A/N - A one-shot that turned into two chapters. The rating will increase with the second chapter, which will be posted soon. Thank you for reading.
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The letter sat unopened on her countertop for two days. Enormously pleased with her ability to resist temptation and quell her natural curiosity, Ruth poured herself a congratulatory coffee. Impervious to her struggle, the letter remained patiently waiting, leaning against a bowl of fruit, oblivious to the overripe banana and her wounded pride. She stared at it as she sipped her coffee, locked in a battle of wills, determined not to give in. The only remedy for temptation was distraction. She crossed the kitchen to a set of glass doors and peered out. The iron grey sky hung low on the horizon, so close she could almost touch it. Against it, the blackened branches of her garden stood out in stark relief. Or what would be a garden once spring came. She had never had a proper plot of land or the time to tend one. It was still hard to believe that the house belonged to her, after so many years of living in rented flats. She smiled ruefully into her mug, conceding that the house was actually owned by the bank, she laid only claim to the stoop. And the door – the peeling green door.
Turning away from the window, she spotted an unopened box tucked into a corner of the living room. As part of their service, the moving company had packed up the sundry contents of her flat. She tried not to think of strangers sifting through her belongings, organising and sorting her life into boxes. At the time she had been far too ill to care; her only goal at had been to get out of intensive care. She crossed to the box and gingerly tested its weight. The doctors had given her strict instructions not to lift anything over a certain weight - hence the number of boxes that still lay sporadically placed about the house. She peeled back the packing tape, beset with a curious excitement, like a child opening a cracker. What prize was in this box? It turned out to be the contents of her desk, and she absently flipped through receipts and lists, abruptly stopping when she came across a photo. The soft brown eyes of a little boy smiled back at her. Nico. He had his father's eyes. The roar of waves filled her ears, the scent of seaweed and basil mixed with the tang of the sea. She closed her eyes. She did have a garden once. And a home. And a family. But she never spoke of them; they lived in a little hollowed out part of her heart, closed off and carefully guarded. Remnants of another life. How many reincarnations could a soul have in one lifetime? She traced over Nico's face. He would be older now, perhaps looking even more like his father. Overcome by a wave of tenderness, she kissed the tip of her finger and then placed it on his nose, an act she would often do with the real boy. The past was never completely packed away, it would find always a way to spill out. With a tiny sigh, she returned the photograph back to its hiding place and closed up the box, admitting that the distraction had not worked. Her attention wandered back to the letter. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at it. Who sends letters in this day and age? Emails, texts, a phone call, but not letters. She would not admit that it took a certain amount of effort to write up a letter and post it, as opposed to the rather effortless task of electronic messaging.
With a huff of exasperation, she set down her coffee a marched back over to the counter. Picking up the envelope, she studied her name on the front, written in his perfunctory scrawl. She would recognise his handwriting anywhere. Slipping a knife under the seal, she carefully tore it open. It was a single sheet of paper folded around a ticket. There was only one sentence.
Please come. H.
She flipped the paper over, looking for more - a greeting, an explanation, an apology. There should have been more considering they had not spoken for a week. Their last phone conversation had ended with a terse goodbye, or more to the point he had said goodbye and she had rung off with more force than was strictly necessary. His one week in London had turned into two, eventually rolling over into a month. With each conversation, he had become a little less forthcoming, a little more distant, traits that set off silent alarms in her head. When she had pressed him to explain his reticence, he had changed the subject. In the past, she had witnessed enough of his dealings with bureaucrats and politicians to know that he was hedging, prevaricating, withholding information. Instinct told her the reason but she refused to listen. Instead, she blamed his years of solitude, the need for self-preservation, the products of a life built on secrets. Even when he had been in the house with her, a part of him had not been fully present. They had sat at the kitchen table, holding hands, gazing out the window, profoundly thankful to be in each other's company, but those blissful moments had held a strange undercurrent of tension, as if they were each inhabiting a legend, merely playing at being a couple, afraid to completely commit to their roles in case they were summoned back to reality. Still, she could not have asked for him to be more caring or solicitous. He had brought her home when she was released from the hospital; having made sure the paperwork for the house proceeded, and stayed with her for almost a number of weeks. In deference to her injury, he had gallantly forsworn the comfort of the bed, opting instead to sleep on the couch. There had been a few nights when they had lied together on the bed together, talking of everything and nothing, eventually falling asleep holding each other's hand. There had been one night in particular when he had rubbed slow circles across her back, telling her a tale from his youth in a voice low and soothing, and his hands had drifted down her waist, eventually descending to her hips. She had turned to him, and his talk had given way to tentative kisses, lingering, deepening, want stirring within them. But before their desires could be realised, they had pulled away. Or perhaps it was she who had pulled away, conscious of her wound. At the remembrance of his kisses, she touched her fingers to her lips, her stomach dropping into a pool of warmth. He was a very good kisser. It was all very lovely but in the end, kisses and hand-holding were no substitute for talk of the future. His clothes hung in the closet upstairs but there was no definitive plan for him to move in, she had merely laboured under the assumption that he would. Assumptions always had a way of unravelling. Reality had crept in. It had been easy to ignore the phone calls from Erin, to avoid the messages from Towers, but the summons from the Director General could not be ignored. There were loose ends to the Gavrik affair, the Russian situation, the charges against Sasha. He would go up to London and look after it all, she didn't have to worry, it would be taken care of in a few days, he assured her, a week at the most.
