Deeply random RH fluff. And I've been told the ending is suggestive, though I swear I didn't mean it to be...Don't own, R&R, et cetera...
"And this one?" she murmured, tracing her fingers over his abdomen.
"Northern Ireland. We set up a Laundromat."
She quirked an eyebrow. "You actually did laundry?"
"Not personally. But you'd be amazed at the things people leave in their pockets. Some of the best intel we got came from there. And I think it's the only operation that's ever actually run at a profit."
That raised a smile. She's the one that ends up filling out the expense reports, after all.
"Genius. So, what happened?"
"Some wretched second lieutenant just shipped over from the mother land walked in an gave me a full British army salute. As you can imagine, all hell broke loose. I was the luckiest."
She'd spent half an hour tracing the various inscriptions in his skin when she thought he was asleep. His body is like a war memorial, littered with tributes to various long forgotten missions and trials. When she'd realised he was watching her, she'd stopped instantly, fearing to drag up a painful past, but he'd just wrapped an arm around her and starting explaining how each marking came about, when and where and how.
Her fingers kept stroking the bullet wound, now visible only by a dark line, no more than an inch long. As his story finished, she shifted into his lap to examine the burn marks on the back of his shoulder. By contrast, they look angry and deliberate, mottled skin and the clear distinction of a graft.
"Torture" he muttered, and she met his eyes.
"IRA?"
He shook his head. "Nothing that illustrious. Small group. Pro-lifers. It was one of my first missions, not all that long after the 1967 act. Dedicated, too."
Ruth winces; their dedication is obvious. Most of his wounds are discreet, visible only to the devoted eye, but these are striking.
She shifted again; what look like knife scars lay across his chest, random and jagged. Faded to be almost unnoticeable, but still there.
"These?"
Harry smirked at her. "Prison fight."
She sat up straight, studying him.
"You were in prison?"
He left it a moment before putting her mind at rest.
"I was undercover. We found several terrorist organizations were recruiting among the inmates. It seemed the best way to find out how."
"How long?"
"Seven months."
Her spine straightened again at that, taking her out of his arms completely.
"Months? Harry, we've never carried out an op that's lasted longer than three days!"
"One, this was military intelligence, not MI5. Two, I was a lot more junior, so I got the terrible jobs. Three, this was in the days when we knew who we were dealing with. There were far fewer established groups, and it was harder to set one up as well. Four, it took time to gain their trust. And when I say gain their trust, I mean, that's how I got those." He gestures at the scars. "And five, will you please stop looking at me like that and come back here."
Obediently, she dropped back down and turned to face him. Sometimes she forgets how much older he is; not just age, but wisdom and experience. She'll never understand how he can talk about these things in the same measured voice, hands steady on her waist, without getting angry or breaking down. When Ruth saw Angela on that rooftop, she wanted to kill her. She still can't mention Andrew without crying or screaming, and she's marked Ros as a scapegoat for Colin's death, pushing her away.
As is her custom, she voiced her thoughts almost straight away.
"Doesn't it upset you, telling me all this?"
His brow furrowed. "Should it?"
They're on his bed; she's in his bed, wearing one of his shirts. He's not sure he could be upset about anything right now if he tried.
"All these terrible things that have happened to you. All these scars. And I think they upset me more than they do you."
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, examining her fingers minutely until he found a tiny papercut on the side of her thumb.
"Does this bother you?"
She's clearly caught of guard. "No. Harry, it's just a papercut."
"It hurt once – I know, I heard you cursing bloody murder when you did it – and now it's healed. The worse the wound, the longer it takes. But eventually, they stop hurting."
Her face changes for a moment, as if she's struggling with herself, and then she reaches up and brushes her fingers over his other shoulder, and the perfect, circular mark there.
"This one…"
He looked at her. He wishes he'd told her how he felt back then. She once recounted her lie to the nurse, and told him how it wasn't really a lie. They could have taken solace in each other; maybe it would have made it easier.
His voice was less than a whisper; she felt it rather than heard it.
"That one still hurts."
She nodded, understanding.
"Would you like me to kiss it better?"
She moved across him and lowered her lips to the mark, laying a gentle kiss over the spot. Harry has been trying to heal it for years; MI5 have wasted taxpayers' money attempting to take away the pain, he invested his own in private care and used every favour he had to avoid Tring.
Waste of time. Waste of money. As soon as she touched the mark, the pain lessened a notch. By the time she looks back at him, he's smiling, a genuine smile, rare occasion.
"Thanks, love."
He's rewarded with a brilliant smile of her own. She is so beautiful, so completely perfect. And she's his. He stares at her a moment, brushing strands of hair behind her ears, before she speaks.
"My pleasure. Now…is there anywhere else it hurts?"