Blacklist 1. The Breath From My Body

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters depicted in this work of fanfiction. I am making no profit from this work.

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**THE TEARS I GAVE YOU**

**The Breath From My Body**

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He had expected a confrontation at the airstrip. The car had careened recklessly across the tarmac before screeching to a stop and she had flown out of the driver's door, her coat flapping in the wind as she had run to the foot of the steps he stood frozen on. Her words didn't register with him as all he could focus on was the holdall in her hand, handing at her side, and everything it meant. Only when she exasperatedly called him by his full name did he return his attention to her; with a nod he indicated they should board the borrowed jet and make a hasty exit from the States. Dembe would tie up any loose ends, as instructed, and he had another team dealing with the Berlin issue. He would receive updates regularly, but he didn't feel he ought to be in the fray of the issue; he was safer doing what he did best, keeping his Lizzie safe.

They had talked, at length, on the flight; he had dared to hope long ago that this might happen, though recent events and revelations about Sam had led him to relegate the hope to nothing more than a pipedream. She had cried unashamedly in front of him and he let her; she needed the release and it would take time for her to recover from the fact she had left her husband – spy or not – to bleed out on a cold concrete floor in a run-down, anonymous building. She would come to terms with everything eventually, to accept the things she couldn't change and move on. He would keep her safe and give her the space to find herself and work out what direction she wanted to take her life in.

Everything shifted up a gear after they had left. Red worked hard for them to disappear off the face of the earth, much harder than he had for any of his clients, all the while keeping an eye on her. She seemed to be floating along with him, not really engaging with the world around her; he told himself her state was only temporary and resolved to find them a permanent residence as all the moving around was hardly helpful to her recovery. He soon procured a modest three-bed apartment in Paris; it wasn't as big or ostentatious as other places he'd kept or borrowed, but it seemed to suit them both well enough.

They spent the first couple of months cleaning the place out and moving new furniture in, some old and some new, rearranging it until they had the place exactly as they wanted it; he had insisted in the place not being too chock-full of possessions – in the event that they needed to make a quick getaway it wouldn't do to be tripping over coffee tables and floor cushions, no matter how nice they looked in situ. They split the chores evenly, though he insisted on cooking; Lizzie didn't argue, they both knew her cooking was sub-par, though he had promised her he would let her help if she didn't eat all the ingredients during preparation. She instead opted to wash the dishes, insisting that dishwashers were lazy when he protested the repetitive chore of drying.

Red hadn't expected her to come to him when she did. He had been asleep after another night of good food, wine and a little music; they had moved the furniture back and he had shown her what little he knew of swing dancing. He hadn't heard her come into his bedroom, only waking when the weight of the book he'd been reading was lifted from his chest; with bleary eyes he had watched her mark his place and set the paperback aside before she sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at him. He doesn't recall the exact sequence of events that led to her lips being on his, half-asleep as he was, though he soon woke enough to roll her beneath him and act out one of the many fantasies he had entertained on countless lonely nights.

Lizzie's bedroom soon became the guest room and the guest room was turned into a study, which was soon filled with books; he was careful to keep her novels away from the classics and biographies he so loved. Their domesticity was easy, their conversation flowing, and their nights filled with heat. They were settled and he found himself not worrying too much about the future, instead concentrating on enjoying the present, leaving the running and security of his downsized empire to his associates as he told himself he deserved this wonderful reprieve from his business.


	2. The Flesh On My Frame

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters depicted in this work of fanfiction. I am making no profit from this work.

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**THE TEARS I GAVE YOU**

**The Flesh On My Frame**

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She agreed to wear his ring seven months after the night she came to him; he had stopped himself from asking her sooner, deciding to wait until she was more emotionally stable. They couldn't marry officially, but it was symbol enough of his devotion to her and of her acceptance of him. He didn't tell her the ring was found covered in his wife's blood over twenty years before, it would spoil the way her face lit up every time it caught her eye.

He took her to Istanbul by way of celebration, ensuring he had a security detail for their trip. They shopped in the Grand Bazaar and sipped tea on the Eminönü ferry docks during the day, watching the world go by. By night they ate in top end restaurants, danced, or stayed in their suite and made slow, sensuous love, revelling in each other's pleasure. On a rare night not spent in the bedroom but out on the balcony he had entertained the idea of another shot at family life – perhaps they could start by getting a dog, he thought she might like that – although the decision would have to be hers; he knew her anxiety surrounding passing on traits to a biological child, not that he felt it would really be an issue but he respected it by keeping quiet on the matter. They remained wrapped up in each other on their return, happy to shop, eat and sleep together. Sharing in the joy of just being with each other. He would reflect on this time months later and wonder whether or not he lost his mind, to be so wrapped up in another person when their lives could well be at stake, to be so happy and not for one second imagine that the old adage was always right; all good things must come to an end.

