So this story is kinda late for me. It's been some time since we saw Liz die, leaving Ressler securing the scene and helping Red out of there. I was asked if I'd ever consider writing how Ressler coped with her death (if he hadn't have been in on it, as I'd written in Conv3). And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to tell that story. it won't be a long one, maybe three or four chapters. Hope you enjoy!
If Donald Ressler had known four hours ago what he knew now, he'd never have left the Post Office. If he'd felt even a hint of the pain inside him, he'd have stayed and talked with Liz more. So much more. And not just today. Every day since she'd been exonerated. Every day since they'd spent the night huddled together in the jail cell. He'd taken care of her that night and been her rock. He'd dodged a bullet so close it could have parted his hair. He'd protected her as her partner and friend. Just as he should have done today when she needed him more than ever. But they hadn't made it in time. In a rush of red and blue and sirens blaring, they failed to intercept her before she could reach the hospital. He never reached her side in time, failing her as she lay dying in a white van as gunfire sounded around her. Amid the frantic effort of her doctor and Reddington's pleas, she passed from this earth and slipped away on a lonely street.
Just like Audrey.
Pulling his jacket back on, Ressler watches Reddington's car disappear over the hill, safe from the police and reporters overhead. A broken man who had collapsed at the heartbreak of losing Liz. Holding his thoughts on Reddington he walks, mind whirling as his heart hammers in his chest. It's hard to breath. Ahead, his SWAT team are checking bodies, kicking away firearms and securing the scene as he walks steadily, light jacket blowing in the breeze.
He needs to tell Samar that Liz is gone and waits until she notices him, before his hand finds her back and leads her toward their SUV. And the words are foreign to him. It's his voice, but it's as if someone else is speaking. Because the words cannot be true.
"Samar," he begins, swallows then continues, "Liz… She didn't make it," he says, his voice thick and heavy with the effort. "She's dead." And he can't look at Samar and steps away, taking in the words himself. She cannot be dead. But she is. It's Samar's strangled sob that catches his ears and he turns back to her, startled at her breakdown. She's stronger than this. He catches her flailing hand and holds it in his, hesitating a moment before wrapping his arms around her. No matter what has gone on between them in the past, right now she needs him. She needs comfort.
And so does he. Closing his eyes against the truth of Liz's passing he holds a shaking Samar to him. She hasn't asked what happened. She doesn't need to yet. All that matters is the heartbreaking truth that Liz will never walk this earth again. She will never smile. Never sweep her hair back as she turns. And never hold and cuddle her newborn baby girl.
"She… she can't be," Samar sobs, to which he whispers, over and over that she is. Because a whisper is all he can manage. "She is…" he utters again, and it's not only Samar that he's convincing. They cling to each other, oblivious to the armed SWAT guys working the scene and the faint chop of helicopter blades above them. For this one moment, they can pause and be human amid the bodies and blood of a crime scene.
Samar pulls her arms from around him, touches his chest and with mascara stained cheeks, looks at him through red rimmed eyes. "I can't even imagine how…how YOU feel," she sniffs, squeezing his upper arm. "I'm sorry. I know you care for her."
Yes, he does. Did. Don't go there, he admonishes himself.
"Come on," he tells her, guiding her to the SUV and opening the passenger door for her. Still sniffing, Samar climbs into the vehicle, reaching into the glove box for a tissue. Holding it against her face she rocks forward.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, without needing to. "I can't believe she's…"
Nor can he. They'd tried so hard to reach Reddington's ambulance and were too late. If he'd been a few minutes earlier. Maybe just two minutes and he wouldn't have lost another woman on a roadway.
"Agent Ressler."
He doesn't hear the man. Not when his heart is hammering in his chest against the tight restriction of Kevlar, almost suffocating him, yet years of training won't let him remove it. Not even now when Solomon is long gone, Dembe has driven Reddington away and the perps are dead, their bodies littering the road in puddles of congealing blood.
Because they're not the bodies he's thinking about. Nameless, gun wielding goons obeying Solomon are no cause for concern and barely rate a fleeting glance. Not when Liz lies dead in the back of a van some 50 feet from him.
Another breath catches in his throat. A throat he can barely swallow past, with the pain of suppressing the tears that want to come. That need to fall, but he will not allow them to break that boundary. Because he'll fall with them, and he must stay on his feet.
"Agent Ressler." The man is closer now as Ressler turns to face the black garbed SWAT agent, assault rifle slung across his chest. "We counted four dead. Where do you want us to-"
"We have 5 dead," Ressler hisses, eyes rising again to the Coroner's van on the other side of the bridge. His voice thick, fighting against the constriction in his throat he continues, not giving the man a glance. "Just take care of these 4. You know what to do."
"Yes, sir." And if the agent didn't know what to do, there is no way he's asking the lead agent again. Not with the look in Ressler's eyes.
With a glance to Samar as she sits subdued in the passenger seat, Ressler walks away from the SUV and the SWAT agent. There is something he needs to do. Purposefully he walks toward the coroner's van, sidestepping the bodies and abandoned vehicles as he does so. A gust tugs at his jacket as the first small drops of rain are carried to him on the wind. On wooden legs, breathing through lungs threatening to burst he picks up the pace, breaking into a jog at the sight of the body bag on the gurney.
