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bi-ressler · 3 years

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Coming Home [RessGale]

@skiesfallithurts requested "Coming home + RessGale" for this ask meme (still taking prompts if you want to send something in! Could take me some time though due to real life)

Title: Coming Home Relationship: Julian Gale/Donald Ressler Characters: Julian Gale, Donald Ressler, Henry Prescott (mentioned), Raymond Reddington (mentioned), others (mentioned) Words: 10.891 Setting: Post-Prescott-Arc AU Warnings: Abuse of prescription meds (aka Donnie is back on oxy and I'm not even remotely sorry), sexual assault (non-explicit, but it's being discussed), homophobia very briefly mentioned A/N: I've had this idea in my head for literal ages and thanks to the prompt I'm finally doing it! So thanks for indulging me :D Also, this got away from me (again) and turned out way (WAAAAAY) longer than it should have. Oops! - - - As always, English isn't my first language, this isn't beta'd and all mistakes are mine. Feedback is greatly appreciated :) (Also, tumblr keeps fucking up the formatting, so if the sentence breaks up in the middle of the paragraph, blame hellsite dot com.)

[Read HERE on ao3!]

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Falling back into old habits and unhealthy coping-mechanisms is far too easy, Donald finds. But when everything crumbles around him, and all the poorly concealed cracks and insufficiently closed gaps and holes in his armour, in his life, finally give out and leave nothing but rubble and guilt and dread, it's the only way he can think of not to fall into complete despair and drown himself in self-pity.

But maybe he's already past that point.

Maybe this is what drowning actually feels like, and there's definitely no lack of self-pity on his behalf.

So he downs the pills with a swig of beer, ignoring the fact that this feels far too familiar, far too much like coming home after a storm, soaking wet and shaking to lay down on the warm carpet and breathe for the first time.

It was all a mistake.

The last six years, it was all one big mistake and right now, he'd give everything to go back in time, erase Reddington from his mind, never join that damned taskforce that had him spiralling to this point from day one. Hell, he'd go even further, never become an agent in the first place - maybe open up a coffee shop in Detroid or become a banker or lawyer or anything at all, as long as it's as far away from Reddington and this whole mess as possible.

That way, he'd never meet Henry Prescott. He'd never murder Laurel Hitchin. He'd never let down everyone in his life, most of all himself, and Audrey would still be alive, and Julian would still be with the bureau ---

Julian.

The guilt comes back full force, because if anyone didn't deserve the fate they got, it would be Julian. Hard working, fierce, loving Julian.

He dry-swallows another pill for good measure, shoulders his go-bag and disappears down an empty alley, unseen by cameras and cops and anyone who might recognize him.

He's not sure if he can go on like this.

He's been on the run for nearly a week now; a week of hiding, paranoia, always looking over his shoulder and ducking into the shadows. Where he once felt safe when he heard the siren of a police car, he now starts running. It's exhausting and he cowers lower into the corner of the abandoned building he's staying in tonight.

Another pill. The shivers lessen. The bottle is almost empty.

He leans his head back against the cold concrete and curses his need for justice, his stupid-ass decision of accepting this life as punishment for his actions.

No, that's not right, he thinks.

If he really was after justice, he wouldn't have run. He would have faced the consequences like a man, faced jail-time and public humiliation.

Instead, he'd been crushed by his own guilt after Prescott's death, written his confession with a shakey hand and left it on his desk, before grabbing the go-bag from the trunk of his car and running.

By morning Cooper must have found it, and in the afternoon he'd seen his face on the news. He has no idea where to go from here.

He pops another pill and curses when he reminds himself to cut back and save what little of the drugs he still has left.

---

The thing about guilt is, Ressler thinks, that despite what everyone says, it doesn't lessen over the years. He still feels guilty about ruining his brother's chance of a career as a cop, and he still feels guilty about Hitchin and Wright and Prescott and every crime Reddington committed right in front of his eyes.

He still feels guilty about what happened to Julian - the first time, after that operation in Kabul went so horribly wrong and Julian took the blame for it, both of them knowing full well that Ressler had been in charge and made the decision to fire, but being stubborn enough to convince IA that it had been his fault, handing over his badge and service weapon with an unreadable look towards Don. Maybe he did it out of some twisted sense of obligation. Maybe they were just in love and compromised. But in the end Ressler's decision had cost Julian his job and a civilian his life.

And the second time, after the whole mess with Mr. Kaplan, effectively ending Julian's career as nothing more but collateral damage. He can still feel his heart crack at that look of betrayal in Julian's eyes as they stood over the remains of Mako Tanida.

---

The other thing about guilt is that Donald doesn't know how to make amends. He knows how to follow his instincts and get himself deeper into trouble, deeper into the pit of guilt, deeper into unescapable situations. Making more and more excuses, trying to cover up all of his messes with lies that lead to more excuses, more lies, more damage.

He knows it's good that he does feel guilt in the first place. But there's only so much he can take.

He thinks about everyone he has left - Reddington, Keen, Aram, Cooper, Navabi.

He could go and find Reddington, ask him to get him out of this mess he created, but he still has some dignity left (he almost laughs at that, sitting in the dirt, close, so close again to withdrawal that his chest tightens, burdened with the undignity of all the actions that led him here). So Reddington is out. He'd only get him into some deeper shit, anyway, and he can't deal with that right now.

The taskforce is out, too. They're obligated to arrest him on sight. And after doing what he did (all the dirty work for Prescott that makes him shudder and swallow back bile), he wouldn't be able to look them in the eyes. They'd know. Another thing he can't deal with.

He can't go to his family, either; getting to Detroid would be a feat in itself, but no doubt the feds are just waiting for him to make contact with his mom or brother. He doesn't want to think about them; if he just so much as imagines his mom crying over the news of her little boy's fuck-up of a life he would only break the last remains of his heart.

Sighing, he realizes he's on his own and he closes his eyes against tears that don't come. His eyes are far too dry, and yet he feels like crying; maybe he's become too numb, but not numb enough to not care. He swallows against his dry throat, his fingers flexing around the pill bottle. He's out at sea alone, the storm raging and waves threatening to bring him down, and in the darkness, there's no lighthouse in sight, not even a candle in the window of someone who might take pity on him. He's bound to drown.