As their honeymoon period waned and they fell into the humdrum of ordinary life their nightmares returned and the cracks in her fragile composure began to show, proving she hadn't been quite as recovered as he had thought. The dark rings that circled her eyes pained him to see – he couldn't protect her from her night terrors – and he knew he looked just as tired. She rarely bothered to dress in anything other than sweats and his t-shirts these days, and he could be seen with two days worth of stubble more often than he was clean shaven. Soon their conversation didn't feel as easy and laughter didn't ring through their home, which itself rarely saw daylight as the blinds remained down and the curtains drawn for the sake of their tired eyes. They hadn't made love for months, not that he felt he had the energy for anything so strenuous. With no real trigger or argument, he wasn't certain how to put the pieces back together again. The stink of sweat and fear took a couple of hours to air out of the bedroom every morning and eventually neither of them were comfortable in there; they had become like ships passing in the night, one of them invariably asleep on the couch while the other thrashed in the sheets, fighting a losing battle against invisible enemies.

It wasn't long before the funk of depression got to him and he slipped out of the apartment on errands that took a little longer than usual. He was gone to get a newspaper for four hours once and, knowing he'd slipped up, he'd expected her ire on his quiet return only to be surprised when she refrained from commenting at all. He'd vowed to be more careful but soon found himself returning to an empty apartment where he'd await her return anxiously; she came home eventually, always unsteady on her feet but ready to sleep. He couldn't begrudge her a little relief from her nightmares, he supposed at the time. He would keep an eye on her, as usual, though he extended her the same courtesy by not making a point of it.

Dembe had come to visit once, unannounced; Red supposed it was due to the lack of contact he had maintained. He knew his friend saw the signs of old habits as soon as they set eyes on each other but was relieved when he said nothing; he didn't need a confrontation with his friend right now, on top of his worry for Lizzie it would be too stressful. At any rate, it was only a temporary relief while he figured out how to make things better for them both. He wasn't suffering for it; there was nothing wrong with a little escapism when the weight of the world became a little too much.


	3. The Rules Made By Reason

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters depicted in this work of fanfiction. I am making no profit from this work.

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**THE TEARS I GAVE YOU**

**The Rules Made By Reason**

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Lizzie had stormed out of the apartment after confronting him about using. She'd mentioned it a couple of times before but never with a view to escalating it into an argument; then again, he'd never outright admitted to just how much he'd been doing it and what he was using. Red knew he'd lost weight, the slew of new suits he'd had made were proof of that; his old favourites hung on his frame now, though he was loathe to throw them out. The argument had been heated, especially after he'd countered with how much she was drinking; she had been an embarrassment after their last foray into civilised society, being overly possessive of him before fleeing to cry on the crowded balcony. Her insecurities got the better of her these days, and that she knew he had been using at a motel just outside town had led her to thinking he had been seeing other women. He'd wait for her to return on her own. He knew she was at the bar, she never really went anywhere else on her own.

He hissed at the burning sting of the antiseptic as he treated the scratches on his arms over the sink. She'd done a number on him this time, flying at him in a blind rage and doing as much damage as he would allow before he immobilised her; if she'd come away with any injuries of her own, she had brought them on herself. Once he had himself patched up he fetched his small lockbox from the bottom of his wardrobe, disappearing back into the bathroom and setting it down on the windowsill. He opened it, revealing several sealed plastic baggies, and perused the selection; anything stronger was kept under the top tray. He set to rolling himself a joint, nothing too big, intent on relaxation and achieving a state of mind to be able to deal with her when she got back.

Just a half hour after he had lit the first joint the front door opened on squeaking hinges he'd long meant to have oiled and he heard her shuffle into the apartment. He wondered how drunk she'd be this time. The apartment beyond the bathroom fell silent and he decided it was better that way, taking another toke on the joint to keep it alight. His eyes followed the ascent and dissipation of the white smoke from the end of the blunt, his slow exhalation disturbing it. His moment of peace was disturbed by her hesitant knock on the door. He quickly moved his lockbox away from the window, tossing a hand towel over it before calling her in. He stood, twirling the joint unapologetically between his fingers, figuring there wasn't much point in hiding what he has doing like some teenager. The thought she might push him out the window was only briefly entertained when he saw the lost look on her pallid, tear streaked face.

"Are we broken?" she asked timidly. He had no answer for her, could no longer tell her what she wanted to hear. They weren't okay. This was not okay. They were spiralling, he knew, and it wasn't that he didn't care so much as he was resigned to the fact their demons would always get the better of them. He winced and turned his attention to the window, unable to put words to exactly what it was that they were. He listened to her close the door, counted her steps as she approached him across the tiled floor, only turning to face her at the last minute. She reached for the joint and he relinquished it, sure she was going to toss it out the window; all he could do was blink at her as she took a toke of her own, exhaling the sickly sweet smoke back into his face as she watched him shyly through wet lashes. She wasn't drunk, just a little more uninhibited. Hard, soft and then hard again – he hadn't been wrong all that time ago – her unpredictable mood shifts never ceased to surprise him; she was the most powerful drug he knew, and he would always come back to her for more.

After sharing the remainder of the joint, Lizzie leaning against him as he gazed out the window, they ended up fucking on the bathroom counter before moving into the hallway, eventually reaching the bedroom – something they hadn't done for a long time; it was hard and fast and he had new scratches on his back, the sting reminding him that he was alive and they had not lost each other completely. He'd marked her well enough too, the bite marks on her breasts a testament to his ownership. The violence of their coupling harshly contrasted the calm quiet they lay in now as he reflected on how long it had been since they shared their bed for the night; usually one of them ended up on the couch or they were out all night on their own individual quests for peace. He hoped they slept soundly, the energy they had expended along with the effect of the cannabis would aid their descent into oblivion.

