So…I don't know how many times I said "OMG!" while watching Episode 2, but it was a LOT! Oh my God (there I go again) this was SUCH an amazing Ressler episode! When we saw him pop the pills at the end of Episode 1, I was stunned (but secretly pleased, because WOW, what a storyline for our suffering agent!) So then I figured in true Blacklist fashion, they'd gloss over it. But no, they didn't. And we are now seeing a pain pill addicted Ressler, who is off his game (yet has developed a wonderfully dry sense of humour!). So then I got really, really intrigued. Okay, we know he was late for work because of the pain pills. But WHAT SPECIFICALLY would have occurred to make him late? And then I thought, "what if...?" and this was the result.

Part One - Ally

Donald Ressler had always been an over achiever. He had been top of his class in every subject in High School and College, graduating Valedictorian. That trend had continued when he was accepted by the FBI, which resulted in him graduating top of the Quantico Class of 2006. It was just natural for him to push himself to study and be the best he could be. He wasn't the least bit concerned with awards or plaques on his wall. That's not why he did it. He needed to push himself to do his best purely to prove it to himself. No matter how hard his instructors may have been on him, he would always push himself further.

That attitude had always held him in good stead. 'Never do anything unless you can do it well' became the mantra he lived by. It's why he was made head of the Reddington Task Force at the age of 30 in charge of agents with far more seniority than him. A coveted position - and he had earned it.

So it came as no surprise to himself that he pushed and pushed himself to get back on his feet (literally) after the Anslo Garrick incursion. After his leg was ripped apart. Torturous sessions of therapy, leaving him sweating and heaving, all in an effort to get the use of his leg back. Because if Donald Ressler was good at one thing – it was pushing his body beyond its limits.

It had started innocently enough. Coming out of surgery to repair his shattered thigh, he felt fine – for about 6 minutes. Then the pain hit and his entire body shook with the trauma that had been inflicted upon his left thigh. In the hospital, it was almost too easy. Push the button every ten minutes and morphine flowed down into his waiting vein. A drawing sensation followed, and within minutes, numbness filled his entire being, dropping the pain in his leg to a much more tolerable level. It enabled him to push to get out of bed before he was ready. And it enabled him to start therapy earlier than his doctors envisaged.

When he came home, still a therapy outpatient, he was armed with enough pain pills to see him through a few weeks. It wasn't morphine - that had been stopped within three days of surgery. These were Oxycontin, a safe alternative, the doctor had told him.

They were prescription drugs.

They were legal.

They were safe.

When Ressler again pushed himself beyond his limits in an effort to return to work, he had a new ally on his side. His brain had a side kick - Oxycontin. His brain, so adept at learning how to be good at everything it studied, couldn't help itself. It learned how to be good at taking pain meds. Take one at a time and the pain was tolerable. Take two at a time and the pain went away. The Oxy allowed him to push himself back to work sooner than he would have without them. He became able to work long hours, and still be able to tolerate the pain on a leg that should have been resting after about 4 hours. They enabled him to return to the job he lived for and needed.

When the prescription ran out, it was a simple fix. One call to the doctor explaining a rough day at work and hurting the leg again, and a new prescription was written. After a month, he tapered off on the pills. After another few weeks he stopped taking them, the physical pain and trauma from his shattered leg having long since abated. The almost full bottle of Oxy sat at the back of his bathroom cabinet, no longer needed. He didn't think about them anymore.

And then Audrey died in his arms.

In the immediate aftermath of her death, his adrenaline took over. In the days following, he struggled more than he ever had in his life. His wife-to-be and child were ripped from his arms. Because he knew, even though he never found the pregnancy test, that she had been pregnant.

His body screamed with a different type of pain. In a way, a pain far worse than he'd suffered with his shattered thigh. Exactly one week after Audrey died, two days after her funeral and after his first day back at work he stood in his bathroom - and his eyes landed on the forgotten bottle of Oxy.

He needed to push through this. He needed to be able to work, because the memory of Audrey was everywhere in the apartment. The pills numbed physical pain. Would they also numb emotional pain? And his wonderful brain that was so adept at studying learned something new.

Yes, they did.

His body that was so used to pushing itself, needed to push again. And so it had become a nightly ritual. Get home from work, take a pill, then shower and settle down for the evening. It seemed the perfect plan. He was able to push himself through the grief with much more control, and continue working his job while keeping his mind focused. The added bonus was they allowed him to actually get a few hours sleep at night.

And then Meera had died in front of him.

And two hours later, Cooper was clinging to life.

