Previously...

Ressler is glued to his seat in the car, unable to move, but from his position he can see she's dressed in leggings and a long sweater, despite the summer warmth. Though, as he finally manages to force his numb limbs out of the car, he realizes that the weather in Florida is much nicer than the weather in New York. It's pleasant, and the soft wind and quiet chirping crickets and croaking frogs that surround him help calm him down as he walks toward the porch.

"Hi," he greets Liz, who has extracted herself from Reddington's arms (the older man had walked inside quickly, a knowing smile on his lips and while Ressler would like to roll his eyes or be annoyed at him, he realizes he can't because he's distracted by the woman in front of him).

"Hey," she returns his getting, and he can count on one hand the amount of times he's hugged her (touched her, really, he keeps mostly to himself and doesn't offer unnecessary comfort. But he pulls her into his arms them, and lets everything rush from him, take him over. He breathes raggedly. Despite the front he put up, he was scared and angry at being betrayed by his country. Liz, as always, sees through him in seconds.

"Welcome home," she adds, and he realizes in that moment that nothing has ever felt more like home than her arms.

May 22nd, 9:10 AM (Reddington's Safe House)

Ressler huffs out a sigh of annoyance and flicks the paper he's holding across the table as he lets his head fall back. He's slumped in his seat, a cup of cold coffee clutched in his hands. Liz offers him an amused glance, letting her eyes flicker to the paper perched precariously on the edge of the dinner table.

Her amusement slips when she sees what he's reading, however -

Vice President of the United States. The fulcrum has revealed -

"It's truly fucked up how many people we trusted - those that we the people elected. They are so concerned for their own well-being and comfort that they are willing to lie, cheat, murder, and cover up some of the most despicable crimes that the world will never know about, Liz." He pauses and runs a hand through his already messy hair. He's had a shower and three hours of sleep, as well as about five cups of coffee. "It's astonishing that our country is so corrupt and we knew nothing about it, we said "yes, sir" and followed orders with blind faith. I feel... disgusting," he spits out, frowning at his coffee cup. "I feel absolutely disgusted with myself that I allowed myself to be drawn in by them, groomed by them, turned into an agent who would do their bidding without asking questions even when the orders were... wrong."

Liz doesn't speak. She can tell by the way he's shifting now, by the way he won't meet her eyes, that he's carried out more of those type of orders than he'd care to admit.

He scoffs, and she looks back up, her heart aching as she sees an expression of pure hatred on his face. What makes it worse is she knows he's feeling this way toward himself, instead of those who betrayed his trust and faith.

"Did you know, Liz, that when I was chasing Reddington, we had one goal. We were to capture him, bring him back for questioning. Not everyone cared about the causalities. The... the lives that were lost along the way. I - " He cuts himself off, rubbing his hand over his mouth as he stands and begins pacing in the small kitchen. He looks pale, tired, against the washed white walls. "I shot a kid, once. It doesn't matter that he was holding a gun, ready to kill me. I shot a kid. He couldn't have been more than ten. We were in Iraq, following a lead, and the kid was blocking our path and Reddington was getting away, and I was told to shoot or you'll lose Reddington, and so I did. I didn't question the order, I shot the kid - point blank, one bullet in his head - and later questioned my loyalty when I was throwing up from shock and disgust instead of wondering if the man giving the orders had a different agenda. I didn't think to wonder who the fuck could give that order without a second thought. I questioned myself. I was too stupid to consider the fact that something bigger could be going on, that our own government could be capable of having their own agenda of which this child was not a part of."

Liz sighs and walks over to him, reaching up and smoothing his collar out. He'd changed into a pair of jeans offered by Reddington, but had chosen to keep his own white button-down on after his shower. The top two buttons are undone, and Liz shifts one of them beneath her fingertips as she gathers her thoughts.

"It wasn't your fault," she whispers, and she can feel Ressler beginning to pull away, so she grabs his collar with both hands and forces his eyes to meet hers. "No. Listen. Listen to me. It wasn't your fault. No one should feel bad about the fact that they trusted someone else."

