Think I've written this before in a slightly different guise but I recently watched the start of S9 and the thought wouldn't leave me alone. So apologies for any similarities. Probably only a two or three shot.
The air had a cold bite. He had been out here too long, willing the wind to blow away the dirt; to wash him clean; to start again.
But he would never be clean.
Resigning wouldn't have changed a thing. That was why, yesterday, he had told Towers to disregard his letter of resignation. His head had begun to clear. Until she had said what she said.
Now what preoccupied him were all the things he should have said to her, the arguments he should have made, the words he should have found.
'More together.'
'More together.'
'We couldn't be more together than we are right now.'
It was as though she had said those words reassuringly, as though she wanted to comfort him; to reveal the benefit, the worthiness of it.
As though it was a good thought.
Bollocks!
His face was starting to feel like it belonged to someone else as the cold spread its way through nerves and muscles. But he didn't care. He didn't care that he couldn't feel his fingers. He didn't care about his job, not really, not right now.
He might as well do it though, who else was there? He was dirty already, why inflict that on somebody else? Why disillusion some other poor incumbent with death and betrayal and disappointment?
Undoubtably when he had handed the envelope to the Home Secretary he had meant it: he meant to go.
And he couldn't deny that Ros's death had started it.
It was all about the need for something more than this. Just something ... more.
Ruth.
But she had rejected him, quickly, without doubt and without hope.
And then Nicholas Blake was mentioned and that shocking piece of news tipped the scales: deceit and faith were shattered.
All he ever did was bury his best and be betrayed by his closest. There was nothing to go to work for anymore.
Ruth.
'We move on from this,' he had said to her.
As soon as he returned from Scotland, walked back onto the grid and saw her, he knew he couldn't move on. Knew he couldn't see her everyday and not feel the rejection and the frustration of a relationship that should be, but never had been.
And now never would.
On the grid she spoke to him as she always had, with the same intimacy they had for so long enjoyed where work was concerned. But what had once charmed him and reassured him, now irritated and irked. She had no right to speak for him, to make decisions that were his, no right to presume his answer. No right because they were not the one thing he so desired.
He couldn't move on from this.
It was late, the office dark, the decanter nearly empty. As he swilled back another burning mouthful he knew already that it was too much.
She stood at the door and waited for him to look up. He refused.
"Don't be here all night," she said, in that tone. Soft and gentle. Like she cared.
"Goodnight Ruth," was his only reply, still refusing to look at her.
"Goodnight Harry."
He reached for the decanter.
She hesitated.
"Harry, don't you think you've had enough?"
His eyes shot up challengingly. Who was she to tell him what to do…his wife? The irony.
He bit his tongue, said nothing and watched her walk away.
She stepped into the corridor pulling on her coat, wondering if things could ever be the same again.
A hand thumped into the wall, blocking her path.
Harry.
He smelt of whiskey, his eyes wide and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He didn't move his arm.
"More together, Ruth? We couldn't be more together…"
His words were sharp and angry as he leant close, hot breath against her cheek.
"If you want 'together', I could show you 'together'. But you don't want it. You're too afraid."
"I'm not afraid," she refuted, remaining still and calm, even though the closeness of him had her feeling far from it.
"We could be so much more, Ruth…" he whispered, "…so much. So much more than this," he flicked his eyes back towards the grid, "than just this, here."
"Harry, you've had too much to –"
"Yes, yes I have. But I'm not wrong. You are. You're wrong and you can't see it."
She felt the heat in her cheeks and the walls felt a little too close and she wished she could think about something else other than the smell of him and the nearness of him.
He moved his arm but did not step away. His head rose from beside her ear and he met her gaze with hooded, emotional eyes.
"I don't want to regret, Ruth, but I will. One day I'll walk out of here to face a gun, the countdown of a bomb, the crosshairs of a sight and in the moment I die, I'll be thinking only one thing ... 'I should have shown her'.
She was looking at him with open, curious, thoughtful eyes; eyes that didn't look away and he wanted to kiss her, to lean the few inches closer and kiss her slightly parted, moist lips.
But he didn't.
She didn't want him, not outside of these four walls. Not like that. That was all too 'together'.
He turned his eyes from her and walked away.