---

The next day, he runs out of pills as well as luck. He hears the shouting before seeing what's going on, and he doesn't need to round the corner to know that the cops are arresting his dealer; he hears his name. They're not after the poor sod for his arsenal of prescription-meds, they're after him. He turns around and doesn't stop running until his lungs burn and his feet ache.

---

He finally collapses behind an old factory that's been out of use seemingly forever. He vaguely remembers it from a case so many years ago, when everything was still fine and he still had dreams and hopes and Reddington hadn't crossed his way yet, Julian already by his side, Prescott a name he had no business knowing.

He remembers some nondescript arms dealers hunched over their merchandise, duffels with a ton of dollar bills and a short shoot-out that ended with the perps in cuffs and a brilliant smile from Julian. Although he couldn't see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, he knew the twinkle in them that told him everything he needed to know.

How the fuck could he fuck up something so good?

It doesn't matter now, though. He slides down the rough walls, and a shiver rips from his spine, rocking his entire body, until it gets stuck in his hands and they can't stop trembling. Every movement hurts deep in his bones, and the shaking only makes it worse until he feels sick to his stomach and feels the bile rise.

He closes his eyes, and now the tears come.

He lets all the shame and hurt and fucking guilt wash over him, drown him until he is gasping for air, remembering --- remembering all the roads he shouldn't have taken, remembering every time he allowed Prescott to shove his dick down Donald's throat, the blood of some stranger still on their hands and clothes, and Ressler can't keep it in anymore. His stomach convulses and forces its few contents out, spattering on the dirty ground, acid in his aching throat that still remembers Prescott's assaults.

He remembers Prescott's laugh and the grip of his hand leaving bruises on his arms. He remembers burying bodies of people he knew nothing about, for a man who could be his downfall with no more effort than twitching a finger.

Ironic, how that still happened and Ressler has just reached rock-bottom while still having done everything Prescott had demanded. A fucking lose-lose-situation. Ressler would like to laugh about the stupidity of it all (of himself), but it gets stuck somewhere between his chest and vocal chords. He can never go back.

He'd always thought it would be Reddington who'd ruin him. He was wrong.

---

With the onsetting darkness comes the cold; it's the end of summer and the days are warm enough, but the nights take all the warmth and replace it with cruel emptiness and too many thoughts.

He remembers all the times their hunt for Reddington had gone wrong; all the times they'd run into another dead end; all the times an informant ended up dead --- all the times he would crawl into Julian's bed or Julian in his and they'd hold each other, seek solace and comfort and hope and the strength to move on in each other's arms.

He remembers Julian's lips on his and how, for these few moments, he'd want nothing more and could forget the job. He remembers skin on heated skin, and whispered platitudes that in that moment felt like a lifeline, and falling asleep with limbs entangled, sheltering him from nightmares and fatalistic thoughts.

He misses it. Misses it more than anything else, and it's the first time he acknowledges this feeling. He'd missed Julian for years; and then he was back again, back in that ice rink, looking at him like nothing had happened, like he still didn't blame Donald for all the shit that had happened. Maybe he really didn't. Maybe the guilt for all of that had been for nothing.

And then Julian was gone again and this time it would be irreversible. Like a lost limb, he feels his absence.

Shivering, he stares at the darkness around him, and all he wants is those strong arms around him and the scent of leather and aftershave and the scratch of Julian's stubble against his own.

He can never have that again. He doesn't deserve it, and Julian sure as Hell won't forgive him. Not for ending his career and certainly not for working with Reddington and turning a blind eye to the crimes he committed under their watch. He wouldn't even want to touch him again with all the dirt and blood on his hands from working for Prescott; wouldn't want to kiss the same lips that suffered the abuse of a ruthless killer and had swallowed it like he deserved it.

Because the truth is, maybe that's what his life has become: an unescapable, unforgivable Hell, all the pictures of what he'd done burned into his brain, behind his eyelids, on his skin where the bruises have long since faded but the dirt still remains. And maybe that's exactly what he deserves.

He crumbles under his thoughts until he lies on the ground, a shivering, hurting mess that's overflowing with guilt and self-loathing.

Julian always used to kiss it away.

---

How, when and why Donald has decided to walk up that road into the woods is lost on him.

He used to know this road, been here a few times but not in several years; it seems unchanged exept for the sky that looks a bit duller. He never walked this path before, but he didn't want to steal a car. Wouldn't know where to dump it here anyway.

He knows it's probably a dumb idea, but he's out of options by this point.

Every step is hard work and his knees are about ready to give out, shaking under the strain of carrying him for miles and miles, and even in the chilly shadows of the surrounding trees he's sweating like it's a hundred degrees out. Another shiver runs through his body that feels like it's crushing every bone on its way, and he moans as he gasps for breath.

He knows though if he stops he'll never get up again. He'll never reach the old cabin in the woods by that small lake, and he'd die by the side of the small, muddy road. He's not ready for that, though.

---

It's late afternoon when he gets off the main road and takes the small footpath that leads to the cabin in a few hundred yards. The sun is much hotter now and although he can feel her warmth on his skin, he feels cold and clammy and miserable, fighting shiver after shiver and losing hard.

All he wants to do is curl up into a tight ball and die, but he's not gonna give up, not now, even though he knows that he's making a massive mistake here, but he doesn't care. It's like he's too far gone to acknowledge that fact and all his common sense has left him along with the contents of his stomach last night; he can't shove it back and, frankly, what does it matter? He can't fall any deeper.

So he stumbles on, struggling over rocks and branches, his feet numb except for the occasional flare of pain that still reaches his brain and he can't quite manage to shut out.

Then it comes into sight and he breathes out, a pained, wheezing sound that makes his head spin, and suddenly he feels sick because he knows he has made the wrong decision; he should go. He should turn around and collapse by the road and wither away like a fallen leaf.

The cabin is still like he remembers it from years ago; it belonged to Julian's father before he'd died, a nice little place far out in the woods that's perfect for a weekend-trip. Julian used to tell him stories of coming here with his dad to fish and hunt, back in the day before everything had turned to shit between them, before he came out as gay and his father stopped talking to him altogether.

