Why did the something he'd yearned for all these years felt so wrong now he had it? Why couldn't he shake the feeling that it wouldn't work?
"Harry?" she reached out, tentative, and rested a hand on his shoulder. The warmth of her fingers soaked through his coat, radiating all around them. "Are you okay?"
He didn't respond, knowing that, no matter what he said or did, she'd know. She always knew.
"Feels funny. Being free again," she murmured, the tips of her fingers massaging his tensed muscles, "Being normal."
"We'll never be normal, Ruth."
"Maybe not."
They stood in silence for a long time, leaning side by side against the barriers outside Thames House. They'd never again enter that building. They'd never again know the truth.
"Do you think you'll miss it?"
"Did you? In Cyprus?"
Her eyes widened slightly in the shadows cast by the security lights, before she replied softly, "I missed you."
She wondered if Section D were gathered around the CCTV screens now, watching their colleagues leave. She wondered what they were saying; what they were thinking.
"Erin will take good care of them."
She nodded.
"Ruth…" Harry slipped an arm around her waist. He wasn't the only one a little overwhelmed. "They won't forget us. You still remember Danny, don't you? And Adam, and Ros?"
"Who could forget Ros?" Ruth managed a small smile. She knew, deep down, that she was just being paranoid. At MI5, they weren't just colleagues. They were everything to each other – family, friends, lovers...
When an officer left, a part of you was torn away, and left to rot in a faraway corner. They were rarely spoken about – they were part of a different world once they stepped out of those doors – but someone would say something unattached, and suddenly all the memories would flow back. You did not forget.
"Imagine. Imagine all the things we can do now – all those pointless, trivial things you'd wake in the middle of the night subconsciously pleading for," he pulled her closer and nestled his face in her chocolaty hair, "We can lay in bed until eleven watching Jeremy Kyle, safe in the knowledge that we're not about to be red-flashed. Or we could wake at dawn, pack a bag and escape to the country for a break. We can be spontaneous."
"Jeremy Kyle and spontaneous are oxymorons, Harry."
"Oh, Ruth. We never were cut out for small talk, were we?"
She merely let him hold her. Eventually they released one another, and linked fingers instead, taking one collective glance back at Thames House before they strolled away into the darkness.
Into their new life.
They took a walk, through the streets of nighttime London. Silently stretching one foot in front of the other, lost in their own thoughts. Somewhere beside the Houses of Parliament, it struck Harry – the realisation that he'd jumped. Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd earned...all over.
His head was bowed. Ruth squeezed his fingers supportively, her tears falling too now. Droplets of translucence, trickling steadily down her cheeks and dampening her collar. Beneath Big Ben, as the clock struck some ungodly hour, they fell together.
Too tired, too shocked for romance. Just craving the reassurance and support the other's arms around them gave. Tears mingled, a bitter chill crept over them both. They made their steady way, dazed, back to Ruth's block of flats.
"I can't, Harry."
"Ruth..."
"I can't," she crumpled down onto the bottom step. Head floppy, shoulders sagged. Somewhere amidst the pain, she felt an undeniable sense of shame. All the calamities she'd coped with before this, all the terror she'd endured. And she couldn't climb a simple flight of stairs.
"Okay," Harry knelt down and swept her up. She barely shuffled in protest. He remembered the times he'd scooped his daughter up – those snatched moments of family time arranged around work. Now, his family could be his priority, though. And Ruth was family.
Strengthened by this thought, he lifted his foot and began the climb.
XxXxX
The following evening...
"Thanks," Ruth took a HobNob, tentative. Whilst she'd watched, much to her eternal shame, Jeremy Kyle – she'd needed mindless crap for once in her life – Harry had popped off to Tesco's. And come back with what he lightly christened 'goodies'. Chocolate, crisps, DVD's...
He chomped his down in a couple of prompt bites, glancing around. A rickety CD rack, coated in layers of seeming abandon, stood in the corner. He rifled through her collection, and dragged out a case. "Spontaneity comes in many forms, Ruth."
"I haven't been in the mood..." she defended as he ran a finger across the dusty plastic and raised his eyebrows. Mocking disapproval; struggling to hide the deeper sense of concern. "There've been other things on my mind."
"For instance?"
