Title: the small things
Author: Cath
Disclaimer: I think they're probably glad they don't belong to me.
Summary: You're re-learning Harry Pearce. R/H. Spoilers for up to Ep 8.7
Notes: I wanted to try to explore the progression of the relationship between Harry and Ruth in series 8, but focusing more on Ruth's perspective. It's mostly based on episodes but not entirely. Hopefully it makes sense and I've not missed out any key parts. But most of all, hope you enjoy! I'm still getting back into this whole fic writing thing, so still anxious about posting. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.
Also, finally, note to anonymousbutfriendly (if you're reading...): as a result of the anonymous thing, was unable to thank you personally for your comment on my last fic – so, just wanted to let you know that I really appreciated it
XxX
It starts one idle Thursday.
When, for the first time, you don't dream about that day. The day where you watched on the small screen in horror as your partner was murdered.
And you feel nothing but guilt that you might be somehow recovering from this trauma of your own making.
XxX
Time passes. The nightmares are less frequent and slowly the guilt becomes something less than all-consuming. You figure that if you work hard enough and save enough people, perhaps it will help you work through the guilt. Perhaps it will help lend meaning to this ordeal.
Eventually, you start to forgive yourself.
And one day, you realise that you forgive him, too.
XxX
It takes you a while to settle yourself into this new old life where everything is the same but entirely different. For the most part the people are different, and there are changes to the grid, too. New protocols in place, new software, new threats, and sometimes you feel like a novice in this world where once you seemed to know everything.
Even the constant elements change: Malcolm retires, Ros leads, Jo dies.
He's changed, too, you realise. The one person you once knew as well as yourself. A little more jaded, a little more tired of the politicians and their games, a little older; the losses have each taken their toll.
He's no longer quite so open with you; or is it just that you no longer know quite how to read him? The instinctive understanding you had of each other is just beyond your reach. And you want to somehow regain this lost ability because after everything else, you're beginning to realise you can't lose him too.
XxX
You don't realise it at first, but you're re-learning Harry Pearce.
It begins unintentionally; a slow progression; a heightened awareness of the small things about him. You inadvertently mentally file these away.
But each piece of knowledge brings with it a feeling of something that you can't quite identify. Because it's been so long since you felt this, and you're no longer sure that you're deserving of it.
XxX
Three years have passed and in your haste to move on and forget about this place, this life, these people, you forgot so many things about him.
Like, you forgot how much he cares about his work, about his people. He tries to hide it, and is mostly successful, but occasionally he gives away a glimpse of how much he cares.
You forgot how his face changes to match his emotions. And then you look around and wonder if anyone else can read him quite so easily.
XxX
He chooses to trust you. Above all others.
Irrespective of the fact that you've been gone for three years and there are others that he can trust.
He trusts you implicitly.
Or maybe you knew this already.
XxX
He challenges you and you've not been challenged like this in three years. There are things to be said against an easy life.
He demands proof of your suspicions, but doesn't outright reject them. You see it as partly a test designed to reassert yourself in this place; to demonstrate that you know this job. A test for yourself as much as anyone else. Whether he means it or not.
It brings a small smile to your face. Because, damnit, you're going to prove to him that you're right and you know what you're doing.
And you're going to enjoy it.
XxX
You want him to say something but he gives you space. He starts sentences and thoughts and you think you know where they're heading but then something stops him. You know what stops him: the ghost of your partner; the attempt to be understanding that you need time to heal.
It infuriates you that he gives you so much damn space. That he won't say what he wants to say; what you want him to say.
And then you realise two things:
A: you respect him more for giving you space
B: you're moving on.
XxX
He adopted your cats.
You find out accidentally after entering his office without knocking in your eagerness to provide him with an update. He's on the phone, exasperated. And you start to leave, but he motions to you to stay.
"It is not all that terribly difficult. Yes, Joan, I understand that they are unwilling to give up their freedom and have made numerous attempts to escape; however, you have to make them understand that they have no choice. I realise that this is indeed outside of your job description, but there is no alternative and I would be extremely grateful if you would be able to provide assistance with this matter. Well, bribe them with food if you have to. Yes, poor Fidget does hate to go to the vet, but I assure you that he would find it far more traumatic if he acquired feline leukaemia, worms, or any other number of diseases which will be prevented if he concedes defeat and gets in the damn box."
He makes faces of exasperation at you as he talks and attempts to placate the person on the other end of the phone in a tone of voice that suggests that he is anything other than sympathetic to the plight of poor Fidget. You try your best not to laugh as the call continues.