New pain surfaced, and new guilt. And his sharp brain that was usually so focused on everything around it was suddenly fooled. Taken down by the very thing it had thought was an ally. If one pill helped, then two had to be better, right? And taking them twice a day had to be better than once a day, right? And at first, that logic panned out. Things became tolerable again. He pushed through it again.

Donald Ressler never even acknowledged he had a problem - until the Bureau assigned a psychologist to talk to them. Keen had been wrong. It wasn't that he thought himself too healthy to talk to Dr Friedman. It wasn't only because he didn't see how talking about death would help him. While he certainly didn't see how that would help, it wasn't the entire reason. It was because Dr Friedman would see right through him.

It was because Dr Friedman would know he had become an addict.

###

Part Two - Enemy

It was 10pm, and it had been 14 hours since he'd taken any pills.

Ressler sat in his living room, averting his eyes from the small bottle of Oxy sitting on his coffee table. He'd been home from work for three hours and hadn't even moved from his couch. Driving home, thumping the steering wheel in sheer frustration, and more than a little panic, he had made the decision that he didn't need them anymore. But while he had decided he was through with pain pills, he couldn't seem to get up and do anything else but sit and look at the bottle in front of him.

I'm not doing it anymore. I'm done.

He hadn't set out to become addicted. He refused to be labeled that going forward. He was stronger than that, and knew how to push through things. He'd been doing it his whole life. And this was no different.

I refuse to take them any more. Simple. I'm done.

But as he was discovering, it was far from that simple. His body hurt. Seemingly from head to toe, every muscle had begun hurting. His hands were shaking. Quickly clenching his fists to steady them, he looked up at his small TV. He wasn't the slightest bit interested in anything that might be on, but he reached for the remote and turned it on anyway. Anything to distract himself. After three minutes of flipping through channels he turned it off, threw down the remote and stood up. Lacing his fingers through his hair, he stood there, eyes closed and took a shuddering breath.

To hell with this.

He tore his tie off, and began undoing his shirt buttons with difficulty. His shaking hands were all thumbs and almost in a panic, he ripped the last couple of buttons on his shirt, needing to get it off him. Throwing his clothes in the hamper, he finished undressing and then stepped into his bathroom. Deliberately ignoring his reflection in the mirror, he kept his head turned away. If he looked at himself right now, he knew full well he would not like what he saw.

He stepped into the hot shower, letting the hot water flow down him and seep into his aching body. With his eyes closed and head bowed, he leaned his hands on the wall in front of him as the water poured down him.

It helped.

But only a little.

Steam rose around him, obscuring the glass. Cocooned in his shower, he tried very hard not to think about anything else but the warm water cascading down him, warming his aching muscles. And for a little while, he succeeded at that.

Until a wave of nausea struck him, and when he started dry retching under the hot water his momentary reverie was broken. In its place, his stomach roiled and he clutched it, crouching down on the tiled surface. The hot water no longer felt good. It invaded his space now, heating up his body to a level he suddenly found unbearable. With an effort he rose to his feet, turned the water off and almost fell back down to the tiled shower floor.

I just need to sit here for a bit…

The tiles held the warmth from the water as he sat in his shower, clutching his stomach. The good news, he noticed, was that his hands had stopped shaking as much. The bad news, he then realized was that his entire body was starting to shake instead. Which most definitely wasn't helping with his painful muscles. He was getting cold now and rose to his knees then dragged himself up and stepped out of the shower. Grabbing a large towel, he wrapped it around himself and then wiped the mirror with his hand.

Bad idea.

If Reddington was here, he'd tell me 'Donald, you look like hell'.

He dried himself, threw on a clean t-shirt and track pants, then sat on the edge of his bed. When he was sure his stomach had settled down enough to leave the vicinity of the bathroom, he shakily walked back out to his couch.

It was now 11pm. 15 hours without a pill.

And there they were, sitting on the table. The elephant in the room. The monkey on my back. Still shaking, he sat on his couch, drawing his knees up and hugging them now. Dropping his head to knees, he closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the pills.

How the hell did I end up like this?!

###

Audrey was reaching down to him, telling him to come to bed. He looked sleepily up at her and smiled. "Hey sweetie, sorry, I guess I fell asleep out here." She reached out and stroked his hair and smiled, then kissed his forehead. She held out her hand to him and he took it, feeling her soft skin beneath his fingers. She half dragged him off the couch and he followed her as she led him to their bed. As they reached the bed, he put his arms around her, embracing her, smelling her as he buried his face in her hair. Lost in her, feeling the warmth of her against him, he smiled and whispered in her ear. "I love you…" and smiled even more as she chuckled, kissing his cheek. He moved to the bed, dropping her in front of him, and reached down to kiss her again…

His head shot up as he woke with a start.

