Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters depicted in this work of fanfiction. I am making no profit from this work.
THE TEARS I GAVE YOU
The Burden Of Blame
She must try it, he'd told her. It was fabulous stuff. Every sense aware of being, every nerve ending and sparking synapse being there and alive. It was glorious. She had loved it, of course. They had lain together for hours, aware of themselves and each other; observing with naked stares the way their bodies, much thinner than when they had first come together, contrasted and complimented each other. She traced his tattoos, he caressed her scar. They told each other they were made for each other, they'd never be apart. They'd go out for dinner that night and celebrate the fact they were together, like they used to.
They'd have a sleep, sober up and get out of the apartment for a night. He knew the maitre d' at the swanky restaurant just a quarter of an hour's walk away from the apartment. He told himself they were making progress, getting back to themselves at long last; they would soon leave this mess behind and move on again. As with all things it would take them time, but they had each other to lean on.
Red slept soundly. He hadn't noticed when Lizzie had left the bed, waking to find nothing but cool sheets beside him. He listened for her movements but heard nothing, just the infernal ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece in the living room; he could never understand how such a small clock could make such racket. He stretched his tired frame, bones creaking, and hefted himself out of the bed; though tired the fresh promise of the future revitalised his will. He'd invite Dembe back soon, so he could see that they were both fine; he knew his friend had been worrying, probably moreso since Red had been ignoring any messages enquiring after their health, only showing an uncharacteristically vague interest in how the investigations were going. He had the presence of mind to know it wasn't like him to care so little about so much; he'd downsized his business hugely after Berlin in order to protect himself and what he was left with should have been precious to him. He slipped into a pair of rumpled linen trousers, ignoring the way they hung loosely at his hips, and padded unsteadily out of the bedroom, stopping in the kitchen for a glass of water. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his lockbox open, the top tray removed and the contents strewn across the kitchen table. He fought to remember just what he kept in the bottom of the box and performed a quick inventory. He called out to her, thinking she might be in the bathroom. No answer. Perhaps she went out? She wasn't usually drinking this early. Feeling as though something wasn't right he cleared the mess on the table and drained his glass, refilling it before heading into the living room. He dropped the glass at the sight that welcomed him, only vaguely aware of the pain in his foot caused by a particularly vicious shard.
She lay still, sprawled face-down across the sofa in nothing but her underwear, her skin tinged with blue. She wasn't moving. He rushed over to her, falling heavily to his knees and frantically listening for any sign of her breathing, pulling her eyes open to find them glassy and unresponsive. It took a moment to realise the strangled sounds he heard were coming from him. He couldn't breathe, panic rendering him unable to do anything but demand she wake up, denying the reality of what she had done to herself and to him. She couldn't leave him, he reasoned, unless there was something making her do it. His Lizzie was stronger than this. His eyes scanned the apartment for any signs of foul play but there were none. He gathered himself enough to turn her over on to her back, trying to put from his mind how cold and clammy her skin felt, and ensured she lay in a dignified way despite being dressed in nothing but her underwear. He fished his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the residue of bile and foam from around her mouth, sweeping her hair away from her face, observing her in the deathly silence of their home. He dropped a final, chaste kiss on her forehead and, hopeless, rested his head on her chest, allowing silent tears to track down his face and on to her skin. This was his doing.
Numbly, he reached under the coffee table and pulled the burner phone from where it was taped, not needing to watch his fingers as he dialled for Kaplan – number 2 on his speed dial. He cleared his throat as the phone rang, keeping his voice as even and calm as possible as he relayed the address of their apartment. Kaplan was silent for a moment before asking him to clarify the address again, something she'd never done; he said it again, let the implication hang in the silence down the line and then hung up. He tossed the phone on to the floor beside him, feeling another wave of sorrow building, and picked himself up. He moved back into the kitchen and rifled through the bottom of the lock box, the top tray thrown aside without thought.
Once he had found what he was looking for he returned to the living room, leaving a bloody footprint in his wake, and sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. Tapping the full syringe, a certain overdose, against his leg as he considered the fallout from this decision. There would be no note, no heartfelt final wishes. He'd seen fit to change his will months before all this began. He trusted in Dembe and Mr Kaplan to take care of his affairs. He reached back to pull one of her icy hands over his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze – for himself – as he injected himself with the clear liquid, settling back to welcome the cold embrace of Morpheus.
