No miraculous recovery for Ruth, I'm sorry to say. Canon, following from about two weeks after Ruth's death. First chapter is simply musing on Harry's internal workings, and I will be going on from there.
Harry awoke with a pounding head and the smell of whisky in his nose. God, he'd had another night of finishing the whisky bottle. Logically he knew he was fast turning into an alcoholic but he couldn't stop. It was the only way he had to cope with the fact that Ruth was dead. Dead. He could barely think that word to himself. It was cold, bleak and final. It is final Harry, her logical voice said in his mind. He shook his head to clear the image and echo of her words from his consciousness. With a whisky addled brain, any movement like that was a mistake. His head kept ringing as he slowly and precariously got out of bed. While he dressed he kept his movements slow and measured and attempted to keep his mind empty. It was a tactic that never worked, it never made the pain shrink, but it made him able to function on a basic human level.
He hadn't given up work. He would have if Ruth was still here with him, because of her wonderful dream for the pair of them. Living together in retirement, in a little cottage by the sea. As if they were the most normal people in the world. But she wasn't here. She was buried under six feet of cold hard earth in a cemetery in Exeter, near to her fathers resting place. Harry held back a sob with difficulty. Thinking of his Ruth as anything less than alive was extremely painful and he didn't know if it would ever feel any other way. If he'd ever be able to think of her smile with a little happiness rather than overwhelming sadness and bitterness and stolen chances that choked him now.
With an unsteady breath he picked out a red tie (as years ago Ruth had mentioned in passing that she liked his red ties more than five years ago) and slid his jacket on. Over the past two weeks he felt like he was barely existing, just going through the motions. He couldn't think far past Ruth's death. The moment Sasha stabbed her and he simply stood there. Letting her take a fatal injury meant for him. Sasha had no argument with Ruth, she'd got in the way of his main target. Harry. If only he'd thrown her out of the way and let Sasha have him. He would not be in this current torment. He'd rather be dead, if it meant Ruth was alive. She would have grieved for him, that he knew. Maybe intensely and desperately, but she was young enough to move on. With time. Harry himself never would. But then again maybe that was underestimating the strength of love she had felt towards him. Harry wouldn't be surprised. He was constantly underestimating Ruth. One of his many, many flaws. And she had known them all, and loved him in spite of them.
He didn't doubt that she had loved him. Ruth had never said it and nor he, but in their relationship it had always been the things they didn't say that mattered most. The subtleties. The looks between them and the yearning. The heartache they'd lived with everyday. He had never told her how he felt, but that was not his biggest regret, not by far. She knew how he felt, as he did her. It would have been special and momentous for them to have it put into words, but somehow he felt their love went beyond words. It was more than that. No, his biggest regret was never confiding in her about the Gavrik's. This mess could have been completely avoided if he'd done that from the very start. And Ruth might still be alive now. Breathing. Heart beating. Existing. Simply alive.
"Stop it Pearce," he said to himself. Thinking of Ruth was not helping him, even though he did nothing else for the majority of every single day. He looked in the mirror and knew he needed a shave but didn't go near his razor. Razor blades in his current mood weren't a healthy combination. He might do something stupid. Not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind, but Ruth had thought him stronger than that. He would not disappoint her again as he had so often in life. Going downstairs he concentrated on not tripping over his own feet and then he collected his phone and his keys from the kitchen table. Probably not being sober enough to drive he called a taxi. An alcoholic depressive mourning his soul mate he might be. But he didn't have a death wish.
Should I carry on?
