6

Giving in

A short, one part fic this time, HR of course. I do not own the characters (KUDOS and the BBC do); the first italicised sentences are an excerpt from 8.8.

Set a couple of days after the end of series 8: this is what I would like to see in 9.1!

1.

She is so tired she can barely see the screen in front of her. She hasn't gone home in three days – since the morning of the explosion in which the Home Secretary and Ros nearly died, in which she thought Harry had died until, an horrendous hour later, he managed to ring her from the bomb site. In that hour, she finally admitted to herself that she had not stopped loving him in all those years; she also saw him dead, blown apart, and her life stretch ahead of her with nothing to look forward to, no prospect for happiness, nothing.

From his brief, regular phone updates she knows he divides his time between the hospital, the bombing site, and Whitehall. He hasn't been back to the Grid, and has put Lucas in charge of the section temporarily, while Ros recovers. She longs to see him, to hold him, to touch him, and to reassure herself that he is truly alive. And yet she knows how improbable it is that he will respond to her warmth, that he will choose to see, properly, how much she loves him. The look he threw her as she was almost begging him not to go to the hotel – hard, uncompromising, almost cold – is still seared in her mind. As is their conversation on the roof – her attempt at comforting him, his refusal to engage…We're all brothers, Harry, that's why we shed tears for those those we don't know…She remembers his arm under her fingers, suddenly clenching away from her, rigid with tension…It's just the wind, Ruth…How dismissed she felt. Disparaged almost…

She shakes herself. Now is not the time, she tells herself…it's not the time to think about this, about him, in that way. She clicks away on the keyboard, finally able to focus on the task at hand, oblivious to anything and anyone on the Grid, a face a study in concentration.

'Ruth?'

She looks up sharply. He is coming into the Grid, hggard, bloodshot eyes, the lines on his face deeper…By the look of it, he hasn't even been home to change nor slept in a bed since she last saw him. 'Hi', she stammers slightly, getting up, almost rushing to him. . 'Are you..are you OK? Do you…?'

'I'm fine', he says abruptly. 'Listen, I've just…'

'Harry. Come on. You need to go home and get some rest, you can't…'

'I said I'm fine! I don't need to rest…What I need is a shower. Did my driver…?'

'Yes. Your spare clothes were duly delivered yesterday morning', she cuts in, hurt by his coldness. 'What else do you need?'

'Those four individuals', he says, handing her a crumpled piece of paper. 'Possible members of Nightingale. Senior civil servants at the Home Office. Something Lawrence said…' He is so tired he can't even speak in full sentences.

'So he isn't part of it, then, is he?'

'No. He isn't. You were right. As usual.'

She stiffens at his tone – which is irritated almost, and certainly not complimentary – but bites her tongue. She steps away from him and even he, in his state, can see how pale she's become. 'Fine', she says in a low, strained voice. ' 'Fine. I'll do it now. Anything else?'

'No. And…' she is already walking away, back to her desk, slightly hunched, the slope of her shoulders speaking of defeat and infinite lassitude. 'Thanks', he murmurs. But she doesn't hear him.

2.

The shower, hard, long, in turns boilot hot and freezing cold, offers him a respite from the horror of the last few days. He needs this cleansing jet of water, to wash away the blood, the dust, the grime, the sweat…the memories of the blast will stay with him for a long time, as will the screams of the wounded, and his howl of terror at the thought of Ros trapped in there. The water will not rid him of that.

Nor can it rid him of the guilt he feels at his behaviour towards Ruth. He doesn't want her pity. He doesn't even want her compassion. He can't stand the way she looks at him, full of concern, protective – like a sister. When she came back, he would have given a lot for those looks. But now….he wants her to look at him with love, desire, passion…that's why he brushed off before, when she tried to comfort him as he cried for Nightingale's victims. That's why he refused to see and hear her concern when she attempted to convince him not to go to the hotel…

Ýou're behaving like a prat, he scolds himself while shaving, trying to ignore the tingles of desire which course through his body whenever he thinks of her. She's offering you her friendship, her support…what else can you expect, Pearce…? After everything that's happened. Now go and apologise to her for being snappy and…

And what, he asks himself? What next? Ask her out for a drink. The drink she suggested you go to a few weeks ago, but never made it. You can do with a friend around the place, and you're lucky to have her as a friend so get over yourself, your feelings for her which she can't return anymore, and treasure her what she can offer you.

Feeling marginally more human, somewhat refreshed, determined to rebuild some bridges with her, he goes back to the Grid. 'Where's Ruth?', he frowns.

'She said she needed to get some fresh air', Tariq replies, looking at him warily.

Harry stares back, noticing how drawn, exhausted, the younger man looks. 'Have you guys been here since the blast?', he asks.

Tariq nods. 'Go home, son', Harry says. 'Come back in eight hours. Get some sleep, having something to eat and a drink' - he pulls out a twenty pound note from his wallet – 'on me. You've done a brilliant job here, and you need a break. Come on. Off you go…'

Without realising it, he's adopted with Tariq the tone he usually uses with his younger officers – gruff, but soft too, and for the first time in months Tariq begins to understand why everyone, here, is so loyal to him. 'Ruth left a file on your desk for you', he says shyly. 'Just before she went out.'

'Thanks, Tariq. I'll see you later, yes?'

He goes straight into his office and picks up the file. There's a post-it on it. 'This is all I could find on those men. Am going out for 20mns or so. We can talk about this later.'

He looks up: her coat's missing, but her handbag is still there. He knows where she is.

3.

This- the London skyline – is one of the things she used to miss the most, when she was in Cyprus. Especially when seen at night, from this rooftop, the place to which she always goes when she needs peace, quiet, a break from the madness of the Grid. The place of so many of her encounters with Harry.

