Chapter Text
Ressler can’t seem to breathe. His breath hitches at the audacity of him trying to fill his lungs with air. He tries to push on his chest, as if that’ll allow him more air. He doesn’t recognize his surroundings. He tries to squint to see the tiniest bit better, but it doesn’t help. He looks to be in a gym but that doesn’t make any sense. He’s in a hospital bed in a gym.
He tries to sit up and his breathing gets worse. The machines hooked up to him started to ring out and someone’s in the room now. “Don’t move.” A hand on his chest is pushing him down, he tries to fight it but to no avail.
“It burns.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s cracked and wispy. A respirator mask is forced over his face and his eyes widen in alarm. “It burns.”
“This will help. Don’t fight it. Do you know your name? Where you are?” He nods short once and shakes his head once.
“You were brought in by Mr. Reddington earlier today. He called us together to help you, he called Code 77. Do you remember what happened?”
The man is still holding the mask over him but now his lungs have seemed to clear. If even just a little bit. He still feels that odd cracking when he breathes but it’s not as severe now. The man turns a dial before removing the rubber mask from his face.
“I don’t know where here is. What do you mean I was brought in by Reddington?” He trues to sit up again, it doesn’t hurt as much now but he’s still pushed down by the doctor.
“Mr. Reddington said that you called him in a frenzy saying that you ‘didn’t feel right’ he also said that you collapsed on the phone.”
Why would I call Reddington? Why not 911?
“He found you collapsed on your living room floor. We haven’t found the toxin that you were poisoned with, but we have an idea of what it’s doing to you. We did some tests and found fluid in your lungs, inhibiting respiration and inducing paralysis in parts of your body. There’s a good chance you only have a couple of days until the paralysis reaches your lungs or your heart. Since you have no criminal record and are a federal agent, we’re going to move you to a hospital so a case will be opened.”
He nods, less in acknowledgement and more the fact that he’s afraid to speak again, lest his voice give out on him.
It’d been a long day, he thinks. The gaps in his memory are painful. He doesn’t like not knowing.
He’d gotten his mail and a drink. He feels like shit. Water. From the purifier in the fridge. He didn’t want to get drunk, or even tipsy. He downs the water and refills it again. He drinks it slower this time, laying on his back on the couch. He feels worse now. It’s so sudden now, he can’t quite catch his breath anymore. He rolls off the couch, fumbling for purchase on the floor he crawls to the island his knuckles tighten on the counter. He tries to pull himself up to grab his phone but ends up falling luckily knocking it down with him. He dials a number he’s come to know too well in the last month, the new connector number. “Yes?”
“I need, I can’t. breathe. Please, please help me. Help.” His voice jilts after each word and he makes the demanding effort to finish the sentence before his head hits the ground.
He’s provided with a respirator for his move to the hospital, so the stress of the ride doesn’t collapse his lungs. Once they get there, he has about five doctors hovering over him, he can’t help but feel contempt for them, despite his circumstances. He’s moved to a room where he’s granted some possible semblance of privacy.
None of the hovering doctors return (he’s dubbed them bumper car doctors in his head). He’s surprised when the doctor from the make-shift hospital shows up with a chart. The doctor introduces himself as Haverkamp, he’s an older man with greyish hair. Ressler just looks out the window onto the dirty roof. The man doesn’t speak to him except what he’s going to do as far as treatment.
“For now, we’re going to put you on a mixture of Cortico-Steroids and monitor your condition. Going to keep you on the Bronco-Dilators as well.”
Ressler barely even nods, he feels helpless. He’s connected to so many monitors and the IV in his arm is heavy and he can’t move the arm.
By then Aram is there and he tries to put on a brave face. He hides the arm under the blanket and sits up as much as he can.
“I brought you an edible arrangement. I figured that it might be inappropriate to give a co-worker alcohol, I also figured you might not want a teddy bear.” He sets the floral fruit on the table and backs up slightly, tripping on one of the chairs set against the wall. He sits down on the edge of the chair and fumbles for what to say.
“You don’t have to stay Aram, I’m fine. Thank you for the fruit.” Aram frowns slightly.
