So here is my second Summer hiatus story! When I finished The Raven, I got several requests to do a follow up chapter, but my mind was already in this story! This is a very different story for me. I hope you will be kind and forgive me if it feels different to my usual writing. As always, it's Ressler – this one even more than usual. This is an idea that got in my head and I couldn't get it out. So I decided it needed to be written. It's completely outside of my usual universe, though it does mention events from The Raven and Snowbound. (So when I restart Conversations in Season 3, none of this will have happened!)

So it's an idea I had that COULD happen in the show. It probably never will, but hey, what if it did?! So here it is. It starts six days after Liz ran, and the first chapter jumps through a few days here and there to set the scene, then it will follow each day from Day 43 onward.

Day 6

"Aram!" Ressler prompts him through his wrist mic as he halts on the street. "Where is she?!"

Eyes scanning the screens before him and darting up to the monitors, Aram is striving to comply with Ressler's request out in the field. He had eyes on their quarry, Ressler almost had her and now he's lost sight of her. "It's coming up now. I'm sorry, I'm accessing traffic cameras and-"

"Give me something!" Ressler is in no mood for apologies as he stands at the corner, panting after his pursuit. "Come on. Come on. Come on," he hisses, eyes darting around him for any sign of his quarry.

For any sign of Liz.

"Where is she?!" he yells again, gritting his teeth as he waits, scanning the road in either direction.

"Got her! Norfolk and Cordell!" Aram's voice is clear in his ear as Ressler takes off. He's on Del Ray. He's on the wrong damn street.

"Shit!" he curses, running toward Norfolk.

"She's moving!" Aram informs him again, "Turn left! She's passing in front of a Japanese restaurant!"

Ressler doesn't answer as he sprints, blue FBI jacket flying out behind him as he reaches Norfolk and turns left toward Cordell. Cars screech to a halt as he flies across the street, narrowly missing a mom wagon full of kids. He ignores the woman's cat calls as he dashes away from her. He doesn't have time to think about it right now.

Aram's voice is in his ear again over the sound of his harsh breathing as he runs. He really needs to get in better shape.

"She's crossing the street! Half way up Cordell!"

He's gaining on her. Turning in a wide arc he flies around the corner, eyes scanning the pedestrians half way up the block. He doesn't see her at all.

"Oh no, I lost her again!" Aram calls out to him. "I'm sorry, there are holes in the camera cover," he explains, but Ressler isn't listening. Running as fast as he can, he dashes along the footpath as pedestrians scatter. She is nowhere in sight.

"Shit!" She can't be far.

And as if in slow motion, in stark contrast to his mad dash up the street, he suddenly sees her as she exits a store and steps calmly onto the footpath. It's only been six days, yet it feels so much longer since he's looked at her. Hair lightly wafting around her face, she is the picture of grace, her white soft blouse billowing lightly around her in the breeze. He suddenly halts his frantic pace, and can't take his eyes off her as she dons her sunglasses.

"Got her! You're almost there!" Aram informs him, completely breaking his train of thought. He's well aware he's almost there. He can see her.

She turns along the footpath away from him and resuming his run he flies across the street toward her as she walks. She hasn't seen him, he's sure of that.

"Oh my-! Agent Ressler!"

The warning cry comes too late. Something hard impacts with him, buckling his knees as he crashes to the ground to the screech of brakes. A chrome bumper fills his vision as his head slams hard on the asphalt. Startled, he doesn't know what's happened for a second or two. Until the searing pain comes from his head and right knee simultaneously. He's been hit by a car. Shouts erupt around him as the traffic stops in the street. And above him, faces surround his field of view as hands reach for him.

"Oh my God! Are you okay?!" a voice cries out.

"Call an ambulance!" someone yells nearby.

Aram is frantically calling in his ear. "Agent Ressler! Are you okay?!"

Unable to answer any of them with the wind completely knocked out of him he simply pants, trying to take a bigger breath.

The woman driver is hysterical, her hands to her plump face as she looks down at the FBI agent. "I didn't see him! Oh, sweet Jesus! I didn't see him!"

"Help… me up..." he pants as hands comply and gently raise him to a sitting position.

"Sir, an ambulance is on its way!"

Ressler is aware of them, but his focus is elsewhere. Further up the street, Liz has turned at the commotion. His distinctive reddish blonde hair above the blue FBI jacket is immediately recognizable.

As she turns in his direction, her eyes widen in response.

"Ressler!"

His heart leaps in his chest at the sound of her voice. Ressler can only try and gasp for air as arms support him. Behind the Good Samaritan nearest to him, he spots Liz. She is running.

But this time she is running toward him.

"Liz," he whispers as his lungs remember how to breathe. She is almost at the accident scene when a black car pulls up beside her. "No!" he gasps.

