A character based fic without much plot. As this develops it'll become a kind of exploration of Ruth as a character, looking back at her life. Obviously Ruth/Harry will find its way in there (how couldn't it) but will also focus on her relationships with other characters. It begins at Series 8, but will move back to other series and eventually forward to 9 and maybe speculating beyond. This first chapter is kind of just an introduction to set up the concept. So a little bit different but hopefully it'll work. Hope to update very soon.
I don't own Spooks.
After two weeks of a Mi5 safe house; bare walls and numbness, she is taken to her new flat. She know he organised it and she's as grateful as she can be. She doesn't want to be here, she wants to be buying fruit at a market with Nico or sitting in the lazy evening sun with George… But those thoughts lead her nowhere so she tries to settle in. If she has to be back here, part of her is relieved to be somewhere new. She misses her house; the stained glass window on the door but maybe it's for the best.
A week later Harry calls. She watches it go to answer phone. They haven't spoken since he tried to make her go to hospital when the left the warehouse. She can't remember what she said to make him realise there wasn't a chance in hell of it, but somehow they were driving in silence to the safe house. He has promised to sort everything out, she hadn't looked him in the eye.
The message is short. His voice is gentle and so full of apology. The first time around she barely registers what he's trying to say because his tone makes her so angry. When she listens again she realises he's telling her that tomorrow the things that were put in to storage after her 'death' will be delivered. He offers to send someone to help her unpack them, there is an unspoken offer that he will come if she asks but he knows she won't. If she doesn't want the things, she can send the man away. It ends with him saying; 'I hope you're… Ruth, please meet me next week. If you… Well, let me know."
There's so much unsaid that it's hard to think about, hard to analyse. So she concentrates on the fact that the next day at 11.00am, her things from her old life will be delivered. That is something she can process, something she can organise, something she can cope with.
When everything arrives, she cries for a good hour. There are books she bought at university she never thought she'd see again, and clothes she forgot she'd owned. When she's calmed down she begins to go through it all slowly and methodically. She tries to be brutal; to throw away anything she no longer needs and anything simply too painful to keep.
And then, there, amongst boxes of Christmas decorations, she sees it. And she manages to drop the lamp she was trying to wrestle in to the bin 'Thing!'. She can't believe it's here; she was so sure it would have been thrown away. Not everything was put in to storage and to anyone else; it would surely look like junk. But there it is, lying innocuously amongst everything else.
She realises that it must have been Harry who went to her house, who boxed everything up, who chose what to throw away and what to keep. For a second she imagines how hard it must have been for him, to be there so close to her things, in her house, in her bedroom, the closest he would ever come to truly seeing her; without her even there. But she doesn't want to feel sorry for Harry, she doesn't want to feel anything for him.
She tries not to imagine him opening this battered shoe box containing about fifteen different things. Memories from a life half lived. Mementos collected along the way and saved in a box kept under her bed. For a second she considers throwing it away; perhaps a sensible option, a clean break, a new start. But as hard as she's trying to be, she's still Ruth, Ruth who would never throw a book away and wishes people still wrote letters so you could keep words forever. She isn't going to throw the box away. She's going to keep it and add to it. Adding moments from the brief life she just lived, the simple, elegant one and moments from this messy new one she's about to embark on. She opens the box.
He opens the box. He's sat on her bed which feels wrong somehow. He doesn't want to be here without her permission. He's imagined lying in this bed with her a thousand times, but sat on it without her he feels like he's trespassing. He left her bedroom until last, knowing it would be the hardest. He's almost impressed with himself so far though, he's stayed strong, even headed. Decided what she might want if she ever… not that she can, not that she will. But there is an if and if she did ever come back, he wants her to have something to come back to. (Someone too.) He tries to be as sentimental she would, so he keeps all her books – but the kitchen utensils all go.
And then he finds this box under her bed. He knows straight away it's more than just a shoe box. Catherine had something similar hidden away under her bed, with birthday cards, school reports, photos and love letters written in crayon. He remembers her fury when she caught him looking through it one night. He had only wanted to understand this thirteen year old that he never saw, but loved with all his heart better. But Catherine just saw her absentee father invading her privacy and she screamed and raged and called him names he'd rather not remember.
Oh God Ruth. He thinks to himself, sat on her bed, surrounded by her smell. The faint vanilla that intoxicated him for so long. She would shout as loudly as Catherine at him for opening it, he's sure. He remembers her venom after the Angela incident, one of the few times she got truly angry at him. Seeing her so empowered, even with anger at him had made him love her even more. God, he loved her. He loved her without even knowing her properly; he didn't know she loved Joni Mitchell until he boxed up her entire discography from Ruth's shelves. He never would have imagined her watching American TV, but in the corner was the entire DVD box set of Friends. So many things he's never get the chance to ask, so many things left unsaid.
He opens the box.