Disclaimer: Spooks and all it's characters belong to Kudos and the BBC. If I did own anything to do with Spooks, then Ruth wouldn't have insisted that they leave it unspoken
Author's Note: This is a post 5:05 fic. I feel the need to apologize for making Harry sound slightly insane, but only slightly. Please note that there is a third and final chapter to this fic, which will hopefully be posted tomorrow. Enjoy, and please don't forget to review.
After Midnight - Chapter One
She'd contemplated it since she had taken her waking breath.
Trembling and covered in a fine layer of sweat, she'd been terrified that she had forgotten the soft and soothing tone of his voice. Forgotten the way in which he said her name gave her Goosebumps. No one said her name the way he did. He made it sound different, exotic and utterly beautiful.
Her fingers itched to pick up the phone, to dial his number. The urge was so strong she had to dig her fingernails into the palm of her hand to stop herself from doing it. The sharp and sudden pain gave her a moment of clarity.
"Dying" hadn't been as bad as she thought it would be. Any and all traces of Ruth Evershed within the service had come together under the heading of traitor, and "her body" had been dragged out of the Thames. She hadn't asked who would identify the body for the police, but she knew it would be him. She doubted he would have let anyone else have the job.
Zaf had used all the forgery suit's finest tricks in order to create her a waterproof legend. One, he boasted, not even the Security Services would have seen through. Taking on a new legend was like stepping to someone else's shoes. They felt too big and slightly damp, to take the analogy too far. But this one felt different.
She could still see the insane grin on Zaf's face when he presented her with her new passport.
"Sharon….Pearce?" She asked, somewhat accusatory, looking up from the little leather bound book.
He shrugged an elegant shrug that could have meant everything or nothing. "Well, I thought it seemed appropriate."
Even she had to admit it suited her. At least this way she could take a piece of him with her that didn't revolve around the memory of a single, heated kiss beside the docks.
But his voice. What she wouldn't give to be able to hear his voice again, even for the briefest moment.
Her hand reached for the phone before she had a chance to talk herself out of it. She stared unblinking at the keypad. With a sigh, she willed herself to press the first digit.
x x x
The shrill ring of the telephone brought Harry out of his reverie. Not that he had been asleep. That no longer offered him the rest it once did. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing her face, her eyes, her mouth…
His gazed drifted over to the clock beside him, but all he registered was a blur of red. Giving himself a shake, he watched the digital clock face until he could make out the time.
2:14 am.
He groaned and closed his eyes against the thoughts that began to swirl in his mind. No one called at 2am with good news.
Ignoring the chill along his spine, Harry made his way down darkened hallway, glad that the cats hadn't decided to make the landing their bed yet again. He pushed open the door to the study, and had to blink past the harsh blue glare that emanated from the computer screen. He stumbled through the temporary haze to the desk and picked up the phone.
"What?" He growled into the mouthpiece, not caring that it came out hostile.
x x x
The rough texture of his voice flowed over her skin like silk, and she had to stifle the gasp that rose in her throat. His abruptness held a hint of languor that all voices got as they edged towards sleep. She'd almost forgotten just how much of a touchable sound his voice was.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. Words stuck in the back of her throat like a piece of apple, until she was almost choking on air. With a trembling hand, she returned the phone to its cradle with more force than she'd intended.
As she watched the phone rock back and fourth, she fought to breath past the lump in her throat. If she had taken more time in making her decision, then maybe she would have found the right words. Were there any right words to say? She didn't know anymore. After all, what did the dead really have to say?
Her hand hit the wooden table, hard enough for a dull ache to spread through her fingers. The frustration with herself tasted bitter on her tongue.
TBC...