"Agent Ressler!" Aram is still yelling at him. "Oh, my God!"

"Are you okay, sir?!" A man is in his face, but Ressler ignores them all as he watches Liz.

Arms reach for her, stopping her headlong flight toward him. Ressler knows immediately who is with her. The fedora gives it away as Reddington pulls her with him toward the car. But she's fighting Red, pointing in his direction. His view is momentarily blocked and Ressler can no longer see what's happening. All he hears is Liz shouting again.

"Ressler!"

And then the black car is gone. Reddington has come at the last second and swept her away again.

The sound of ambulance sirens fill the air and Ressler feels himself dropping down again as everything suddenly sways alarmingly. Arms gently lay him on the road as faces block out the blue sky above him.

"I really didn't see him. He was just suddenly there!" The woman is crying hard as a young woman tries to comfort her.

"Agent Ressler. Oh, my God. Agent Ressler, please answer!" Aram's voice is still in his ear.

He finally manages to lift his left arm and speak into the mic. "I lost her."

Around them, the ambulance has pushed its way through and come to a halt beside him. But all he can see is the image of Liz. Soft and feminine as her hair gently moves in the light breeze as she places her sunglasses on her face.

"Liz…" he whispers, as a medic shines a light in his eyes.

###

As he leaves the ER, Aram and Samar are waiting for him. He hasn't asked them to come, but they've come anyway to drive him home. At the sight of him being wheeled through the wide hospital doors in a wheelchair, Aram springs from the driver's seat as Samar walks around from the other side of the car.

"Oh my god! Agent Ressler! Will you ever walk again?!"

Despite the pain in his head, Ressler regards Aram and shakes his head in mild amusement.

"Oh, my gosh!"

"I think I can manage, thanks," Ressler tells the nurse, before climbing slowly to his feet, favoring his heavily strapped right knee.

"It's a miracle," smiles Samar, patting Aram on the arm.

"Right, okay, yeah, they have to wheel you out of the ER in the… got it," Aram stammers.

Ressler positions himself carefully in the front passenger seat, which is no mean feat since he can barely bend his knee.

Samar leans down to him as she helps him find his seatbelt. "You do like to live dangerously, don't you?"

Ressler grimaces. "Something like that, yeah."

"We'll take you home, and I suggest you take all the time off that the doctor in there ordered."

"It's just a damn knee sprain. It looks worse than it feels," or so he tells himself. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are," Samar tells him with a grin as Aram pulls out onto the street.

Ressler only half hears what she says next as his mind floods with the number of times Liz has told him that same thing. And leaning his head on the headrest, he closes his eyes against the bright streetlights that are currently burning holes right through his skull.

###

"Why didn't they give you crutches?" Samar asks, as she and Aram ably assist their limping Acting Director up to his apartment on the 4th floor.

"They prescribed them. I don't need them." His arm is over Aram's shoulder while Samar walks on his other side and throws him a disparaging look.

"Perhaps it's escaped your attention that you're currently leaning all over our resident computer geek in order to walk."

Ressler can't think of much to say to that. She does have a point. "I just need a good night's sleep," he informs them as he fishes his keys out of his pocket, supporting himself on his good leg and the doorframe.

"I don't think a few hours' sleep is going to cure THAT," Samar tells him, pointing to the elaborate brace that's strapping his right knee in place.

It's his turn to throw her the look.

As he opens the door and flips on the light, a small scruffy dog looks up at the trio, tail wagging furiously, beady eyes fixed on Ressler.

"Whoa!" Aram exclaims.

"I didn't know you had a dog," Samar echoes

Ressler looks at Hudson. "I don't."

###

Two hours later, Ressler is following doctors' orders. Almost. His leg is elevated while he's propped up on the bed, but he's not icing it. Mainly because he has no ice. A fact that has left his water rather lukewarm and naked. He is also out of beer. Which is probably just as well the way his concussed head is feeling.

A small square of paper is in his hand. The prescription he was handed as he was discharged from the ER, despite his protests. It's for 30 Oxy Contin. He's not going to fill it though. No damn way. And sick of looking at it and the memories it has stirred; he tosses it on his bedside table.

Ressler moves uncomfortably as his knee throbs in unison with his head. He's tried to sleep a few times, but it's not happening. Not with the double whammy of the pain in his head and a brain that won't let go of today's events. He's gone over the pursuit in his mind repeatedly and always comes back to Liz stepping out of the doorway. And it's certainly not lost on him that he was so preoccupied with looking AT her that he lost her.

If he hadn't have plowed into the car, he'd have got her. If she'd come in he could have helped her. But he doesn't yet have any evidence to clear her name, so it's a moot point. Does he only want her to come in for…personal reasons? He can't go there though.

