glow
spooks; harry, ruth, cast
802 words, g
Also: Written for the Secret Santa at spooky_doings on LJ, organised by the lovely melanie_annne, to whom I was assigned. Her prompts included: someone singing off-key, misuse of surveillance equipment, and the phrase "You look -- different." This is the very first Spooks fanfic I've written, and I do appreciate your comments. In terms of timeline, the fic is set somewhere after episode 5.10. I'd love to hear your comments on this. Merry Christmas, all.
so glow, we've held off the cold
lo and behold, turns winter, spring and fall.
It's a surprisingly quiet afternoon on the Grid: a respite between operations that comes far too infrequently for Harry's liking. No terrorists threats to deal with, no Armageddon to derail. The worst his team had to contend with this evening was the tedium of paperwork, but it was nothing, in light of the week they'd just had. He might even get to go home at a reasonable hour, he thinks with wry amusement. Take George for a walk, cook himself a proper meal, get the chance to read a novel.
Not that he disliked the job - it was taxing at the bext of times, certainly, and numerous were the days he came home, never wanting to see the front of Thames House again. Lesser men than him would have quit, long ago. It was a sense of duty that kept him there: he found a certain pride in serving his duty to queen and country, and he knew that he was good at his job.
And the sacrifices he had made along the way - so much he had given up. Friends, family, and - even still, it hurt him to think of Ruth, wide-eyed and fearful, face disappearing into the grey-blue distance along the Thames.
He looks at the clock - ten past five. It's probably getting dark out, and now is as good a time as any to leave.
He finds his team, still on the Grid, but it looks different to the Grid he'd walked through to his office four hours ago. There is glitter in Jo's hair, Malcom is wearing a paper hat. Somebody has strung up tinsel, decorating the desks. Not the most inconspicuous look for a team of spooks, he thinks, trying to keep his amusement from being visible.
"Hard at work, I see," he says to the Grid. "Where's Adam?"
"He's left," Ros says flatly, arms crossed against her chest. "It is Christmas Eve, after all."
The annoyance in her voice may have something to do with the ridiculous hat currently perched at a precarious angle on her head, he notes. It's hard to believe it's almost Christmas, already - how quickly times slips away.
"Ah," he says. "You look― different."
Ros rolls her eyes. "And to think anybody could have ever doubted your legendary reputation as a field agent. Your powers of observation are unparalleled."
Rare were the moments when Harry Pearce smiled - especially on the Grid - but it happened.
"I expect to see you all here on Monday. Until then, I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas."
He saw Zaf mouth "the George?" at Jo, who raised her eyebrows and grinned in response.
"'Night, Harry," Malcom said, echoed by the others, as he walked out.
He could hear Zaf singing - no, butchering was the more appropriate term - Silent Night, somewhere behind him.
Back turned, he missed the ever-so-slight smile Ros wore as he departed.
He was about to turn the key in the ignition when he realised that there was something in his coat pocket that he hadn't put in there. He sighed with frustration, pulling it out. An envelope, with his name written neatly on the front. An anonymous note could only mean bad things for his thoughts of a quiet few days off. He opened the envelope, and his stomach dropped on seeing the contents.
Surveillance photos, no doubt about it - black-and-white, grainy. Stills taken from CCTV footage. A mess of people moving along a street somewhere - it looked like Paris. It was one pale face among the bodies that caught his eye and made his heart ache. Her.
An appaling misuse of surveillance equipment, he thinks, if they had left any trace, if Mace ever found out about this, and if he ever found out which misguided, utterly foolish officer of his had gathered these, may God help them, because―
But then he looks again at the images - Ruth's slight figure and long coat making her look oddly like the shadow that occasionally flits through his dreams, and suddenly he finds he couldn't care less.
He checks the envelope. There's a note. Merry Christmas, it simply reads. Black pen. Printer paper, the sort they used in the office. The handwriting is familiar, but he can't quite place it.
The warm glow of a streetlamp metres away illuminates the snow falling all around him, the flakes catching the light and making the world seem beautifully still and peaceful. He has the remainder of the week to himself, and the idea of buying a plane ticket to Paris is, yes, idiotically sentimental, but not altogether absurd. He wonders whether he can find her, before Christmas.
He tucks the photos back into his coat pocket, his heart as light as the snowflakes falling outside.