A/N – This came about because I am clearly still not over writing Malcolm. Airgead's great story 'Hook, line and sinker' has just kept giving me much to think about in terms of that character. You should all go and read it if you haven't already. Also there was a screen cap of Harry in his lounge and someone pointed out he had a piano, so clearly this had to happen.
With a bottle of whisky clutched in one hand, Malcolm raised the other in order to knock on the door with more conviction than he actually felt. In all the years he had known Harry, in all the years he had called him a friend, he had only been to his home twice. It was nothing personal, Malcolm knew; Harry was a private man even before one took the nature of his profession into account. Truth be told, Malcolm was loathe to come here now, to interrupt the complicated grief that Harry was trying to navigate, but he had decided that it was time. Ruth had died two months before. It was no longer right to leave Harry to himself.
A light burned in the living room window and little moths danced against the window pane, each fruitless bump against the glass only serving to make them more determined to get inside. Malcolm watched them thoughtfully; a poet would find symbolism in the sight but he was, for once, too tired for poetry. Too tired to compose his own anyway.
Too nervous, more like.
He raised his hand to knock again but the door opened before he could get there. Harry leaned against the door post; arms folded, his position was a defensive one. He relaxed slightly when he saw Malcolm, but not by much.
"Malcolm," he said, "What are you doing here at this time of night?"
All of Malcolm's carefully considered reasoning and explanations were forgotten under Harry's sharp gaze, those eyes that had always seen straight through Malcolm doing the exact same thing.
"I brought whisky," he said instead, gesturing to the bottle, "And I think you should drink it with me."
Harry did the exact opposite of what Malcolm was expecting and stepped back, nodding.
"You'd better come in then."
His courage finding its way back quickly, Malcolm moved inside. The hall was warm and inviting and he rubbed his hands together to get the feeling back. He'd come out without gloves, so distracted was he by his mission. Harry led the way into the lounge and, when he didn't point out a chair, Malcolm chose one for himself.
His eyes fell on a baby grand piano, a piano he was almost sure had not been there last time.
"I didn't know you played the piano."
Harry banged two glasses down on the table with more force than was necessary and Malcolm jumped, looking away from the piano guiltily. There was a glint of malicious satisfaction in Harry's eyes, quickly replaced by regret.
"Not many people do," he answered softly, "I'm sorry."
"No need to apologise," Malcolm said, "It's private. None of my business."
There was a comfortable silence as Harry poured two very large tumblers of whisky and sat back in his chair. He looked tired, although that was no great surprise; Harry had looked tired since 1987. He had never looked defeated though, and he did now. His suit jacket was thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa, his tie half hanging out of the pocket. It was a very uncharacteristic action for Harry to have taken. His possessions were never in less than perfect order and that one out of place jacket spoke volumes and answered a lot of Malcolm's unasked questions.
"Why are you here, Malcolm?"
There was no point in pretending.
Screw your courage to the sticking place and we shall not fail…
"I'm worried about you. You need a friend and it might as well be me."
"There's no might about it, as you well know," Harry mumbled, "But as for what I need –"
He cut himself off, throwing back the rest of his drink. There was no reason to finish the sentence. They both knew what he needed.
"I won't ask you how you've been," Malcolm said before he could stop himself, the warmth of the alcohol spreading quickly to his extremities and loosening his tongue, "I just wanted to see you."
"Thank you," Harry rasped, pouring them a second glass, and his voice was sincere, sincere enough for Malcolm to speak again.
"And if you want to talk-"
"Thank you."
This time, his voice had a slight edge that gently invited Malcolm to drop the subject. Graciously doing so, he looked critically over Harry's appearance. He was looking slimmer than he had at Ruth's funeral, his white shirt sitting a little looser on his broad frame. It was still a subtle change though, as subtle as the jacket on the chair. Harry's grief was as secretive as the way he lived his life.
"It used to help to ease some of the tension."
Caught up in contemplation, Malcolm came back to the room to find Harry standing at the piano, one hand resting on the shiny top.
"The tension," Harry repeated, "The piano used to help."
"Playing an instrument often does," Malcolm nodded carefully, aware that this was one of the most personal conversations Harry had ever instigated, "When did you start to learn?"
"I was six, maybe seven. My mother thought it would be good for me. For concentration."
"And was it?"
"I loved it," Harry said sincerely, edging the stool out with his foot and sitting down, "But you know how it goes. I got lazy when I was a teenager, hated the music master at school. I started again five years ago."
Five years. Ruth left five years ago.
Oh, Harry.
