AN: You all knew this was coming. Enjoy the suffering and please leave a review. There will be two chapters- ch. 2 should be up very soon. Don't wanna leave you hanging too long.
It's been three months since he lost her.
Three months of grief, so deep, so visceral, dragging him and pulling, clinging to him like a blanket of pain and there wasn't much else now, just the little one and him, the little girl, strong like her a mother and beautiful, so so beautiful. Tom had left her behind, was too weak to cope, too selfish to sacrifice, and so he had taken her in, a ray of light and hope and a reminder that he had to be better, fight against the hatred threatening to break him once and for all, for her sake, for the love he had lost.
He had never stood a chance, the tiny finger wrapped around his, and that smile.
Agnes. A good name.
And now, reality.
He spends as much time with her as possible, has made a home for the two of them, carries her gently around the house and sways back and forth when she becomes fidgety and that does it, and he's done this before, has his remedies. She spends the days cradled against his chest, his voice filling the room. He tells her stories every night, tells her about her mother, what a strong and brave woman she was, their adventures, and it all sounds so simple, so exciting, so very long ago. Before his world shattered into pieces and you look just like her and she loves you very, very much. She stares back at him then and reaches for him and at least there's that, at least there's something he can hold on to, a kiss on her forehead and goodnight, sweet girl. The sound of her laughter when he tickles her cheek. To him, it's everything.
She is asleep in his bedroom, peaceful and safe, and it's late at night when he settles in front of the fireplace, allows himself a drink and the thought of her, he can't stop himself sometimes, and when he closes his eyes he can still feel her arms around his neck, unsteady breathing and the bullet, I could hear it, can still smell the perfume she wore that night at the embassy, can hear it loud and clear, ringing and ringing and ringing, Raymond, and her final breath, I do love...
He loves her, too. Always has. Can hardly stand it sometimes, the regret of not telling her, the regret of entering her life and shattering it. Ending it.
If things had only gone differently. If he could have saved her.
If it had been him.
He dreams about the moments in the ambulance every night, her hand on his cheek, too still, too cold, and the denial, it couldn't be and please don't go, Lizzie, don't leave me, not in this life, not in the next. His lips caressing her face, hoping for something to make it stop, to breathe life into her, to alleviate her wounds, and that's all he remembers now, her forehead against his, please, and his legs barely carrying him, and then silence. Unbearable silence.
And then the days after. Vengeance and rage and torture, blood on his hands and her name on his lips, because someone had to pay, because people had been responsible, and he needed her to come back, to wake up from this nightmare. He didn't attend the funeral, watched from afar and stood by her side that night, finally offering the one truth in his life. I do love you, Lizzie. He visits her grave on occasion, his eyes fixed on her name, and then his breathing becomes heavy, the injustice of it, the ache. He never stays more than a few minutes, can't really bear it, it isn't safe, but he needs to tell her. I miss you. The rest he keeps to himself, keeps the burden on his shoulders.
His thoughts overwhelm him and the alcohol burns, he's getting tired but it means nothing, he hasn't really slept in weeks. He tries to rest, tries to come up with a routine, something to take away the exhaustion but he knows it's in vain, that the memory is still too vivid. He expects her to call, to discuss a new case, to rest her head on his shoulder again, one last time, her hand in his. Mourning takes time, he knows that too, and this was them, this was special, the good times and the bad and I'm not going to let anything happen to you. That was then. It was a lie.
He empties the glass and lets the bitterness rest on his tongue, the same procedure every night, but he misses her and there's not much left of the man he used to be, the man she had made him. Someone who had allowed himself to believe in second chances. It doesn't seem to end, the constant hurt and how it lingers so persistently, unwavering in its intensity.
And now, there was nothing. Without her, there was nothing.
He rises from the couch, his bones heavy and aching and his heart broken, and there's a knock on the door and he barely registers, wouldn't have if not for the child and his pledge to protect her, and so he checks for his gun because he doesn't expect guests, because he doesn't want to see anyone, because barely anyone knows he's here.
His steps are unsteady and something is different, something feels off, and then his fingers encircle the doorknob and then familiar eyes stare back at him and it's cruel, it's brutal in its realness, this kind of illusion and detail, and the alcohol, it must have done this to him, because this can't be, because this just can't be.
And his fingers are trembling and he doesn't know what to do.
Because he is suffering. Because he can't live without her.
Because he doesn't understand. A terrified whisper.
"Lizzie?"
