So I am still following Ressler through his day in episode 4x22, what an amazing ending we got with him. (And I had thought this was the final chapter for Conversations Seasons 4, but I'm going to add one more).


Once put in place, things move at lightning speed. Almost back to the Post Office, Dembe receives a call and hands the phone to the back seat, where Red retrieves it. It's Laurel Hitchin, who has already paid a visit to the grand jury proceedings and shut it down completely. Ressler marvels at the speed it happened, and glances at Red's satisfied smile as he hangs up.

"You see, Donald, everyone has a price."

Ressler only nods, then turns his gaze back out the window as they approach the Post Office, before pulling into the parking lot a few minutes later. Reddington doesn't come in this time, and simply bids Donald good day as he gets out the car. As they drive off, Ressler walks across to the elevator and is greeted by Cooper as he exits.

"Don, I have some good news. You've been reinstated as an Agent. I got the call minutes ago," he tells Ressler as they walk past Samar.

Ressler hadn't expected that so soon. In fact, it hadn't even crossed his mind that would be a benefit of the deal they'd just made with Hitchin. He's trying to process it when Cooper speaks again.

"As for your badge, Laurel Hitchin has it. It was handed to her the night the Secret Service arrested you at her home," Cooper offers, unsure how much Ressler remembers of that night after being drugged. "And she would like to return it to you in person. A show of good faith, I believe are the words she used."

"And she couldn't give it back to me an hour ago? I was just there," he sighs, then realizes how ungrateful that sounds. "But that's fine. I can head back out there and get it," he replies, not relishing the thought of seeing the woman again so soon.

"Would you like me to accompany you when you see her?" Cooper asks, watching Ressler carefully.

And the offer is actually tempting, but he manages a small smile and shakes his head. "No, it's fine. I'll just get the badge and leave. It won't take more than a few minutes."

But if he'd known then what was going to happen in those few minutes at Hitchin's home, he'd never have left his office.

###

They say that when tragedy occurs, it's like time stands still. Like everything plays out in slow motion, as your mind tries to process what it's seeing. But standing in Laurel Hitchin's dining room, Ressler would definitely disagree with that observation. From his standpoint, it all happened frighteningly fast. So quickly that in one split second Hitchin was gripping his arm and the next she was striking the corner of her kitchen cupboard with a sickening thud with a blood pool rapidly staining the carpet under her head.

Heart hammering in his chest, with lungs straining as he holds his breath, all Ressler can do is stand and look at the woman on the floor in front of him. It's the second time today he's had a dead woman at his feet. And the first one he'd never been more relieved to see. This second one is horrifying.

A gasp finally escapes his lungs, and sucking in another breath, he pants while staring at Hitchin. She's dead. He knows that. How the hell can she be dead?!

"Oh, God… oh, my God," he whispers. This cannot be happening. And for a moment, he hopes like hell that maybe this is another memory manipulation. Maybe he's not really in Hitchin's home at all. Maybe he's not just killed her. And maybe… and maybe he's full of it. This is not a memory manipulation. This is real and he's just killed the President's National Security Advisor.

Accidentally killed. But that point won't mean a whole lot to a jury.

"Oh, God," he whispers again. He's seen dead bodies before. He's shot people before in the name of the job. But he's never done this. Never. He's just committed murder.

Accidentally, the other half of his brain argues.

Where are her Secret Service? The thought jolts him out of his frozen state and he steps back, his body finally moving. Eyes darting around the room, as if expecting to see an entire contingent of armed men, but there is no one here. The house is silent, and the only sound is the hammering of his heart in his ears and his harsh breaths.

The blood pool is slowing, but still seeping out from her shattered skull. He can't see her eyes, but thinks he should check her. But he can't look. The blood pool alone is telling him all he needs to know. The woman is dead, and he's standing over her body. And if by some chance she was still alive, she's not long for this world, that much is certain. He steps back again, wanting to flee, but self-preservation kicks in. Cooper knows he was coming to her home tonight. To leave now would be suicide being one of the last to see her alive. He'd be tied to this forever.

The other half of his brain speaks up again, that boy scout side, telling him that it was an accident and he needs to follow through and follow protocol. It was an accident. He needs to call Cooper. He finds his phone, almost drops it in hands he didn't know where shaking, and then looks for the number. But it's not Cooper's number that he looks for. He dials the number of the one man he knows who can help.

"Donald, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Red answers amiably.

Pleasure. There is no pleasure in this. Only heart stopping horror. Head dipping, closing his eyes against the sickening sight before him, he sighs heavily.

"Donald? What's wrong?"

Everything. Everything is wrong. He finds his voice. "Reddington," he gasps. "I need your help."

Red's tone changes on the other end of the phone as Ressler grips it to his ear. "Where are you? What do you need?"

"I'm at Laurel Hitchin's house," Ressler tells him flatly. His eyes spring open again, landing on the dead woman. "And I need Prescott. I need a cleaner."

