An Unexpected Development

AN/Disclaimer: Own nothing of Blacklist—just having fun playing in this new and very entertaining sandbox. Obviously, I'm intrigued by the Liz/Don dynamic and I'm curious to see where the writers take us. I suspect they're going to be rather evil, because, you know, writers. And on this show, as we've already seen, nothing can be easy or obvious.

AN2: While this chapter takes place before the events of "Anslo Garrick, Pt. 1" I've nevertheless tweaked it to reflect some of what we learned in that ep. It's possible more tweaking may occur after Pt. 2.

To say that Donald Ressler had never figured into Red's plans would be understating it.

Oh, he had his place—every piece on the chess board had its place after all—but in terms of the grand scheme of things, he'd regretfully been relegated to pawn. A soldier, stolidly plodding along, square by square.

Then again, even a pawn possessed the ability to take down a king.

A rare mistake. One he wouldn't make again.

Outwardly, the man had all the grace of the proverbial bull in a china shop—a trait that had initially caused Red to dismiss him as just another off-the-rack, Fibbie, hobbled by poorly-fit suits and a rigid, uncompromising set of standards and mores. Helmet-haired, stone-faced, fists on hips and chin all too often thrust forward as an outward show of aggression, it was as if he'd tumbled, fully-formed, straight off the Quantico Assembly Line.

Red knew the type. Intimately.

Pity, that. It relegated the other man to position of minor annoyance to be tolerated—if necessary, eliminated—when Red had hoped for so much more. The best he could expect now was that Ressler would provide diversion in which occasional amusement could be found, much in the way a cat would find a toy mouse amusing for a short period of time, but by and large, a player of little overall consequence to the greater plan.

However, the mark of one who excelled at their chosen profession was their ability to… roll with the punches as it were. One reason why Red had survived—and thrived—for so long.

And why he now considered Donald in a light other than that of necessary nuisance.

Admittedly, the man was brash almost to the point of lacking all couth and annoyingly arrogant—and yes, Red was well aware of the irony of that little observation. However, that arrogance also happened to be one of Donald's more intriguing traits. One of the traits that had most fascinated Red over the course of their five-year journey. Currently lacking in the finesse to wield it to greatest effect but if mastered—he could become a formidable opponent. A worthy one.

Perhaps, even an ally.

An unexpected possibility, but not entirely unrealistic—especially once Lizzie factored into the equation.

Ah, Lizzie…

Red had deliberately cast himself in role of protector, especially with his knowledge of what Tom Keen actually was, but in an unexpected move, it would seem his involvement in her life had also thrust another into the role of protector, unwitting though it was.

Initially, Donald's alpha male posturing had done little more than amuse Red—annoy him, too, like a gnat hovering too close to his face, when it threatened to impede his plans. Was the man so utterly blind he couldn't see why Red was there? What kind of investigator was he? But somewhere within the subsequent days, as Red mulled how best to handle the insufferable Special Agent Donald Ressler, an undeniable truth began revealing itself. For once not completely certain about what he was seeing, he'd done that at which he'd become so adept—he'd taken a step back and studied.

Observed.

Assessed.

And what he'd learned had been fascinating.

Almost from that first case—Ressler bristling with resentment and Lizzie rigid with fear—they'd nevertheless gravitated toward each other. Oh, Red could clearly see Lizzie felt she had to play the game in order to maintain her precarious hold on this new position, still completely unaware how very much her fate rested entirely in Red's hands and that he wasn't about to let her down. Red was also well aware how Donald, too, felt as if he had to play the game, albeit from a different position of course—that of senior agent, the good soldier—reluctantly relinquishing his perceived position of power to an interloper whom he felt had no business on his turf yet making it clear at every conceivable turn who was really in charge.

Well, it was an illusion Red was content to allow him so long as it proved convenient. Harold, too, but he was a different matter altogether and not relevant to the issue at hand.

Donald and Lizzie.

Thrown together as unlikely allies, they'd circled each other like wary dogs, occasionally snarling and snapping and Red couldn't even begin to express how very proud he was that his Lizzie refused to yield. That backbone would serve her in good stead, he'd thought. It was already serving her in good stead, pulling a reluctant acceptance and admiration from the rigid unyielding likes of Donald.

It was why he'd given them the Stewmaker . Far earlier than he might have, otherwise, given the man's gruesome nature, but Red was curious to see what they were made of—separately as well as together.

Donald… well, Donald had behaved as expected once Lizzie was taken. The flat refusals to be left behind, giving no thought for his own safety, so long as there was a chance for Lizzie to be rescued. Unsurprising, there, what with his predictable "I'm in charge, the buck stops here, she's my partner and I'll stop at nothing to get her back," mentality. Boring under most circumstances but a necessary component toward the ultimate endgame. That the man had exhibited an ability for improvisation and a willingness to roll with the punches? That, Red had to admit, had come as quite the pleasant surprise.

So there was one test passed. With flying colors and extra credit, even.

Then they found her. Donald's attention at first focused on him—not so much as target as in question. He knew Red would know and he knew Red wouldn't flinch from the hard truths, should he need to face the worst case scenario. But behind all that, there had been fear, as well. No… Donald might well have been able to hide it from everyone else—frankly, no one else would have thought to look for it, but Red hadn't missed the terror flickering behind the single-minded determination. The solitary question lurking deep behind the impassive cool scrim of gray-blue with which Donald Ressler habitually faced the world. And all it had taken was a subtle tilt of his head and all of Donald's iciness and terror had immediately been supplanted by concern.