Still on the couch hugging his knees, he was alone in the semi dark room. Audrey was gone, and would never again come and wake him and take him to bed. Audrey! He closed his eyes, trying desperately to find the dream again. To find Audrey again. But he was awake now and tears began to fall as the last threads of his dream faded. Trembling, he dropped his head again, his tears pooling in his folded arms across his knees.

I miss you sweetie. I need you!

As he slowly collected himself, getting his tears under control now, he looked across at the clock. It was 1:20am. Over 17 hours without a pill. Turning his head to the side, he looked at the small bottle through red rimmed eyes as it taunted him from the coffee table.

I'm not taking you. Forget it.

With an effort, he got off the couch, his muscles screaming at the movement. I need SOMETHING though! He shakily reached for the bottle of scotch on the bar and poured himself a shot. Let's just swap one addiction for another. Ignoring his inner voice, he quickly gulped it down, and then slammed the shot glass down on the bar. The alcohol stayed on his stomach for about 20 seconds before he felt it coming back up. Lurching to his bathroom, he threw up in the sink, the alcohol burning on its way back up. After rinsing his mouth out, he shakily leaned on his mirror with his eyes closed. The cool glass felt good on his forehead.

He padded out to his kitchen and took out a bottle of water out of the fridge. He took a sip, standing by his kitchen sink to see if it would stay down. So far so good. He took another little sip and it made no attempt to come back up either. Figuring his stomach was going to behave, he made his way back out to his living room and stood in front of the coffee table. The bottle of Oxy was illuminated by a shaft of light peeking through his closed curtain. One perfectly placed shard of light, focused right on the very thing he was trying not to think about.

They have to go.

He did it so fast he didn't have time to question it. Snatching up the pills, he turned quickly to his kitchen. As he hurled them in the trash, the lid swung for a moment and then stopped, the kitchen silent again.

For a second or two he felt relief. Then fear overtook him. What did I just do…?

Trembling harder now, he turned and walked to his bedroom to put as much distance between him and the pills as he could. Turning the light off, he dropped into bed, and forced himself to lay down. It's too dark! He quickly reached over and fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, feeling safer with it on. Feeling less like he was suffocating in the light.

The shakes overtook him now, making the pain level in his muscles reach a new high as his back arched with the pain. Rolling to his side, he curled up and hugged his knees and tried to stop shaking. His muscles rebelled, and a strong cramp gripped his left calf, holding it vicelike as the pain shot through his lower leg.

"no no no no" He struggled out of bed, panting as he did so, begging the pain to stop.

Standing shakily on the floor flexing his calf, he stretched out his foot until the muscle unlocked and swift relief followed. Afraid to try lying down again, he stood there, his body a shaking mass of pain. Dragging a blanket off the bed, he clumsily wrapped it around him, and eased himself down onto his recliner, panting hard.

The pain was intensifying due to the unrelenting shaking. As if to add insult to injury, the very thing that had started off this nightmare spoke up. His left thigh screamed at the onslaught it was enduring. He tried rubbing it, but it only made it worse. Throwing off the blanket, he quickly undressed again, and headed for the shower. Maybe the hot water would help again.

It didn't.

Standing under the hot stream, his body rebelled. The hot water felt intolerable, feeling as if it were tearing his skin from his body. Slamming the water off he stepped out of the shower and grabbed his towel, panting in pain.

Oh God… I can't do this. I can't!

He hobbled out to the living room, his towel wrapped around him, shaking. Maybe the whiskey would stay down this time and help. Almost spilling the bottle as he poured a shot, he overflowed the small glass, whiskey pouring on his bar. Placing the bottle down, he grabbed the shot glass and swigged it back, feeling it run down his throat. It burned from where he'd thrown up earlier, but it did stay down this time.

Another cramp shot through his calf muscle again as he stood there, and this time he had no way to ease it. He was already standing and try as he might, he couldn't stretch his foot enough. He howled in pain, dropping to the floor and trying desperately to stretch his calf. Tears rolled down his face as he agonizingly turned onto his stomach. Finally managing to get his toes in the right position, he stretched his calf muscle and the cramp let go. He dropped his head to the floor, laying on it now and panting hard. Frustration bordering on sheer panic enveloped him as he thumped the floor with his clenched fist.

I can't. I can't do it! I will never be able to go to work like this!

And he knew what he needed to do.

After a few minutes, he was able to stagger to his feet, leaning heavily on the bar, feeling like the world's worst drunk. Straightening, he made his way to the kitchen now aiming straight for the trash can.

