come up for air, currently drowning in a sea of whiskey. The drunk is having a problem comprehending it though. "Why, Liz…?"
"Terrifying… It was," he mutters, still seeing the image of her dead in a puddle of her own blood on the TV. He swigs from the bottle again, unable to shake the image of his dead partner. His dead friend. Or whatever Liz is to him, because he doesn't know even when he's sober. "Miss you."
You know what I am? I'm scared, because for a minute, I thought Keen was gone.
He smiles sadly, and offers another unsteady toast. "To you, Aram… best damn huggy bear there is."
He moves on his couch and finally notices why he's not comfortable. His kidneys have done their job admirably, sending everything down to his bladder that is stretched to its limit. He leans forward slowly, places the almost empty bottle on the coffee table. It sways, then topples and he's rather pleased with himself that he's just in time to stop it doing a not so elegant swan dive over the edge.
"Goo' catch."
"Whoa…" The movement comes at a price. His vision swims and he closes his eyes against the room that's doing an Olympic sprint around him. "Damn it." It's really time to stop drinking. The boy scout is waving his arm, holding up the Stop sign. The drunk pushes him under again. Bathroom first. Then more drinks. Can't let that bottle sit there all alone and unfinished.
With an effort he finds his feet, holds onto the arm of the couch and slowly rights himself. The light is still off, but as he fumbles for the switch on his lamp all he succeeds in doing is knocking it off the end table.
"Shit. Don' need light anyway." He makes his way to his bathroom, one hand guiding his way, eventually making it to his bathroom and relieving the pressure on his bladder. Exiting the bathroom, he walks by his bed, leaning on it with one hand to steady himself. Common sense is telling him get in bed, but the boy scout is given a hefty whack across the head as the drunk tells him to shut the hell up. There's still whiskey remaining. He shuffles back out to the living room and finds the couch again, falling into it, whiskey in hand once more.
The only light in his living room is that of an almost full moon outside his windows. He stares out at the orb hanging in the sky. "Are you lookin' at that too, Liz…?" He stares at the moon, perfectly placed between his open curtains and tries to imagine her looking at the same moon. "You shoulda le'me help you."
He tips the almost empty bottle, hearing its contents slosh in the bottom of it. "…ere's to you, par'ner." He takes a swig, and continues looking at the white moon as a thin cloud scuds across it. "Liz, why?" And he doesn't know if he's referring to her shooting Connolly, running from him, or faking her death today. All he knows is that it hurt him. And it still hurts amid the alcohol sloshing through his veins. "Why…?" He doesn't feel the fresh tears rolling down his cheeks as he stares at the moon.
Tipping the bottle again, he gives a sad smile. "An' to you, Red." He toasts the criminal unsteadily, then takes the last sip from the bottle. "Keep our girl safe, ya smart bastard." But he's not using the term in the same vein as he's been using it with Peter Kotsiopolas. The boy scout has won through. As much as the drunk was angry and wanted to hate everyone, the boy scout still cares. "Our girl…"
There is no more whiskey. And the boy scout within sensibly informs him that attempting to reach for the rum on the top shelf will likely result in him pulling the entire wall unit and bar down on himself. Time for bed. The drunk agrees with the boy scout, finally on the same page.
"Nigh', Liz," he mutters, dragging himself off the couch, leaving the empty bottle laying where he was slouched.
He staggers, topples, then finds himself on the floor. He turns to haul himself back up onto the couch, deciding to just sleep up there, and stares at his legs that have forgotten how to work. At his jean clad legs ending in bare feet. And a dark stain visible on the light carpet even in the moonlight.
"Wha…?" He can't make out what it is. He fumbles for his phone in his jeans pocket, drops it, picks it up and manages to find the flashlight app. He blinks, curses against the blinding light and he quickly shines it to the carpet, before dropping it again. The carpet is soaked in dark red blood.
He has no clue what's happened. Fumbling for the phone again he manages to hold it steady for a moment. Just long enough to see a large cut across the arch of his left foot, and blood is steadily pumping out of it, saturating the carpet below his feet.
"Huh." Transfixed by the slow stream of blood pumping from his foot, he marvels that he never even felt it. "It's red…"
He leans back on the floor, laying down heavily. It's too hard to sit up for long, a combination of the alcohol and blood loss. "Red… red…red..." He chuckles again, finding humor in that. "My own Red Reddington." Barely focusing in a brain that is demanding to pass out, the boy scout is running to the fore, yelling at the drunk to stop that bleeding.
