A/N: RL seems to have taken over at the mo (though I'm sure it doesn't help that my inspiration and ability to string coherent sentences together takes a nosedive, these days, after every fic I complete). I was intending to have more written before beginning to publish this, but I have a feeling I just need to wing it this time as it's set at Christmas and it's approaching fast. Updates will be regular to begin with and short, but I make no promises that I'll manage to keep this up after the first few chapters. I'm hoping your lovely reviews will inspire my muse! Hope you enjoy. Cheers, S.C.
Tuesday, 1st December 2009
Tom had loved running; Danny had loved clubbing and films, Colin his computer games and the Hitchhickers' Guide to the Galaxy, and Malcolm collecting bugs, reading, and church on a Sunday. Zaf – Poor Zaf – Zaf had loved... sleep and coffee and flirting, and Adam, he'd loved Wes and Fiona. Lucas... she's not sure what Lucas loves yet; she hasn't known him long enough and he's a hard man to read. Ros loves work and – who knows what else Ros loves? Working out? Kicking arse? Winning? Yes. Undoubtedly winning... Fiona had loved Adam and Wes and the thrill of deception and going undercover. Zoe had loved being in love and doing her best and Will North. Sam had loved sweets and friendship and fun and mischief and romance and so many things. Jo – Dear Jo – she misses her so much. Jo had loved so many things too. Jo used to love everything. She used to love life itself, but lately she'd changed, she'd been so different. The Jo she'd come back to had been so damaged it had been heartbreaking. That Jo had loved her colleagues and doing her best to honour them by making sure their sacrifices hadn't been in vain. She'd loved doing the right thing and protecting the innocent.
Ruth had only managed to have three conversations with her since her return before she too had joined the list of names engraved upon the glass wall of Thames House. She treasures the memory of those conversations now, remembering particularly her words the last time she'd popped round for tea, two days before Ruth had returned to the Grid. She'd mentioned the Redbacks then, and how she'd lost her way for a while after what had happened – she hadn't shared the specifics, but Ruth had been able to imagine all that in uncomfortable detail regardless – until Adam had been killed and then she'd realised something. "It's our duty, Ruth," she'd said quietly, yet with conviction, leaning in, her eyes bright and intense as if she were imparting a hugely important secret, "to pay our respects by giving more of ourselves, doing more, fighting harder, living our life more fully because they're no longer here to live theirs. It's not just about carrying on the good fight. It's about making their sacrifices worthwhile by enjoying our life as much as possible, by having fun and doing all the things we've always wanted to do but didn't dare. That way, the bad guys never win. We fight this war with joy and laughter and love and friendship as well as by working our arses off every day at work. We beat them in every way that counts."
In the weeks that had followed Jo's loss, Ruth had thought about her words a lot and had eventually decided to try to live by them in memory of her friend and because she was getting increasingly worried about herself and the numbness she's been feeling since losing George and Nico, a numbness that, instead of receding with time, had started to spread deeper, gaining strength and almost suffocating her at times. So she'd gone out flat hunting and had found the perfect place – a one bedroom, furnished flat in an old building that had been converted into flats, whose rent had been a little too steep for her budget due to its location in an up-scale part of London, but on which she'd decided to spend a little of the compensation money Harry had managed to secure for her upon her return, following all that she'd been through because of Cotterdam and what had happened with George and Nico. She'd intended to never touch that money, but Jo's philosophy – her new philosophy – had demanded it be used, so she'd boxed up her few things and moved in, joined a local choir, bought herself an electronic piano, arranged to have some lessons and filled the rest of the free space in her flat with bookshelves ready to receive all the books she intends to buy.
Now she spends every Saturday after work scouring second hand bookshops, every Tuesday at Christ Church practising with the choir and every Sunday singing with them during the service, and on Thursdays she has her piano lessons. She still has to work hard at keeping her mood from taking a down turn, but it's getting much easier to keep up her spirits now, in spite of the nature of her work and in spite of all the losses. At times, however, she still finds it hard to breathe as she remembers them all and the grief threatens to overwhelm her completely.
Today is a good day, however, and she has choir practice tonight, assuming nothing terrible happens to keep her on the Grid late. This is her favourite time of year for singing and one she'd missed so much while she'd been away. There's something so different about the way Christmas is celebrated in Britain compared to everywhere else in the world and she'd missed singing carols, especially the less commercial ones that only get sung here – at home. They'd began practising carols last week, and she's looking forward to tonight immensely.