Until I Collect Him
Disclaimer: He's not mine in the sense that he's Lizzie's, he's not mine in the sense that he's Death's, and he's not mine in the sense that I own absolutely nothing associated with The Blacklist.
Author's Note: Thank you again to everyone who has commented and reviewed! To those who have mentioned the fact that my Death reminds you of "Death of the Endless", I had never heard of that character, so I googled... OMG the character was created by Neil Gaiman. This is officially the best compliment ever, telling me someone I wrote is anything close to someone he might write. *flails* Thank you!
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Chapter 4
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You know the woman's husband shot Red once? I was fuming. She was seriously bad news for my charge. The husband missed everything important, thankfully, but he managed to clip him pretty nicely on the arm.
His case worker was there that day, as was hers, and if I breathed I would have held my breath, hoping for a collection of at least one of them.
No such luck.
I was also quite glad the woman's case worker wasn't the type to show up early or stick around after it was determined there was no need for collection, though it was probably less efficient in the long run, especially the day we were both called to the middle of the Bering Sea to watch our charges get blown up. Twice, actually, in the same day, which is why I say it wasn't particularly efficient to leave and then have to come right back again. Granted, it gave me time with Red, so I wasn't complaining.
After the first explosion the woman regained consciousness relatively quickly, and her case worker promptly left the premises. Suddenly, once again, Red was standing in front of me, above his body as the woman desperately performed CPR.
"Am I dead again?" my charge asked, his voice resigned.
I nodded.
"You look upset by that," he noted. His gaze swung down to his body and the woman somewhat frantically continuing her chest compressions. "She looks upset about it, too," he added quietly. After a moment he looked back up at me, confusion clouding his face. "Why are you upset?" he inquired.
"You can never do that again," I found myself saying, words spilling out into the space around us as I advanced on him and pointed down at his body. I was immensely glad my colleague had withdrawn already, and was not present to hear this exchange. "Promise me," I added quickly, and pushed.
With that, Red seemed to get tugged backwards, pulled by an invisible cord, as if his body had hooked him with a fishing line and yanked hard from its position on the ground. The man I'd been speaking with disappeared.
He stirred, and opened his eyes, gasping.
…His first words were to ask where the woman was.
A few hours later, as I watched his unconscious form wander in elliptical circles around his body on the floor following the second explosion, I found I couldn't be mad at him. I'd asked him—inappropriately—not to endanger his life again.
But he hadn't promised.
And I shouldn't have asked.
The night that he knelt on the dirty tile floor of that massive mansion, a gun pressed to the back of his head and her name on his lips, I finally let myself admit that he wasn't mine. The instant he said her name he seemed to find peace, to come to terms with the idea of dying, and in that moment I wanted to scream for him. I wanted to be loud enough that even though he couldn't hear me, he'd feel that someone was witnessing this, that someone knew and cared that he loved her, and that he'd die for her. Because someone other than the man taking his life should know that.
For a second it didn't occur to me what was happening when the other man's case worker suddenly appeared next to me.
This was also the night that I stopped hating Lizzie.
She came back for him. She risked her safety to ensure his. As much as he wasn't mine, he was hers.
As soon as he was safely outside in the car that night, I left. I stopped showing up early or leaving long after my job was done.
Shortly after that, he got shot in the chest. Again, because of her. But this time I understood, and even though she couldn't see it, I smiled my thanks at her as she pressed her scarf to the wound and hauled him into the backseat of the car.
Oh, I still think the two of them are complete idiots when it comes to each other; don't get me wrong.
But I understand she'll do anything for him, and he'll do anything for her. He's trying his best—whatever that is—to write some truly amazing final chapters in whatever book he's going to be judged by. He's living a wild, passionate life, full of risk and tension, and I'm lucky enough to get to witness it.
And even though he's hers, every time he does something reckless, he's also still mine. In that way he'll always be mine.
Until I collect him.
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Author's Note: Hope you all enjoyed it! This is the first time I've ever written in the first person, and while it was weird, I thoroughly enjoyed it. :) Also: there ended up being more challenges than I thought there would be while writing this. Like avoiding any and all gender pronouns. And avoiding having Death say something that would disrupt the timeline. I kept wanting to give Death lines in 2014 that Red had already said in 2013, for example. Lastly, this final chapter was greatly inspired by the Gutter Chat ladies, so thank you. The way we were all fangirling from afar, completely aware of the fact that Spader in a cop uniform is NOT ours, and never WILL BE ours helped Death's lamentations ring a bit truer, I think. ;)
Ooh, ooh, one more thing. I think the saddest part of all of this is that Death only knew about Red using ONE of the lines he'd heard, when in actual fact he's used ALL of them. Death was just never present the other times to hear Red repeat them. If Death had stuck around for another minute in the car after the T. Earl King incident he/she (whichever you'd prefer, or it) would have heard him repeat the "You can never do that again...promise me." Poor Death. :'(
Let me know how you liked things! And thank you for reading!