"Vaccinations," he simply says to you after ending the call. He motions to you to communicate the information you came to share. You attempt to school your features into an expression of seriousness, but it is with a barely-suppressed smile that you continue.
You love that he adopted your cats.
XxX
You like to watch him from across the grid. To glance up briefly from your work and catch a glimpse of him as he interacts with colleagues, talks on the phone, paces back and forth (although admittedly rarely). Most particularly you like to watch him when he is in his office, unaware of your scrutiny. Occasionally, your glances coincide with his and your eyes meet and you hastily return your focus to your work.
You don't realise that you've re-started behaviours from over three years ago.
XxX
He occasionally believes in the politicians.
You hadn't initially planned to invite him to drinks. Not that you hadn't been thinking about it, you had for some amount of time in fact, but you weren't necessarily intending to verbalise the thought; it takes too much courage. But you see his look of defeat and dismay and cannot help but react.
His almost immediate acceptance pleases you more than you'd like to admit. You'd also not like to admit how disappointed you feel when your plans are thwarted.
Later you think about the moment – repeatedly – and realise where this unintentional progression is heading. And you're good with that.
XxX
You start to make intentional progress.
You start thinking about your clothes, hair. You start to take time over your appearance, and initially it feels a strange compulsion because you've not really wanted to make an effort in longer than you can remember.
You like that you can tell he notices.
XxX
You give in to the desire to touch him. Just fingers meeting briefly.
It seems like a lifetime ago that touch communicated almost as much as words.
But you know that it is what he needs.
And, you're beginning to admit to yourself, it's what you need, too.
XxX
You re-learn how to read him. At least, most of the time.
He's been watching you recently, more so than before, and you can sense yet again that he wants to say something.
And then finally, one night as you're working late, he approaches you.
"It's late, Ruth. You should go home."
"So should you," you reply.
He gives a brief amused smile; there's too much to do and not enough people and he knows this. "You should at least take a break, then." A pause. "Why don't you join me for a drink?"
He motions to his office, and intrigued, you agree.
He pours the alcohol and passes it to you without asking what you would like to drink. He doesn't say anything for a while, and you wonder what he is carefully mulling over.
You sip at your drink.
Finally, he interrupts the silence and launches into a speech that is filled with uncharacteristic hesitance. "I'd like to ask you something. And if you say no, I assure you that I won't ask again. After everything that has happened in the past, I understand that you may want to fully consider the question before committing to an answer and I will gladly give you time. If you could let me know how much time you need, that is. It's just that recently, I think that things have changed, developed, between us, although I..."
"Harry," you interrupt. But he isn't listening. He's still carefully giving you a way out of this hypothetical, and yet still unsaid, situation with minimal awkwardness. But you don't want a way out; you spent too long trying to avoid this three years ago and now you've slowly managed to progress to a point where you only want to continue moving forward. Maybe, you realise, this is the only way forward.
"Harry," you repeat, you touch his arm in order to gain his focus. You drink some more of the alcohol, take a deep breath, and ask what you think he is so afraid to verbalise. "Would you like to go to dinner with me?" You don't breathe for a second; his features betray his surprise and you wonder if maybe you misread the situation.
"I'd love to," he replies.
You cannot help but smile. And exhale.
"Good," you respond. "Good." Your drink is now finished. "I should get back to work," you say, almost shyly. You stand and start slowly for the door. You're not sure how you're going to concentrate on work after this, but there are things that need to be done and there are deadlines to meet.
"I did wonder...," he starts. "It's been three years and George..."
This time you really can read him.
"It took me a long time to get over you," you confess quietly without looking back. And you intend to continue this line of thought, but he interrupts.
"I never got over you."
You turn sharply, and look at him, your eyes meeting his. And that is your ultimate weakness. You're hardly any distance away from him and for a moment you forget that you're in a glass enclosed office in the middle of the grid. You lean towards him, wanting to define this moment with something more than looks and words. You look down at his lips and then up again at his eyes.
You are merely centimetres apart when his phone rings. He gives a brief look at the caller ID. "It's the Home Secretary," he tells you, apologetically. But you understand.
"We'll talk later," you say before he answers the phone.
XxX
You're giddy and nervous as you enter the restaurant. Internally, you berate yourself for your teenage-girl type feelings. Surely, you're too old to feel like this.
You see him sitting at a table in the middle of the room and your nerves heighten just slightly. All this time spent re-learning Harry Pearce has led you to this moment and you're glad of that.
And then he sees you and smiles and you come to a realisation. You weren't just re-learning Harry Pearce; you were re-learning to love Harry Pearce. And it didn't take much re-learning at all.
XxX
Fin