He knows Julian is here; he's seen the old Ford parked by the road close to the small footpath. He also knows he's not welcome, just as he knows that he won't have anything left if Julian rejects him and throws him back onto the street he came from.

Feeling his knees wobble, he pushes on before he can give in to the seducing urge to let himself fall to the ground and curl up to die. He can still do that afterwards.

Another few steps and he's around the cabin where he can see the small lake, a pond really, with the wooden terrace right by the water; on it stands a deserted deck chair, but the bottle of beer that sits right next to it is still half-full, so Julian must be back any minute.

He leans heavily on the wall of the cabin and feels his strength bleed away. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead and along his nose as he lets his head fall, the strain in his neck too much for his muscles to hold it up anymore. Catching his breath is difficult when his lungs don't want to take in any much needed air and his chest feels too tight, like the collar of his dirty white t-shirt is strangling him, and he raises a violently shaking hand to his chest, ignoring the creaking of his joints as he does so.

Shit, this is worse than he'd thought. The hand that isn't clutching his shirt automatically wanders towards his pants pocket. It's empty. Of course it's empty. He's out of pills. He panicks at that because how in the world is he supposed to survive ---

when he hears a gun cock and forces himself to look up into Julian's face.

He looks good - always does - and his stubble is almost a beard now; his hair has grown too and Donald just wants to breathe it in. He wears sunglasses (of course, it's still bright outside and his eyes are just so damn sensitive), and his brow is deeply furrowed, his mouth a thin line that tells Donald just how welcome he is here.

"Don?", he asks, voice raspy like he hasn't spoken in a long time. Maybe he hasn't, but Ressler isn't naïve enough to blame any emotion for the roughness.

"Hey", he says, and he feels the world sway from the effort of holding himself up, so he grabs for the wall again, temporarily borrowing stability from the wooden structure. He doesn't even want to know how awful he must look, all sweaty and dirty and miserable, shaking and fighting just to keep standing.

"What do you want?", Julian asks, words hard and the gun still pointed at Ressler.

He looks at Julian, helpless to say anything, devoid of all words, and he realizes he doesn't know how to answer that question. He opens his mouth in the hopes of being able to bring out anything at all when a shudder runs through his body, leaving him breathless and on the ground. For a second all he knows is the pain of too much and too little at the same time that grinds his bones to dust and cuts through his muscles effortlessly. He thinks he groans in pain, but can't tell over the static in his ears.

"Fuck", he hears at the edge of his consciousness, "Don!"

And when he looks up, Julian is gone from where he stood before, instead there are arms steadying him from face-planting into the muddy ground. He leans heavily into those arms that promise comfort and solace and strength.

"Julian", Don rasps out, and he looks up to see Julian close, so close, worry visible even behind the sunglasses, and he has to close his eyes as a rush of emotion threatens to overcome him. This is it. This is all he wanted.

"Don't talk now, okay? I'm callin' an ambulance." And that's wrong. He can't do that, Ressler can't go to the hospital, not when he's on every wanted-list in the city ---

"Don't", he whispers and swallows against the bile. Julian looks at him like he's lost his mind, but there's still so much worry. "Don't", Donald repeats. He doesn't know how else to communicate this.

"Okay", Julian says flatly, still sceptical. "You mind tellin' me though why the fuck you're here?"

Ressler looks away, tries to ignore the black dots that creep into his vision.

"I'm sorry", he says, and he means it. Hopes that Julian understands, because Ressler doesn't know if he has the strength or the words to really explain himself here. "I didn't know where else to go."

Julian just nods, waiting for him to continue while Donald shivers in his arms and doesn't know how to go on.

"I fucked up", he finally says, and Julian laughs at that; a humorless, dry laugh that settles itself deep into what's left of Don's bones, a laugh that sends waves of guilt through his chest. He looks to the ground and tries not to break down under the weight of it.

"Yeah, you did", Julian says and there's an edge to his voice that's dangerous and hurt and speaks of everything Ressler has put him through. "And I'm really fucking close to tell you to go to Hell."

His eyes burn holes into Donald's skin until he's sure that Julian must be able to see his insides now, the rotten flesh and the dirt and the blood and all the shame and guilt he's never gonna be able to wash away.

"Not gonna do that though. Seems like you're already there."

Don lets his head fall and at this point he can't tell sweat from tears or blood or vomit or dirt; it's all there on his skin, whether remembered or real he doesn't know. All he knows is that it's disgusting, he's disgusting, he's dirty and has done unforgivable things and yet Julian is still holding him up, still touching him --- His head drops and he closes his eyes against the spinning world.

"C'mon", Julian says quietly, "let's get you cleaned up. You look like you could need a drink too, something to eat. And then you're gonna tell me what's going on before I change my mind. You alright with that?"

Donald just nods. At least he thinks he does.

He feels Julian's grip tighten, and together they manage to get Donald on his feet; he sways unsteadily, but Julian's hands are still there, grounding him against the nausea, keeping him from falling over as he clenches his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness and pain that rips through him.

"Hey, wait", he blurts out when Julian nudges him to move. "You don't - you don't have to do this, Julian. I won't blame you if -", he takes a deep breath, trying to organize his blurry thoughts, "- if you... y'know. Wanna throw me out on the street. Let me rot."

Julian looks at him long and hard, his face unreadable, and Donald wonders when that changed. He used to be able to read him flawlessly, back in the day.

"I know", he says eventually, "and believe me, I have every reason to, but... let's just get inside 'n' sort this out, yeah?"

He nods.