She nibbled a little more on the biscuit, "You."
He smiled at her feeble attempt to console him, but didn't forget. Spies never forgot. "Would you do me the honour?"
She choked on the suddenly cardboard-tasting crumbs, "Oh God, Harry."
"Just one dance?"
"I haven't danced since..." she trailed off, reminiscing. She hadn't danced since those cosy evenings with George after Nico had gone to bed, when they'd sip red wine and rock in each other's arms. She hadn't thought about dancing since then. She'd tried not to think of George. "I can't dance. I'll fall and break my neck. There'd be questions, Harry, at the hospital."
"I can just see the headlines now. Ex-spy struggles to adapt to the real world. Or Delusional MI5 couple make up for years out of the spotlight," Harry couldn't help smirking, but his smile fell as he caught her expression, "There's no trap, Ruth. There's no underlying motive. I'm just asking for a dance."
"Okay."
"Good," he slipped the disc into the CD player and held out a hand to help her up. He held her close, savouring the tickle of her hair against his neck.
The opening bars of the song echoed around the room, followed by an audible moan from Ruth, "Harry!"
He sighed. It was so simple? Why couldn't she see it? "It's true."
She relaxed gradually. It wasn't ideal dance music, admittedly, and he wasn't going to suggest she give up the day job – oh, the irony – but nothing mattered when she was in his arms.
"I feel wonderful
Because I see the love light in your eyes
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don't realise how much I love you."
"Really?" she whispered, resting her chin on his shoulder and rocking backwards and forwards slowly.
"Really."
They didn't speak again. They didn't need to. They were together.
"Harry, I..."
A deafening crash blasted through the living room. Lights flickered outside the windows, glass splintered all around. Ruth threw herself behind the sofa, dragging a frozen Harry with her.
There were two men standing before them.
Brandishing guns.
A pure evil glint in their eyes.
"No, Harry!" Ruth pleaded in a hoarse whisper. She knew what he'd do already, and she knew there was nothing she could do to change his decision.
It was over.
It had never really begun.
"I'm sorry, Ruth. I'm so, so sorry," Harry gave her hand one last feeble squeeze and stood up, surrendering himself to the cold-blooded murder. Before she could react, two bullets punched through his chest and sent him flying back against the wall, blood everywhere.
Everything was slow after that. The men had gone, the lights out, the room silent. As if nothing had ever happened.
She squealed and threw herself at Harry. Already the floor was a pool of scarlett – he'd be dead before the minute was over. And she couldn't do a thing.
"Harry," she sobbed, bending and burying her head in his neck. Blood dribbled from the crack between his lips, his eyes flickered helplessly. Lips that soon wouldn't speak; eyes that never again could see.
His hand moved a fraction, reaching for hers. He was cold already. But not shaking. "Ruth...it's okay..."
"No it's not bloody well okay!"
"Sshh..." he gulped, and another droplet trickled down his chin.
Ruth had always liked the colour red. She hadn't believed in all the 'evil' stuff before; she'd thought it was the colour of happiness, and of hope. Of love.
Not any more.
"I feel wonderful..." his whisper was so soft, his words so frail, "Because...because..."
She realised that she'd never said it. Never told him. Not outright.
He would die not knowing.
He would die thinking he was alone.
"Harry, I..."
She felt the smallest amount of pressure as he ran a thumb across the back of her hand, "No."
"You have to..."
"I already do," his hand slipped down to his chest, "I already do."
"Harry," tears choked her.
"And so...so do...you," he managed the tiniest of smiles, almost urging her to do the same, "My timing...always has been...awful."
"Timing isn't always everything."
"Promise me...promise me you'll..."
"Harry," she pleaded. He couldn't do this. She would not let him do this.
"Leave it...as something...never...said."
His eyes drifted shut. She knew he wouldn't open them again. Knew she'd never meet his gaze another time.
He was dead.
So many questions. So much left unsaid. It could never have been any different.
She gave an inconsolable sob, stroking his hair back and planting a tender kiss on his forehead, "Something wonderful never said."
Then she stood, walked over to the balcony and thrust open the door.
XxXxX
Hope this doesn't really happen...
I don't own Spooks, and Wonderful Tonight is by Eric Clapton
Please review xx