Just a short chapter that takes place between 3x11 and 3x12. When we saw Liz beaten and in the hospital, I needed Ressler to go to her.
"Donald."
Reddington's call comes as he's leaving the Post Office and walking to his vehicle in the parking lot. He hasn't spent a lot of time with Reddington since Liz was exonerated, yet he hears the tension in the man's tone immediately.
Ressler stops mid step. "What's wrong?"
"Elizabeth. She's in the hospital-"
"Shit." Ressler's heart skips a beat before he jogs to his car, hitting the button on his keys as he interrupts Reddington. "What happened?"
"A lowlife individual who has no place breathing the same air we inhale beat her simply because of who she is, or who he imagines her to be. He took matters into his own hands in a vicious display that left her beaten and unconscious on the ground."
At every word, Ressler is torn between disbelief, horror and anger. "Which hospital? What room?" He asks, gunning the engine as he listens to the criminal's voice.
"George Washington. I can't get there yet and don't have the exact room, but she will be on the third floor."
And without further word Reddington is gone, leaving Ressler holding his phone a moment longer, heart pounding in his chest as he once again sends silent, begrudging kudos to the criminal. Reddington must have eyes everywhere to know her every move and for that he's grateful in times like this. Other times, not so much.
The streets aren't overly busy at this time of night, yet every red light and slow vehicle in front frustrates him. After several muttered 'get the hell out of my way' and colorful expletives to the cars in front, he pulls into the parking lot at the hospital almost 30 minutes later. Exiting the vehicle he walks briskly, looking up at the building. He doesn't like hospitals and has spent far too much time in them; though that is something he's managed to correct the last couple of years, at least. The curved glass frontage above the entry rises above him, lit with a few well-placed spotlights illuminating the 5 story building. In the distance an ambulance is waiting silently at the helipad, red strobe lights rotating and catching the corner of his eye. He spares it a cursory glance with a momentary feeling of deja vu. His left thigh almost hurts anew at the hazy memory of that barely recalled ride from the Post Office.
Shaking the memory away he enters the lobby and heads straight for the bank of elevators on the far wall. The lobby is all but deserted at this time of night as he passes the information desk adorned with its well-used sign indicating the pink ladies will return in the morning to assist patients and visitors. He takes it all in with a sweeping gaze, hearing the loud ding of an elevator arriving on the ground floor. Startling an elderly gentleman waiting to exit the elevator, he steps inside before the doors have fully opened.
"Excuse me, sir," he nods in apology as he slams the button to the third floor, then looks up at the elevator lights, willing it to start upward.
And suddenly he's not sure what name she will have been admitted under. The fact she's in the hospital at all is because she was recognized. His stomach clenches at that. Her picture has been plastered all over the media – both dead and alive – for weeks and it's been a difficult task reintegrating back into society for her. Even getting an apartment was not easy and he knows she's been wary giving her name. Arriving on the third floor the elevator bumps to a stop and exiting, he makes his way the nurses station.
"May I help you, sir?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm here to see… Elizabeth Keen. I don't have the room number," he tells the nurse at the desk.
"Oh, I'm sorry, but Ms Keen is not receiving visitors at this time," the nurse tells him after consulting the computer screen in front of her.
He wasn't expecting that. Ressler eyes the woman, trying his best not to look like he's here to cause Liz further harm. When she doesn't relent, fixing his eyes with an 'are you still here?' raised eyebrow, he looks away. Somewhere in a pharmacy near his own apartment, this woman has a twin.
"What was your name, sir?" The voice is different and looking back up, Ressler sees another nurse coming from the small room behind the nurse's station, clipboard in hand as she steps up to the desk.
"Donald Ressler."
"Aaahh, Mr Ressler. Yes, Ms Keen's Uncle Ray cleared you to see her. She's in 314, down the hall on the right."
Ressler suppresses a small smile. Good ole Uncle Ray.
And resisting the urge, barely, to return his own 'I told you so' glare to the first nurse, he thanks the second woman then turns in the direction she's indicating.
###
Locating her room about half way down the hallway, he hesitates a moment. Does he knock? Should he just walk in? What he really wants to do, and is holding himself back from doing, is rush in and make sure she's okay. He opts for something between all three. He knocks, opens the door before she's answered and steps in, closing the door behind him again. The room is dark, lit only by a soft light over the small hand washing sink as the familiar whir of the IV pump greets his ears. For a moment he's not sure if she's awake as he moves to the bed, coming to stand inside the drawn curtain that's giving her privacy from the door.
And what he sees makes him gasp. Her eyes are closed as she lies back in her hospital gown, the head of her bed half raised as she rests. Dark bruises, tinged with yellow and purple cover her face, with a deeper shade around her left eye. Cuts and scrapes cover her hands that are partially bandaged. He's not sure if she hears him or senses him but her eyes open and find him. In the low light he is silhouetted and for a second he sees the momentary fear in her eyes.
"It's me, Liz. It's me," he tells her, moving quickly to her side, grasping the railing of her bed. Of its own accord his other hand reaches for her then draws back from her wet face. It's not so much that she's crying, but that her swollen eyes can't stop tearing up. And unable to locate a single place on her face that isn't bruised in which to lay his hand he lands on her hair, resting there.
"Ress…" she whispers, barely able to open her mouth with the swelling around her jaw.
"Liz, I…" he tells her, leaning forward on the bed railing, searching every inch of her beaten face. He should have been with her. This never should have happened. His promises of 'I'll keep you safe,' and 'I'm not going anywhere' have failed. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," she whispers as her bandaged left hand finds his arm. Her eyes close, and this time the wetness comes from a single tear that rolls slowly down her bruised cheek.