The inside of the cabin looks exactly the way he remembers it from the few times Julian has taken him here. Cozy and warm, soft light through the small windows, wooden table in the middle of the room - with all kinds of stuff on it, bottles and tools and newspapers - surrounded by self-made wooden chairs; it's only one room, and in the corner is still the old bed with the worn through mattress that he remembers very vividly (it's softer than it looks, the pillows under his hips fluffy, the scent of whiskey from Julian's lips and resin from all around him filling his senses ---) Julian drags him to the bed; Don is glad that Julian keeps his hands on his shoulders for a few more moments. He doesn't trust his body to sit on its own and not fall over. He takes a few deep breaths - the smell of whiskey and resin still lingers in the cabin and if he closes his eyes, he might be able to pretend nothing has happened and he's back to when all was good. He doesn't close his eyes. Needs the punishment of seeing an older version of Julian and that glimmer in his eyes that betrays the cold anger he tries to project. In here, it's easier reading him. The sunglasses have landed on the table in the mixture of things, and breathing is just that much easier now. Funny how brown eyes can have that effect on him. Or maybe it's just Julian's eyes. "You okay? Or are ya gonna topple over as soon as I let go?", Julian asks. His hands burn where they touch Ressler's shoulders - even through the shirt - and he feels like their heat is spreading all the way through his arms, mending his broken bones with a painful grip that makes him gasp. "It's alright", he says. His voice sounds strange, somehow distorted and raw, and when Julian lifts his hands it's like ice fills all the places that were on fire just seconds before, crushing him, burning even worse. He bites his lip. "'Kay", Julian murmurs, and then he turns around to get a bottle of water and --- and he opens up one of the cabinets and pulls out a small, brownish-yellow pill bottle --- his heart is beating so fast now he thinks he might throw up, and every fibre in his body screams Want! Want! Want! --- his muscles pulling on him, willing him to move, to get to the pills, down them all, swallow them, no regrets, make the trembling stop and the sweating and the shivers, undo the damage to his body, unbreak his bones, untear his sinews --- His mouth falls open. He can already feel it: the texture and the form of the little white pill against his tongue, the short moment when he swallows, the high he's chasing - no, no, it's not that anymore, it's never been that; it's always been about numbing the pain until it wasn't, until it was just about avoiding the come down. But right now he can feel the high, the anticipation, being so close to victory --- "Don?" And he wants to tell Julian to shut up, to just give him the pills, but he's the one who holds the bottle, he has the power in this moment and fuck, Ressler would do everything, anything, get on his knees or on all fours and just take it (flashes of Prescott assault his mind at that, and he gasps audibly because Julian is not Prescott, far from it, and he just wants his brain to shut the fuck up, to stop, knowing the pills will do that, they'll fucking save him from his own thoughts) --- "Hey, man - what's going on?" It's Julian's voice again, so much nearer now, burning hot hands holding him together as Donald crumbles. He collapses like a frail burning building, the last beams that were holding it together now nothing more than a pyre of grief and lost hope. He trembles against Julian's chest, his hands clinging to Julian's shirt, hurting from the exhaustion of cramping around the scratchy material but unable to let go, his head tucked under Julian's chin where he crouches in front of Donald on the floor. He wants to cry or to scream or to lash out, but all the energy he has left is unfocused, is mainly the never ending chant of Want! Want! Want! beneath his skin. "Fuck", he grinds out, and it's the hardest thing for him right

now, but he has Julian's arms around him and can feel his lips in his hair and smell leather and aftershave and --- Julian hasn't let him go yet. He hasn't pushed him away yet; is still touching him, unafraid, not yet disgusted. Then again, he doesn't know what Donald has done. "Hey, hey", Julian breathes against Ressler's temple, "it's okay, Don, it's - it's alright. It's gonna be alright..." Don shakes his head, takes a stuttering breath. "It's not, it's -", he starts, and his hands shake so hard now he's afraid of hurting Julian, "it's all gone to shit, okay? Nothing's alright, and - it's all my fault. It's all my fault, Julian, just ---" He doesn't know what he's saying, only that he needs to get it out. He needs to let Julian know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could go back and do it all differently, how much he wants Gale to be happy. "Easy", Julian whispers, and now his hands are stroking up and down Don's spine and he feels like a child, but also safer than he has in a long time. This, right here, is his shelter in the storm, a place to wait out the worst of it before he can go home. Only that he doesn't know where home is anymore. Not that it matters. He has his self-imposed punishment to serve. They sit there for a while, until Ressler's breathing is less ragged and his body is limp with exhaustion and his hands uncramp around Julian's shirt. "You need to drink something", Julian says, his voice far too soft, and somewhere deep inside of him Ressler just wants Julian to yell at him, to beat him, to show him exactly how he's felt the last couple of years. Let out all the anger and frustration and disgust he must be feeling. Add his loathing to the pyre burning away at Donald's insides. Julian shuffles away, keeping one steadying hand on Ressler's shoulder, the other reaching for the glass of water he must have put on the ground besides him when Donald collapsed. "Here", he murmurs and holds the glass up to Don's lips. Donald doesn't even try to take it from him, his trembling hands trapped between his thighs. The water is refreshing and he's sure he could drink an entire river - his mouth and throat aren't longer as dry, his heaving stomach slowly settles, his over-heated skin seems to cool a little. When the glass is empty, Julian sets it aside and takes a hard look at Don. "Better?", he asks. Behind the hard, cold glare his gaze is so open, so vulnerable now that Don has to look away. "Yeah", he nods. "Thanks." He doesn't know where Julian has put the pill bottle, but it's probably back in the cabinet. There's no way Julian could have misinterpreted Donald's behaviour. "So." Donald looks up again. He can still feel the sweat on his forehead, on his neck, chest, everywhere, but now it's cooler, and if the temperature keeps dropping as quickly he will surely freeze to death. He doesn't know though if it's the change of seasons or his own body. "Guess I owe you an explanation", Donald murmurs. He's tired suddenly, so tired he can feel it in his bones. Like he's two hundred years old, an ancient tree about to die. "You bet your ass you do." With that Julian gets up off the ground, refills the glass, sets it on the table and sits down next to Donald on the bed. He sits further away than he used to, the gap between them like a fucking canyon that Don could throw himself in to to break every bone in his body yet again, for the last time. He won't though. He owes Julian that much. "So?", Julian asks when the silence stretches too long. But Donald doesn't know where to start, doesn't even know what to say except for I'm sorry and forgive me and I love you. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry again, his heartbeat picking up its pace, beating uncomfortably against his too tight ribcage. "I'm sorry", he begins, and when he looks at Julian, his face is impassive and schooled. He expects more. Of course he does, Donald thinks, and he deserves it, deserves more, deserves everything. He's just not sure he can give that. "I ruined your life", he says. Looks down at his hands and how

