#@hoffmannism

It’s the way Julian looks at him that drives Ressler absolutely crazy. 

Here they are, in a room full of bodies, people murdered in cold blood, murders for which he is - partially - responsible. And Julian looks. Not like it doesn’t matter that they’re surrounded by death and they have a responsibility - a job to do. No, more like he’s genuinely glad that Ressler is there at all. Like he cares. 

There’s this goddamn half-smirk that’s tugging at the corner of Julian’s mouth, and then he casts the briefest glance at Ressler’s lips. Something stirrs in Don’s stomach that wasn’t there the moment before. Something comes back up, something long forgotten, old memories, buried under everything that’s happened since the Reddington-taskforce was dissolved; familiar feelings flicker through his chest, a warmth - tight and scary and making him absolutely giddy and it’s like he’s a teenager again or the Donald Ressler seven years ago, full of yearning and butterflies and love. 

He thought it had disappeared over the time. Slowly and steadily. Replaced by anger and bitterness and work. 

But it’s all in vain, he knows. No need to try, no need for further humiliation. It’s all in vain and he’s still the old fool, the hopeless romantic, the blind coward, searching for safe, steady footing. He’s the child with the bucket of paint, in a world that prefers black-and-white. He’s the flickering light that melts the wax and burns the fingers, but Julian is the breath that ends him with a smiled “Good night”.