Ric slept very fitfully, unable to stop thinking about what he'd done, and the consequences it might have on his relationship with Connie. He had expected her to have been blisteringly angry with him. He had thought that he would be treated to one of her displays of the legendary Beauchamp wrath, or the proverbial cold shoulder if he'd succumbed and joined her in bed. He hadn't actually planned to do this if she hadn't been up, he would have slept on the sofa, leaving both the argument and her disgust to wait until morning. But she hadn't been in bed, she'd been up waiting for him, and not with the expected loathing on her face, but with her equivalent of tea and sympathy. She had taken him to bed with her, cuddled him close to her, as though she really did still care about him.
But how could she, he asked himself again and again? How could she not well and truly despise him for giving in like the weak, pathetic addict he was? He certainly cursed himself for his weakness, feeling physically sick at the thought of what he'd done. He felt bad, loathsome, despicable, all the things that must surely make Connie want to be as far away from him as possible.
Why did he have to do it, he thought as he lay there? Why did he have to give into what his father's bloodline had thrust upon him? His father's genes were in him, coursing through his veins right now. What he really wanted, he realised with absolute clarity, was to get his father's genetic disposition out of his psyche once and for all. To see his father's blood gradually dripping out of him, that would make him feel finally free.
When Connie awoke in the morning, he was still sleeping, though obviously not in any way restfully. After taking a shower and getting ready for work, Connie sat down on the side of the bed and began stroking his face. Groaning with appreciation, Ric turned onto his back and dazedly looked up at her. "How are you feeling?" Connie asked him, a nagging thought telling her that she really shouldn't be leaving him on his own. "Erm, numb," He said after a moment's thought, having wanted to say dead, but also thinking that this wasn't the best way to reassure her. "Will you be all right till I get home this evening?" She asked tenderly, running her hand through his tousled hair. Pulling her down to lie on his chest, he put his arms round her, and nuzzled his face into her neck, taking in the familiar aroma of her perfume. "I'm sorry," He said, meaning it with every fibre of his being. "Shh, I know," Connie replied softly, gently pressing her lips on his. She tasted of toothpaste as he kissed her back, and he wanted it to go on and on and on. "I wish you could come back to bed," he said in that gravelly voice that always turned her on at a moment's notice. Connie laughed huskily. "Well, I can't," She said, clearly teasing him. "Though I can't say that the proposition isn't very inviting." Deepening their kiss, Ric brought one of his hands round to tease at her left breast, feeling her nipple rise in response even under her blouse and bra. "Keep on doing things like that," Connie said in her low, husky drawl. "And you will force me to do what I've never, ever done in my life, and call in sick." "Go on," Ric encouraged her with a smirk. "I dare you." "The challenge," Connie replied between kisses. "Will be going to work, and not thinking about your advances until I get home this evening. At which point," She continued silkily. "I intend to make up for my last few days of abstinence." "Is that a threat or a promise?" Ric said just as silkily. "Oh, a promise, without a doubt," She assured him. "But now, Mr. Griffin, I need to go to work. So, do you promise me to stay out of trouble until I get home?" "I don't make promises, Connie," he told her soberly. "Okay," Connie said understandingly. "Just try, that's all I ask."
Ric dropped off back to sleep when she'd gone, slipping in and out of dreams of his childhood, combined with the bitter realities of what he'd done as an adult. When he eventually tore himself from their clinging grasp, he had tears in his eyes. He hadn't woken from a dream like this for years, crying almost like a baby because of his own pathetic failures. Throwing the duvet aside, he crossed to the bathroom and switched on the shower. As he stood under the hot spray, the droplets of water were able to hide his tears, and allow him to calm down a little, and for his plan to emerge from the depths of his thoughts of the night before. He still felt that need, that instinct to get his father's blood out of him for good. He knew it was completely irrational, but that didn't mean he didn't still feel the need to do it. Getting out of the shower and drying off, he eyed the razor that he was about to use to shave himself. No, he wasn't about to do it with that, not if there was something else in the vicinity that would do a much better job. After he'd shaved, he began looking through Connie's extensive bathroom cabinet. She had everything in here, from the usual toiletries to any number of supplies for medical emergencies. But on the very top shelf, he found what he was looking for. No surgeon worth their weight in gold would be lax in keeping a scalpel at their beck and call, and it seemed that Connie was no different. Removing the small case from the cabinet and opening it, Ric stared down at what he knew both he and she could use with such skill and ability. Removing it from the case, he put the case aside, examining the stainless steel blade, and feeling a surge of anger tinged with euphoria that he was about to do this.
Connie had phoned Zubin once she'd got herself through the morning's list, just to let him know that Ric had come home last night, and that so far, he seemed to be in one piece. "He assured me that he would be all right left on his own," She told him. "And I didn't have any choice but to come into work." "Connie, you're doing everything you can," Zubin assured her. "Far more than most I can promise you. But please be careful with him. Ric might tell you that he's all right, but that's just to hide how he really feels. He's been doing that since the first day I met him. He'll probably be feeling incredibly guilty for giving in, something that you shouldn't underestimate." "Zubin, what aren't you telling me?" Connie asked, getting a feeling of dread that encompassed her entire body. "All I'm saying is, that he very likely won't tell you anything about how he really feels, because he won't want to frighten you off." "Has, erm, has he ever been suicidal?" Connie asked, not wanting to know the answer, but thinking that she already did. "It's not something he's ever admitted to," Zubin told her carefully. "But that doesn't mean I haven't ever suspected it." "Right," Connie said, feeling as though all the air had been knocked out of her. "Then I'd better make sure he's got something to stay here for, hadn't I."
When she'd come off the phone to Zubin, she picked up her bag and coat, and locked her office door behind her. Stopping at the nurses' station, she told Tricia that she was just popping home for something, but would be back in half an hour, and that she had her pager on her if there was an emergency in the meantime. "It used to take longer than half an hour in my day," Tricia said, giving her a sly wink. "And this really isn't the time for asinine trivialities," Connie told her icily, regretting it as soon as she'd said it, because she didn't want to alienate one of the only friends she had in this place. "Is everything all right?" Tricia asked, seeing that her comment had been less than tactful. "No," Connie said, trying to shield her eyes from Tricia's inquisitive gaze. "But that doesn't give me the right to take it out on you." "Oh, think nothing of it," Tricia said kindly. "And take an hour if you like. We've got nothing on till two this afternoon."
As Connie drove home, she thought about what Zubin had said. Ric had seemed okay this morning, his urge to make love to her having been completely obvious to her. But had that been real? Or had there been a far darker force within him, lurking just below the surface? It terrified her that Ric might feel so desperate, that he might want to end it all just because he'd fallen off the wagon. What could she seriously do to help him if he did feel like that? Talking to a suicidal patient, that was one thing, but talking her lover, some might say her saviour, down from a course of action that would have only one, very bitter end, she really didn't know if she had the strength to do it.
When she let herself into the house, all was quiet. Going upstairs to the bedroom, she found the bed empty but still unmade. She could smell the waft of shampoo and aftershave coming from the bathroom, so she followed her nose, assuming that he was still in there. But standing in the doorway of the en suite, she just stared, utterly gob smacked at the sight before her. Ric was clad in no more than a pair of boxer shorts, and sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. He had his arms held over the washbasin, and Connie could see the thin trickle of blood, that was almost shimmering in the faint sunlight coming through the bathroom window, with the faint source of light glinting on the surface of the most lethal of her professional tools.