He lowers his voice. “I know you can’t possibly be okay. You can stay silent about how your feeling, but don’t do me the indignity of lying to me.”
His head tilts towards the floor. “Please. Just…don’t.”
He gets up to leave, not looking Donald in the eyes.
“I lost him, he slipped into a car halfway down the block. Missed him by a small margin.” He bites into his cheek as Elizabeth asks no one in particular how they could’ve missed the man. The meeting went well, at first. He was taking the bait, until he got a call from someone on a phone they hadn’t tapped. He’d glanced sideways at Ressler before pushing the table into him and running through the kitchen. He runs through the face and hops the fence just in time to see that the man is driving off.
He nearly punches the brick wall next to him, stopping just short of actually doing it.
“Who tipped him off?” Aram muses mostly to himself.
“What if it was Reddington?” Ressler’s quick with the accusation. He doesn’t quite think about the implication of that statement before he’s interrupted. The man steps into his view and clicks his tongue.
“I can assure you that this has almost nothing to do with me.” Ressler raises his eyebrows pointedly.
“Almost?” Ressler wants to strangle the man.
“The encounter in that bar was preceded by a bad deal. The arms dealer was only there to make up for some of the loss. Apparently, some kind of move is going to be made against me, or already has. They ran away like scared dogs because of the deal that you and I made several months ago in Marseille.”
“The deal? The land deal you said would help find Corinne Myers.”
“Exactly. Except Corinne is dead. She was murdered by the man you were dealing with.”
“Great. Now we need to start over.”
"Not exactly."
He’s burning up and for a moment the lights seem too bright. He nearly falls over, having to sit down. The odd flash passes pretty quickly. Elizabeth hasn’t noticed but Aram’s face is a synonym for concern. He recovers quickly, assuring Aram that it’s just fatigue.
He’s just tired.
He has a harder time convincing himself.
“Okay then.”
He’s alone now. After all the nurses stop fussing over his medication and condition. It’s startlingly quiet. He decides he’s going to sleep when he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. A tall figure standing just outside of the room behind the ‘privacy curtain’. He recognizes the man almost immediately and calls out to him.
“Dembe.” His voice is raspy, and he curses quietly. He barely gets the name out before coughing violently. Luckily the man has heard him. His steps are inaudible. For a man of his stature he'd have thought his steps would be louder, it surprises Donald that he never noticed.
“Yes?” The man’s accented voice is short as he sits in the chair across from Donald.
Ressler guesses that Dembe must’ve known he wouldn’t like being towered over. Dembe always seems to know things like that, Intuitive and kind. It seems that working with Reddington for so long hasn’t affected his judgement or his soul.
“Why? Are you here.” He clears his throat and it feels like it’s closing. Dembe stands up and reaches past him, grabbing an inhaler. He puts his hand lightly on the back of his head and directs him toward it before nodding for him to inhale. He sets the inhaler down on the table and sits back down.
“I am not quite sure. To be quite honest, Raymond told me to stay with you.” He feels better but knows that it’s only temporary. He doesn’t feel much better, but at least he can breathe.
“What do you mean you don’t know? He confides in you. Doesn’t he?” He doesn’t mean to sound too critical, not to Dembe at least. He’s frustrated that he’s dying and frustrated that he doesn’t know anything.
“Usually. Yes. The nature of the situation is indeterminate though.”
“Please, tell me when you know something, yeah?” The man nods shortly and leaves, a sympathetic look graces his features. He lets his head hit the pillows and closes his eyes before anything else can distract him.
He doesn’t know how long passes before he’s woken up. He’s supplied the inhaler once again and made to sit up.
He looks out the window to see that the sun is no longer up. That could mean anything though, honestly. Dembe is in the room as soon as soon as the nurse is out.
“I have news. Raymond thinks that you were poisoned as a way of getting to him.”
Ressler raises his eyebrow and pushes of the bed slightly.
“Fucking why? Nobody knows about the taskforce.” He moves too quickly and his vision tinges red and white. He sees flashes of light in the corners of his eyes. His periphery is exploding, but he needs to know why he’s even there.
“It’s not about the taskforce. It is about Diego Ellis and Raymond Reddington.”