How had a month slipped by?
She flicked the edge of the ticket with her thumb. It was for a performance of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. A smile tugged at her lips. They had stood at the sink one evening washing up, the radio playing quietly in the background, when Harry had started to wax on about Led Zeppelin. Unable to resist, she had teased him, saying she was under the impression that the only rock he listened to was Rachmaninoff. That, in turn, had led to a debate on the merits of Rachmaninoff versus Tchaikovsky. They had a habit of falling into these tiny skirmishes. She was firmly in the Tchaikovsky camp, arguing that Rachmaninoff was only following in the footsteps of a greater composer. He had championed Rachmaninoff, promising that if there was ever the opportunity he would take her to a concert and she could hear for herself.
"Oh, Harry," she sighed.
What was she supposed to do with him? Impossible man.
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The taxi pulled away and Ruth found herself in the middle of the pre-concert bustle. The crowd flowed around her as she stood on the pavement trying to get her bearings. After months in the solitude of her little house, the chaos of London was a shock to her system. She took a deep breath, schooling herself that she would adjust to it in a moment; the ability to function amidst jostling activity was in her blood it would all come back. Her tiny suitcase waited at her feet, the wheels proving inadequate in the slush. She had only packed a small bag, unsure of her reception, planning to stay for one night, if that. The sticking point in her plan was that she had not contacted Harry to let him know that she was coming. To be fair, he had made no effort to communicate with her either. Did he think she would come at the snap of a finger, lured by a concert ticket? She would show him. She had boarded the train entirely of her own free will. It was an opportunity to see a world class pianist. Head held high, she walked towards the door and promptly tripped over a crack in the pavement. A hand reached out and steadied her.
"Are you alright?"
She looked up into the face of a man. He smiled at her kindly.
"Yes," she confirmed, struggling to regain her composure. "Thank you."
"Let me hold the door for you," he offered graciously.
Ruth gave him a nod of thanks, the analytical part of her brain quickly assessing his features, calculating his motives. Early forties, hair grey around the temple, intelligent eyes, sports jacket. Businessman perhaps? She concluded that his threat level was low. After he had held the door, he disappeared, leaving Ruth to her own devices. Entering the lobby, she searched for the cloakroom. Finding it, she deposited her belongings with the attendant. With a critical eye, she watched the other patrons check their coats and bags, each object a potential threat. There should be metal detectors, or at the very least, a wand. The venue was the perfect place for a security breach. What was in that black briefcase? She blinked. Why was she acting this way? It wasn't her job anymore. She was a mere civilian. Shaking her head, she walked away telling herself to concentrate on assessing the damage the train ride had wrought and not matters of national security.
