This was originally just a one-shot called Stakeout, where I first got the idea to go back to the beginning and chronicle Ressler and Keens journey together. So this isn't from an episode. It's just a situation I placed them in to 'force' them to confront each other! I do tend to stick with Ressler's POV because I just love being inside his head, hence you see his thoughts (in italics)! :-)
Ressler changed position in his seat for the umpteenth time in the last hour. His back felt like it was going to break under the strain of sitting still for so long. Damn, I hate stakeouts. He kept his eyes on the doorway of the nightclub further down the block, ever vigilant, even as his back muscles screamed for some relief. Not to mention his bladder. Knew I should have said no to that last cup of coffee.
They'd been sitting in the Suburban since 5:30pm and it was now almost 1:00am. He was hungry again, starting to feel tired and getting more pissed off by the minute the longer their quarry didn't show. He also knew this wasn't like him. He was normally much more in control than this. It had just been a long day, he rationalized. Sitting here with her for hours isn't helping.
Keen looked across at him again, starting to feel a little irritated at how restless he was. She was tired too, but he was like a caged animal and making her nervous. She'd felt awkward sitting in the car with him the first couple of hours. It was the longest they'd spent together with just the two of them since they'd started working together.
At the three hour mark she'd walked back to get them some sandwiches and coffee from a quick stop a block down the road. It wasn't that he'd 'ordered' her to do it. She'd left willingly just to get away from that steely gaze of his for a few minutes. They'd eaten in silence, each watching the door to the nightclub and both privately wishing their target would appear so this endless night would be over and they'd be free of each other.
Five hours into it he'd gone back to the quick stop to use their bathroom and get more coffee. He knew the coffee was likely a mistake but he was feeling frustrated, and torturing himself with a full bladder seemed almost preferable to having to talk to Keen.
"How many of these have you done?" she asked quietly.
"Too many," he said shortly, "He better show up soon, or I swear…" he didn't finish that thought.
She looked at him, seeing his jaw clench in the soft light from the nearby street light. He looked at his watch again, and if she saw him do that one more time she thought she'd strangle him. Time to get him distracted from his personal discomfort – for both their sakes.
"You'll what?" she coaxed.
He glanced at her quickly before returning his gaze to the door of the club. "I don't know. I'm just…" He dismissed it with a shake of his head, not really wanting to talk. I don't know you well enough for that, Keen. She'd been on the task force for just over two weeks and he didn't know what to think of her. Reddington was his case and it had been whisked away from him and handed to a rookie – by the very man he'd been after for years. Yeah, you could say I'm pissed off at that.
She knew he didn't trust her and this was killing him having to spend this much time with her. And who could blame him. She had no clue what Red's interest in her was, so how could she possibly think Donald Ressler would understand either. But he didn't have to be such a jerk about it.
Someone needed to cut through this and she knew he'd never be the one to do it. Not in a million years would Agent Ressler confront this head on. So she decided on a different tactic and went straight for the throat.
"I'll finish that thought for you - you're just frustrated. You don't trust me. You don't understand why I'm on the Reddington case, when it was your case for years. You don't even want me on your task force."
"Now's not the time, Keen."
"You got anything better to talk about?"
"We need to concentrate on the task at hand," he replied, stubbornly looking toward the cluband refusing to look at her. Why do women always feel the need to over analyze everything? If he'd been here with another guy, they'd have been making small talk about football and beer – not to mention being able to pee in a cup when they needed to. That was impossible when on a stake out with a woman. He groaned inwardly as she continued.
"You're fully aware that I don't understand why he asked for me. Yet you still have this doubt and still think I may be a criminal counterpart of Reddingtons." She saw him scowl and grind his teeth together.
"I don't think you're in any position to know what I think."
She had reached the point where this needed to be out in the open and discussed now. They'd been dancing around this with each other, like two prized fighters in the ring. He'd say something and she'd react, usually disagreeing with him. She'd say something and he'd clench his teeth, frustrated at the situation he was in with having to wait for her to give information Reddington had supplied.
They circled each other all day, every day. Each painfully aware that they'd been thrown in the ring together by Reddington and they were stuck with this arrangement. Neither of them had ever openly argued with another work colleague like they did at times with each other. They seemed to bring out the worst in each other, a fact not missed by their co-workers who suddenly got very busy looking elsewhere when the Ressler and Keen Performance would get under way.
