AN: Very angsty one-shot, set post series 10, while I wrestle with the next chapter of "Non Tangunt..." I really don't want something like this to happen, but I fear very much that it will...
The room is bare and white, containing only a table, acting as a barricade between two plastic chairs. It is not designed for comfort or pleasantries – there are no paintings on the walls, and the only window is set high up in the wall. Harsh electricity, not natural sunlight, provides the illumination for this room. The door opens and the dark haired woman shivers as she enters, the heels of her black court shoes echoing on the white linoleum floor tiles. She waits until the severe looking guard who has admitted her has left, then, instead of taking a seat, she paces the room anxiously, waiting.
She should be glad to be here. She knows that not everyone in her position would get such a chance. But she is nervous, and has no idea how she will cope with the interview that the next few minutes will hold. Briefly, she closes her eyes in regret. This shouldn't have happened – not to him, not to her. The Gavrik issue may be solved – Ilya and Elena both dead in an explosion that is still being investigated, and Sasha, grieving and lost, returned to Russia – but the revelations about Harry that it brought have only made the Establishment more inclined to throw the book at him. The MI-5 employment tribunal sacked him, of course, and now the state has decided that it wants its pound of flesh, too.
The sound of the door reopening makes her turn around. The guard enters again, leading with him a handcuffed man. He is barefoot and unshaven, which embarrasses her, and dressed in a loose dark blue t-shirt and matching tracksuit bottoms. "Ruth..." he breathes, blinking in the harsh light. Ruth swallows and walks crisply forwards, hiding her pleasure at seeing him behind a veneer of stern professionalism. At first, she doesn't address Harry, but his guard, who has shut the door with the clear intention of remaining.
"I was assured that I would be permitted a private interview with Sir Harry." The guard frowns, making no sign that he is about to leave, and Ruth raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps," she continues coldly, "I didn't make myself clear. I was assured by the Home Secretary that I would be permitted a private interview with Sir Harry." Now it is the guard's turn to swallow. Harry, standing quietly to one side, marvels at how magnificent she is. After a moment, he salutes her stiffly and returns to the door. "Half an hour, miss," he warns and opens the door. Only when the door is shut, and she has moved over to it herself to check that the guard has gone, does she turn around and say, "Hello, Harry."
They take seats at the table, Ruth fiddling with the scarf she has removed from her neck to avoid looking at him. Her confidence of a moment ago has evaporated. He waits to know what she is going to say, whether she is about to throw accusations at him, whether she is angry, disappointed, grieving. At last she looks up and asks, "How are you?" He chuckles dryly and she bites her lip. Halfway through her apology for uttering something so crass, he interrupts her. "Not too bad. Thank you for asking. How are you?" The awkwardness of the situation is palpable, and Ruth wishes that they weren't sitting so formally on opposite sides of the table. This man once proposed marriage to her, and now they are speaking as if they are perfect strangers.
"Not too bad," she replies. There is a pause, and then she releases an exasperated sigh of breath. "You bloody fool!" she suddenly exclaims. Harry's eyes widen in surprise, and he nervously shifts in his seat. Ruth surges up from hers and starts pacing again, ticking off his transgressions on her fingers. "Towers told me you'd been arrested, told me about the preliminary hearing – I'm glad someone chose to – and that you'd decided to plead guilty. Without even hiring a brief! You haven't the sense you were born with, Henry Pearce!" He grits his teeth, trying to ignore the fact that he rather likes her calling him 'Henry.'
At last, she turns and he is startled to see tears glistening in her blue eyes. Impatiently, she brushes a loose lock of shining chestnut hair behind her ear (the rest is austerely pinned up at the back of her head). Apart from the tears, she looks very professional – crisp white blouse under a black jacket, black skirt (shorter than he's ever seen her wear before), shimmering nude tights, highly polished shoes, a slight hint of eye make-up. He knows she's accepted Tower's offer to be his Security Advisor, and he can't help but admit that the job suits her well. More quietly, she whispers, "They're going to charge you with treason, Harry."
He heaves his handcuffed fists onto the table, and in an apparently unconcerned voice, corrects her, "Actually, wrong tense. They have charged me with treason. Just the trial to get through now."
She scowls at his devil-may-care words. "Don't you care at all?" she asks in a hushed voice. "Don't you care that they're going to hang you out to dry? How can you just sit there and act like nothing's happened? Aren't you going to fight?"
Harry's mouth twists in a bitter smile. "I'm tired, Ruth," he admits. "Tired of fighting and struggling and failing to make any difference whatsoever." She sinks into a seat again, stunned. She had never thought that the day would come when Harry Pearce, the still point of the turning world, would just give up. Ruth shakes her head softly in disbelief. "You're just giving up, then."
"I'm approaching sixty, divorced, with a string of ex-lovers, and three children, none of whom are willing to give me the time of day. And then there's us – a bloody car crash of a non-relationship. I've nothing to fight for, have I?" His reply is spoken in such a harsh tone that she is left in no doubt of his meaning. Her head jerks aside, suddenly pain-filled eyes searching his face for any sign of remorse. There is none. She has given up on him, so he has given up on himself. She has lost him, just as she had sensed she had last month, when he had returned from his meeting with Elena, so cold and clipped, ready to shut her out – of his life, his heart. She stands up, nodding, shell-shocked. Looking into an unseen distance as she replaces her scarf tightly around her neck, she asks coolly, "Is there anything I can do for you? I'm sure the Home Secretary would be willing to oblige."
He rises politely, ever the gentleman, even when he is handcuffed, barefoot, and accused of treason. He hates the familiar way she speaks about her new boss, hates the way she seems like she's coping well without him. "A bottle of scotch would be appreciated. Laphroaig Quarter Cask, if possible." She hisses in disgust, and his heart breaks a little more. Half the world is about to cave in on his head, and all he cares about is getting the right brand of bloody scotch! Ruth fumes. "Right," she snaps. "Right. Laphroaig. Right. Goodbye, Harry."
He winces at the finality of her words. "Goodbye, Ruth," he replies lightly. She gives him one last long look of mingled anger and sorrow, and then presses the button to the right of the door. They hear footsteps marching down the corridor, and then the guard opens it, surprised – she has been there for barely ten minutes. "That was quick!" he notes, with a nasty leer.
Ruth brushes past him, but her reply is loud enough for Harry to hear. "We've nothing to say to each other, it seems."
It feels like she has punched him in the stomach, and for the first time in a week he wants to fight.