In the name of beer, loyalty and late night talks.

Chapter 1: Does it ever really make sense?

Ressler had an experated look on his face. Raymond couldn't blame him for being scared, agent's leg was looking like minced meat. From agent Ressler's point of view, they didn't have a way out. Raymond knew better.

Donald's hope was lost the moment Reddington locked them in that damned box. He was looking around franticly, loosing the little strenght he had left. Suddenly he felt Reddington draging a nail against the skin of his upper torso. When he looked down he had a sentance wrote in his own blood in neat cursive along the line of his colarbone.

Postquam perdidit, nunc invenitur.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Donald rasped out.
"When we get out of this, i'll tell you." Reddington grinned at him.
"You mean if." Donald corrected.
"Not if, Donald, when. I know what I said. You, of all people, should know I pick and choose my words with great care." Reddington countered.

"Come on, Red. Get out of the box. Or I'm gonna slaughter more people." Anslo tried to scare him out.
"I don't think that's a good idea. You, dear Anslo, along with your men, are now in my scopes. And I don't know if you remember me, but I hold the best military marksman title. I have been holding it for more that 20 years." A voice sounded trough the quiet facility. Raymond smiled at Anslo. Anslo's expression soured.
"Gibbs!" Anslo yelled. "Where the fuck are you?!"
"Somewhere you can't quite reach. Now, strip all your wepons down and put your hands behind your head, before I blow someone's brains out." Gibbs countered.
"No! If Red doesn't get out of that stupid box, I will blow someone's brains out!" Anslo yelled.

Cock.

Bang.

Saplatter.

"I won't repeat myself again Anslo."

And with that Anslo and his goons were putting away their wepons. A few moments later Donald was being helped back to his feet by Reddington. As soon as his bad leg made the smallest contact with the ground he howled in pain. That worried him like hell. Aram was also fussing over him. Reddington assesed the problem at hand.
"Don't worry. It hurts like a bitch, but if you lay off of it for a month or two it will be fine. Same thing happened to me, I can still walk. You're not supposed to walk right now tough."
"We can't get the ambulance inside!" Aram was worried.
"Didn't you get taught how to asses injuries like these without medical help?" Reddington cocked his head.
"I think it's just a military thing, Red." A man with gray hair and a shirt that had the first few buttons unbuttoned appeared.
"Why is your shirt unbuttoned, you brute?" Reddington chided.
"Well. I had a day off today. And I tought I'd sleep trough it, as one does when they strugle with insomnia. And I was sleeping when the emergency alarm went of. It woke me up and I wasn't really thinking about getting dressed properly." The man chided back.
"Good enough of an excuse." Reddington shruged. "Now, tell me, is it better if one of us carries him or if we do the thing where we both carry him?"
"I think one of us should carry him. Less of a chance you'll fuck up on your own, considering I'm still half asleep."
And with that Donald was being carried outside in a princess carry.

Later on Reddington was sitting next to him as he was laying in his hospital bed.
"What did the thing on Gibb's colarbone mean?" Ressler had noticed a tatoo streching across the blue eyed man's colarbone.
"Well. In nomine patri et fili spiritu sancte, means in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit. But Jethro and I both got In nomine cervisia, pietas et nupet nocte loquitur. Which means In the name of beer, loyalty and late night talks. We got it tatooed since most of the time in the military, he couldn't sleep so I would stay up with him and we'd drink beer. So, you know, as friends in the same branch of military do, we got matching tatoos." Donald couldn't imagine how close the two must be. Red was getting out of his chair, so Donald hurried to ask him the more important question.
"And the thing on my chest? What did that mean?"
"Once lost, now found." And with that Red was out of the room. Ressler really shouldn't have been suprised, the man probably did a background check on him. But it still hit him how good the phrase fit him. Because he was lost for a long time as a young man, but he found himself trough his work.
God damn it with Reddington and his poetic ways!
Ressler fell asleep with that tought swarming in his head.

Two weeks later, he was being let out. But with two crutches under his armpits, acording to the doctor. And they wouldn't let him out unless he had someone, preferably knowing what they're doing, stay with him to make sure he doesn't fuck his leg up more. He didn't wanna bother Aram, Samar and him weren't that close, and Keen would be too nosey.
God. I'm going to hate myself for this later.
Donald diled a number he was a bit too familiar with at this point. Reddington was the only other person he could think of, which probably should've been more alarming.
"Hello, agent Ressler. How may I be of asistance?" Red's voice sounded from the other side.
"They're letting me out today."
"And they won't let you out without someone to look after you. Of course. Give me ten minutes." And with that the line went dead.

When Red arrived it was alone. Dembe was out with his friends. One of the doctors started to explane to Red how he was to take care of Donald.
"Don't worry. I have been in the same situation myself. Lay off the leg for two weeks and than do exricises. From than on out." Red reassured the doctor. When did he start calling him Red?

Half an hour later they were getting out of the hospital. Ressler sat onto the passenger seat and Reddington onto the driver seat. Donald could swear that was the first time he saw the man drive on his own. Soon enough they were at Donald's apartment. When they entered the building, they realized that his apartment building didn't have a lift.
"Well, that's unfortunate. I'll teach you how to walk with those up the stairs, but not now." Red Reddington took his crutches and put Donald's hand over his neck and his own hand around Donald's waist. He hoisted him up and started helping him get up the stairs. Donald found it quite embaressing.
"I know it's hard now, but it get's easier."

Soon after he was laying on his bed. Reddington in turn was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, legs crossed indian style, reading one of his books. Which wasn't supposed to be that comforting, but it was. And Ressler wasn't a shrink, he wasn't going to hyperanalize his feelings because that wasn't his job. He was just going to bask in the comfortable feeling until it went away. It honestly felt a little like when he...was with...Audrey...before... Ok. Now, while he wasn't a shrink. He could tell how he was feeling. But this made no sense. How could it make sense that he was feeling like that around Raymond fucking Reddington! No. There was no way he was in love with him!
But than again.

Did love ever really make sense?