Okay, I lied about staying away for another month. But seriously, how could anyone not have been moved to writing after that incredible series finale? Especially when the writers missed out the most important bit!
Spoilers for the S9 finale.
The Taste of Tears
Lips that taste of tears, they say,
Are the best for kissing.
~Dorothy Parker
None of them have ever seen Ruth cry before. Even Tariq, who has known her the longest, never saw when she lost George and Nico. For all of them, this feels like an invasion of her privacy to even hear her muffled sobs now, and to try to comfort her would only make it worse. That's even if they could bring themself to attempt such an action in the midst of their own shock and grief.
Something in her – call it spook instinct, her introvertism, the lessons she has learned from forging emotional bonds, anything – compels her to move away from her colleagues, and her glistening eyes dart around in search of somewhere to go. Harry's office is too final, the meeting room too formal – both too claustrophobic and yet too exposed at the same time. Without stopping to bring her coat, she suddenly gets up from her seat, startling the others, and they watch concerned as she turns her back on the Grid and rushes through the pods. None of them follow.
She had heard silence to be deafening before, but never had she felt it to be so empty. The door swings open with the faintest of grating, and closes behind with as much of a murmur. Up here is the one place in the building she can be truly alone, high above the dim sights of the forlorn city.
Time passes, the sky starts to darken, lights comes on, and she continues to stare out into the distance. She knows no-one will disturb her up here; she doubts anyone else even knows about this place. She certainly can't remember the last time someone came up here that was not she or Harry.
Harry.
Just the thought of his name has her leaning against the railing for support, shoulders bowed and tears streaming once more. Her hands are clenched tight enough to turn her knuckles white, but the pain doesn't even begin to permeate through her. It's not physical pain that threatens to rip her heart into shreds and cast out the remnants into the frigid wind.
She doesn't feel the slight rush from the opening of the door behind her, nor does she hear his footsteps. It is only when a shadow is cast in the dim outside light that she knows someone else is on the rooftop, and she opens her mouth to ask them to leave her alone.
Instead she hears her name whispered in the very voice she has resigned herself to never hearing again.
Her breath catches in her throat as she whips around to face him. She grips the railing even tighter now as she stares at him in shock, her mouth slightly agape, though in wonderment or fear it is impossible to know.
It is an effort for Harry to not vocalise his concerns for Ruth so close to the building edge, but for now at least he can spare Ruth the knowledge that he has already had to cope with one of his friends jumping today. That he couldn't deal with another, least of all her.
Especially not her.
His hand curls at his side, as though he is trying desperately not to let himself reach towards her. Such a tiny movement is enough for her and, all doubts cast aside, she is suddenly standing mere inches away from him.
"You're alive."
It is the most obvious and simple thing to say, but the way she whispers his name afterwards, so fragile and yet so fierce, stuns him into instinct.
He reaches out to her, and she to him. She puts one hand to his chest, and the other to his cheek, and he wraps his arms around her, pressing a soft kiss to her hair.
Their bodies shudder in unison, caught somewhere between sobs and laughter. They lock eyes, their tears mingle. They taste salt on each other's lips. Their hands intertwine, they smile together, and words too long left unspoken can finally fly free.