Once inside the restroom, she couldn't help but glance under the cubicle doors, noting the shoes beneath them. She immediately chided herself for thinking danger lay behind each stall. Would she ever lose the paranoia? Women flitted about chatting amiably, looking far more chic and cosmopolitan than she could ever hope to be. Ruth ran a hand over her dress. Every piece in her sparse wardrobe had hung heavy with memory, reeking with her association with Five, so she had treated herself to a new outfit. The saleswoman had done her best to convince Ruth to take a red number. She had almost relented but in the end, she had opted for black dress; timeless, discreet, ideal for blending in. She had flirted with a new pair of heels but had eventually, but they too were rejected for a more practical pair of boots. She grimaced at herself in the mirror. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the spook out of the girl. She had made one concession to change. Having gone without a proper trip the salon for almost a year, she had acquiesced when the hairdresser had suggested highlights. Caramel, the stylist had called the colour, as if Ruth were some sort of confection. At any rate, they did manage to conceal the strands of grey that had somehow popped up overnight. Trauma would do that. She put on a fresh coat of lipstick and decided she didn't look that much worse for wear. Fetching, she mouthed to the mirror.
The lobby was significantly more crowded when she returned, the majority of the people having paired off, leaving her to stand alone like a blackened tree in the wasteland. She checked her phone. Twenty minutes until the concert. No message, no text. She scanned the crowd, remaining calm; there was no need to panic. Yet. A voice niggled in the back of her head - it would serve her right if he did not show; she should have told him she was coming. The conviction that he would come lay in a strand of a memory, a conversation on a rooftop and an invitation to dinner. He had said he would go even if she said no. He would come tonight. Tired of standing alone, she moved to the bar and ordered herself a glass of white wine. Searching the lobby for a vantage point from which to watch the crowd, she found a spot near the window.
"There is always one person who is on time and one who is late."
It was the man who had offered her assistance at the door. She subverted her immediate impulse to walk away.
"Are you waiting for someone?" she asked nonchalantly, taking a sip of her wine, hoping the art of small talk had not completely forsaken her.
"I'm here with my mother." The man admitted, rather sheepishly. "My father died a few months ago."
"I'm sorry."
"She's a fan of Rachmaninoff."
"That's very considerate of you to bring her." Ruth mentally noted that you could always tell the make of a man by how he treats his mother.
"Do you like Rachmaninoff?" he asked changing the subject. "Of course you do, you're here aren't you?"
She smiled at his nervous banter. The wine dulled her paranoia and she relaxed, entertaining the notion that maybe he was not some undercover operative working on an entrapment scheme but an ordinary man making overtures towards her.
A bell chimed softly.
"Is it time to go in already?" she asked
"Looks that way. We should get to our seats. Perhaps I'll see you at the interval."
She gave him a friendly nod and he walked away. She ran an absent finger through her hair. Perhaps the highlights were a good idea after all. The bells continued to chime and she hastily gulped down the rest of her wine as she took one last look about the lobby. A head of thinning blond hair wove its way through the crowd. Her heart stopped and she stood rooted to the spot. As the man neared, it became apparent that he was not Harry. A strange relief washed over it, leaving her confused. A clipped bird given the chance to spread her wings, not ready to go back in the cage. She had enjoyed the few moment of attention from a complete stranger, perhaps she wasn't quite ready to give that up.
Ruth put down her glass and hurried into the concert hall. Entering patrons jostled with those already in their seats, and Ruth counted off the numbers in the row until she found hers. She sat down, immersing herself in the contents of the program, trying her best to ignore the empty seat beside her. He would have called her stubborn, and rightly so. No matter, she would enjoy the performance.
The lights lowered and the first violin drew his bow across the strings, a single forlorn note wafting over the orchestra, the rest of the instruments following suit as they tuned. The conductor walked on stage and the audience applauded as he bowed. As the overture began, Ruth settled back into her seat, determined to lose herself in the music. It was a short, flamboyant piece designed to warm up the audience for the concerto, and Ruth found herself smiling in spite of herself. After the overture, there was a small break as the piano was wheeled into position, followed by the obligatory coughing and shuffling from the audience, the auditorium doors opening and closing quickly to admit latecomers. Ruth paid no attention to the patrons shuffling about in her row until a man moved towards the seat beside her. For a moment, she thought it was the man from the lobby having found out her location and come to join her. The air shifted. The hair on her arms rose as her skin grew taut; her heart fluttered high in her chest. She knew exactly who it was. How could he still affect her this way even after all this time? He sat down in the seat and leaned in close to her ear.
"Sorry, I'm late."