"How bad are you hurt, Liz?"
"Oh, some broken ribs, a lot of bruising, cuts, scrapes… and…"
"And?" he asks as she stops.
"…and a mammoth headache," she adds, closing her eyes.
His hand strokes her hair as he leans closer to her, his lips gently caressing her forehead, fearful of hurting her more before kissing her softly.
"How did you know so soon?" she asks as he draws back, meeting her sleepy, half closed eyes.
"You know Red is aware of everything about you, Liz. He called me as I was leaving work."
And despite the pain and the momentary jolt it brings to her broken ribs she chuckles and squeezes his arm. "Everything? I hope not, Ress."
"He knows, Liz. You know that. He's all but told me he does in the things he said to me while you were on the run." He smiles at her, kisses her forehead again and gently strokes her hair again. "But you know what?"
She looks at him as he hovers close to her face, "You're not going to let that stop you. Stop us," she tells him.
They can no longer hide that there is an 'us'. Even while on the run, they needed to call each other and talk, if only for the briefest of moments. The connection was still there, forced apart by circumstances, yet undeniably there. He fired Samar for doing the very same thing he'd been doing all along. The difference was he knew his motives. He did not know Samars.
He nods, "Yeah, but he's never once given me the 'you need to leave, Donald' speech." He shrugs, gives her a small smile and holds her eyes.
She chuckles at his imitation of Reddington's voice, wincing suddenly at the pain that shoots through her ribs. He strokes her hair in response.
As she calms, she holds his eyes silently, and something is there behind them. Something he hasn't seen before. A longing. Wistfulness for something just out of her reach that lingers on her lips yet is left unsaid.
"What is it?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.
She doesn't say as a hint of a smile comes. She raises her hand to his cheek. "I'm glad you're here, Ress," she whispers, then closes her eyes, extinguishing the longing for something that lurks behind her eyes as he reaches for her hand.
With eyes closed she rests, and as he listens to her breathing it becomes steadier. She is falling asleep. And despite the fact that his back isn't all that comfortable leaning over her, he's not moving just yet. He wasn't with her when she was attacked and isn't ready to leave her side yet.
###
Some time later he has moved to the recliner, propped himself up with a somewhat comfortable pillow and sits alone in the darkened room as she sleeps. The night nurse has been in a couple of times, and gently knocks on the door before letting herself in again.
"I'm pleased she's able to sleep," she whispers to Ressler as she takes vitals, jotting them down in her notebook. "She refused pain meds," she tells him, looking at her chart. "Oh, I see…"
She's cut off by the door to the room opening. Ressler eyes the fedora clad silhouette of the man and isn't surprised. In fact, he wonders why it took this long for him to come by.
"Donald," he whispers, coming to stand at the foot of her bed. "How's she doing?"
"Not too bad. She's been asleep a couple of hours now," he tells Reddington, keeping his voice low.
The nurse finishes and exits the room, leaving the two men together. Reddington steps to the head of the bed and leans down. Ressler knows exactly how he feels as Red takes in the injuries to her face. The clench of teeth in Reddingtons jaw match Ressler's own response to the beating she sustained. He shakes his head, lightly kisses Liz's forehead as she sleeps and then comes to sit on the chair beside Ressler.
"So she has some broken ribs, contusions, and I'm sure a massive headache," Red says, more as a statement than a question. "Has she said anything about…how she feels?" he asks Ressler, turning to the agent.
And Ressler isn't positive, yet he should be if past experience has taught him anything, but Reddington is hiding something. Something about Liz.
"Should there be something else she needed to tell me?" he asks the man squarely, still keeping his voice low for fear of waking her. Because he'd seen something in her eyes. Barely there and just below the surface, yet it was there for those who knew her well enough to see it.
"In times like this we reach for those around us. Lizzie is going to need those of us who care for her, Donald. Even if she hasn't said so, she's scared. She's going to be afraid of going out in public alone. And that is going to take her a little while to recover from." He meets Ressler's eyes in the darkened room. "I know you will be there for her."
Ressler looks at the criminal. He's never been given the 'marching orders' speech as he'd half joked earlier. On the contrary, he's had Reddington tell him he needs his help in keeping Liz safe. But he's never heard it this openly spoken. He nods. Of course he will be there.
"Good man," Reddington tells him, pats Ressler's knee briskly and stands from the chair. "I must be off. I have a pressing engagement," he tells Ressler, placing his fedora back on his head.
"It wouldn't have anything to do with finding that 'low life individual' that did this to her, would it?" Ressler asks. And part of him can't abide the thought of Reddington taking the law into his own hands. Yet the other part of him, the one that needs and loves Liz hopes like hell he finds that bastard quickly.
Reddington gives him an even look and sidesteps the question completely. "Look after our girl." He turns, takes a look at Liz, shakes his head and then exits the room.
Ressler watches him leave, silently wishing him luck in finding the piece of work who did this. In the darkened room he stands up from the recliner, stretches and moves to the head of the bed again. Liz had wanted to tell him something. Reddington had known what it was yet covered with something else. Ressler knows them both well enough to have seen that in them.
He doesn't know what it is - yet. But whatever it is, he's keeping his promise to her this time. He leans down and kisses her forehead as she sleeps, wishing it could be him in that hospital bed and not her. He pulls back from her, once again taking in the bruises on her face.
He's never told her. Never said it out loud. But he does now.
"I love you, Liz," he whispers then gently cups her cheek as she sleeps on.