The body bag that contains Liz.
Liz with her smile and brunette hair. Liz who'd he'd spoken to mere hours before, telling her he'd be there if he could. But not for this. For her wedding. Not her death. Liz who was supposed to be married now and off on her honeymoon in Aram's uncle's car, dragging those stupid tin cans on strings behind it.
"Damn it…no," he whispers, before steeling himself and refusing to let those thoughts come forward either. "No." He can't go there, gritting his teeth against the emotion.
But as he passes the white van, doors still open at the rear, all he can see is Reddington at her side grasping her pale, dead hand, leaning down and kissing her forehead. The man devastated and lost as part of him died with Liz. But it's too raw and once again with an effort Ressler buries it. He must concentrate on others wellbeing. He cannot give into his own feelings. To do so will render him useless.
Yet still he must see her, even at the risk of what that may do to him. Striding beyond the van and its echo of death and tears, he catches up with the gurney as Nik and Mr Kaplan are preparing to load her into the coroner's van.
The woman raises her beaked nose to view him over her small glasses. "You shouldn't be here, dearie," she tells him.
He doesn't answer. Of course he shouldn't be here. Oh course he shouldn't be standing by Liz's lifeless body. His hand, almost of its own accord, reaches for the black bag. It's thick under his skin, cool to his touch. He can't see her face under the plastic, yet his hand rests on her forehead.
Mr Kaplan's hand finds his arm, squeezing just a little. "I'm sorry," she tells him. "Elizabeth…she…"
And the sentence is left hanging as Ressler shakes his head, cradling her forehead through the bag. But he needs to see her for himself. Not with Reddington cradling her hand and collapsed at her side. Just for him. One last look upon her. But he can't find the words in a throat that has almost closed against the ache as his eyes slide to Mr Kaplan's sympathetic smile.
"You'd like to see her," Mr Kaplan says softly, dropping her hand and unzipping the bag slowly for him. "I understand."
And as she folds the black plastic back Liz's pale skin comes into view, causing his tears to make their best attempt yet to break free. Yet still he manages to hold them in check with a grit of his teeth, blinking rapidly. Under the threatening rain, soft almost imperceptible drops of rain moisten her white cheek. Like gentle tears from Heaven, he thinks, telling himself not to go there either. Dark hair falls across her forehead as his finger gently touches it, easing it back into place for her. She always keeps – kept – her hair so well. And suddenly he's leaning down to her, his lips brushing her forehead as he softly kisses her.
No response from her. No soft smile. No eyes flickering open at his touch. Beside his heart that threatens to break, hers is silent and still. Its job done, its last beat has seen her through her life to now lie at rest inside her chest. She's gone.
Mr Kaplan's hand pats his back as he raises again, gazing at Liz and still cradling her forehead in his hand, needing to imprint this final view of her in his brain. To hold onto her. To remember how serene she is with unmoving dark lashes upon the satin skin of her cheek.
"I need to take her now," Mr Kaplan tells him as Nik comes into view, hovering behind her again. With a nod to the woman Ressler doesn't wait for the body bag to be closed again. That he cannot see. He must focus on her lying at peace among the chaos that surrounds him. As he turns away, Mr Kaplan calls softly to him. "She's free now, dearie. In a better place."
Eyes drawn down to the grey road surface, he chokes out, "Tell that to her newborn child." And not waiting for an answer, he leaves Mr Kaplan to load Liz into the coroner's van. The sound of the zipper reaches his ears, but he does not turn. He's seen all he needed see. He's kissed her and sent her on her way, leaving him alone on a roadway beside her lifeless body. And so his feet begin their slow walk to the underpass where the white van is parked.
"I'll take care of her, dearie" Mr Kaplan calls out, and at that he does glance back to her, giving her a thankful nod. There is some small comfort in that fact. Like Reddington, he doesn't trust Liz with anyone else.
Around him, the SWAT guys have done their job and loaded the bodies. Only the blood on the roadway signifying that death occurred here. Yet the hardest death of all shed no blood, taking place in a makeshift ambulance. She should never have been in that position. Should never have been in that danger. And he's stopped without realizing beside the van. Empty now. No gurney, no medical equipment, and no dead woman with a distraught criminal at her side. Behind him, the coroner's van starts up, taking her away from him. He resists the urge to turn and watch her slip further away and continues on his way, coming out from the underpass as he approaches their SUV.
A handful of armed men still guard the scene, as the leader turns to him as Ressler approaches. "We've secured the scene, and the transport is enroute to pick up these vehicles," the agent tells him, nodding to the parked utility vehicle complete with bazooka in the rear bed. With a nod to the team leader, Ressler passes him silently, intent now on just getting the hell out of here.
As he pulls open the door of the SUV and climbs in, he leans back for a moment feeling the headrest behind his head, exhaling heavily before leaning forward to start the engine.
"You okay?" Samar asks, sniffing as she dabs her eyes.
No, he's not okay. "I'm fine," he manages without a sideward glance then starts the engine, falling in behind the armored Hummer as it heads out. And turning the SUV around in the street, he leaves the underpass and its empty white van behind him, where in the dark confines of it Liz breathed her last breath, leaving the earth and those who loved her in her wake.