Through Your Eyes
Ruth wasn't sure what made her wake up. She'd only been dozing for a short time, she was sure. They'd had an early dinner and retreated up to his bedroom after unceremoniously leaving all the dishes to soak in the sink, such was their giddy desire for each other. Ruth would have been surprised at herself, she was sure, if her former self could see her now. Before joining MI-5 and living in the world of spooks, Ruth Evershed had been patient and cautious and timid in all things, particularly with men. She got scared off too easily, got lost in her own thoughts and worries, and it all tended to be quite a turn-off, causing any man who'd shown her any interest to decide she wasn't worth the bother. That Ruth would have never even contemplated leaving dirty dishes in favor of falling into bed with a lover.
But all that was before. Before Five. Before Harry.
The sun was still setting when she awoke from her sated slumber. The dimming light through the curtains cast a glowing light over their naked bodies, nestled together in bed, tangled amongst expensive sheets. She shifted slightly, causing his arm to fall off her. Ruth had to stifle a giggle. He really was exhausted. And, really, he'd earned some rest. Harry was by no means the old man he self-deprecatingly called himself, but he wasn't full of youthful energy anymore. Really, neither of them were. But Harry had lived so much more life than she had, not just in years but in experience.
Her eyes raked over his body as he lay on his back sleeping. Scars littered his skin. Slashes and stab wounds, burns and bullet holes. More than once, she'd traced every single one with her fingertips, following the lines of her hands with the loving touch of her kisses. She had half a mind to do so right then, but she thought the better of it. Let him rest for a little while longer.
How had they gotten here? She wondered about it more often than she would admit. It still seemed so improbable to her mind. How, in the grand, dizzying scheme of life, had bookish, doe-eyed Ruth ended up in the arms and bed of Harry Pearce?
She had been truly terrified of him when they first met. His reputation preceded him, and Ruth had gone into the interview practically trembling with trepidation. Her voice shook as she answered his questions, and she couldn't seem to manage to stop wringing her hands. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and even. The way he said her name, even then, was somewhere between a growl and a purr. From that very first moment, Ruth couldn't help but sense something highly erotic about him, this seasoned and surly spook, this Svengali who operated from the shadows to tear down kings and build up armies. There was power in everything about him, and it frightened her to no end.
But then, somehow, he had allowed her to see more. He was a contradiction in terms, her Harry. He was all hard and soft. Hard muscles of his shoulders and arms and chest. Soft flesh of his belly and cheeks. Hard expressions from hard decisions, hard ideals and hard living. Soft voice and soft words, soft touch and soft kisses. Even the way he loved her was hard and soft. He could lift her and toss her roughly on the bed, fill her with his hardness, pound into her until she saw stars. But he could caress her so sweetly, the soft pillow of his full, pouty lips gentle enough to bring her to tears.
She loved him, more than she ever thought possible, quite simply because he was unlike anyone she'd ever known. No one was like him, certainly, but more than anything, no one saw her like he did. Really, truly saw her. He saw her intelligence, and pushed her to learn more. He saw her strength, and pushed her past her breaking point to become even stronger. He saw her sadness, and instead of pushing her to smile, as men so often did, he strangely didn't push at all. But he made her smile all the same. He allowed her to be all she was, no matter what she was, and to be so unapologetically. He never asked more than she could provide. Yes, he sometimes saw she was more than she wanted to believe, but he knew when she didn't. It was a mystery how he knew, but so were so many things about Harry.
All that he was, all he had been, all he could be, and he had somehow found Ruth worthy of his love. The look in his affectionate hazel brown eyes and the tender rumble of his voice never failed to make her feel like the most precious, desired creature in all the world. What could he possibly see in her that would inspire such feeling? She knew that she might never understand, but such was the ferocity of her love for him that she knew better than to ever question it; rather, she would bask in the glory of his love for as long as she could. Forever was certainly too much to ever contemplate, for they had both lost far too much too soon to believe in such fairytale dreams. But as long as he was there to hold her, Ruth wanted to stay in the circle of his arms.
