Just a bonus chapter to 4x19, after that amazing episode with Ressler's mind manipulation.
It's almost midnight when Liz returns to the post office, descending in the elevator, carrying two meals in a takeaway plastic bag. The place is still deserted, save for the cell near the elevator containing her partner, and the guard posted outside. As she approaches, the guard turns to her then asks for her ID, even though he knows darn well who she is and that she has clearance. Just being ultra-careful, she knows, and is actually very reassured that Ressler is safe in his cell. As the guard opens the metal door, Liz steps into the holding cell to find a very different Ressler than the one she left 2 hours ago.
"You're back," he huffs, pacing around the small room, running his hand across the back of his neck. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie off, top two buttons of his shirt undone, and said shirt not so neatly tucked into his waistband anymore. He looks like he's done a few rounds in a boxing ring.
"What the-" she says, quickly putting the plastic bag with their meals aside and stepping to him swiftly. "What's wrong?" she asks but at the look in his eyes, she knows immediately, reaching to hold his upper arm. "Oh, Ress…"
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Ressler had known the moment it started. Sleep had overtaken him for hours after being drugged, while the meds still were still circulating in his bloodstream. But as his eyes sprang open after a vivid dream, he knew something was different. And as his eyes focused in the semi dark, he knew immediately what it was. The drugs they'd pumped him full of were starting to leave his system. And his body was missing them.
He rises to his feet, unable to stay on his back a moment longer. The first thing to go is his tie, followed by the second button on his shirt. Instinctively he tries to pace, but is pulled up short by the IV in the back of his left hand. With a wrench of the tape off his hand and the plastic tubing from his vein, he makes short work of that hindrance.
After a visit to the small cubicle in the cell that houses the toilet and small sink, he splashes cool water on his face, then towels his face and hands dry with paper towels. He knows this feeling isn't permanent. It's not going to last all that long at all. But the fact that his nerves are on edge wanting more of the good stuff is more than he can take after today.
"Don't you dare. Don't go there," he admonishes himself under his breath, as if his nerves and body were a separate entity to his brain.
He sits on the recliner, but is up again in less than a minute, pacing around his cell. A light sheen of sweat forms on his forehead as he walks briskly in the confined space. He considers asking the guard if he can go get a shower and a change of clothes, then dismisses that thought. The guard would mostly likely allow it, since he's not in here for murder, but Ressler can't stop long enough to parlay with the guy.
"Shit…" he mutters for about the twentieth time, and runs his hand through his hair. Hair that feels a little damp now. It's not like full withdrawal, because Lord knows, he's felt that horror before. This is like restless legs on steroids. Ants crawling around his veins on an endless march in formation that refuse to let him sit or stand still.
"Shit… just stop… stop," he mutters under his breath, hoping that the continued movement will hasten this phase and let everything quiet down. He's on the recliner, and up again, repeating it all over again when the elevator door opens. Liz is back and while pleased to see her, suddenly all he feels is embarrassment.
"You're back," he says as she enters, pacing, unable to stand still. And he sees the moment the understanding flashes in her eyes. She knows.
"Oh, Ress…"
He turns his head from her, looking downward. "I'm fine, it will pass. Really, it's not that bad." And it's really NOT that bad. Not compared to full on muscle cramps, doubled over and throwing up that he's experienced in the past.
"I'm sorry they did this to you. I really am," she tells him, her hand still on his arm.
And it strikes him as funny because for a little while he'd almost forgotten why it was that he felt this way, being too occupied with the fact he DID feel this way. They had drugged him, not him. They did this to him. He wasn't weak and didn't relapse and didn't seek out anesthetic and pain pills today. Someone else did this to him. But that's little comfort as his nerves start up again and he needs to walk. "Sorry," he whispers as he pulls away from her to continue his track around the cell.
"I brought you food, if that would help?" she offers.
He looks to the white plastic bag, and makes out the red logo on it 'Wing Yee Chinese Restaurant'. And part of him wants to hug her at the thought of it. At the memory of the last time they shared it. And the other part looks at the confined cell, and what he's done today after having shot a Secret Service Agent and threatened Laurel Hitchin. But she's made this effort, and he appreciates that more than she knows.