Harry's low whisper slipped into her ear and under her anger. A shiver ran up her spine. She glanced at him, not wanting to telegraph how happy she was to see him. Her brow furrowed. It was hard to discern in the darkness but it looked like he had grown a beard. She could barely see his eyes, but she knew that he was smiling. He leaned over and placed a quick kiss on her lips, the scratch of his whiskers brushing against her cheek. Her breath caught in her throat, surprised by the forwardness of his actions, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of scotch and confidence. Before she could say anything, the soloist walked onstage and they were obligated to applaud his entrance. The audience settled down but Ruth's mind carried on, spinning with the discovery of these new developments. He had a beard. He was late because he had been out drinking. The hall waited in quiet anticipation, and Ruth was certain that everyone could hear her thoughts.
Out of the silence, the first low chords of the concerto played, deep and full, thrumming like a pulse. She concentrated on the music and not the man beside her. Notes poured over her, a soft caress that became more insistent, entering her, tugging at emotions that lay deep within her being. Her mouth parted and she leant forward pulled by the music. Halfway through the swelling theme, her heart lifted in her chest and she was ready to admit the power of Rachmaninoff. From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry watching her but she didn't care. He reached out and took her hand. He knew. He had known the music would have this effect on her. Insufferable man. But her anger refused to materialise, the music unwilling to give it room. He placed her hand on his thigh, and she let it rest there. His leg was firm and warm under her palm, the muscle of his thigh flexing as he shifted in his seat. The connection was electric, and for a few moments, she allowed herself to be immersed in the music along with him. All too soon, the concerto ended. The last note faded and she joined with the audience in enthusiastic applause.
The lights rose and she turned to Harry with a smile on her face, still buoyed by the effects of the concerto. Her smile faltered when her suspicions of a beard were confirmed. It was neatly trimmed with a touch of grey on either side. She couldn't decide if he looked like a professor or like a scoundrel. In fact, she couldn't fathom why he would have grown it in the first place.
"This is new." She motioned to her own chin.
"Ah, yes," said Harry, stroking his jaw. "A bit of a departure. Just trying it on."
She smiled tightly, her mind instantly clicking into spook mode. Facial hair was a diversion, a means to conceal, a method of deception. Unaware of her analysis, he leaned in with a soft smile on his face.
"I like your hair."
She did not return the compliment. The change in his appearance rankled her. It wasn't as though he needed her permission to grow a beard but he should have asked her opinion all the same.
"Would you like a drink?"
He rose and held out his hand, an olive branch. Wordlessly, she placed her hand in his and he helped her up from her seat.
In the lobby, she waited as went Harry off to order their drinks. She calmly surveying the crowd, content that she was not alone.
"Hello again."
It was the man from earlier in the evening.
"Did you enjoy the concerto?" he asked.
"Very much," she offered enthusiastically, feeling far more convivial than she had before the show.
"It's such a passionate piece. I'm always moved by it."
"Yes, I was too," she agreed.
The man frowned, and Ruth turned to find that Harry had taken up the place beside her. He offered her a glass of wine.
"Thank you," she murmured unsure if she should look at Harry or the man. Harry, now having one hand free placed it possessively on the small of her back. A tight smile crossed his face. The man cleared his throat.
"Hope you enjoy the rest of the performance." The man nodded curtly and walked away.
"Who was that?" Harry asked gruffly.
"Oh, just someone I was talking to before the concert."
"Do you always start up conversations with strange men?"
"Only if the one I am waiting for is late." She looked out over the crowd, sipping her wine, letting her comment land with its full effect.
He did not look at her, but slid his hand slowly down her back, letting it come to rest on the fuller part of her curves. He took a sip of his wine and rolled it around in his mouth. Discreetly, Ruth reached around and repositioned his hand further up her back. Harry remained looking out into the crowd, a mischievous smile tilting the corners of his mouth.
"Harry! Fancy running into you here."
The voice landed on Ruth like a bucket of cold water. It was Towers. Of all the places to run into him. At one time, the Home Secretary had been a part of her daily routine, but the sight of him in such an incongruous setting left her disoriented.
"Ruth," Towers exclaimed, recognising his former Security Adviser. "How are you? You're looking well."
Ruth mustered a faint smile, afraid that if she spoke she would lend credence to the reality of the situation.
"I hope you know that should you ever decide to return, there is always a position waiting for you," Towers carried on. "All lost sheep are welcomed back into the fold. Right, Harry?"
A reflexive smile crossed her face, words automatically falling from her lips. "That's very gracious, Home Secretary, but I'm happy where I am."