"Like a sheep lead to the slaughter, Liz," he says, and hopelessness descends on her as she sees his blank expression. He offers her a half smile, but it's not the comforting, childish grin she loves so much. This smile is so devoid of emotion that she sighs, her chest aching with the knowledge that she's not sure how to make him realize he's not at fault.

"Help me take these bastards down," he whispers, pressing his fingertips to her cheek, letting them follow a path to her rosy lips. He's angry, and he won't be convinced that he didn't let himself be used as a pawn in the Cabal's plan. But he's offering her an olive branch, and she grasps tightly to it - anything to keep him from pulling away from her.

"I will," she promises, and the smile he offers her this time is the ghost of the loyal, sarcastic Donald Ressler she hadn't seen since she'd been framed. She lets it comfort her (he's not pulling away, which she's thankful for since she just got him back).

They're still standing like that, Liz grasping Ressler's shirt in both hands, when Reddington walks in.

"Oh! Excuse me, I'll just come back in a minute, then," he exclaims, and Liz and Ressler jump apart, the latter of the two trying to smooth down his flyaway hair as he smothers a blush.

"Reddington, shut up and get over here," he snaps, and walks back to the table. "Help us make sense of all of this information you've given us. I haven't even the faintest idea what you'd like us to say on this recording."

The spell broken, Liz, too, walks back over to the table. She grabs their cold coffee and dumps it in the sink as Reddington begins shuffling through the mess they'd made. Liz starts a new pot of coffee, and as Reddington hears it begin percolating, he glances over and sighs, a small smile playing on the edge of his lips.

"Turn that off, Liz. You and Donnie need to get some sleep. This information isn't going anywhere, and you two have made such a lovely mess of it that it's going to take me hours to put back in some comprehensible order."

Liz rolls her eyes, but the urge to give in and sleep is so great she lets herself give in to his suggestion and shuts off the coffee. Ressler looks like he's ready to protest until he cuts himself off with a huge yawn.

As he's trying to stifle his yawning, Reddington grins. "Go. Sleep. When you wake up, Dembe and I will help you decide what to say. Our first recording will be more... simple in nature. An introduction, if you will. To explain who you are and offer some easily accessible information to gain the trust of the public. Bread crumbs, trailed behind us for the mindless masses to follow."

Ressler looks as though he'd like to argue with Reddington about his word choice, but is caught off guard by another yawn and gives up. "Fine. We'll get a few hours of rest."

"Take your time, Donald! We're not going anywhere anytime soon," Reddington assured him as the two Special Agents begin their trek from the kitchen to the upstairs. "Sleep tight!"

Ressler is yawning once more as they reach the top of the stairs and Liz winces. "Uh, you took the couch earlier. We only have three rooms."

Liz. Reddington. Dembe. Right. Where the hell were they going to put Aram when Reddington extracted him? Ressler figured he'd worry about that later, his brain power was steadily decreasing. "You have a twin bed?"

"No," Liz says, looking confused. "A queen."

Ressler nods, already toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning his jeans as he walks into her room. "Good. Plenty of room, then." As he shuffles out of his pants (leaving him in only his boxers and button-down), Liz stands (shocked) in the doorway. He looks back at her and grins sleepily. "Get over here. No need to worry, I'm too exhausted for any funny business." He crawls into her bed, on the left side (how he knew her favorite side was the right, she's not sure). He snuggles under the covers, patting the pillow beside him. As she gives in and crawls cautiously in beside him, he turns toward her, his glazed eyes catching her gaze. "I'm sorry, about earlier. I shouldn't have burdened you with all that."

She wants to slap him upside the head, because he doesn't know how to let others help him carry the enormous weight he's put on his own shoulders. He doesn't know how to share his pain. Years and years of failed missions (the feeling of being a failure growing each time they missed their target), Audrey, Meera, the lives he'd taken, the simultaneous pain and victory of revenge taken, loosing Cooper from the team, the demands of being the director, finding out everything he'd ever believed in was corrupt and turned against him. He doesn't know how to share his burden and it frustrates her.

