"Morning, Ruth."
"Is it?!" She stamps her feet irritably and moves over to her desk, grumbling under her breath. Dimitri just shrugs and wanders off towards the kitchen.
The last few days have been a nightmare after the results came in from America.
First Brexit, now this?!
She's beginning to lose her faith in people. It's Remembrance Day today, yet it seems like no one has learnt anything from the suffering and sacrifice of so many.
Why is it that people can't learn from the mistakes of the past? What is it in human nature that dooms us to repeat history over and over again?
She gets to her desk, removes her coat and turns on her computer, feeling a little guilty now about being so short with Dimitri.
"Good morning, Ruth," Harry's voice murmurs behind her.
"Morning," she sighs, turning to face him.
"Everything alright?"
"Fine. Fine," she mutters sarcastically. "Why wouldn't it be alright? First Trump and now Leonard."
Harry frowns. "Leonard?"
"Cohen," she explains. "He died."
"Ah yes," he nods. "I heard it on the radio this morning. I didn't know you were a fan?"
"Yes, well, there are a lot of things you don't know about me, Harry."
A shadow crosses his face and he looks hurt for a moment. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then appears to think better of it.
"I'm sorry," she apologises quickly. "That was rude and uncalled for. I'm just feeling... fed up. But that's not your fault, or Dimitri's, and I shouldn't take out my-"
"It's fine, Ruth. Forget it." He smiles.
"What were you going to say? Just now?" she asks, feeling brave.
Life's too short. For all we know, we'll wake up to WWIII tomorrow morning.
He hesitates, then shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."
"Tell me."
He studies her for a moment then says, "Maybe later. My driver's waiting downstairs. I've been summoned to the Home Office."
And with that he's gone.
It's late and she's just about ready to head home. Only one light is still burning on the Grid. She smiles sadly. How many times have they sat like this over the years, keeping each other company from a distance? It's comforting to think that they will always continue like this, but deep down she knows it cannot last forever. Harry turned sixty-three just a few days ago. How much longer will he want to keep going in this job that is becoming less and less rewarding each day and feels like they're making less of a difference every week?
She gets up, collecting her things and turning her light off before heading over to bid him goodnight.
"Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.
Everybody knows the war is over,
Everybody knows the good guys lost.
Everybody knows the fight was fixed,
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich.
That's how it goes,
Everybody knows."
Leonard's words fill the room as she steps through the door.
"Drink?" he asks without turning to face her and she sees he's already pouring one for himself.
"Thank you," she says, dropping her bag on a chair and moving over to stand beside him.
He turns and hands her the tumbler, his eyes betraying how happy he is to see her. She lives for these moments. She suspects they both do.
"Everybody knows that the boat is leaking,
Everybody knows that the captain lied.
Everybody's got this broken feeling,
Like their father or their dog just died," Leonard continues.
"Why do we keep going, Harry?" she asks softly. "What's the point?"
He doesn't reply, but moves over to the sofa, silently inviting her to take a seat.
"I've been asking myself the same question a lot lately."
"And have you found a satisfactory answer yet?"
"Yes," he admits.
She waits, but he doesn't go on.
"Would you like to share?"
He smiles into his glass and takes a sip of the amber liquid.
"You're not going to like it," he explains.
She frowns. "Why not?"
"Because it is something about which we never speak."
She feels her heart-rate quicken. He lifts his eyes to hers then, studying her face for a few moments before he smiles softly and turns back to his drink.
"Tell me," she hears herself say.
"Are you sure?" He seems surprised, his scrutiny of her face perhaps convincing him that she's not ready to broach the subject. She hadn't thought she was ready either, but Leonard dying today, Trump being elected on Tuesday, Brexit, the surge in racism and hate crimes – something's changed inside her lately and today, tonight, a switch has flipped.
She nods.
"After everything, at this moment in my life, you are the reason, Ruth," he murmurs, his gaze open and honest. "You are the reason I get up in the morning, the reason I come into work, the reason I have not taken retirement and moved away from this madness. I cannot bear the thought of my life without you in it. Since you are here, this is where I will remain too."
The emotions are overpowering, rendering her speechless and very near tears.
"If you want a lover,
I'll do anything you ask me to," Leonard begins to sing in the background and she sees Harry smile.
"And if you want another kind of love,
I'll wear a mask for you.
If you want a partner, take my hand, or
If you want to strike me down in anger,
Here I stand.
I'm your man."
"I don't know what to say," she confesses eventually.
But he doesn't reply – perhaps he feels that Leonard is saying it much better than he ever could, or perhaps he has nothing more to add, feels he's already said it all – so she lifts her glass to her lips and takes a fortifying gulp.
"If you want a boxer,
I will step into the ring for you.
And if you want a doctor,
I'll examine every inch of you.
If you want a driver, climb inside,
Or if you want to take me for a ride,
You know you can.
