Disc: it was supposed to be a very short story but writing a desperate Red is somehow endearing... so it'll be slightly longer!
~~~ Music mood - Roads by Portishead ~~~
"Lizzie!"
Dembe jumped off the couch when he heard the shout.
The sight of Reddington freaked him out: lying on the bed, his clothes covered by a mix of blood and red wine, holding a gun. His gun.
"Raymond, what's the hell?!"
He reached for the gun and shook Reddington by the shoulders to wake him up.
It was like shaking a rag doll. He opened his eyes but had no other reaction.
"Raymond! Can you hear me?"
He was carefully holding him by the nape of his neck, trying to make eye contact. Reddington's empty gaze was scary; his eyes were glassy and the pain was drawn on his face. Dembe realized he needed help and comfort but was still not understanding the situation.
There was no doubt that the ache was intense but Reddington hardly moved when Dembe took his hand and meticulously removed the biggest pieces of glass to clean the wound. It was looking ugly and still bleeding a lot.
He tore a piece of the bed sheet to put around his hand. "Why, Raymond? Why the hell did you do that?"
When the TV screen finally caught his attention, a blurry amateur video was showing a ball of fire falling into the sea. The journalist was saying the same information over and over, "There's no survivor".
"She's dead, Dembe," Reddington's voice was barely more than a whisper. He painfully raised a hand and pointed to the TV screen. "She's dead …"
"She's dead because of me," Reddington kept repeating.
"Not because of you, Raymond … this is just … fatality. You cannot blame yourself for that."
Dembe quickly pressed his hand on Reddington's when he noticed he had reached for the gun again. The pressure triggered a shot that slightly burnt Dembe's fingers skin and ended in the wall. Reddington was hopelessly trying to escape his grip but was not strong enough to fight his bodyguard who pushed him back against the bed.
"Do you really think killing yourself is going to solve anything?"
"There's nothing left to be solved …"
"Even without her there's still a lot that you can achieve in that war."
"I destroyed her life, now she's dead. I'm a constant danger for everyone around me. Who's going to be next?" Still pushing against Dembe's arm and trying to stand up, he hold his gaze, "You?"
Dembe was struggling with his emotions. The shock of Elizabeth's death and the sight of his best friend trying to destruct himself was too much for him to think straight and give wise advices. He removed the bullets from the gun and threw it through the room, out of reach.
His was desperately trying to find a way to change Reddington's mind. At least for a moment.
After pouring a glass of whisky, he helped him to sit and hold the scotch to his mouth. "Drink."
Getting him drunk will eventually makes him sleep. Even though it may just be a distraction to delay the inevitable.
Reddington tossed down a gulp of alcohol and let himself felt back on the mattress.
"You will find a way through this. I know you can do it. Remember when you left your family."
"I still had hope. Now it's all gone."
The taste of alcohol in his mouth made him cough. He slowly turned himself on his side and moaned when his injured hand touched the bed sheet. After staring at Dembe for a few seconds, he huddled himself, not saying a word.
Dembe slightly squeezed his shoulder with his strong hand. He wanted to makes him feel better but had no idea how. The light sobs he could hear were at least a sign that he had stopped fighting. For now.
TBC