She had been so close. SO damn close. Had almost reached him when Reddington whisked her out of the line of fire, so to speak. And yet as much as he wants her to come in, he begrudgingly acknowledges that Reddington is the only one who can protect her right now.

And so the cycle begins again as the two scenarios battle for prime position in his restless brain. And an hour later, the only consolation he has found is that the criminal was simply carrying out his protective duty today on the street.

Leaning over, he flips off the bedside lamp and throws a blanket over himself. He'll try to sleep again, though it's a futile exercise. Just as his eyes close and he settles back on several pillows propping up his shoulders and throbbing head, his phone rings.

"Damn." It's 12:39am. No one calls at this hour. He considers letting it ring, but he can't.

"Ressler," he answers tiredly.

"Ress."

He sits more upright in the bed, ignoring the flare of pain across his knee and head. "Liz."

"I can't talk long. I just wanted… just needed to see if you're okay. Are you…?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Banged up my knee. Got another concussion for the collection."

"But you're okay?"

He's not okay. Not even close. "Yeah, I'm fine." He knows she can't stay long. "Liz, come in. Please come in. Tell me where-"

"I can't. I have to go. I'm glad you're okay," she quickly tells him before the line goes dead.

It's the same feeling as a week ago. And here she is again, hanging up on him and still making him do this. His eyes close, but not in rest.

"Dammit, Liz," he whispers, slowly lowering the phone from his ear.

There is no chance of finding sleep after that. None at all.

###

Day 7

Ressler has finally found something good about having his own driver assigned to him. Despite doctors' orders that he not drive, he doesn't have to. All he needs to do is have his driver come get him.

Fifteen minutes later he's sitting in the passenger seat of the black SUV as his hand feels the square of paper in his pocket. "Pull in up here," he tells his driver who gives him a nod and complies without question.

He doesn't go to Hawthorne Pharmacy. He's well and truly worn out his welcome there with the woman who could fry an egg with one look. Exiting the car he limps to the pharmacy on his cane. The fact he's back on the cane is annoying the hell out of him. But at least he can get around and get to work.

As he hands over the prescription to the pharmacist, she asks for his ID, checks his driver's license and proceeds to fill the order. No questions asked. And seven minutes later a white bag is handed to him, containing a blue bottle of 30 Oxy. Discarding the bag in the trash can he then slips the bottle into his right pocket. For a moment he stands there leaning on his cane, feeling the bottle of pills in his pocket. The roller coaster has fired up and is moving slowly out onto the tracks. It doesn't mean he's going to jump on it though. And trying to shake the feeling off, he limps back outside and resumes his journey to the Post Office.

As the elevator opens he steadies himself on his cane and walks through the war room. He's not first in today. Aram and Samar turn from the board – the board with Liz's picture on it – to see him hobbling down toward them.

"What the… You really shouldn't be here," Samar tells him, walking toward him. She studies him as she stands closer. His eyes are red from pain and lack of sleep. "As a matter of fact, you look like hell. Sir." She emphasizes the 'sir'. Yet it's done in friendship, not disrespect. He knows she's having as much trouble adjusting to the fact he's now their boss as he is.

But she's right. He does look like hell and it's not just the lack of sleep, pain in his knee and the throbbing headache. It has a lot to do with the fact he has a bottle of pain pills in his right pocket. They're sitting there burning a hole in his pocket. He's sure everyone can see them. That everyone knows.

"Thank you," he tells her sarcastically, taking a step toward his office.

"You should be home resting," she tells him, standing before him with arms folded.

He gives her the look. Liz would be so proud. "I'm fine."

"Right." She steps aside to let him through as he continues to his office. "You know, crutches would still have been better," she calls to his back as he's walking away.

"I don't need them."

###

Day 10

Three days later Ressler discards the cane after the swelling in his knee drops considerably. The doctor advises him to start some light physical therapy. Just some gentle stretching and bending, while keeping a light compression sleeve on. But this doctor obviously didn't see Ressler as he was recovering after his shattered thigh.

Ressler doesn't do light physical therapy. It's not in nature, but he does acquiesce and put a compression sleeve on. And after a few test stretches in his apartment, he slips into running shoes and makes his way down to the street. It's evening, and by the light of the streetlights he begins to jog down his block. And realizes almost immediately that's a mistake. Pain flares in his knee at each jar of his foot on the pavement. And pulling up at the end of his block he stands, holding onto a light pole, panting hard.

"Shit." He has a long way to go before getting back in shape. It's too soon. The damn doctor is right after all. He leans on the lamp post for a couple of minutes, waiting for the pain to subside somewhat. He can already feel it swelling again, but perhaps that's his imagination. Flexing his leg a little he turns and walks back to his apartment. The steps give him some grief, but he's stubborn - as he's been told a thousand times - and makes it back upstairs.