"What, no wine?" he asks, and manages a smile, attempting to focus more on her instead of the ants who are apparently making a coordinated food run down his spine and legs. Wine might actually calm him, but he dismisses that thought immediately. He's not going to push more crap into his system right now.
She gives him a small smile, knowing he's trying for her. "Sorry, all out tonight. May I interest you in an Evian water, bottled a few weeks ago instead?" she grins, holding up a bottle of water as if it's an expensive bottle of wine.
"Perfect," he tells her, then puts his hand to his belly, where a second unit of ants are making a charge for cover. "I'm not…ready though," he tells her, turning and continuing his walking.
"What can I do to help?" she asks, standing in the middle of the cell beside the recliner as he walks around her.
He stops, runs a hand through his hair and answers. "I think a shower would help, but I doubt that's gonna happen," he tells her, motioning with his chin toward the guard outside, before resuming his pacing.
"Hold that thought," she replies, then knocks on the door to have it opened by the guard, "and you can ask him."
The guard enters, looks to Liz first as she is by the door, "Yes?"
Spying Ressler's rather disheveled appearance, he leans in a little more, but still keeps the door mostly closed. "Sir, are you okay? You don't look …" at a loss for the right word, he opts for silence.
Ressler steps toward the guard, ignoring the awkward silence. "I'm fine. But I'd like to take a shower and get a change of clothes. I don't think I'm that much of a danger to anyone where that would be a problem, right?" he tells the guard.
After a brief hesitation, in which it would be patently obvious to anyone that Ressler could do with a shower, the guard answers. "Okay sir, you may go to the locker room and shower and change. Be advised I will have to accompany you." At Liz's raised eyebrows beside him, he quickly adds "Not the shower part. I'll just need to be in the locker room." The guard ignores Liz's attempt to stifle a chuckle.
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Fifteen minutes later Ressler is accompanied by the guard on his way back to his cell. The shower helped, as past experience told him it would. The warm water has calmed his nerves and dropped everything down a little. A change of clothes and he's feeling a little more like himself as the guard lets him back into his cell. "Thank you," he tells the guy, who nods and closes the door behind him, reopening it as Liz quickly comes in, white plastic bag in hand again.
"You look better," she smiles, as he sits on the cot in jeans and a t-shirt that's a little wet around his neck from his damp hair.
"Yeah, I drowned the ants," he says, and at her quizzical look, he shakes his head, "Never mind."
She places the food on the flat cot beside him and pats his shoulder, "I warmed up our food, and grabbed us a couple of plates," she tells him, setting out 4 white take out boxes for them. She hands him a plate and while he's not actually hungry, he still digs in, simply because she made this effort. And at the first bite of food, he realizes he hasn't eaten since breakfast, and actually is hungry.
But still he doesn't eat all that much. His body may be hungry, but his mind is back in Laurel Hitchin's home. Holding his weapon on her, positive she had a witness stashed away somewhere. Would he have shot her? The problem is, he's not quite sure what he would have done. In his right mind, he would never have shot her because she was unarmed, but he hadn't been in his right mind…
"You okay?" Liz asks, sitting across from him on the recliner in the dim light of the cell.
In answer, he just looks up, drawn from his thoughts and sighs heavily. "I'm not so sure." And a few ants who survived the deluge of the shower make their presence felt, straggling their way down his leg nerves. He rises, plate half eaten where he was sitting and walks to look out of the grate into what little he can see of the war room.
"I shot a Secret Service Agent. What if Krilov doesn't talk? I may be in here for tonight, but if this goes to a hearing, they could hold me in a real jail for a long time."
Putting her plate on the cot she approaches him, coming to stand beside him. "I think he'll talk. We may not have been able to give him full immunity, but I'm betting something can be done. Some deal with him that will be enough to get you back to work," she tells him gently, looking sideways at him.
He meets her eyes, then drops them. "I don't know if I'm ever going to get my badge back again, Liz." Shoving his hands in his pocket, he walks again, appeasing the roaming ants who are not yet ready to let his nerves lie in peace.
She turns, and as he passes her again she reaches for his arm and immediately both are taken back to when she reached and touched his hand earlier that day. Neither say anything, and she squeezes his arm, then lets him resume his walking.