Aiming straight for the discarded bottle of pills.

Taking the top off the trash can, they were sitting there between an empty pizza box, a few beer cans and some plastic bags, almost daring him. Almost unable to stand up any more, he reached his shaky hand into the container and retrieved the precious bottle of pills. Standing there in his kitchen shaking uncontrollably, he gripped the bottle in his hands.

Simultaneous shame and relief poured over him.

Maybe I don't need to take them.

Oh God. Yes I do!

It was 2:40am. Almost 19 hours without a pill.

Placing the bottle on the kitchen counter, he washed his hands and wiped down the bottle. His stomach wrenched again in another spasm. He leaned over the kitchen sink expecting to throw up, but then his stomach decided there was nothing in it to expel.

He reached for the pill bottle and placed two tablets in his hand.

He'd had many crossroads in his life. And at each one, he had taken the path he believed was best for him to be on. And it usually panned out right. But ever since Audrey had died, his crossroads in life had not taken the right path. As he looked at the two pills in his shaking hand, he knew what the right path was. Ultimately, he knew the right path was NOT to take them. But his body had been hijacked and was no longer under his control.

His brain that was trying so hard to push through it had been overtaken by an enemy combatant. It couldn't rise above that. It couldn't muster the forces that were required to fight this battle. It needed reinforcements, but none were coming.

And as he leaned on his kitchen sink shaking uncontrollably, he moved the pills toward his mouth, closed his eyes and knowingly took the wrong path.

He popped the pills in his mouth, took a tiny sip of water and swallowed.

They made their way down his throat, and he waited, clinging to the kitchen counter to see if they'd stay down. And as if to prove they were needed, his stomach felt the first effects of the drug it needed so badly and settled, keeping the pills down. He managed to drag himself to his bedroom and fell into bed after discarding the damp towel on the floor. Still shaking and in agony, tears filled his eyes again as he shut them tight, willing the pain pills to start helping his exhausted body.

Audrey! I'm sorry sweetie! I couldn't do it!

And imperceptibly he felt a change. A warm tingling feeling ran through his body as the drug dispersed. His muscles began to react one by one as the medication seeped through his body, filling each blood vessel and travelling to his entire system. Within 9 minutes, the edge was being taken off the pain. Within 17 minutes, his shaking slowed. And within 22 minutes, he lay still in bed with his shaking subsided and his muscles silenced.

He looked at the clock. 3:13am. It had been 22 minutes since he'd taken some pills.

He was exhausted. Unable to move, he didn't even think to reach up and set his alarm. At 3:16am unable to stay awake any longer, he fell into an exhausted, drug induced sleep. And at 5:30am when his alarm should have gone off, he slept right on through. His body had fought a battle, but had ultimately lost. It had also won, depending on which side you looked at it. As he slept on, his system stabilized, having received the treatment it had needed.

At 6:28am he opened his eyes, noticed the light level in the room and sprang out of bed. His calf muscles were tender as he stepped onto the floor. All of his muscles had a shadow of pain, still regrouping from the overnight battle, but he could definitely function.

For the third time in 8 hours, he stepped into his shower again, this time quickly and efficiently shaving and cleaning himself up. Stepping out of the shower, he reluctantly looked in the mirror, but was surprised to see he looked almost…normal. A few eye drops took care of the redness in his eyes, and after combing and gelling his hair in place, he took stock again. He'd do. He'd past muster.

He dressed quickly in his bedroom, looked in his full length mirror, and saw Special Agent Donald Ressler standing before him in his suit and tie. Separating what he saw on the outside from what he felt on the inside was his specialty. And once again, the walls were firmly in place around him. With a final look in the mirror, satisfied he could look like an FBI agent and function like one, he walked to the living room. Grabbing his keys, he turned toward the front door.

And then stopped.

Dropping his head, he turned and then looked toward the kitchen. He strode back in, picked up the bottle of Oxy and put it in his pants pocket. For the first time, he left his apartment armed with the bottle of pills. He could no longer risk being anywhere without them, that much had been proven overnight. He exhaled deeply, shook his head, and again wondered how the hell he had ended up like this.

###

Thirty minutes later, he entered the Post Office. Groaning inwardly, he could see from the elevator that the briefing was already underway. Taking a deep breath he tried not to interrupt as he walked up to them. Cooper eyed him mid sentence, Aram looked at him nervously, and Liz's eyes burned into him questioningly.

He was standing among his work colleagues. One of the team. Yet feeling an outsider.

For the first time in his life, Donald Ressler had arrived late for work.