Title: mirage
Author: Cath
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Really.
Summary: For three years he has seen her wherever he goes. Ficlet. RH
Notes: My first Spooks fic, although by no means my first fic. I tried to just enjoy reading the fics and refrain from writing one, but the plot bunnies were not accommodating my request. I apologise on their behalf. It is a one-time aberration, I promise.
However, despite this, I'd very much appreciate feedback.
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For three years he has seen her wherever he goes.
At first, he logically reasons that he has spent so much time with her that it is only natural that he anticipates her presence at work. Time, he thinks, time and space, new faces and routines will cause her to slowly dissolve from his consciousness. And he almost convinces himself of this truth.
But her appearances are not solely confined to the grid.
And the memory of her does not fade over time.
It surprises him at first; when he looks out of the window of his car and a flash of dark hair, a colourful scarf run amok, cause him to look twice.
Her ghost seems to be his constant companion: when he glimpses a reflection in a shop window; when he walks down the street and catches a familiar movement from the corner of his ever-aware eyes; a voice behind him; a woman sheltering from the rain at a bus stop.
But when he looks again he does not find what he seeks.
It is worst in the moments at work when he forgets that someone else occupies her desk, her role.
A scattering of files causing him to look up quickly, but it is Jo, looking repentant, who is the perpetrator of the crime.
A light left on late at night, and he can almost see her silhouette half-emergent from behind the computer screen. Deep disappointment as shadows laughingly announce themselves to be little more than apparitions and miscellaneous office paraphernalia.
Even a weekend in Paris with his daughter almost ruined by his anticipation that she would somehow, miraculously, appear at his hotel, a café, the Louvre; before the realisation that he is conjuring fantasies worthy only of novels and film.
It seems almost impossible to condition his responses to not expect her presence.
His coping mechanisms are adapted over the months. Drinking himself into oblivion works only for a very short time before the realities of his responsibilities reassert themselves.
His attempts to immerse himself in work are more successful; he cocoons himself in his office and barks at those whom neglect to knock on his door, giving him false hope. Seldom do they forget.
He actively manages to keep up this façade for some time, but eventually exhaustion begins to wash over him, and his attempts are thwarted once again.
He does not talk about her; he cannot. More than once a conversation stops or obviously alters course as he gets within earshot, and he knows instinctively that his junior officers fear his reaction should he hear her name.
Eventually his life finds a precarious balance once again and he realises that, much like grieving over the death of a loved one, there are stages to his acceptance of losing her, and he tries to learn how to live with her absence.
Still, the memory of her haunts him. And the sense of loss is never fully overcome.
He remains, as ever, brilliantly effective at his job; just older and increasingly weary with the demands and battles constantly at the door.
And after a particularly long and arduous battle against the dark echelons of power, he accepts that it is time to move on.
"Retire?" he overhears Zaf commenting, incredulous, after the announcement. "But what will Harry do without terrorists and politicians to defeat?"
"I'll go home, drink scotch, and worry about the safety of Britain with you lot in charge, Mr Younis," he replies wryly. But the truth is he does not know what the future will hold; sometimes he even fears the future – which presently seems to hold a long and lonely retirement.
Months later, in a shower of regret for those who have passed and those who remain, it is time for him to leave.
After celebratory drinks he is driven home. He watches out the window for dark hair and a wayward scarf.
At his request, he is dropped off a few roads before his house. He walks the rest of the way and for the first time in a long time allows himself to think about her.
He turns into his driveway and stops.
For three years he has seen her wherever he goes.
But the dark-haired woman sat on his porch, grinning self-consciously, a bottle of scotch in hand, is real.
And he laughs.
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end