Overcome by these reveries, Ruth sat up in bed and carefully moved herself over him, straddling his hips. From her seated perch, she took great delight in softly running her fingers along every outline of his face and neck and shoulders and chest. Her pale hands ghosted over his golden skin. Her Cyprus tan had long since faded, though his years and years of hard living in every corner of the world seemed to have permanently affected his body. His scars were a terrifying white against the otherwise pink-tinged skin. She traced back up, laying down atop him to better reach his face. The coarse hairs of his chest tickled her breasts, giving her an electric tingle throughout her body. Ruth smiled, stroking his sparse hair and peppering his cheeks and chin and nose with her kisses.
"Mmm," he hummed happily, enjoying the beautiful way she woke him. "Hello," Harry murmured. His eyes blinked open to see her lean back slightly and smile.
Oh, but that smile. He'd denied it for years, but Harry Pearce knew that the first time Ruth Evershed smiled at him, he'd been completely lost to her. She was everything. Absolutely everything. He had lived a horrid life, convinced he was doing good work, certainly, but committing hideous acts in furtherance of that good. Killing so others might live, torturing so others might be spared, ruining his own life so others might have a chance.
At times, Harry Pearce thought of himself as a nuclear bomb. Clever in its design, a great symbol and threat, but devastating and unthinkable in its power and destruction. Harry had been hardened by the army and sharpened by the Service. He collected secrets and body counts, both of enemies and friends. He had convinced himself that his necessity was so great that personal concerns like marriage and children were simply unimportant, out of his reach. After all, a bomb can be useful in the right hands, respected and feared, but no one ever really loves the bomb nor can it love anyone in return.
But Ruth. Beautiful, brilliant, bright Ruth. He'd been captivated by her the instant she walked into the interview room. He'd had her file and application, had made some judgements about her based on her GCHQ paperwork. And she was all the things her file indicated. And so much more. He'd let his guard down with her, more than he should have. And as a result, he'd pushed her more than he may have pushed another in her position. She could do so much more than she ever knew. Never mind all that she knew, all she could discover and figure out in that genius mind of her. But what she could become, the potential that somehow no one, particularly Ruth, had ever seen, baffled him. Over their years together, he'd found that she was unending in her strength and her kindness. Whenever he thought she'd broken, she would just pick herself back up and carry on.
Harry placed his hands on her hips where she sat atop him. He wasn't quite ready to go for another round just yet—just one more reminder that he was far too old and tired for all he wanted to give her in the world—but he would enjoy the way she teased him.
He wished he could take a photograph of them like this, to save away for when the darkness returned. They didn't know how or when, but a storm would surely brew, raining down despair and washing away their little bit of joy. He wished he could keep the picture of their love to look at when all of this seemed too far away to remember. Just a memento to fill the void, a reminder that, for a time, Harry and Ruth had been together and happy and in love.
As he smiled up at her, Harry wondered, not for the first time, why this gorgeous woman would possibly want him. Oh he was a charmer and a skilled lover, he'd honed such skills after years of effort. But Ruth was too smart for the cheap seduction that had worked on Juliet or the honeyed flattery that had worked on Jane or the raw magnetism that had worked on Tessa. Ruth knew him better than that, saw through every trick he might pull, and she willingly came to his bed anyway.
After all, behind all the mystery and power of MI-5, Harry was just a grumpy, sad man with more regrets than hairs on his head. And she was like a beautiful opera.
Harry nearly made himself laugh at that thought but restrained himself. Ruth Evershed was no opera. Nothing about her was ever on time or in tune or perfectly executed. No, rather, she was like the first rehearsal of an opera. Like La Bohème in 1895, just after Puccini had finished it. Layered and complex. Sad and broken. Achingly beautiful. That was Ruth. An Italian opera set in Paris. The plaintive song of a soprano dying of consumption, professing her love, pure enough to bring the hardest heart to tears. Messy and discordant and full of mistakes to be ironed out but with the underlying brilliant promise of transcendence. Yes. That was Ruth.
Ruth looked down at him with a small smile crinkling her bluer-than-blue eyes, watching him watch her. "What are you looking at?" she asked softly.
"You," he replied, allowing his hands to wander her hips and waist, the supple skin of her body reawakening his own.
"And what do you see?"
"Everything," Harry whispered reverently. "And what about you, Ruth? What do you see?"
"Everything," she murmured in response, sealing their love with a fiery kiss.