"…it's red…" he mutters again, fascinated with that fact. And he's passing out, phone still in his outstretched hand.
Through dancing vision, he sees the moon wavering, blurring and finally disappearing from sight as his eyes close. He's shedding tears again at the sight of the moon and is now quietly repeating one name
"Liz… Liz…my Li…"
He's still saying her name as the darkness overtakes him as he lays in an alcoholic stupor in a growing puddle of his own blood.
###
Voices. He can hear voices. He struggles, but can't open his eyes. It's his imagination. His alcohol infused brain is playing tricks on him. And he sees things. Images float in and out around him. Laurel Hitchin, complete with eagle beak of a nose and hair that would be perfect on a 15 year old schoolgirl. Reven Wright, or is it Reven Wrong, he's not sure. The smug glare of Peter eating another one of his own red velvet pops, and this time his fist flies. He takes pleasure in decking the man, as he drifts in and out of sleep.
He can hear another voice. He is sure Liz is talking to him. Liz, I miss you. Liz, why? You'll be okay. You're not dead. It was a hoax. More images, more voices. No. No one here. He sleeps on, half unconscious and half asleep. His head hurts like hell. Whose fault is that, the boy scout reminds him before the drunk tells him to stop being such a boy scout. Liz is leaning down to him. He looks at her blonde hair. She should have brown hair, not blonde. She's talking again but he doesn't know what she's saying. You're not dead, Liz. It wasn't real.
Peter's back. Damn the man. He decks him again and watches him fall flat on his face. Good hit. Another image, a man like woman. He doesn't know who she is. Oh, yes he does. Hello, dearie. Yeah? Go dearie yourself. And don't tickle my feet. Liz, are you tickling my feet? He sleeps on, drifting in an alcoholic haze, and damn it if that Peter keeps getting back up and coming back for more. He obliges, sending him reeling out of Cooper's window at last. Liz, where did you go? Just come in and I can help you, please. Don't make me do this. Please?
He's moving. Being lifted up. Am I flying? Who is this dude? Silver fox. Don't know you. Liz, do you know this dude? You'll be fine dearie. Whose dearie? Peter, I told you to stay down. Gonna get you. You're goin' down, you bastard. Liz, talk to me. I can't hear you anymore Liz. Liz, where are you? You'll be okay. You rest now.
###
He hasn't even opened his eyes yet but can see the light in the room through fluttering eyelids. He's not sure where he is, because this doesn't feel like his bed. His eyes are glued shut apparently, but he manages to open them with a groan before shielding them with his forearm across his face.
"Welcome back."
"What?" His head moves slightly toward the familiar voice that he can't place. Someone is on the single chair, just to the right and slightly behind his head. But it clarifies that he's on his couch.
The source of the voice is now standing by him as he's trying to focus his bloodshot eyes, but at least the light has been blocked. Harold Cooper is beside him.
"Sir…?"
Cooper moves to close one of the curtains, dropping the light level down to a more manageable level. Ressler tries to sit, but at the pounding in his head and lurch of his stomach, he gives that up as a lost cause. "Shit."
"No, don't get up. You had quite a night, by the sounds of it." Cooper is back, placing a kitchen chair beside the couch, setting it up so he can face Ressler.
"I don't…remember."
Cooper holds up the empty whiskey bottle with an understanding smile. "Quite a night."
The bottle looks familiar. "I don't understand. What are you-"
"What am I doing in your apartment at 6:30am?" he asks gently, as Ressler nods, then stops with a groan and attempts to keep his head as still as he can. He pulls up the blanket that is over him as he gives a quick shiver, noticing for the first time there are IVs in the back of each hand.
"What the?" Ressler looks at the IV, follows the tubing up to the pole with a unit of blood and a unit of what he assumes is saline. "What happened?"
"Well, I got the strangest phone call a few hours ago," Cooper tells him. "From a woman who said only that we shared a mutual friend. She told me she was at your apartment, and was about to leave and could I-"
"What? What woman? I didn't have a woman here… Oh, hell, did I?"
Cooper pats his chest. "No, nothing like that, Don," he says reassuringly, then pauses. "Elizabeth called you last night. Do you remember that?"
"She did?" She called him? "No… I don't remember that either. Damn…"
Cooper leans forward a little as Ressler looks up at his boss. He'd sit, but he really doesn't have the energy or inclination to do so. It's a little too much like Reddington leaning over him in the box, minus the blood and shredded leg. "Yes, according to the woman, Elizabeth called you and you weren't making sense on the phone. She was very worried and knew something wasn't right, so she asked the woman to come over and check on you."
