It's the weight of the country pressing down on his shoulders that has him sighing, wishing not for the first time in these last months that he had chosen a different path. So much he has given to the service, to his country, to the world even, and yet, what have they given to him? A trampled marriage to a good friend, ripped apart by lies and meaningless rendezvous' with other women, two children who despised him more than most, an additional two stone around the waist from rich food and little activity, and if he's being honest, the start of a serious drinking problem. The list is quick to run through his mind, reminding him even more what he has lost chasing his boyhood dream of Ian Flemings James Bond, a secret never shared with anyone.
And yet…
The warm weight of the woman pressing into his side has him drawing back from his thoughts, to focusing on the arguments filling his ear from White Hall. He's well aware that his missing presence is well known, that repercussions will follow in the days to come, and yet, he doesn't care. Not anymore.
For seventy-three long minutes, he had feared the worst. Those frantic minutes when he, like many others with loved ones on public transportation, had no idea where she was or even if she was still alive, had ripped at his soul. As his driver had maneuvered through the crowded streets, he had tried dialing her number, knowing without a doubt that she normally traveled that doomed tube line on her way to work. He'd used his position to gain access to the horrific scene, could still see the smoking wreckage in his mind, could still smell the blood and death mixed with the sickening scent of charred skin in his nose, could feel the blood on his hands as he inadvertently picked up the slender hand still attached to the messenger bag so like Ruth's.
That had almost broken him. Had filled him with regret at all they had lost by laughing whispers of colleagues, of gossip filled chats by water coolers and misunderstandings never corrected. Conversations that should have occurred for a relationship that silently meant so much to both.
And through it all, calls from Adam, from Ros, from White Hall had flooded his phone. He'd ignored them after the first, after telling Adam to deal with it all and he'd be there when he was. Call after call had rung his mobile, and despairingly, he'd been about to toss the bloody thing into the burning debris when a glance at the screen had his heart stopping.
Absentmindedly his fingers run through her soft chestnut hair, the whispered sigh against his chest drawing his gaze to hers, and the understanding in cerulean eyes meeting his has some of that weight lifting. They've yet to talk, to sort out the troubles and fears that had driven them apart before they even flourished, and he knows with this disaster it will be days before they'll have a chance to, but it doesn't matter. Because they'll have those moments together.
AN: Thank you much for reading.