But all his posturing, hands on hips and frowning at almost everything she did was wearing thin and as she glanced at him gritting his teeth she was determined to get this out in the open. She kept her voice low, but to the point.
"Try this for size. You graduated top of your class at Quantico, spent two years in the field before going straight to Lead Agent on the Reddington case – a huge case – when you were just 30 years old. The poster boy FBI Agent, yet you deserved everything that came your way because, damn it, you worked hard to achieve it. You were – are – very good at what you do. So of course you should be the lead agent and liaison."
"So you read my file."
"Actually I've never read your file," she said truthfully. She just knew his type. She'd been around him long enough now. "But I'm guaranteeing there are other things not in your file. It doesn't mention the lonely existence you lead. Not letting anyone get too close. So the job is the only side of Donald Ressler that you let the public see. But there is so much more there behind those blue eyes of yours, but you choose not to let anyone in. Because if you let them in, then they might just see the real you – and they might not like what they find. And that's not something you're prepared to do, because it would only compromise your perfectly compartmentalized life."
She'd struck a nerve, and he whipped his head around. "Stop profiling me, Keen!"
She ignored him, because she was getting the reaction she'd aimed for and continued, "Your file also wouldn't mention your insecurity at failing to be the best. You hate that Reddington chose me, because you're afraid that might mean you failed and that can't happen in your world. You see me as a threat to everything you've built up. You see those walls coming down that you've spent years building and you don't like it. So it's easier to hold it against me and blame me for doing this to you. The truth is, it's being done to both of us."
He hissed through his teeth, but said nothing. Damn it, Keen, shut up.
She smiled faintly. She'd got him. "You don't trust profiling because it doesn't deal in tangible facts. To you it's just hearsay and wild guesses. Not your type of evidence."
"I've made no secret of that," he replied shortly.
"I'm right about you though." She glanced at him and knew by his brief dropping of his eyes that she'd nailed it. If she was honest with herself, she was actually rather fascinated by him. It took effort to hold himself in check like he did continually. That wasn't an easy way to live – and it intrigued her why he tried so hard to close himself off like that.
"Let's just keep our minds on the job here, alright?" he countered, trying to end this conversation and looking back at the nightclub. He didn't like this one bit. If he was honest, he didn't like her seeing right through him. He'd spent a very long time becoming who he was and he didn't need her complicating that. Apparently it's too late for that.
She was looking at him again and continued more gently this time. "Don't dismiss something just because you don't happen to understand it. I may not have your field experience. But the difference between you and I is that I have no problem saying I admire you for what you've done in your seven years. But don't dismiss what I may be capable of too. Give me a chance, and you'll see that there are other ways to be an FBI agent. We're not all endowed with a 'Boy Scout Hero Complex' to run in and save the day, getting blown up and bruised along the way."
She was referring to their first case where he'd literally run towards her on the bridge, shooting the Pavlovich brothers and saving her life. Of course, that was shortly followed by him getting blown off the bridge by the explosion and ending up in the river below. He was a Boy Scout all right - and a damn good one. She had noticed that he also had a knack for running straight into the thick of things, which usually resulted in him getting hurt. She'd have to keep an eye on this one. It struck her that although he may be an uncaring stuffed shirt who completely rubbed her the wrong way, she was already beginning to think of him as her partner.
He looked across at her now, taking his eyes off the nightclub for a moment. He had never liked it when people said one thing and meant another – which was rather ironic since he lived a lot of his own life that way. He could now see that Keen was a straight shooter and had got to the heart of what it was that bothered him about her. She had seen right through his façade. Not bad, Keen. I may have underestimated you. A faint smile crept across his lips, before it became something more and actually reached his eyes.
She looked at him and met his gaze. "Well look at that. There may just be a nice guy in there after all." And she smiled with him, before returning to look at the nightclub. Perhaps she'd need to rethink this Donald Ressler guy. There was hope for him yet.
He returned his gaze to their target also, realizing that Elizabeth Keen was going to require a readjustment in his thinking. It didn't mean he wouldn't continue to track her every move. He'd set up flags in the system to alert him of anything suspicious she may do. But perhaps he could cut her some slack. She wasn't the one who asked for this, any more than he had. They were the same in that – thrust together by some sick plan conjured up by Raymond Reddington. We're the same in a lot of ways…
Their thoughts echoed each other, each unaware that they were both thinking the same thing – that this was going to be an interesting partnership, for sure.