Hudson is waiting behind the door as he opens it. "Yeah..." he says to the dog, "Someone didn't listen to the doc." The dog happily wags his tail at his voice, oblivious to the pain Ressler is in.

And hobbling past the little animal who falls in right behind him as he walks, he heads for the freezer for some ice to dump on his aching knee. And it's while he's sitting with his leg propped up on the couch covered in a bag of ice that his brain betrays him. It suddenly won't let him stop thinking of the 30 Oxy in the bathroom cabinet. He's resisted till now and it's been surprisingly not that difficult. But now his brain is making up for lost time, apparently.

He ignores it, keeps the ice on his knee and gets no sleep that night.

###

Day 21

Ressler has barely been at the Post Office for three minutes when he sees Reven Wright step out of the elevator. He's at the board, looking at the photos of Liz, the body of Tom Connolly, a photo of Reddington, and not much else. In three weeks, they've got very little to go on. There have been leads, but none have panned out.

He hasn't seen or heard from Liz since the night she called him after the car hit him. The fact she knows how to contact him but he doesn't know her number or location chips away at him. Reven Wright approaches as he stands at the board. He knows any second now she will call him away for a status report.

"Good morning, Agent Ressler. If you have a moment, I thought you might give me an update on where we are in the case."

Nailed it. "Yes ma'am."

She turns toward the staircase and he follows, feeling Samar and Aram's eyes burning into his back as he follows the woman. They know he has nothing new to report.

Inside Cooper's office – he refuses to call it his office – she sits at the desk as he stands before her.

"Anything new?" she asks, getting right to the point.

He shakes his head a little. "Not really. We did get some intel three days ago that Reddington had been seen just outside Paris, but by the time we arrived there was no sign of him. Or them, if Keen is with him.

"Are we still under the assumption that she is?" she asks, leaning back in the chair.

"We have no reason to believe otherwise. We have always believed it was Reddington who cut the power and facilitated her escape from here. We have to assume he will still go to any lengths to protect her," he reports, maintaining his FBI mask, yet hoping like hell Reddington is doing just that.

"So not much has changed. The press is having a field day with this, wanting the murderer of the Attorney General brought to justice. They can't believe we have nothing."

Ressler is well aware of the media coverage. It's died down somewhat compared to the first week, but he still can't bring himself to watch the reports when they come on. He drops his head and looks away.

"How sure are you that you can apprehend her?" she asks him.

It's a question he asks himself every day, but not in the same context as Reven Wright is asking now. He doesn't know. But in truth, he does know. He's positive that if he can't bring her in without evidence to clear her he will send her back to his silent partner in crime, Raymond Reddington.

He doesn't tell her that he spoke to her 15 days ago. That she had run toward him the day he was hit by the car. It wasn't picked up on the traffic camera feed. Something he had not believed when Aram steadfastly informed him of that fact. But he'd let it ride.

"I still believe we're the best team to achieve that goal. We know her. We know Reddington and some of his contacts. She's not going to get far and we will bring her in to face the charges." It's the right answer for the Acting Director to give. And he sounds pretty convincing.

"I don't think I need to remind you that your previous task force failed to bring in Reddington."

She doesn't. He simply looks at her and does not reply.

###

He's not sleeping well. At best he gets two hours a night, usually in spurts of 30 minutes here and there. Sleep has become his own personal battle ground. One of many he's been fighting since Liz ran three weeks ago. One that reached a new level on the night she called him and he lay awake all night staring at the ceiling.

It's been 11 days since he attempted to go running. He feels confident that he's waited long enough, that he's actually complied with a doctor for once and has done the required stretching and rehab each day. He changes into track pants instead of jeans and grabs his running shoes. Time for the feet to hit the pavement. Or the shit to hit the fan. One of the two.

Sitting in his living room, he puts his shoes on and flexes his knee. So far, so good. Hudson watches, eyes and ears alert to Ressler's every move. Ressler grabs his keys and opens the door to exit as Hudson sits expectantly just inside the door

"You wanna come?" he asks the little dog.

Hudson bounds out the door. Of course he does.

"Then don't complain to me if you can't make it back on those little legs."

And with his little shadow beside him, Ressler goes down in the elevator, out onto the street and toward the park several blocks away. It's night, around 11pm and cool after the warmth of the day. Testing the waters he jogs down the block, noting with satisfaction that his knee holds firm with very little pain.

He also notices that Hudson keeps up perfectly with him. Giving the dog a small smile, he jogs the rest of the way to the park and the two of them enter the gates and find the wide park footpath. And together the unlikely duo run under the park lights on a cool summer night. Ressler on long, lean legs that eat up the pavement. And Hudson, as fast as his little legs will carry him.

And for that brief moment in time, Ressler's brain is absorbed in the task of putting one foot in front of the other without straining his knee and doesn't dwell on the fact he's been sent out to hunt down his best friend.