No longer pacing like he needed to earlier, the walking is simply to keep the nerves busy now. And while walking, his phone rings in his jacket pocket, still over the back of the recliner. Reaching for it, he answers and hears Cooper on the other end.
"Don, I know it's late, but I wanted to give you an update and see how are you doing."
Still walking while he listens to his boss, Ressler answers, "Thank you. And I'm fine. I'm just..." he doesn't finish. He's just a lot of things right now.
"I know this is rough. So, I'm at HQ and I have a meeting in the morning to see what sort of a deal we can offer Krilov to get his side of the events, and get you out from under these charges," Cooper replies.
"Thank you, sir," Ressler replies, clutching his phone tighter than normal.
"But Don, in order for me to speak to them on even terms, in the morning we're going to have to move you to FBI Headquarters to one of their holding cells. It should just be a day or two, okay? They're going to need to talk to you for themselves, have their docs check you, and just go through their whole procedure."
Ressler sighs, looks up at Liz as he walks, sees her hopeful smile and nods into his phone. "I understand."
"We already moved Krilov from the Post Office. He's in a detention cell at Headquarters already. We're going to be talking with him starting tomorrow and get what we need to release you."
Ressler is surprised. He hadn't even heard them take Krilov. Damn drugs kept him in a deep sleep far too long. "Got it. And thank you again, sir."
"No problem. I know it's small comfort, but I believe we will get you out of this," Cooper assures him.
But Ressler doesn't answer. He's not as confident as his boss right now.
"So, try and get some rest, and I'll be there early, around 6am to get you moved."
Ressler stops in his walking and stares through the grate to the war room. Cooper will be moving him before the agents show up for the day and see one of their own in the holding cell. "Thank you. I'll be ready."
He hangs up, stands for a moment and then looks to Liz. "A few more hours in here and then I need to get ready to go to HQ for questioning." He tosses his phone to the recliner then walks a little more, hands shoved in his pocket. And suddenly he just can't think about it anymore and looks to Liz, still patiently standing there across the recliner from him.
"What happened with Gale? How did that go?"
And she smiles, knows why he's asking and then shakes her head at that memory. Lifting his phone out the way, she sits back on the recliner. "Does the man understand ANYTHING about personal space?" she laughs.
No longer feeling the need to walk right now, Ressler sits on the cot in front of her. "Oh, that's Julian all right. He has zero sense of how close is too close. We all got used to it after a while."
She leans back, settling more comfortably into the recliner. "Tell me about your task force. We've never really talked about it, and after meeting Gale, my interest is piqued."
And for the first time in hours, thoughts of Laurel Hitchin, being drugged, having his mind manipulated and being in a holding cell move to the back of his brain. "Well, we all call Julian the ghost whisperer, because he literally talks to the bodies," he tells her, "And cries. Did you notice him crying over them?" he asks, as a slight smile crosses his features.
"I wasn't sure that he was, but yes, now that you mention it!" she exclaims. "Wow, this dude is intense!"
Ressler thinks of his former colleague, who is even now most likely still at the ice rink surrounded by 86 bodies, conversing with each and every one of them. "You have no idea," he tells her, sobering. "But aside from his eccentricities, I think he could become a real thorn in our side."
And he talks of his days with the Reddington task force, with Liz listening, sharing a laugh, or commiserating with him at the loss of his colleagues. Sympathizing with him on what his time on the task force had done to his relationship with Audrey. And he's amazed at how much he's telling her, and it's not only to pass the time. But before long it's time to go and get changed into a suit again, as Cooper will be heading that way in an hour.
Liz looks at her watch. "Oh, look at the time. My sitter knows I work odd hours, but I should go and relieve her and get cleaned up myself," she says, uncurling herself from the recliner and stretching her legs. Gathering up the discarded food plates, she tosses everything in the white plastic bag to discard it.
They're standing together, not knowing how long he'll be held at FBI Headquarters, or worse, once Cooper comes for him.
And neither knows who initiates the hug. All he knows is that the next moment he's holding her close as her arms encircle him.
"It will be okay," she whispers, her cheek touching his as they cling to each other.
He's not sure who she is trying to convince. "I hope so, Liz," he answers, not willing to let her go just yet.