they shake where they're trapped between his knees. "Again", he adds and the corner of his mouth twitches in a humorless attempt at a smile. "You should never have paid for what we - what I did. The whole Reddington-thing. I justified it with all the good we did, all the cases we solved, the criminals we put behind bars, but... you were right. The price was too high. It was doomed from the start... All the people who died, Julian, all those good people --- I don't know if it was worth it." He looks up into Julian's face. It's not as passive and unreadable as before; now there's a glint of pity, a tiny spark of anger, the smallest sign of resignation. "And - and to think I betrayed all my principles for that taskforce. All I ever stood for - wanted to stand for. Fuck, I'm... I just... I just wanna go back, Julian. I just wanna start over. Forget about - about Reddington and Prescott and Hitchin and - Audrey. Fuck, Audrey... I should have known then. I should have quit back then." He buries his face in his hands. There are no tears, but the shame that's crawling up his spine and spreading through every inch of his body is threatening to overwhelm him. "What happened to her?", Julian asks quietly, his voice impossibly soft. He knows about them. About their far too early engagement, about the stubbornness with which Donald had tried to love her just to get over the fact that Julian was gone from his life. About his need to prove that he was okay. "She's dead. She was killed. She'd still be alive if it wasn't for Reddington." "I'm sorry", Julian says after a moment of silence. He sounds genuine, even though Ressler knows how Julian feels about Audrey. Or used to feel, anyway. And now, Donald doesn't know what else to say. Knows there's so much, too much to talk about, but he doesn't know where to start. He wants to tell Julian about Hitchin and Prescott and those brief moments with Reddington - in the box and in a hotel room in Washington and the whole long flight from Munich back to the states. Donald takes a deep breath; it's not like that makes any difference because his lungs still seem incapable of taking in enough oxygen for him to survive. How he's still conscious, he doesn't know, but it's probably just his mind playing tricks with him. And all the while, Julian looks at him with patience that's bordering on resignation, and sadness he might be mistaking for grief about the people they could have been. The love they could have shared, the lives they could have lived. All those things Ressler never gave himself time to grieve for, but are returning with a vengeance now, cutting him up, sucking him dry, suffocating him in their thick reality. "I deserved it", he finally croaks, his voice strangled by everything he's lost, and he clears his throat. "Everything I got in the end, I deserved it." He stares at his hands that are trapped between his knees, feels them tremble, and when he looks back up at Julian, the other man is suddenly closer than he was before. The canyon between them is nothing more than a crack in the pavement now, their legs not yet touching, Julian's heat a welcome comfort against Don's clammy pale skin, and it still feels like it's not enough, like nothing he could do could ever be enough, and as much as he detests the thought that this might be the closest Julian will let himself get to Don, he also revels in the almost-touches and the dark gazes and the fact that this, too, is something he painfully deserves: the one person he never stopped loving to be entirely unreachable. He thinks back to the good times and how easy it was to just reach out and take any comfort he needed. The sleepless nights in those dingy motel rooms they spent staring out the window at the starry sky or at each other, the moments of warmth and solitude, bodies wrapped around each other like they're one, soft breath in his ear, dry lips on skin, rough fingers entangled, squeezing, comforting. Thinks back to that night in Manila, when Julian stood before Donald's door at three in the morning, dark bags under

his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around his chest to prevent him from falling apart; later it would be Don's arms holding him together. Thinks back to that morning in New York that should have been entirely unpleasant with the stink and the broken heater in the middle of January and the noise even so early, but with Julian's sleeping form next to him - so peaceful and full of beauty -, he wished it could always be like this. He doesn't think back to the time they said goodbye, or the time Julian almost died from a bullet in his stomach, or the countless times they sat at each other's hospital beds. He doesn't think about the last time they kissed, the last time they made love, the last time they hugged, the last time there wasn't this edge to Julian's voice that tells Donald that things will never be the same. He certainly doesn't think about the future. "And what is it you got? What is it you think you deserve? 'Cause I see you sitting here like, like death warmed over and I can't imagine what the Hell you could've done to deserve... well, this." Julian's voice is rougher than usual; Donald doesn't know if it's because of the emotion he swallows so successfully or because he's smoking more than he used to or because this is the first time in a long time that he's speaking to somebody. Donald draws in another sharp breath. His lungs aren't exactly cooperating, but it doesn't matter as long as he can still explain. "I think I need some air", he says, voice barely more than a whisper. He sees Julian nod out of the corner of his eye, and together they manage to walk outside. It's weird, a little, how much better he feels and how much easier it is to talk, to move, to breathe, ever since arriving in the cabin. Just a few hours ago he was almost certain he'd be dying in a ditch right about now. It's gotten dark outside; the sun hasn't disappeared fully yet, but through the trees that surround the cabin and the pond it's impossible to make out. Julian sits him down in the deck chair Donald had noticed earlier, the opened bottle of beer that's still sitting beside it now forgotten. Don takes a deep breath. It's easier now, out here. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Julian setting up a second chair next to the one Donald is sitting on. They both lean forward, elbows on their knees, Ressler's head hanging, Gale watching him with sharp eyes. Donald shakes his head; to think how easily all this could have been avoided! If he hadn't taken the job with the taskforce, none of this would have happened. Or if he'd been honest sooner, if he'd talked to Julian when the whole Mr. Kaplan-mess started instead of betraying him --- "That, right there, what you just said, is why I love you." He can still hear those words loud and clear in his head, recalling that moment with absolute clarity even if most of his other thoughts and memories are blurry from exhaustion and pain. The way they just came over Julian's lips, so simple, so easy, like they were picking up from where they'd left, still sends goosebumps over his arms and back; he remembers the painful tightening of his chest back then, and his mind going completely blank, and deciding to overplay his nerves with a lame joke and getting back to work as quickly as possible. He remembers hope bubbling up in the back of his ribcage, and laying awake that night overthinking those words. Overthinking the whole situation while pushing away his guilt. He hated lying to Julian then, and he hates where it has gotten him. He remembers cursing Julian's mind, always so quick and clever, and he remembers cursing Reddington time and time again. He purposely doesn't remember all the times he thought about the Concierge instead of Julian when he was alone in his bed. It feels like another betrayal all over again. And he remembers being on the verge of asking how much truth lay behind Julian's words more than once but always pulling back at the last second. Maybe he'll never know, now. "Don?" He remembers that he needs to talk. His mind feels almost bruised by the