But, before she can knock some sense into him like she wants, he's asleep, and she finds he looks so peaceful in slumber that she can't help but follow him.

4:20 PM

Ressler stumbles sleepily down the stairs and heads straight to the kitchen. He's dressed presentably once more, even if his clothing is more rumpled than it was this morning. No fun reason for being rumbled, he thinks in amusement as he takes a deep breath in. He can smell coffee, and he knows it means that Liz woke up before him and put on a fresh pot. Bless her.

"You," he says accusingly, directing his words toward Reddington even though his gaze is preserved solely for the coffee machine (he knows the man is present in the room, because Donald Ressler has never met anyone else with as much presence as Raymond Reddington. "Let us sleep a whole hell of a lot longer than just a few hours."

"You looked so cozy with Lizzie, I couldn't bare waking you," Reddington teases, and Ressler spares him a glare over his fresh, boiling cup of coffee.

He nearly chokes on the rich, warm liquid when he sees not only Reddington, Liz, and Dembe at the table, but Aram as well. "What the hell?" he exclaims, wincing as he burns his tongue on his coffee. "How come Aram made it here in less than six hours and I had to drive for over 56?"

Reddington chuckles and Liz tries to hide her smile by taking another sip of her own coffee. Ressler notices that everyone has a cup, and wonders idly how long of a night it's going to be.

"Because he's not a wanted fugitive, and was able to take an airplane. You, Donald, have joined Liz and I on the Most Wanted list. Just imagine how good that will look on your resume when this is all over."

Ressler grunts in response, not caring to dignify Reddington's jabs at him with a response.

"Whatever. I suppose this means that your plan is underway, then."

"Indeed it is. Liz and I have been going over some information for the past hour or so and have come up with a delightfully juicy tidbit we can leak to gain the trust of those who are forced to listen. After we establish who you are and why you matter to the world, we are going to offer them an olive branch - someone corrupt enough to gain media attention, but someone who can be easily outed. No intensive detective work necessary." Reddington looks positively pleased with himself as he leans back and motions toward Aram. The younger man looks up at Ressler suddenly, looking for all the world like a deer in the headlights. He looks, Ressler decides with amusement, decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of Dembe and Reddington and so very out of place in the safehouse.

"Right. Uh." He looks around, sighing as he realizes he doesn't have anything to project his findings onto. He pauses, then grabs a piece of paper, thrusting it into Ressler's hands. "Meet Daniel Sims. He occupies a seat on the Senate. However, he gained that seat through the work of a man we know - er, knew - well. The Kingmaker. He murdered several people to get there, but the work was sloppy, kind of like the work done with Patrick Chandler. There was a trail, just no one knew to look for it, just like we wouldn't have known to investigate the death of Congressmen Chandler's wife if it weren't for Reddington. If people start looking into it - "

"And they will," Reddington cuts in, grabbing the paper from Ressler's hands before he has a chance to read it. "People love a good scandal."

" - Right. But if people start looking into it, they'll find that the Senate seat Sims now occupies was opened up through the questionable death of Michael Nunez. He was poisoned, but the man responsible for poisoning him cut corners to save money and the poison used was not as untraceable as The Kingmaker would have liked."

"Basically," Liz said, taking over as she watched Ressler's eyes glaze over with too many details and not enough coffee. "We will offer up someone who is easy to take down. When the people realize Sims is corrupt, they'll be more open to what we have to say and more likely to listen as we offer increasingly difficult information."

"The Cabal is going to be hunting us harder than ever before," Ressler cautions. Reddington nods.

"I know. We're taking precautions. Mr. Mojtabai is the best, our work will not be traced. We simply have to keep a lid on our public appearances from now on."

Reddington is grinning at Ressler as he utters the last sentence, and Ressler has a sinking feeling that his little... indiscretion with Liz will not be soon forgotten.

"Whatever. Tell me what I need to say and let's get this done."

7:10 PM

It's over three hours later that Ressler is sitting uncomfortably in a suit that's slightly too large for him, in front of a camera, with Liz at his side. She looks considerably more comfortable than him, in clothing that fits and wholly more prepared and cut out for this life than he is.

