I have no idea where this depressing, angst filled idea came from, but it wouldn't rest until I wrote it down. Apologies in advance for the angst overload. I'll need to write some fluff now to regain a balance of some sort.
They're both away when it happens. Ruth has just stepped out to pick up some things at Boots, while Dimitri is meeting an asset. She's just at the checkout when she hears it, the sound she fears the most. The bang, the slow rumble of the aftermath that still echoes through the city long after the source of the sound has faded away.
She starts running. She shouldn't draw any conclusions before she's seen it with her own eyes, but instinctively she knows that it's bad news. What she feared has happened at last. She runs, blinded by panic and fear. There are people running in the opposite direction but she hardly notices them. The closer she gets, the more tangible her sense of fear becomes. Smoke can be seen rising up from the direction in which she is heading. She knows she shouldn't draw any conclusions just yet, but deep down inside she knows what's coming.
She comes round the corner and she sees it, her nightmare becomes reality. The place where Thames House used to be, where it was still standing just fifteen minutes ago, has transformed into a battlefield, or at least what's left of it. The once so magnificent building has been blown to pieces following an explosion. She can see people crawling out from under the debris, others rushing to help free people who are stuck. It's chaos, the world around her is spinning on its axis. In amidst all the chaos and confusion there is but one thought on her mind, constantly, continuously: Harry. She wants to run, to plunge herself head first into what's left of Thames House, tear away the debris and find him. As she moves forward she feels someone grab her arm, stop her from doing what she wants to, what she needs to do.
It's Dimitri, pulling her back, wrapping his arms around her. She screams, shouts, bangs her fists against his chest, but he doesn't let go. Eventually she gives in, her shoulders sag, she stops struggling.
He sits her down on the pavement and goes off to talk to the police, the fire brigade, anyone who can tell him what's happened and what the chances of survival are. Just as he feared, these chances are next to none. People on the ground floor were lucky. They had either been slung out on to the street by the intensity or the blast, or they had been able to crawl their way out of the wreckage afterwards. But the people higher up, or further inside the building, they didn't stand a chance. The blast struck at the centre of the building. A thought flashes through Dimitri's mind. The inner sanctum, Section D, the Grid, no chances of survival. Beth.
When he returns she hasn't moved from her spot on the pavement. She's just staring at nothing in particular, her normally bright blue eyes now a dull grey void, expressionless, emotionless. He outstretches his hand and she takes it, her only form of acknowledgement to his presence.
He takes her to his car which is parked around the corner. Still neither of them speak. Words are futile in times like these. He drives, carefully but purposefully. His whole body is tense, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel tightly. She just sits in the passenger seat, head bowed, staring at her hands. He drives to her house without consulting her. She doesn't seem to mind.
He pulls up outside and switches off the engine. She gets out, nodding her thanks, but still not a word passes her lips. Dimitri exits the car and follows her.
They stand in her hallway. The atmosphere is awkward, tense, but strangely comforting. He's never been to her house before. It feels odd being there, and he isn't even sure why he decided to follow her inside in the first place.
She removes her coat and hangs it up. He does the same. She moves into the kitchen, murmuring something about sweet tea. It's the solution Harry would have suggested, but of course she doesn't tell him that. Dimitri follows her, thinking how Beth, under these circumstances, would have opted for a generous glass of Pinot Grigiot, preferably Australian.
She grabs two mugs from the cupboard while the water boils, but her hands are shaking so violently that she drops one. It shatters into a million pieces as it comes into contact with the iron sink, showing an uncanny resemblance to the current state of her heart. She grabs hold of the worktop with both hands, breathing in deeply. With a few quick strides he's next to her, and draws her into his arms, comforting her.
She lets him, too defeated, too exhausted to fight against it.
Ruth turns to face him. She gazes into his eyes, sees her own pain reflected in them. One hand reaches out to caress his cheek lovingly by means of comfort.
Instinctively they draw nearer to one another and, in spite of everything, their lips meet in a soft, gentle kiss.
She knows it's wrong, that she shouldn't be doing this. It's not what she wants, he is not who she wants. But the person she wants is removed from her, forever. She has missed her chance, her many chances. And right now, at this moment, she needs something, someone. She needs comforting, reassurance, compassion. And he's there, and he's willing.
He knows it's wrong. This should not be happening. She is not who he wants. But the person he wants is unattainable, and will continue to be so, forever. He has never had the courage to take that next step, to suggest to her that they could be more than just colleagues. And now it's too late. He knows he doesn't really want her, but she's there. And right now he needs comforting, someone to be close to. And she is offering just that.
They move to her bedroom and collapse on the bed. Their lovemaking is fast, frantic, needy. It's not passionate or emotional, it's carnal, purely physical, satisfying a need, numbing of emotions. Their relationship has never been anything but amicable, and both know it will never be anything more than that. Tonight, this, is just a momentary slip-up.
Afterwards they both sit at a distance from each other. She's hugging her knees to her chest, he's staring at the now crumpled duvet. The tension is palpable, the situation is awkward to say the least.
He breathes in deeply, tries his best to stifle a sob, and fails miserably. It's his turn to break down and, without being able to do anything to stop it, he goes to pieces in front of her.
She reaches out and lovingly cradles his head in her lap. She moves one hand through his hair, whispering words of comfort to him, telling him that everything will be ok. It reminds her of a time when she used to do this for Nico when he'd had one of his nightmares. It also reminds her of the time she did this for George, comforting him after a dream he'd had about his dead former wife, Nico's mother. Consciously she knows she should be crying too, but the tears won't come. She feels as though she's all cried out, yet she knows that she isn't. Unconsciously she knows that she has to be the strong one right this moment. She doesn't want to break down, not in front of him, not in front of anyone. She will save her tears for when she's alone.
After a while the sobs fade away, his breathing becomes more regular. She realises that he's asleep. She disentangles herself from him, covers his sleeping form with the duvet, puts on some clothes and leaves the room.
She sits in the living room, absorbed by the darkness and the cold. She's uncomfortable, but can't bring herself to switch on a light, or the heating for that matter. She's shivering involuntarily, her bare feet have started to turn blue, yet she doesn't move.
When he wakes he's alone, disoriented. He's lying in a strange room, naked apart from the duvet. And then he remembers, everything, every single detail. And it hurts him all over again, like a stab in the chest. He gets dressed quickly and leaves the bedroom.
He finds her asleep on the sofa. She looks small, fragile and pale. It's icy cold in the house and she's shivering. He knows this whole ordeal was a mistake and, judging by her hasty retreat to the sitting room, she feels the same way. He turns up the heating and covers her sleeping form with a blanket. He hesitates for a moment, afraid to wake her up, but eventually decides to take the risk and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. She sleeps on, undisturbed, and he lets out a sigh of relief.
He wants to leave her a note, but he can't even begin to formulate anything appropriate to say. In the end he decides against it. He grabs his coat and scarf and, sufficiently bundled up against the cold, he exits the house, softly closing the door behind him.
fin
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