"Are you any good?" Malcolm asked daringly, letting his lips quirk into a small smile. Harry let out a breath of air that could have been a laugh and put his hands to the keys.
"I don't know. I play for myself."
At that, Harry closed his eyes, took a breath in through his nose and then there was a tentative tinkle of keys before he launched into a piece of music that Malcolm thought he recognised. He closed his eyes and tried to place it…
Through the storm we reach the shore,
You give it all but I want more,
And I'm waiting for you
The lyrics to the half remembered song came to him and Malcolm looked at Harry from the corner of his eye.
I can't live
With or without you
Harry was a good player, confident and yet gentle with the instrument, and Malcolm fancied he could see every note that he played flicker across his face. His brow furrowed with concentration and the tip of his tongue periodically crept out from between his lips at the corner of his mouth. It made him look younger, an innocent tic, one that Malcolm imagined went all the way back to when he was six years old and first sat down at the instrument. Harry must have been aware he was doing it, aware of how vulnerable he was making himself when usually he was so guarded.
As the song came to an end, Harry's eyes flickered upwards and met Malcolm's. He blushed slightly and looked away first, and Malcolm knew why Harry had chosen to play for him.
He has nothing to say but he is trying to say something anyway.
"Well, you are good," Malcolm smoothed over the silence, moving to pour more whisky even as he could hear the slur in his own voice, "You play without music."
"It takes longer to learn, playing by ear. You know it better by the time you are finished."
"That song-"
"I have a weakness for soft rock. You know that."
Another dismissal, another conversation ending statement.
"Ah, yes. Led Zeppelin. I don't think Connie ever got over the surprise, you know."
"I doubt she did."
Bringing up Connie was a mistake. It was the alcohol talking and Malcolm knew he needed to move onto safer ground.
"I used to play the clarinet, before we came to London. I doubt I would know one end from the other now."
"Were you any good?" Harry smiled faintly, turning the earlier question back onto its owner.
"I was average. I played because Father wanted me to. I think he had big dreams of me being a classical musician but he should have known clarinets don't pay the bills. I would have needed to learn the violin or something like that."
"Did you know that Ruth played the violin?"
Without missing a beat, rather an impressive feat in his current state of intoxication and bearing in mind that this was the first time Harry had voluntarily brought her up, Malcolm was the picture of nonchalance as he shook his head.
"I didn't."
"Hmm," Harry looked down at his empty glass, rolled it between his hands, "And the piano. She got to the highest grade in both, I believe."
"Typical Ruth," Malcolm ventured a smile and was relieved when Harry returned it weakly.
"Typical Ruth," he echoed.
"She and I always spoke about literature and poetry," Malcolm offered, "She knew my knowledge of music only extended as far as what I liked to listen to."
"We didn't discuss it too often," Harry said, "But she knew I had taken it up again. I made her promise to keep it a secret. It wouldn't do to have had Ros know back then and as for Calum now…I never would hear the end of it. That boy has far too little regard for my authority as it is."
Harry's voice, despite his words, was warm and Malcolm felt a little thrill rising in his chest. He knew it was the alcohol talking, it was the alcohol reminiscing and it was the alcohol jesting, but it was a start and that was all he could have hoped for.
"My goodness, can you imagine the jokes Ros would have made at your expense? Especially with Lucas egging her on."
"I don't need to imagine them," Harry rolled his eyes, "There were enough of them as it was. Some when around the time that Adam Carter joined our team, there was a distinct decline in the amount of respect commanded by the Head of Counter-Terrorism. And to think that before that I used to think Zoe and Danny and Colin were as bad as it could get."
"The young today. No respect," Malcolm deadpanned.
Harry laughed then, actually laughed out loud.
"We're too young to be grumpy old men, Malcolm. Despite what our appearances may suggest."
"Speak for yourself. I take a great amount of pleasure in composing angry letters to the editor in my head. You should try it. It's therapeutic."
"Maybe I will," Harry murmured, "Malcolm, I have to be up for work tomorrow. I need to go to bed before I regret this evening immensely. Would you like to sleep in the spare room? You're not in any state to drive."
It was gone two in the morning when Malcolm finally slipped into the spare bed in Harry's house, dressed in a pair of borrowed pyjama bottoms. Harry had insisted he borrow them, that he make himself comfortable and stay as long as he wanted to in the morning, helping himself to breakfast and whatever else he needed. Malcolm had leaned round the door to Harry's bedroom to say a final goodnight, speaking into the darkness that already engulfed the room.
"Good night, Harry."
"Good night Malcolm," the voice from the darkness said, sounding strained in a way that Malcolm couldn't quite put his finger on, "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Harry. You are so very, very welcome."