essler took a swig from his glass and propped his feet on his desk.

When he started drinking earlier that night, he hoped it would settle him, or at least take the edge off the anxiety that had been plaguing him since he sat down across an interrogation table from his ex-partner to question her about absconding with a criminal mastermind. Now, as he sat nursing his umpteenth tumbler of whiskey, it had only succeeded in loosening his tongue and making him more than a little tipsy.

He hadn't been feeling much like himself lately. Ever since Reddington surrendered, he'd been slightly off, but it only got worse as time went on and the stress of working alongside the man who used to be his target began to take its toll.

Being a part of the task force should have been the culmination of his life's work. What more could he ask for? He was putting a major dent in the criminal underbelly of the world and helping save countless lives everyday in the process. Sure, he couldn't really bring Reddington to justice with that immunity deal hanging over his head, but taking out his blacklisters was enough of a worthwhile endeavor to put up with the loss of the satisfaction of bringing him in.

For the most part, at least. Ressler still wanted to wring Reddington's neck more often than not. The man took every opportunity to make him feel inadequate, to undermine his authority as an agent, to try to humiliate him in front of his superiors. Having a rookie like Keen jump down his throat all the time even though she was obviously unprepared for the responsibilities Reddington foisted on her was just icing on the cake. It was an unusual situation that no one could have possibly prepared for, but Ressler thought he dealt with the challenge with great equanimity and success.

Then Keen up and disappeared and everything changed again.

The aftermath of her disappearance was utter chaos. When they searched her abandoned apartment, the image of her idyllic home life collapsed like a house of cards. They found a box of cash and passports lying open in the living room, all seeming to belong to her husband, who was also conveniently missing. The shell casing Keen ran through the system matched the gun in the box, clearly implicating Tom Keen in the murder of Victor Fokin.

Had he kidnapped his wife after she discovered his double life? Had he killed her? That was a logical conclusion to make, but it didn't quite match the evidence. Why would he leave his go bag with all his aliases if he had run? Why was the entire apartment wiped clean of fingerprints? There would've been nothing out of place about Tom Keen's prints in his own home and yet there were none, as if someone else had been there who didn't belong and worked very hard to hide it.

Ressler only heard from Reddington once after Keen's supposed kidnapping. He told Ressler in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested in using the FBI's resources to find Liz Keen and in fact was not interested in working with the FBI at all now that she was gone. He had his own suspects in her kidnapping and would find her himself, he said, and then he proceeded to cut a swath of destruction through his enemies in search of her, to no obvious avail.

Ressler was surprised to find the world still standing after that failure, but now, of course, it all made sense. Reddington had only been putting on a show and she had been safe with him the whole time.

It was a stroke of luck an anonymous tip had come in pointing the task force in the direction of Keen's sick father. Ressler doubted they would have caught up to the two of them otherwise. Not that he'd ever admit that to Reddington or Keen. Both of them were insufferable enough as it was.

Fucking soulmates.

"Burning the midnight oil, Agent Ressler?"

Ressler jumped at the sound of Cooper's voice from the doorway, almost keeling over in his chair trying to get his feet back on the floor. "Sir?"

"Agent Malik said you wanted to speak with me before I headed home."

Shit, he thought. He'd mentioned something offhand to Meera hours ago and completely forgotten about it; he figured Cooper had already left for the night and he'd have a chance to sleep on his thoughts before he talked to him. Oh, well. He'd just have to wing it.

"Uh… You heard about Reddington and Keen, right?"

"That's what debriefings are for, yes."

"So… Soulmates, huh? Guess we really dropped the ball with that one. All the DNA tests and background checks in the world and we never thought, 'Hey, you know, maybe she's his soulmate, maybe that's the connection.' I mean, it was right there, staring us in the fucking face." He winced. "Um. Sorry 'bout the language, sir, I didn't—"

"Was there a point to this?" Cooper asked.

"Hell, I don't know, maybe. I'm just thinking out loud, brainstorming, you know. I've never seen soulmates who were so… soulmatey before, have you? Whaddaya think that's about?"

"Are you drunk, Agent Ressler?"

"Oh, no no no, I've only had a little"—he moved his fingers to indicate how much he'd had to drink with considerable difficulty—"well, I guess a li'l more than a little, at this point." He punctuated his explanation with a tiny giggle, but immediately schooled his features into something that vaguely resembled a serious expression. Cooper looked at him like he had ten heads.

"All this soulmate crap is such bullshit. I mean, you gotta have some sympathy for them, you know? They didn't ask for this. Everyone talks about finding your soulmate like it's the best thing that could possibly happen to you, but, frankly, sometimes it just sucks," he said, frowning slightly. "How was it for you when you met your wife?"

Cooper gave him an odd look. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said coolly, "but I don't think that's any of your business."

Ressler kept right on talking despite Cooper's annoyance, unable to stop his stream-of-consciousness babble no matter how hard he tried. Why? Why couldn't he make himself shut up? "My tattoo is pretty vague. Maybe three people have said it to me first thing, so I've kinda gotten used to brushing it off. No one else ever had a matching one anyway. Hey, you know, I was wondering…"

"What?" Cooper snapped; Ressler flinched.

He cleared his throat and asked, "You-You think we can get them some pillows and some better blankets and things? That box was built to be an emergency holding cell. S'not really designed to house anyone long-term, let alone two people."

"I'll put in a request." Cooper turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. "Ressler?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get some sleep. You'll make yourself sick if you keep this up." He looked concerned enough to make Ressler feel ashamed of himself. "They're not going anywhere. You can afford to go home."

He swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Once Cooper was out of earshot, Ressler threw back the rest of his drink in one gulp and slumped in his chair, miserable.