onslaught of memories ever since he's seen Julian for the first time in so long. "Yeah. Sorry." He takes another deep breath, now easier out here, and leans back in his chair, tired eyes focusing on the patches of darkening skies through the crowns of the trees. A sense of tranquility fills his whole body and the shivers cease to shake him. "You were right about Mako Tanida. His head. Reddington - Reddington gave it to me as a gift." He closes his eyes for a second and sees the severed head in the box as if it happened yesterday instead of almost six years ago. He shudders and opens his eyes again, back to watching the gentle breeze shifting through the leaves and branches. He doesn't look over at Julian. "Some sort of... sick compensation for Audrey's death." He pauses at that, thinking back at Audrey and how he barely remembers her face now even though he knows he should. It gives Julian time to piece it together. He doesn't say a word though, intent on letting Donald speak. "It makes me sick now. But that's Reddington, you know? He lulls you in and there's nothing you can do about it. -- Objectively, I knew what we were doing, and I was justifying it with all the high-profile arrests we did. But... I don't know, man, he was under my skin and I only realized it when it was too late. He's like this... spider. Sucks you dry as soon as you're caught in his net. And it doesn't stop until someone worse comes along and ---" He stops speaking then, dropping his head, unable to find the words to convey Prescott's cruelty, his depravity that became Donald's own. A hand on his shoulder makes him look up; Julian is watching him, his gaze a strange mix between a cold distance and warm empathy. "What happened?", he asks. As if his hand doesn't burn Don's flesh where it touches him over his shirt, as if he doesn't know the repercussions of this gesture, as if he can't even imagine what it means to Don that he's touching him out of his own accord, not yet fleeing, not yet disgusted, but full of love and comfort and everything Donald doesn't deserve. They stay quiet for a short while, Don watching how the cold distance transforms to something new, something like pity, but not exactly. Maybe curiosity with a touch of sadness. Like he wants to hear the answer and doesn't. Like he wants to know what made Don come here but doesn't want to hear it. Like he knows it could change everything between them, all the anger he's been carrying with him since the ice rink-case melting away, leaving only the torn pieces of his old love. "Laurel Hitchin", Donald says quietly. Another shiver runs through his body as he feels Julian's hand falling away. They're silent again; Don trying to figure out how to confess a murder and all the shit that followed it, and Julian thinking about how Hitchin might as well have fired him. She may have been an awful person, but she didn't deserve to die. In Don's experience, there's no one who deserves to die; at least that used to be his opinion. He's not so sure about it now. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but that's where they stay. He can't push them over the edge, can't make his vocal chords work and his lips form the vowels and consonants. He tries in vain, again and again, until Julian is looking at him again like he knows Donald's struggle. "She's dead", Julian says, tone neutral, and Don can't read from it how much Julian knows or at least suspects. He nods. Remembers her laying on her kitchen floor, pool of blood growing larger second by sickening second. "I didn't mean to ---", he stammers, and Julian's eyes grow wide like he didn't expect this confession. "Shit", he breathes and rubs a hand over his face. It stops over his mouth and chin and he looks straight ahead into the darkness that has settled around them like their own private bubble where there's room for confessions and guilt and maybe even forgiveness; room that the bright sun of the day doesn't allow. "That's why you're such a mess? Jesus, Don,

I ---" But he doesn't continue. Donald doesn't want to hear another I'm sorry from Julian, and he doesn't want to hear that he's fucked up either. He just wants to forget. "It gets worse", he says and Julian looks up, surprise and pain and dread lining his features, and he suddenly looks much older than he is. Still beautiful, and Don has to swallow against the sudden feeling of belonging that rises in his chest; like he's home, like this has been his home all along, and it will be until they're old and grey and dying of old age in each others' arms --- only that it's a fantasy, a feverish dream he's having. Before Don can continue though, Julian stands up and disappears inside the cabin without another word. He can't blame him. With a sigh he stays where he is, watching the sky again that's now completely dark, and he doesn't know if he isn't actually watching the invisible dance of the trees. His mind is completely blank now and it's a more than welcome change. Before he knows it, Julian is back with two bottles of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Wordlessly, he gives one of the already opened bottles to Don who takes it with only slightly shaking hands, then sits back down, takes a gulp of beer, puts it down on the ground beside his chair, and takes a cigarette out of the pack. He offers one to Don but he declines with a shake of his head. The small flame of the lighter makes Julian's face flicker orange and yellow, the shadows making the lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth dance and seem deeper than in the light of day. For the few seconds it lasts, he looks almost angelic in a rough, strange way. "I called the cleaner who used to work for her", he says before he can think about it. "His name's Henry Prescott." The smell of burnt tobacco lulls him in, like they're back in Julian's old apartment, in his bed after an evening of slow sex, bliss and heavy limbs and soft words forever interlinked with it. It almost makes the bile that's threatening to rise after the mention of Prescott's name stay down. Julian's eyes are on him again, calmer now, but also more distanced than before. Don can barely make them out through the dark of night, but from experience he knows Gale won't say any more. He needs all the facts, and Don's the only one who can provide those. He looks back to where the lake must be, now an invisible black hole between the equally black woods. He thinks it must be easy now that he's started, but the words won't come, his mind preoccupied with keeping the images at bay, the memories of dead bodies and blood and the smell of bleach and ammonia. He closes his eyes for a minute, the shivers returning, rocking his body against his will, and he's going to be sick if the stink of chemicals doesn't leave his nose soon --- He wishes Julian would touch him again, ground him somehow like he used to, but he doesn't. Don doesn't look up either. He needs to carry on. "He found out who I was", he says eventually, strangled, struggling to keep talking. "Blackmailed me into working for him." He rubs his free hand over his face, pressing down over his eyes to get rid of the images and the smell, and for a moment it's like Julian isn't even there, like he's not listening, like Don can say anything he wants to the dark emptiness he's surrounded by. He takes a few gulps of the beer but doesn't set it down. "Fuck, I --- the things I did. The shit I was forced to do and I, I didn't even fight it. I was too afraid to - I don't know, lose my job, my reputation, my friends", it breaks out of him now, and a laugh forces its way through his constricted throat at the irony of the words. He feels Julian shift next to him, reminding Don of his presence, but he doesn't turn to look at him. "I did every fucking thing he told me to. Drove around dead bodies in car trunks. Buried and unburied them. Scrubbed blood off walls and carpets and beds. --- How the fuck can anyone forgive me for that? How can you?" He takes another large sip of the beer, now risking a glance at