He has zero recollection of talking to Liz but he suddenly knows who Cooper is referring to. "Mr Kaplan." He remembers the woman's name, which is no mean feat with the drummer boy having been kicked out and replaced with a full brass band. "She's Reddington's cleanup lady," he sighs, lifting his hand to gently cup his throbbing forehead.
"Interesting." Cooper ponders that for a moment before continuing. "Well, this Kaplan came as quickly as she could and found you on the floor with a nasty gash on your foot, courtesy of glass on the floor. You'd lost a lot of blood. She could smell the alcohol and also deduced you were out cold from the whiskey. So she stitched you back up, got you on the IVs and they put you on the couch."
"They?" Ressler asks.
"Apparently she had someone else here to help her with that."
Ressler will have to take Cooper's word for that. He has no memory of any of it. Oblivion is what he wanted and it's what he got. He looks up at the IV pole again then back to his boss. Former boss. Damn. It comes rushing back. Peter. Laurel. Reven. He remembers now, as best he can with Tuba Charlie playing a solo between his eardrums. But Peter and company aren't lingering in the grey matter. Liz is.
"She called me…"
Cooper knows who he is referring to. "She did. Perhaps she was worried about the death hoax on national TV yesterday." He stops a moment and leans forward again and pats Ressler's chest. "Or perhaps it's like Charlene and I."
"What?"
Cooper smiles. "Char and I always know when the other is in trouble. It's hard to explain. It's what happens between two people who… care for each other."
Ressler looks at his boss. He wouldn't even have a reply to that one if his head was crystal clear.
Cooper leans back again and looks at his lead agent. He's no longer his lead agent, just as he's no longer Ressler's boss. But it's a familiar place that neither man has been able to set aside. He changes the subject. "I've sent an email to Reven this morning informing her that you're following a lead. That one came across my desk and I had forwarded it to you and you're gone for the day."
"I bet she took that well." Ressler adjusts his feet, feeling for the first time that his left foot is bandaged.
Cooper laughs. "Oh, Reven and I go way back. She's okay." He stands, pushing the chair back behind him. "So Reddington's Kaplan woman informed me that she had to leave but asked if I could come over and-"
"Babysit me…" Ressler sighs. Just kill me now.
"No. She knew you would be okay and could take care of yourself, even waking up to find this."
Ressler looks up at his boss silently.
"She wanted me here to explain what happened. Because she knew you wouldn't remember any of it." Cooper looks toward the kitchen, pointing. "That, and she asked me to bring you something to eat. You're going to need it, once you rest and finish getting these fluids into you, and get up later today. And you can also remove the IV's once those bags are empty."
Ressler closes his eyes as a wave of nausea passes over him, swallowing against the excess of moisture in his mouth. He wishes the boy scout had stood up to the drunk and not let him got into this state. But it's his own damn fault. He wanted to forget and chose this method. Cooper sees his discomfort and speaks gently.
"Don, I know what happened yesterday with the CIA Director. Reven explained. That's a hard place to be in. Being Director of the Task Force is not an easy position even when all agencies are on the same page. I know why this angered you. It did me too, when I heard. But I'll let you in on a secret. I've done what you've just done, more times than I care to count. I'm not proud of it, as I'm sure you're not. But I've been where you are. And trust me when I tell you that things always have a way of working out."
Ressler draws his hand from his eyes and looks at Cooper. "Thank you, sir."
"You know where to find me. Next time, come chat. Two heads are better than one."
Ressler nods slowly. His own head is mush right now. He's glad for Cooper's rational one.
Cooper moves away, letting the light shine in again before the curtains are drawn fully, plunging the apartment into near darkness.
"Better?" Cooper asks.
"Much. Thank you." Ressler lays there a moment. "Sir, I'd appreciate it if-"
"If we could keep this between ourselves. Already done," Cooper replies. "Get some rest, and I'll let myself out. I can come back and talk to you when I get off work later today, if you like."
"I'd like that, sir. Thanks." And he would. He trusts this man.
Cooper stops on his way to the front door and looks back, as the voice comes from behind Ressler's head.
"Don, this…connection… you have with Elizabeth. Hold onto it."
Ressler hears his door open as Cooper lets himself out. Hold onto it. How does he do that with her running from him every time she sees him.
"I'll try," he murmurs in the dark apartment.
His eyes close against the drum solo in his head, yet even through that beat, he can't keep his eyes open any longer and drifts off. This time his sleep is more restful and only one person comes to sit with him in the dark recesses of his mind.
Liz.