Red observed a change in her after that night. In the weeks that followed she insisted that she'd rather he used in the apartment rather than return to the seedy motel, even going so far as to suggest that his dealer come around for dinner one night. He found her interest suspicious at first, though it soon became the norm. They still fucked with abandon, making love was a thing of the past, and they slept a few short hours together – la petite mort. A strange sense of normality, akin to their early easy domesticity, had descended in their home.


	4. The Burden Of Blame

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters depicted in this work of fanfiction. I am making no profit from this work.

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**THE TEARS I GAVE YOU**

**The Burden Of Blame**

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She must try it, he'd told her. It was fabulous stuff. Every sense aware of being, every nerve ending and sparking synapse being there and alive. It was glorious. She had loved it, of course. They had lain together for hours, aware of themselves and each other; observing with naked stares the way their bodies, much thinner than when they had first come together, contrasted and complimented each other. She traced his tattoos, he caressed her scar. They told each other they were made for each other, they'd never be apart. They'd go out for dinner that night and celebrate the fact they were together, like they used to.

They'd have a sleep, sober up and get out of the apartment for a night. He knew the maitre d' at the swanky restaurant just a quarter of an hour's walk away from the apartment. He told himself they were making progress, getting back to themselves at long last; they would soon leave this mess behind and move on again. As with all things it would take them time, but they had each other to lean on.

Red slept soundly. He hadn't noticed when Lizzie had left the bed, waking to find nothing but cool sheets beside him. He listened for her movements but heard nothing, just the infernal ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece in the living room; he could never understand how such a small clock could make such racket. He stretched his tired frame, bones creaking, and hefted himself out of the bed; though tired the fresh promise of the future revitalised his will. He'd invite Dembe back soon, so he could see that they were both fine; he knew his friend had been worrying, probably moreso since Red had been ignoring any messages enquiring after their health, only showing an uncharacteristically vague interest in how the investigations were going. He had the presence of mind to know it wasn't like him to care so little about so much; he'd downsized his business hugely after Berlin in order to protect himself and what he was left with should have been precious to him. He slipped into a pair of rumpled linen trousers, ignoring the way they hung loosely at his hips, and padded unsteadily out of the bedroom, stopping in the kitchen for a glass of water. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his lockbox open, the top tray removed and the contents strewn across the kitchen table. He fought to remember just what he kept in the bottom of the box and performed a quick inventory. He called out to her, thinking she might be in the bathroom. No answer. Perhaps she went out? She wasn't usually drinking this early. Feeling as though something wasn't right he cleared the mess on the table and drained his glass, refilling it before heading into the living room. He dropped the glass at the sight that welcomed him, only vaguely aware of the pain in his foot caused by a particularly vicious shard.

She lay still, sprawled face-down across the sofa in nothing but her underwear, her skin tinged with blue. She wasn't moving. He rushed over to her, falling heavily to his knees and frantically listening for any sign of her breathing, pulling her eyes open to find them glassy and unresponsive. It took a moment to realise the strangled sounds he heard were coming from him. He couldn't breathe, panic rendering him unable to do anything but demand she wake up, denying the reality of what she had done to herself and to him. She couldn't leave him, he reasoned, unless there was something making her do it. His Lizzie was stronger than this. His eyes scanned the apartment for any signs of foul play but there were none. He gathered himself enough to turn her over on to her back, trying to put from his mind how cold and clammy her skin felt, and ensured she lay in a dignified way despite being dressed in nothing but her underwear. He fished his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the residue of bile and foam from around her mouth, sweeping her hair away from her face, observing her in the deathly silence of their home. He dropped a final, chaste kiss on her forehead and, hopeless, rested his head on her chest, allowing silent tears to track down his face and on to her skin. This was his doing.

Numbly, he reached under the coffee table and pulled the burner phone from where it was taped, not needing to watch his fingers as he dialled for Kaplan – number 2 on his speed dial. He cleared his throat as the phone rang, keeping his voice as even and calm as possible as he relayed the address of their apartment. Kaplan was silent for a moment before asking him to clarify the address again, something she'd never done; he said it again, let the implication hang in the silence down the line and then hung up. He tossed the phone on to the floor beside him, feeling another wave of sorrow building, and picked himself up. He moved back into the kitchen and rifled through the bottom of the lock box, the top tray thrown aside without thought.

Once he had found what he was looking for he returned to the living room, leaving a bloody footprint in his wake, and sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. Tapping the full syringe, a certain overdose, against his leg as he considered the fallout from this decision. There would be no note, no heartfelt final wishes. He'd seen fit to change his will months before all this began. He trusted in Dembe and Mr Kaplan to take care of his affairs. He reached back to pull one of her icy hands over his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze – for himself – as he injected himself with the clear liquid, settling back to welcome the cold embrace of Morpheus.


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Blacklist, Angst, Romance