Julian. His cigarette has almost burnt down completely, leaving a tail of ash threatening to fall onto Julian's lap; he hasn't taken a drag since Don has started speaking. Instead he's looking at Donald, almost staring through him, and Don doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't think he's ever seen that expression on Julian. "I should never have come", he says curtly because he can't face the silence now. "I'm sorry. I should never have -- I guess I know now that I deserved it." The calm that settles in his bones surprises him. He looks back up to the sky, clear and beautiful where it shines through the trees, and now he can make out tiny bright dots, stars spattered across it like the splashes of watercolor over paper when he was a kid. He can feel tears behind his eyes and he knows this is the last time he will be home. Knows it's the last time he gets to feel something other than guilt and dread. Maybe he should get up and leave now, having done enough damage as it is, but something inside him urges him to stay, to tell Julian the whole truth, make him understand. He needs Julian to tell him to fuck off; needs his rejection to be at peace and go home. Somewhere, anyway. "He didn't stop there", he says, and he knows it's his only chance to ever articulate it; if he doesn't say it now he'll be silent forever. Besides him, Julian tenses. He's been tense for the last couple of minutes, but now his back is straight in a way that it almost never is, but Donald needs to get those next few words out. He feels strangely detached from his body and mind and memories. "Sometimes he would force me on my knees, make me suck him off", he starts, and it's easier to say it out loud than it should be, "and sometimes he would bend me over the hood of the car or tie me to the bed post in whatever hotel he'd stay in. I took it every time. I thought I didn't have a choice." And he's smiling now, the weight on his shoulders, his lungs, his mind so much lighter, and he doesn't even mind the trembling of his hands, of his whole body. He just lets it happen. "Until my conscience finally made me put a stop to it. I arrested him. Wrote my confession. And left. But I'm still too much of a coward to face the consequences, instead I'm running from everything." He lets his head fall. This shouldn't be this easy, he tells himself, but then again, with Julian nothing is as it should be. "Swallowing one pill after the other, sleeping in the mud, always looking over my shoulder. That's no life. That's - that's Hell, Julian." Finally, he looks back at his old love, a flood of emotions racing through him like a tsunami, and he chokes out: "I deserve it. All of it. What Prescott did to me. I gotta live with it. I'm ---" But the words die on his lips as he feels Julian's arms around his neck, and hot breath against his ear, and fingers tangling in his hair. He stops breathing for a few seconds, brain catching up with the sensations, and Julian is embracing him like he knows it's the last time, or like he's sorry, or like his life depends on it. "Just so you know", Julian rasps against Don's cheek, "I really fucking want to punch you right now. I wanna - wanna throw you against the wall and just - punch you until I can't move my arm anymore. Okay? Got that?" Donald nods silently, still stunned by the sudden embrace. He didn't think Julian would ever want to touch him again, wouldn't even want to be near him again. "No one", Julian says, "No one - deserves shit like that." And then he stammers like he wants to say every word he knows at the same time while simultaneously not knowing what to say altogether, before giving up with a hissed "Fuck". Don knows this, knows that sometimes, Julian's brain is faster than his mouth, and then he stumbles over words like an excited child. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you, huh?", he asks quietly, still not letting go, and now Don puts the bottle down and returns the embrace. Carefully, very carefully, like he might freak Julian out, like he might realize then what he's doing and

drop Donald like a hot potato. Donald shakes his head no; doesn't want to be dropped, not now, not when he's this close to Julian; shakes his head because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now either. The idea that's been in the back of his head, whose existence he completely ignored until now, that's probably the reason he came here in the first place, creeps into his consciousness now, and his grip around Julian's ribs tightens. "I just--- wanted to apologize for everything I did to you. I ruined your career, your life. I lied to you, I betrayed you. And I'm so sorry, Julian, I'm - I'm so fucking sorry." He loosens his grip again so he can look at Julian who looks up. His eyes are wet and dark and so damn beautiful, and now they're only inches apart. He could kiss him now, ruin everything all over again for a short moment of bliss, but he doesn't. "Me too", Julian says quietly, and his voice is soft like torn velvet. "I wish you wouldn't have come here. Let me keep my anger. But I guess you have this way of making me forgive everything you do. You're impossible, Don, you know that and I, just, hate you so, so much right now, I fucking - I hate you so much ---" "I know", Don whispers against Julian's cheek as their faces are pressed together, stubble against stubble, words escaping them that neither of them hears, lips against skin, not exactly kissing, but mouthing apologies and curses that get lost in the night. "I was so angry for so long, thinking about you, and the shit you did, the - the way it had to end", Julian rasps, tension falling off his body, too tired to keep on shivering. "I kept asking myself why the fuck you'd work with him --- how you could stand looking Reddington in the eye day after day and not - not see all that he cost us. Except I realised you did see, and you just didn't care." "Julian, I ---", he interrupts, but Julian keeps talking. "And I took that as justification to curse you and to hate you, and I did, you know, I really did, but... then I realised it was Reddington and I -- I chalked you up as just another casualty, another person he ruined, because you - you might just as well have been dead, you know? I fucking buried you." Julian chokes a little at that, but his grip at the back of Don's head doesn't weaken. "I know him, Don, I, uh, I know how he is. How he will put you under his spell and pull you in and never let go. Just... Just tell me this." And he looks up again, eyes red rimmed even in the darkness, and Don wants nothing more than to kiss those tears away, but he can't. He owes Julian, and even though he doesn't know what he wants to ask, he knows he needs to give an honest answer. No more lies. No more. Julian's searching his face and seems to have found what he's been looking for when he finally speaks up again after long moments of silence. "Did you love him?" The question should surprise Donald. It doesn't. He looks down, unable to meet Julian's unrelenting gaze. Thinks back to the box and the hotel room in Washington and the flight from Munich back to the states. Slowly, without looking up, he nods. No more lies. Here it comes. "Yeah", he says quietly even though he knows Julian has seen his nod. "I did. But never like I loved you." The words just come, mindlessly spilling over his lips, and he means them; he still doesn't look up. Doesn't want to see the disgust and rejection in Julian's eyes. The moment stretches like someone stopped time, stopped the entire universe, and Donald doesn't mind one bit. If it means having this last moment with Julian, even if it's filled with uncertainty, he'll gladly spend eternity frozen in time like this. Julian's fingers are still in his hair, his gaze still focussed on Donald. He's still though, not moving, and if it wasn't for his heavy breath, Don would have thought Julian might really be frozen. Then the moment ends. "Okay", Julian says, simple but heavy, like this truth lifted some weight off of him that Donald didn't know Julian was carrying. He looks up now, unable to keep his