And an unmistakable relief.

Now that had been an interesting little tableau. Lizzie, still bound to the chair, Donald crouching before her, gently touching her face and reassuring her in a tone the likes of which Red might never have imagined him capable of dredging up again. Even amidst the ensuing chaos, he'd very clearly heard every word—every nuance—and had filed it away for future reference. After all, it was in times of crisis that true nature often revealed itself—a theory reinforced by what he'd seen mere minutes later outside the cabin.

Neither had been aware of his presence. Mind you, that wasn't so uncommon. His very survival had often depended on his ability to remain undetected. What was unusual in this case was that he hadn't gone to any great pains to mask his presence—he'd merely been several yards behind them, observing as Donald had helped Lizzie from the cabin, supporting her as they slowly walked down the path.

Then she'd crumbled, his strong Lizzie, and it had taken everything in his power to keep from materializing by her side and spiriting her far away. For one, it was counter to his sudden appearance in her life to begin with. And for another, it was important that it not be him. Considering she was currently rather repulsed by him, what with her first intimate exposure to the darker side of his nature.

She needed time to come to terms with that. That she would wasn't in doubt. She needed him—for the job, she thought.

For now, he would allow her to believe that.

Convenient.

But more important to him, however, at least in the immediate sense, would be her reaction in the wake of this experience. Would it be fight or flight? Would she hold it together until she was back in the safety of her home and the imagined safety of her husband's embrace? Or would she turn to the one person she might never have imagined relying on mere weeks earlier?

He'd guessed correctly. Of course.

It had been instinctive and unhesitating, the way she'd turned into Donald and allowed herself release and if his reaction had been a bit more restrained, well then, it was nothing more than what Red would have expected from such an emotionally-scarred and closed-off individual.

Lizzie didn't realize what was happening, but it was clear, Ressler did. He was confused and discomfited and perhaps even a bit angry, but he shunted that aside in order to be the man Lizzie needed in that moment.

He held her and if this time Red couldn't hear exactly what the other man said as he soothed her, that was fine. He didn't need to. The actual words were of little import. Of greater value to him was the tension in Lizzie's hands as she clutched Donald's shoulders and the expression on Donald's face as he held her, hands splayed wide across her back as if providing a barrier against further hurts.

It was the expression of a man who knew it to be something of a futile gesture—who knew he himself would likely be an instrument of future hurt regardless of how much he might wish it otherwise. It was the expression of a man who knew the world wasn't gentle or fair.

It was also the expression of a man who was determined that whatever the future brought with it, he'd be there to face it to the best of his ability. By her side.

And when necessary, supporting her.

Another test passed.

And the seeds of hope, reborn.

After that, it was merely a matter of further observation. He was vastly amused by how utterly unaware of each other they were while at the same time exhibiting such blatantly painful awareness of each other. The shared glances, the silent conversations, the not-so-silent arguments—and that was merely what he was privy to.

What he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall of the Post Office.

Well, he could, but that wouldn't be sporting and it would be against his self-imposed rules of this little game.

So he contented himself with what he could see when in their combined presence and what he could glean from them separately.

How it would pain Donald to know he was far more transparent than the more visibly emotional Lizzie.

Red would keep that particular bit of information to himself until it suited otherwise.

Not that Lizzie was completely unreadable. It was simply that like so many individuals whose emotions lay so close to the surface, she was actually far more adept at compartmentalizing them than someone like the more stoic Donald. Her deepest emotions—the ones that meant most to her—she kept hidden far beneath the surface, allowing the more superficial emotions to serve as barrier.

It took moments of great duress to crack that seemingly volatile façade.

He'd admit a mild curiosity as to her reaction to the news of Sam's death. He knew Donald had been with her then. It had served as balm to the knowledge that he couldn't be.

Especially after seeing how she'd been at the funeral. Tom had done all the right things—behaved in all the correct, supportive spouse ways—but it hadn't escaped Red's notice that every single gesture had come at Tom's initiative. His hand covering Lizzie's during the service. His arms around her while she wept. She stood, rigid, only her head resting on his shoulder as around them a cold autumn breeze blew, and concerned family hovered, and a gleaming casket waited to be lowered into ground that even this late in the year maintained a lush greenness at odds with the generations of death it cradled.

Never once had she voluntarily sought comfort from Tom. Not once had she turned to him.

What a marked contrast to that moment weeks earlier—a desolate cabin, a barren dirt path, faceless, meaningless individuals ebbing and flowing around Donald holding Lizzie.

Lizzie holding onto Donald. Yielding to him in a way she refused to yield to her own husband.

Red wondered about that.

Clearly, she felt as if she had to be strong for Tom, whereas that was a useless affectation with Donald.

Perhaps she sensed that in him, she had an equal.

Yes, he challenged her. Frustrated her. Drove her to the edge of fury, but at the end of the day, Donald accepted her.

Perhaps, most importantly, Elizabeth sensed that with Donald, she didn't have to be the strong one.

It would certainly bear closer observation.

Fortunate, then, that events had been set in motion that would allow him many more opportunities.

After all, if Donald were to be deemed worthy of his Lizzie, Red would have to be absolutely certain the promise he'd sensed in him so long ago was fulfilled.

Still though, it was nevertheless reassuring to know that should anything happen to him, Lizzie would be taken care of.

Whatever other developments might rear their unexpected heads, of that, Red was absolutely certain.