Disclaimer : Still unbeta'd. Things are getting darker... Hope you won't hate me for that chapter! I just wanted to try that for once.
~~~ Music mood - Hurt by Jonny Cash ~~~
Reddington's jet arrived in Paris a couple of hours after Liz's plane took off from New York. He loved Paris, its little parks, the old buildings, walking along the Seine. Its finest cooks and restaurants. He always stayed at the same hotel, rather small and quiet, in the lovely Butte des Cailles neighborhood.
After he took his jacket and vest off, he poured himself a large glass of Bordeaux red wine while Dembe headed for a nap on the couch. The rough and fruity liquid, a powerful mix of earth and blackberries taste, was a true delight. As usual, one of the first things he did when he stepped in a hotel suite was to switch the TV on, to get the latest news with the sound of the local language. French was like music to his ears, almost as romantic as Italian.
He took a step back when the images came on the screen.
"… le vol New York – Paris …"
The wine that was slipping along his throat suddenly felt unbearably bitter. He choked as he tried to get some air. No more oxygen was reaching his lungs; it was like someone had put a plastic bag on his head.
"…au large des Açores …"
He hit the bed as he made another step back, trying to escape the unbearable images that were scrolling on the screen; and felt seated at the edge of the bed, wine spilled all over his costume.
"…les secours sont en route …"
Help is on the way. But the way of what? He knew damn well that no one ever survived such a crash.
He closed his eyes.
She was there. Arguing, then smiling.
That stupid idea of him to invite her to Madeline's party. He knew she wouldn't accept. He tried, failed. But never thought it would upset her.
She was just worried about him, she was protecting him. She cared so much, too much. This was not what he had expected.
"Agreed."
Her smile.
She had agreed for a dinner. But not for the jet. He had not insisted. He never did with her … For once, he should have. Begging her to join him on his plane. Invite Ressler as well, this may have convinced her. For God's sake … He wanted her for himself, just one time … selfish thought.
Angry about himself, rage was flowing through his veins.
He stood up and reached for a bottle of whisky, pouring himself a full glass of alcohol that he drunk right away, burning his throat.
He had killed her.
Holding his glass, he clenched his fists. The broken pieces of thin glass slowly sank into his palm as he tightened his grip. The pain was rising up his arm and he could feel his own blood running down his hand, warm, sticky. He was seeking for relief by hurting himself. Or was it punishment? But no physical pain would ever surpass his grief.
He had spent half of his life with one main goal in head: protecting her. He had planned everything, every scenario up to his own death. Except that one. Because his own life would have lost all of its interest if she was gone. He had not even imagined her dead while he would still be alive.
Dembe's gun was at an arm length. He grabbed it with his healthy hand and sat on the bed. Shooting himself was not a solution. It was just an escape, for him, right now. The only one he could imagine at the moment.
His eyes were dry and burning. Under shock and unable to weep, he laid on the bed staring at the ceiling, letting the pain and alcohol flowing through his veins, hitting his mind with all the violence he was desperately seeking for. Breathing became an unbearable effort. When he finally closed his eyes, all that he could see was flashes of a crash he had witnessed once in Western Africa. The rush to find survivors. The fire. The bodies. That dreadful smell of burned flesh that stick in your nose for days.
She was there, standing in the middle of the flames.
To be continued.