gaze away any longer, and he doesn't know what to make of Julian's expression. There's no disgust. There's no rejection. There's understanding and sadness locked away in the tears that are sticking to his eyelashes, shimmering in the pale light of the moon that's slowly beginning to shine through the trees. Donald doesn't understand it; Julian is supposed to be upset, angry, pushing him away, throwing him out on the street to rot --- not drawing soothing circles over the back of his head, not looking at him like that, like they can fix this, like Donald is finally home --- "I'm, uh... I'm going to the police. Tonight. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. My sad attempt to make things right." He has to look away again, Julian's focussed, open gaze too much for him. "Guess I couldn't... leave without having told you. And I'm - I'm not asking for forgiveness here. I know I can never have that. I just needed to see you. Make sure you're alright, so..." He clears his throat, realizing that they've only been talking about him and never once about Julian. Fuck, how egoistic can he be! "How're you doing?", he asks, and Julian is still clinging to him, just as he's clinging to Julian. "Oh, I'm fine", Julian laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Julian -", Donald starts. He doesn't need his bullshit now. "Really, Don, things couldn't be better. I've read that in my horoscope." He still smiles, a little crooked like he's holding something back, something big, and now Ressler's hand comes up to cup Julian's face. Again, the thought of just kissing him comes to mind, but they're so fragile, both of them, it would only leave them shattered for good. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke the thick stubble and he doesn't say a word. Julian closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and for a few precious moments, Donald can pretend they're happy. "Stay", Julian says and Donald freezes. Thinks he must have misheard Julian, who looks up now from where he kneels in front of Don's chair, his own hand leaving the blonde hair to rest at Don's jaw. "What?", he asks. It's more of a breath though, no sound escaping his lips. "I'm - yeah, I'm fucking pissed at you right now, but all of this... it - it doesn't change anything. Y'know, I still mean it." And they're so close still, and Donald has lost track of what's happening, and confused, he shakes his head. "What do you mean?", he asks. "Trondheim. Remember that?" He does. It was the beginning of March and so cold even the hotel room in New York with the broken heater seemed like a tropical vacation in comparison. It wasn't the first time they said I love you, but it was the first time they talked about the future. Before, they would stay in the moment, too afraid of letting go, of losing the other over naïve fantasies of a life together. That night though, they didn't need to be scared. "Whatever happens", Julian said, "I'll never walk away. How could I, huh? Guess I'm too far gone." He smiled, and so did Donald, pressing a kiss to Julian's collarbone. "Fifty years from now", Julian continued, "I'll still think of you. Every fucking day." That earned him a kiss on the lips, chaste and innocent and full of love like they've never experienced before. "Don't matter if you're still with me or not. You don't forget the love of your life, Donnie. I won't forget. Not us. Not this. Never. I could never let you go. Ever." But back then, Julian couldn't have imagined where they would end up one day. "It was different back then", Don says. Not because he doesn't want Julian's words to be true, but because he doesn't think himself worth them. "Yeah, it was", Julian answers, "but tell me you don't feel it still. Tell me, Donnie, and I'll let you go." Donald's answer is silence because, yes, of course he still feels it, that love that's deeper than any feeling he's ever known, deeper even than the shame and guilt and pain of the recent months, years, but doesn't Julian know that it's pointless? That Don's life is over? The silence stretches on and he can't hold

Julian's gaze. "I know", Julian says, "I know." And those words are enough to set him free, to liberate him from his cage of anger and self-pity and guilt and self-imposed punishment - he knows those won't go away anytime soon, but he still feels like breaking down, mercy too much to handle when he knows he's undeserving of forgiveness. He lets his head fall, knowing Julians hands are there to steady him. They do, cradling him like a newborn child, and in a way that might be true: maybe, somehow, this can be a new life, a new start for him; a clean slate. Maybe now, he can forget all of it, all the shit that happened, the person he was - the person he was forced to become --- maybe this is the one chance in life for rebirth. "I'm a mess", he says. "I know", Julian answers. "We can figure it out. Together." "You deserve better." "Shut it now, Donnie. I think I know best what I deserve, huh? I've given up everything for you, y'know, twice. You know what I think it is I deserve? Hm? What we deserve?" Donald looks up, feeling Julian's breath against his lips as much as the intensity of his gaze, those brown eyes so familiar in their depth it makes his heart ache. He wants to answer, say something, anything at all, but no words will leave his lips. He feels trapped there between Julian's closeness and the chair, but there's no place he'd rather be. He holds Julian's gaze for a few moments before shaking his head. "Peace, Donnie. I think we deserve peace after all this. Just a little, don't you think?" And that sounds good, far too good to be true, and he can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him. "Yeah", he says finally, voice constricting, "I want that. I want that, Julian." A smile is still tugging at the corners of his mouth when Julian kisses him, slow and unsure and not at all like the many kisses they used to share; it's like a first kiss, a promise for an uncertain future, a vow to try. To give it time and let wounds heal - they're all they have, after all. "You're not going to the police", Julian says as they part. "We will figure this out. Get you clean. And in fifty years we'll still be here, okay, I won't lose you again, I couldn't, couldn't bury you again, I'll ---" And as Donald kisses the doubts and fears away, for the first time in years he has the feeling that everything might turn out okay; that he might be deserving of happiness after all. That finally, finally he's home. _______________________________________

#the blacklist #donald ressler #julian gale #tbl fanfiction #mine #coming home #long post #(under the cut)

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