"It's William." Towers leaned in closer. "Surely, after everything we've been through we can be on a first name basis."
They had been through nothing compared to what she and Harry had experienced. The wine in her stomach churned making her slightly queasy. She had not anticipated that she would be dropped back into her old life so quickly. There should some sort of hyperbaric chamber for these situations, to ease the effects of decompression and alleviate the pain of the air being completely sucked from one's lungs.
"They closed down that charming little restaurant that we went to," Towers intoned confidentially. "Did you know that?"
Harry's hand stirred on her lower back, fingers pressing into her spine, pulling her ever so slightly toward him. His eyes remained trained on Towers, his expression giving no indication that his hand was moulded to her curves. Ruth's concentration spiralled to the spot where his hand lay, her ability to focus slipping away.
"Any developments on that situation we spoke of earlier, Harry?" Towers asked.
Harry's back stiffened at the question at Towers' lack of discretion. If Ruth had stayed at the Home Office, she most certainly would have drummed these lapses in the Home Secretary's character. As it was, her shoulders tensed along with Harry. Tower's question only added fuel to her suspicions that Harry was withholding information.
"This might not be the most appropriate venue to discuss that matter," Harry cautioned.
Ruth suppressed a smile. She had not seen that side of Harry in a while; the faint sneer of contempt on his lips, the barely concealed disdain that he held for politicians. His hand remained on her back, the heat of his touch telegraphing his carefully controlled power. It emanated from him, the fact that he knew more than Towers, knew more than anyone in the room. Blood rushed through her veins, and her spine straightened with confidence, her hip moving imperceptibly closer to his. He had chosen her and by association, she was part of that power. Together, they were impenetrable; the secrets between them would fell a government. A man like Towers would never understand their world, the knowledge that bound them, what they had sacrificed. In the course of their careers, how many Home Secretaries had they gone through, how many more had Harry previously seen? She was revisited by the guilt she had felt when she had left Harry and gone work for Towers. Her departure then had been fuelled by pride and anger. Why was he always bringing these things out in her? But she had come back to him, drawn by an inextricable thread woven from secrets. She would always be loyal to Harry.
"We were hoping to have an evening away from business," Harry continued, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"Of course, of course. Don't want to be the third wheel. We'll talk on Monday, shall we?"
Ruth followed Towers with her eyes as he walked away. Harry did not remove his hand from her back.
"What will you be talking about on Monday, Harry?" She did not trust herself to look at him directly.
"We should think of heading back to our seats."
She subtly stepped away from his grip.
"Harry?"
He took her hand. "You look tired."
For the first time that night, she looked into the deep brown of his eyes. There was no subterfuge, only concern and kindness. Why did he have to be so many people? Suddenly, she was very tired, the weight of the evening too much to carry.
"It's been a long day," she conceded.
"We don't have to stay for the second half if you don't want to."
She wanted to go home to her little house where everything was as contained, no surprises lurking beneath the surface. She didn't want to sit in the dark beside him, her mind buzzing once again trying to puzzle out what was happening.
"Yes, I think I would like to go."
Harry pursed his lips. He had heard the flatness in her voice.
They collected up her bag and found a taxi with surprising ease, the benefit of leaving the concert before the crowd. Harry gave the driver instructions to a hotel.
"Hotel?" she echoed
"The agent thought if I did a few upgrades on the house I could get a better price. The Service is putting me up at a hotel."
"You're selling your house?"
"I got an appraisal."
She stared at the seat in front of her, unseeing, trying to process one more revelation. She should be happy that he had taken the initiative to sell his house; it meant that he was moving in with her. Or did it? She wasn't sure what to believe. All that she had were pieces but no picture.
"You didn't mention that you were staying at a hotel."
"Didn't I? I was sure I did."
Damn elusive spook. She clutched her fingers around her purse. The constant drip of information reminded her of any number of operations she had worked on, except this was not an operation it was her life. They had to hash things out, sit down and have a long conversation about their future, a plan as to how their lives would intersect. She had rehearsed as much on the train ride to London, but then she had envisioned the end of the evening in the comfort of Harry's living room. She had to realign her expectations. She stared out the window, lights passing by in an unseeing haze. The bottom dropped out of her stomach, the implications of the situation hitting her. A hotel. A night in a hotel brought along a whole other set of expectations.