I'm your man."
He drains his glass and goes over to refill it, coming back carrying the whole bottle, Leonard's deep voice still reverberating around the room.
"Ah, the moon's too bright,
The chain's too tight,
The beast won't go to sleep.
I've been running through these promises to you
That I made and I could not keep.
Ah, but a man never got a woman back,
Not by begging on his knees,
Or I'd crawl to you, baby, and I'd fall at your feet,
And I'd howl at your beauty like a dog in heat,
And I'd claw at your heart, and I'd tear at your sheet,
I'd say please,
I'm your man."
She feels tears gather in her eyes now, so she swiftly lifts a hand to wipe them away.
"Did you time this?" she asks.
"The song on the radio? Even I don't have that kind of power, Ruth."
"The radio?" She frowns.
"On the computer." Then seeing her surprise, he adds, "I do know how to find a radio station online, Ruth. This one usually plays classical music at this time of night, but tonight they're paying tribute to your Canadian friend."
She drains her glass and places it on the table, slipping her hands under her thighs to keep them still.
"More?" he asks lifting the whisky bottle.
"No, thanks," she shakes her head.
She watches him top up his own glass before leaning back to look at her again.
"What happens now?" she asks softly.
"That's up to you, Ruth. It has always been up to you. You know what I want. I think I have made that very clear over the years and especially tonight. It is less clear what you want, however... at least to me."
She drops her gaze, ashamed suddenly of herself and how much she's hurt him, how much time she's wasted. What has her life amounted to exactly? What has she gained by keeping him at arm's length all these years? Leonard was eighty-two. Harry is sixty-three. How much time does he have left, do they have left to get their act together? Does she really want to risk running out of time, never knowing what it is to share her life, her home, her bed, her body with him, the one man she has loved with all her heart?
She recognises the music as it changes again and looks up at him, to find him grinning.
"Did you...?"
"No." He shakes his head and laughs.
It is such a wonderful sound. He doesn't laugh nearly often enough.
Abruptly she gets up and steps in front of him, holding out her hand. "Dance with me, Harry."
He doesn't hesitate, placing his glass on the table and taking her hand, allowing her to pull him to his feet. Gently he guides her into his arms as Leonard sings.
"Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin.
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in.
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove.
Dance me to the end of love."
"You know he wrote this about the Holocaust?" she whispers, eyes closed, head resting on his shoulder.
"Mmm," he hums, the vibration reverberating through his chest to hers.
"Oh, let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone.
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon.
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of.
Dance me to the end of love."
"Which is your favourite?" he asks.
"You are. You are my favourite, Harry."
He pulls back to look at her in surprise, his gaze guarded yet hopeful, his breathing deeper, like he's holding himself back.
"I bought a house," she says, holding his gaze despite its intensity. "It's in Suffolk. It's on the coast. It's lovely." If he finds the shift in conversation odd, he doesn't show it. "I thought it would be nice to spend weekends there, retire there someday. It's got a green front door. The paint's peeling and the woman said I'd want to change it, but I love it." He smiles. "It's got a big kitchen and the dining room is full of light. It leads onto the patio and a lovely garden. The living room's cosy and it's got a fireplace. It should be lovely in the winter and upstairs there are two bedrooms. One's only small though. I thought… I thought it could be your office if... when we're ready."
His eyes soften, his breathing changing, becoming deeper, more rapid as if he's struggling to control his emotions.
"I began looking in August," she explains. "For a house. When I saw this one, I fell in love with it. I put an offer in straight away, but I couldn't really picture myself living there for a long time. Eventually I figured out that I couldn't picture myself there alone... without you."
"Why didn't you say anything, Ruth?" His voice is gruff with emotion.
"How could I? After everything that's happened between us, Harry, after everything I've done to hurt you..." She tails off, tears gathering in her eyes. "I couldn't be certain that you'd want that. That you'd want me."
"Oh Ruth," he sighs, pulling her into his arms again, holding her tightly against him, the fingers of his right hand threading into her hair, his hand cradling her head as he presses his lips against her forehead. "You daft, stubborn old mule. I have loved you and wanted you and waited for you, for more than a decade. I will love you and want you until the day I die."
She doesn't know if she should cry or laugh, so she pulls him closer and buries her face in his chest, overcome by emotion, by the moment, by him.
He starts swaying to the music again.
"Dance me to the children who are asking to be born.
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn.
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn.
Dance me to the end of love.
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin.
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in.
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove.
Dance me to the end of love."
When the song comes to an end, he kisses her - softly, tenderly - and then he takes her home.
The next day, they both hand in their resignations and leave for Ruth's house in Suffolk – the house that will soon be their home.
A/N All songs/lyrics used in this fic are by Leonard Cohen. They are 'Everybody knows', 'I'm your man', and 'Dance me to the end of love'. Also, many thanks to Sparky75 for being my beta for this fic.