Night Five
AN: Trigger warning for references to depression and suicidal thoughts
After opening the door, he was met with Matt's stern frown. When Blake looked down, he noticed that the lead agent's hand was firmly wrapped around Elizabeth's wrist, keeping her close to him. Standing side by side, they were both soaked from the rain— beads of water rolled down their trench coats, hitting the laminate floor.
"What's going on?"
"I called you three times," Matt told him.
"I was in the shower," he said, motioning to the towel around his waist. Can't a guy get fifteen minutes to himself on a Friday night? Blake's eyes darted to Elizabeth's face, but her head was tucked into her shoulder. "What happened?"
"She took off down the street outside the State Department in the rain," Matt explained. "When we caught up to her, she refused to be driven home."
"Okay," he said, staring at Elizabeth.
Nodding to himself, Blake took a moment to think about what needed to happen next. Really, there was only one thing that he could do to help. Once he made sure the towel was secure around his waist, he opened one arm, ushering Elizabeth inside his apartment.
With one hand on her back, he asked, "Do you need a towel?"
"No, I'm fine," Matt said, waving him off. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."
After closing the door, he peeled the coat from Elizabeth's shoulders. Before he hung it on the rack, he shook it, ridding the material of excess water. Then, he silently led his boss over to one of the two chairs across from the couch.
"You need to get out of those wet clothes," Blake told her. Reaching out, he touched her arm. "After I get dressed, you can shower." Looking her over, he realized that she was shivering without her coat. "It'll help you warm up."
Instead of acknowledging him, Elizabeth simply stared at her lap.
While she showered, he searched his dresser drawers for a tighter pair of boxer shorts and that one gray t-shirt that had shrunk in the dryer. It was too small for him, but he was sure that it would look like she was swimming in it. As Blake unrolled the shirt, he decided that he should start keeping a change of her clothes here too.
"God knows there will be a next time," he mumbled.
With a quick knock, he slipped into the bathroom. Because the top half of the shower curtain was a clear plastic, Blake kept his back to the tub. Although he'd seen his boss' breasts before (his fault for not knocking), he felt that tonight was uncomfortable enough without adding nudity.
"Elizabeth," he said, calling her name loudly so he would be heard over the stream of water. Stepping forward, Blake placed a folded towel on the lip of the sink. "I'm leaving a change of clothes for you." Then he put the clothing on the toilet lid.
Later, when she appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, dressed in his clothes, he settled her onto the edge of his bed.
"Relax," Blake encouraged.
Sitting behind her, he started to run his brush through her hair.
It concerned him that she still hadn't said a word. However, her behavior wasn't a surprise— she was going on night five of not having any real sleep. Earlier this week, a crisis across the world had kept them holed up on the seventh floor, but the last two nights that she'd spent awake had nothing to do with work.
Setting the brush down on the bed, he separated her hair into three sections and began to braid.
When he'd accepted this job, Blake hadn't fully understood what he'd been signing up for, but for Elizabeth McCord, he would willingly sign his life away. Surely, he had, because here he was, braiding her hair on a Friday night. But Elizabeth was struggling, and she'd decided to turn to him for support. What else were he to do? He'd already seen her through the aftermath of Iran, through the hard winter of arguing with her husband, and, just last month, through the repercussions of witnessing the hanging of a man in Algeria. And he would see her through this too.
"You know how to braid?"
Her voice was raspy from not speaking.
"Yes," Blake answered. "When I was ten, Meredith sprained her wrist playing tennis. She had to wear a brace for a few weeks, so she had a hard time doing her own hair. At the time, our au pair, Lena, didn't know how to braid, so I learned," he explained.
"You're a good brother," Elizabeth whispered.
A moment passed before he heard her sniffle.
"Why are you doing this for me?"
"Because I care about you."
After she turned her head down, Elizabeth said, "I don't deserve it."
"That's not true," he told her." Pausing, Blake leaned to the side, so he could see the side of her face. "You're always deserving of love." Straightening up, he started again on her hair.
"It's all too much."
"The job?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "The job… And my family." Swallowing, she mumbled, "Just being here."
"Is that why you're avoiding home?" He secured the end of her hair with a spare ponytail holder that he'd found in one of the drawers in his bathroom. "Avoiding Henry?"
"How do I tell my husband that I don't want to be alive anymore?"
Touching her arm, Blake gently turned her, so he could see her eyes. Earlier, she'd been tearing up, so he wasn't surprised to see that she was now openly crying. For a few minutes, they sat in silence as he rubbed her back.
"I hear you," he eventually whispered. With his own eyes watering, Blake placed his hand over his heart. Pulling her into his chest, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I hear you," he repeated.
"I feel like I'm crazy," she cried.
"I've been there," Blake admitted.
He'd been in her shoes multiple times actually— the beginning of his freshman year of college, over the winter break of the next year, and the few months after graduating from Harvard. Many things went into him feeling that way, but ultimately it was an overall sense of being overwhelmed. Honestly, he wouldn't be here if it weren't for his family.
For the next hour, he coaxed her to talk by sharing some of his own experiences with depression.
"You can stay here tonight if you'd like," Blake offered once she'd promised him that she had no plans of hurting herself. "I'll take the couch."
Hugging him, Elizabeth said, "Thank you."
After she fell asleep in his bed, he dialed her husband's cell phone number. Listening to the line ring, Blake nervously bit down on the inside of his cheek. He was betraying her trust by speaking with him, but he wouldn't forgive himself if something were to happen.
"Hey, Blake," Henry greeted. "DS told me that she's over at your place. I was going to call, but given the last couple of days, I wanted to give her some space. Is she alright?"
"Henry, she's not well," he told him, keeping his voice quiet.
"Not well?"
Glancing back at the bed, Blake said, "She's struggling mentally." He paused, staring down at the floor. "Elizabeth needs to see a doctor." Earlier, she'd told him that she had no plan of hurting herself, but he knew from experience that a promise wasn't enough— not having a plan didn't mean that she didn't want to hurt herself. And want could turn to action at the drop of a hat. "I'm concerned for her safety," he whispered.
They were going on night five.
God, he knew that she needed sleep.
No one knew what night six would bring.
What about night seven?
Of course, assuming she made it there first.
"I— What do I do?"
"I think you should call Kinsey."
"And then what?" Henry asked. "Did she— God, did she... Did she hurt herself? Did she tell you that she wanted to hurt herself?"
"She's fine for now," Blake assured. "Call Kinsey," he instructed. "And then we'll go from there."