"You're not the slightest bit concerned that our faces are about to be plastered all over the world, spewing conspiracy theories and sowing corruption?"

Liz turns to him and smiles, taking his hand in her own. The camera clicks on and the red record light flashes. Liz doesn't let the fact that their small moment is being recorded bother her, and holds his gaze until he breathes out, more confident and less worried than before. She drops his hand and turns toward the camera.

"I am Special Agent Elizabeth Keen, and many of you know me from the papers, from TV, from posters inside malls and grocery stores. I am on the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted list. I was accused of killing FBI Assistant Director Tom Connolly. I am here to tell you that the accusations are true, however they were for reasons I cannot explain right now, necessary. My partner, Special Agent Donald Ressler, and I have been framed for actions against the people of the United States that we did not commit. We are not terrorists, we are not cold blooded murders. We were simply agents doing our jobs, and in the course of doing our jobs, we made the decision to refuse to follow orders that were morally wrong."

Ressler cuts in, smoothly taking over. "I don't know what is being said about me, about what I have allegedly done. What I do know is that I have learned over the past few months that you cannot trust anyone. So don't trust our word - find out the truth for yourself. We will not reveal all we know today, perhaps not even soon. But we are here to tell you that the government you trust with your lives, the lives of your families, your children, your friends - that government is corrupt, and their goal is not your happiness, it is your compliance. If you do not give them that, they will burn you. They ruined my life, the life of my partner. They have ended countless other lives."

"Today," Liz took over, squeezing Ressler's hand briefly and letting it go, knowing how hard it was for him to publicly announce his perceived failures. "We simply offer you a bit of truth - a tiny portion of what we have to offer, of what we have learned during the course of our investigation. A man named Daniel Sims occupies a seat on the Senate. He earned it through careful grooming throughout his entire life. His family, his schools, his wife, his jobs were all carefully chosen to make him the perfect candidate. His seat was secured through the murder of Michael Nunez. He was poisoned, but the poison used was not as untraceable as Sims would have liked. So don't trust our word - find your own truth. And, when you do, we'll be here waiting, with more truth to offer you."

The camera shuts off and Liz slumps, her hands shaking as she turns to Ressler.

"We did it," she says, and Ressler grins, pulling her close and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Aram looks out from behind the camera and grins. "Awesome. We got all of it. I'll get to work on broadcasting this all over the world."

Ressler begins chuckling, and Liz pokes him in the arm, grinning up (happy to hear the sound of his genuine laughter for the first time in weeks). "What's so funny?"

"What has our life become that Aram telling us he's going to go work on broadcasting our video to the entire world seems normal?!"

Realizing he's right, Liz can't help but chuckle as he pulls her closer to him, letting her rest her head on his chest. They stay like that for a long time, comfortable and completely silent, their breath mingling as they unconsciously synchronize their in and our breaths.

It's the calmest Ressler has been since Liz called him on the phone, admitting she'd murdered Tom Connolly.

Aram ruins the moment, however, when he comes sliding back into the room only minutes later.

"We're ready," he announces, and the calm is shattered as Ressler leads Liz back into the kitchen where Aram has set up what seems like hundreds of pieces of technology with thousands of wires filling every outlet on the wall. (If the power surge doesn't let the Cabal know where they are, Ressler muses, he doesn't know what will. A smoke signal, perhaps?)

"And!" Aram exclaims, fingers flying across the keyboard as he puts the final touches on his (hopefully un-hack-able) program. "Just in time for the evening news." He looks up to Reddington, his index finger hovering over the 'enter' key on his keyboard.

Reddington nods, and Ressler flinches as Aram presses the button. Suddenly, every screen in the room is taken over by darkness, and then the image they'd recorded (Liz grabbing his hand, staring at him for a few seconds, and then turning toward the screen) is all he can see.

"I am Special Agent Elizabeth Keen, and ..."

This chapter spiraled out of control! 3,500 words! But I LOVED writing it! I'm on a roll, expect more soon!

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