.

.

1

The septic smell of the hospital irritated his nostrils; the sterilized environment did nothing to hide the hospital's true nature as a cesspit for breeding disease. These things had never been any particular bother to him before, but then he wasn't the one in the bed this time.

Through the observation window, he could see inside the room and look on at the two occupants. The beds sat parallel against the opposite wall, the space between filled with monitors and screens that blinked their status periodically. It was only poetic justice that they share the room they recovered in just as they had shared another on the brink of death.

He slipped into the room unnoticed.

He watched as her chest rose and fell, steady under the paper thin gown, indicative of the deep, restful sleep she was in. It was her face that told another story. Pallid and drawn, the translucent skin of her eyelids was purplish under the lights, her pert lips cracked and blood dry against the seams. She was the very picture of the wounded soldier, and she was so very, very lucky to be alive.

They had identical bruises blooming along the delicate flesh of their inner forearms from where the intravenous needles had been inserted, the skin tight and veins narrow. Saline solution and a variety of necessary nutrients drained directly into their deprived bodies.

Of the two, Agent Ressler had been comparably in poorer health from what he'd gathered from his perfunctory glance at the medical notes. His body was larger, required more energy and by simply being male had less fat deposits to use, which lead to the inevitable muscle wastage that had occurred. When he looked over at the man in question, he wondered if Ressler had readily acknowledged just how badly the operation could have turned before it had. Just the thought made him feel bitter.

Lizzy was a necessary risk, but Donald was just a liability. The man could be as aggressive as a Spanish bull on a rampage, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the senior agent met the proverbial matador that would bring him down. Certainly, he was a source of endless entertainment and had garnered a few instances in which Reddington had admired his tact, but in the end he was just another lowly pawn on a chess board far bigger than he could dare to imagine.

That was why he had to snub the relationship between the two of them before it even truly began. His timing had been off, and he knew how it had hurt and confused Lizzie, but he was saving her from even greater hurt that would inevitably come once Donald was dealt with. Yet, it was Donald that had kept her alive through it all, an ordeal that could have been completely mentally destructive if faced alone, just as he had in the past. Red would have to thank him for that.

The machines continued to wink ghoulishly and make their synthetic sounds, affirming that both of them were alive and safe. Certain that no one would die during the night, Reddington left as quietly as he had come.

.

.

2

Admittedly, he'd been scared he'd lost them both. When the FBI had bumbled their way through the rescue, they'd spooked the Jailer's little crew, who had left naught a trail to track them by. For five days they hadn't a clue where to look for the two missing agents, and even he found himself scrounging for loose ends.

He'd panicked.

With every hour that passed, his careful control on the situation began to splinter and pierce at his psyche, and he knew that they were running too close to too late. He had scrambled frantically, flown across the world and back again, using every contact he had to try and salvage the botched assignment before it was all over.

When he finally held conference with the wretched warden himself, it had taken all his years experience to appear as jovial as possible. Striking a deal had been remarkably easy; The Jailer was a man driven by monetary value, and the holding of two FBI agents wasn't making him any. Neither could he return to any of his haunts until things had cooled off, so Reddington offered him an out in exchange for the location of Lizzie and Donald.

If the jet that was taking the Jailer en route to South America went off radar somewhere above the Bermuda Triangle, he certainly didn't claim to have anything to do with it.

He'd went to get them himself, the ill will between him and the rest of the FBI having grown exponentially over the passing days since contact with the two had gone black. The building was old stone masonry while the insides were refurbished with 'modern' cement linings, and he didn't feel like visiting the basement to see if the décor matched. When he finally reached the cell they occupied, his relief to finding them both still breathing had been palpable.

Today, he could see that they were awake yet sluggish; still connected to catheters and IV's and oximeters as they were. A nurse was in the room, helping Lizzie as she tried to steady her hands and feed herself. It looked soft and bland, whatever it was, but no doubt nutritious. At least she was being decently cared for by the notoriously lacking public hospital system.

Ressler too was sitting up, his head turned away from the inside of the room, focused as he was on the large window. It had been dreary all day, the clouds low and grey, but it looked like it had only just started to drizzle and the younger man was unwaveringly captivated by the sight of it. His hand twitched, fingers unfurling yet not quite able to lift itself from the crisp white blankets.

When Reddington went to the reception desk and requested the window be opened in the room, the young woman looked bewildered but nonetheless complied after a few minutes of careful cajoling on his behalf.

He thought they might appreciate the sound of running water.

.

.

3

They were sitting up, pottering around on their mending limbs and making good use of the armchairs in the room. When he came to visit, they were talking while they watched the small television hanging from the wall and doing everything in their means to ignore the ordeal they had only just endured. It was hard to believe that if any stranger looked in that room, they wouldn't have a clue that the occupants had been two steps short of death. It would be the same when they finally stepped out on to the streets and became two figures in an ocean of stories that are never told. Perhaps that was the irony of life.

He'd been hoping to catch Lizzie while Donald had been sleeping, but they seemed intent on spending their newfound freedom together in the waking world. Reddington was no stranger to deep feelings of camaraderie, knew the bonds of shared experience.

He could tell that they had both been treated to a decent wash now that they could successfully hold themselves up, their hair gleaming freshly under the halogens. Likewise, the bruises on their bodies had begun to fade to yellow, and the plumpness had returned to Lizzie's cheeks. While still apparently weak, it was good to see that their vitality was returning to them.

He'd discretely hid himself away when Harold Cooper entered the corridor, no doubt intent on speaking to his recuperating subordinates. The man's imposing figure towered over the heads of others, yet he was so focused on his destination he hardly glanced in Red's direction. When he ducked inside the room, he moved a distance that still allowed him to discretely observe their interactions through the window. In the end, it didn't merit the bother, as Cooper simply stood before the two, relaxed and unassuming in his posture. When he clasped his hand over Ressler's shoulder in a comforting gesture, Reddington knew this visit was less about business and simply because he cared.

How sweet.

When Cooper left the room as swiftly as he came, Reddington caught Donald as he leant over, whispering into Lizzie's ear with a cheeky smile. At her answering smile and her efforts to tiredly swat him away, Red decided that his little talk could wait another day.

Before he left, he saw something that had been missed by his radar the entire time. Their hands hung discretely in the space between them, clasped together in a gentle embrace. Their soft smiles suddenly gained clarity, and Reddington mournfully wished he'd left Ressler to die in that cell if only to save his Lizzie from the future.

Still, it occurred to him that perhaps there truly was some merit in fate.

.

.

A/N: Well, I told myself I wouldn't write Reddington because I know I'm not ready to take on such a powerful personality, but then I went and ignored my inner voice anyway. I hope you enjoyed this little follow up, it distracted me enough through the hell that was the week I've just had. Apologies for any errors, as per usual.

There may be another small piece, shorter yet, after this. Maybe, I'm still deciding haha.