The gasp on the other end of the phone doesn't help matters. But Reddington speaks again, his tone soft. "What's happened?" Ressler is thankful the man didn't ask 'what did you do?'

"She's dead," Ressler tells him, turning away from the dead woman, head bowed as he talks to Red. "Hitchin is dead.

"How?"

"It was an accident," Ressler replies, knowing that to be true, but it's not helping.

In his ear, Red is talking with Dembe, telling him to turn the car around. "Donald, I'll take care of it. You need to leave. You need to get out there."

Ressler's throat closes as he turns to face Hitchin again. He can't reply and hangs up. He also doesn't leave, despite Red's urging. He stumbles to the couch and falls down rather than sits down as his legs give way. A shudder runs through his body and for a moment he thinks he's going to throw up. Swallowing hard, he squashes the feeling down, forcing himself to take some deep breaths. And the only thing that stops him is that he'd be leaving a whole pile of his traceable DNA all over Hitchin's carpet if he lost his stomach contents at this juncture.

He glances at his shaking hands. One holds the phone. The other holds his badge. And while his badge may not physically have blood on it, it is covered in it in his mind. He shoves it in his coat pocket, unable to look at it a second longer. Head bowed, his eyes close again. The house is silent and somewhere in the next room a clock chimes the hour with a soft melodic ring. He counts 7 chimes, then opens his eyes again and is drawn back to the dead woman on the floor. He sits, turning his view to the front, eyes seeing but not registering as thoughts tumble over themselves in his head. He's just killed someone. Just committed murder.

Accidentally, his brain reinforces.

As the clock in the other room chimes again, Ressler notices that 30 minutes have passed as he glances at his watch. The sun is setting, bringing a soft yellow glow to the darkening room through the lace curtains to his right. And he's still sitting there when he hears the front door open, and unable to rise from his position, he sits as Henry Prescott enters the room. Ressler can't even look at the man as Prescott surveys the scene, taking it all in with a practiced eye. The body on the floor, the stained carpet, the displaced chair and lost high heel shoe. He turns to Ressler.

"You should be going, Mr Sturgeon."

And it's the push Ressler needs. Without a word he stands, then walks from the room, leaving the body of Laurel Hitchin with Prescott. With his cleaner. He has a cleaner. As he exits the house, half expecting to see the law enforcement vehicles outside that had been there the night he'd been drugged, he stops a moment and observes the desolation and silence. No one is here to arrest him. His vehicle is parked down the driveway, but he doesn't see how Prescott got here. But that's the point. The cleaner was never here and hides his tracks. As he walks down the driveway, lit by the orange setting sun across the water, another car pulls into the drive and parks near his.

Ressler stops, letting Red walk toward him.

"Donald, are you alright?" the man asks, eyes searching Ressler.

And his customary "I'm fine" when asked that question doesn't come this time. He can't find those words and shakes his head. He's not alright.

"Dembe, take Agent Ressler's car to his apartment. We'll meet you there."

Ressler doesn't argue, tosses Dembe his keys and follows Reddington to his vehicle before slumping in the front passenger seat. Red slides into the driver's seat and starts the car, as he and Dembe both back out, leaving Prescott inside cleaning up. Cleaning up my mess, Ressler thinks, unable to fathom how he's in this position.

"Tell me what happened," Red says softly. Not demanding, not judging, just simply needing to know the facts.

It takes Ressler a moment. He's not sure he can say what happened yet. But as he begins haltingly, with a glance from Red, he finds the words. And explains how it happened, with Hitchin holding him back, not letting him leave, goading him and how he'd only tried to shake her hand off his arm. And how that one simple act caused her death. Red listens, nods a few times, glances at Ressler and drives silently through the evening traffic, following Dembe in front. He doesn't interrupt and lets Ressler talk.

"I don't know what to do," he tells Red, glancing toward the man as he drives.

"You've already done it, Donald. Prescott will fix this. It's what he does. He's the cool head in a crisis," Red replies, looking to Ressler as they stop at a red light. "I know that doesn't help what's going on inside you, but it's what will be done. Laurel will end up dying somewhere else."

Ressler nods. No, it doesn't help the pain in his heart. The death was an accident, but the decision to cover it up is something he's going to have to live with. And he's not sure how he's going to do that. They drive through the night and Ressler sits silently, letting Red take him home. And it doesn't even occur to him how strange that is as his focus turns inward, dwelling on the events of the day, unavoidably taking him back to the moment he killed Laurel Hitchin.

He sighs, gasps for breath and suddenly can't stop tears that roll down his cheeks. How did this happen? He's killed a woman, hired a cleaner and covered up a murder – and is being driven home by the man he hunted for years. A man he's becoming more and more like as he steps into the grey, having just taken a giant leap into that side this evening.

"It will be okay, Donald," Reddington tells him gently.

Wiping his arm across his eyes, Ressler wipes his tears away and doesn't reply as he tries to catch his breath.

Because it's never going to be okay again.