He can’t hold on to consciousness much longer and he falls back. He can’t stop shaking, his hands are trembling uncontrollably. Alarms blare around him and the lights get brighter before cutting out completely.
It was undercover work. They were traipsing around an auction in suits that were too lavish for Donald’s taste. There’s nothing in the room that suits his taste, to be quite honest. The suit is too tight, possibly on purpose and multiple times he has to stop himself from pulling at the hem of the jacket.
“Look sharp Donald. He’s a shark. Nasty piece of work.” Donald doesn’t quite know who “he” is. Reddington hadn’t told him before he’d dragged him into an unofficial op with no information. Per usual.
He was an attractive mid-forties Asian man. As soon as he sees Reddington he extends his hand, but as soon as the criminal grasps it he’s pulled into a very tight hug.
“Oh Raymond, It’s been too long.” Reddington’s face gives nothing away but Donald can sense his contempt for the man.
“Not long enough.” He laughs loudly but it’s not his usual hearty laugh, it’s cold. The sound sends goosebumps down his arms; It reminds him that he’s not in the presence of friends.
There’s something harsh about Reddington’s demeanor and the man must sense it. He makes the point of getting away.
Reddington downs the rest of his drink. “I hate drug dealers. Disgusting swine.” He clicks his tongue in the back of his mouth and rolls it around his mouth. His tone is gravelly. “Especially one’s that sell to kids.”
Ressler’s eyes widen and he reassesses the man. The as yet unnamed man is looking in their direction, warily. He doesn’t bother masking his contempt, just as Raymond hadn’t. He glares at him and he visibly gulps.
He doesn’t dwell on the man for long. He lowers his voice over Reddington’s shoulder. “He’s on the Blacklist, right?”
Reddington laughs haughtily, real amusement this time. “Oh of course. You know what? I think it’s time for Karma to go to work.”
He reaches into Donald’s breast pocket for his phone, sliding it out like it’s nothing. He dials a number Donald can’t quite see and holds it up to his ear with a look of passive amusement. “Hello Lizzie. I’m going to give you another name on the Blacklist early. A present of sorts. A shit-eating charade with the moral compass of a monster.”
A pause.
Oh, Lizzie calling me a monster is useless when you know I’m not. Not quite.” Ressler can’t help but agree. “A drug dealer that sells to children. I have names and addresses and I’m going to text them to you.” Reddington takes a couple minutes to type them in. It’s well worth it though, when he gets his phone back, he gets the satisfaction that the monster will get his due.
Reddington rolls his eyes. “She can be so childish sometimes. It’s infuriating.”
“If she infuriates you, why stick around?” Reddington’s eyes fog up for a moment. Only a moment. There's a look of defeat, resignation
“Sometimes Donald. I have obligations to Elizabeth. I protect her, or I try to. I need to protect my daughter. I failed once before and I won’t again.” He grabs another drink and downs it quickly. The topic is dropped soon after that.
The auction seems to go quickly after that. The awkwardness is forgotten, mostly. He can’t help but try to gauge the man’s mood from the corner of his eye. To all of the people they meet after Donald is introduced as a flame. It makes his cheeks flame and he’s grateful when the auction is over.
Several women tell him to “hang on” to a man like Reddington.
Ressler just baulks.
They stabilize him after nearly half an hour of pushing drugs into his IV bag. “Shouldn’t you guys know what’s wrong with me at this point?”
The doctor gives him a helpless look and one of the nurses visibly fights the urge to glare at him. He coughs violently and blood spatters on the white sheets that are covering him. He tries to force himself to stop coughing but that only proves to make it worse. It’s uncontrollable and vicious and he vows to never take anything for granted if he lives.
He knows that the situation is bleak when the grumpy nurse starts fluffing his pillows. He’s seen it plenty of times in hospitals while questioning victims.
They think he’s going to die.
It’s funny, he thinks, that it’s the little things that nearly tear him apart every time. He’s almost died before, but nothing feels so real as right now when the nurse takes the straw and sheds its plastic, sticking it into the little wax paper cup. When the night shift nurse comes by in the morning to put fresh flowers in a vase near the window because it “brightens up the room, don’t you think?”
The little things people do when they want you not to be uncomfortable, in turn making themselves feel better.