She's feeling shaken, fragile, still reeling from their conversation earlier. He doesn't want you anymore, she tells herself bleakly. He used to but no longer…maybe he doesn't like the new you, more confident, more self-assured…he fell in love with mousy bookish Ruth and he ended up with still booking-but-not-so-mousy-Ruth version 2. She can feel the prick of tears in her eyes and tries to steel herself against the pain…not particularly successfully.

The sound of the door to the terrace startles her. She knows it's him: as far as she knows they are the only ones likely to come to the roof early evening on a wintry day…

'Hi', he says softly.

'Hi'. She doesn't turn to face him. It's dark, but still, she doesn't want him to see her tears.

'I'm sorry about earlier', he says simply. 'I'm exhausted but it's no excuse for….Ruth? Are you crying?'

She stiffens. 'It's OK, it's just….' She swallows. 'The last couple of days have been...rough.'

He put his hand on her arm, tentatively, hesitantly. She doesn't move away. 'I'm sorry', he repeats. 'That you've had to go through all of this since you've been back. And after….'

If he were not so kind, she would be able to hold on to her self-control. But the gentleness of his voice and the warmth of his touch undo her. Her tears start flowing freely. She vaguely hears him say 'oh Ruth'. She is expecting him to go, and leave her to her grief, partly in a misplaced wish to respect her privacy, partly out of cowardice. But suddenly she feels his arms around her, drawing her to him, allowing her to lean against him fully. And she gives in to her grief and sadness. She buries her head in his shoulder, and clings to him, her body racked with the force of her sobbing. Now she has started, she can't stop.

He does not move. In fact, there's nothing, and no one, who could drag him away from her and leave her there. He holds her as tightly as he can without hurting her, his cheek and mouth in her hair, whispering her name, reassuring her that he is here, and not going anywhere, knowing that she probably can't hear his words but trusting that she can sense the love in his voice.

After a while she pulls away from him. Her face is blotchy, her eyes are swollen, and circled with dark, deep lines he hasn't seen before, and his heart is bursting with love. 'I'm sorry', she says. 'I'm so sorry. I'll be fine, thanks for…my God Harry. Your shirt. It's such a mess. I'm such a mess.'

She looks up at him: he is staring at her, intently, and she recognises that look, the Havensworth's look, as she has been calling it to herself, privately, for years. 'Harry?', she whispers.

He hasn't let go of her yet; he can't let go. He frames her face between his hands, his eyes searching hers, asking for permission almost. They move at the same time, their mouths meeting slowly at first, then more urgently, almost frantically, years of distance and repressed feelings melting away, his hands moving down her back to settle on her hips, hers sneaking underneath his jacket to bring him closer still, both aware of their mutual desire.

At last, they pull apart slightly, in a daze, still holding each other. 'I love you', he states firmly, clearly, with no hesitation, at last giving in to his feelings for her. 'I love you', he repeats, 'and I want you. More than I have ever wanted anyone. And it's probably too much, too soon, and I know you hate the thought of people gossiping about you, but please, Ruth, will you at least…'

She puts her fingers on his mouth, gently. 'It's not too much, too soon, Harry. We've both lost so much, so many people…' She takes a deep breath. 'I love you too. I always have. Even when…in all those years when I was away..' She finds it difficult, even now, to say it. But he nods his understanding. 'And I don't care about people gossiping', she continues. 'Not anymore. Life's too short really.'

He gathers her close to him, in his arms, unable to believe that they have at last reached this point. 'When Lucas comes back…let's go out to diner. Together. He can hold the fort on his own for a couple of hours.'

'And then?', she asks him, with a hint of mischieviousness in her eyes.

'I want to make love with you', he says simply. 'You've no idea how much….and I want to be with you, properly. That's what I want. And I've never been more sure of anything in my life. But if you need time, if you want to….'

'We've had enough time, haven't we?', she says. 'I don't want to wait any longer.'

He bends his head to hers, and kisses her again, deeply, thoroughly, thrilled by her response to him. 'Are you sure?', he asks shakily. 'Are you sure about this? Because….I'm quite a bit older than you. And not particularly good at relationships. Also….it's been such a long time… I don't know whether I can…'

'How long?', she asks gently, her hands still under his jacket, rubbing his lower back, willing him to trust her and open up.

He can't look at her in the face. 'Oh….about eight years', he says tightly, afraid that she will think less of him as man.

Her eyes widen. 'Really? How come?', she asks, genuinely puzzled. 'I mean, you're powerful, successful, attractive…surely women would throw…'

He blushes. 'Well. It takes two. And I was never particularly interested. Not since a lovely, eccentric, brilliant, beautiful analyst barged into our meeting room, arms full of files, and said 'bugger the Home Office.' That really did it for me, I think'.

'From that very first day?! But you never showed any…'

He traces the curve of her cheek with his thumb. 'I didn't realise it myself at the time. It all happened slowly…and you? When did you…?'

'From the beginning. More or less. Harry. There're nevery any guarantees. You should know that. As for the age gap…I couldn't care less. As for the other…stuff…'

'Stuff?', he chuckles, 'well, I suppose that's a name for it.'

'Starts with the same letter', she retorts drolly. She grows serious. 'It'll happen. Don't worry.' Her composure deserts her. 'I want you so much', she whispers, her voice trembling, her eyes suddenly glistening with tears. 'So much. And I'm so scared of losing you.'

He kisses her eyelids, with infinite tenderness. 'I'm not going anywhere', he murmurs. 'I'm right here.'

And suddenly, that which an hour before seemed impossible, unreachable, is there, right in front of them, inevitable.