AN: The title of this story (and of a couple of the chapters) is taken from the song "You Can Close Your Eyes" by James Taylor. It's gorgeous, and gave me the inspiration for a part of the story, so please take the time to listen to the song if you can! Hope you enjoy...
It had been a long, hard, horrid day and Ruth was cursing with all the practiced ease of a member of the SBS as she stamped up the small flight of steps to her house door. Training new recruits was definitely not her vocation, and to cap it all off, she'd got soaked in one of the frequent rainstorms that had been battering London all day. Busy hunting in her bag for her keys, she didn't realise until she looked up that the door was already open, a small pool of rainwater soaking into the mat and signalling that it had been open for some time. She was positive that she had shut the door on the way out this morning. She never forgot. She never forgot anything.
Dread flooded her heart. Taking a deep breath, she entered the house, and dropped her bag silently onto the hall table, hand already curling around the small can of pepper spray in her coat pocket. Quietly she made her way down the hall and into the kitchen. It was empty and ransacked, cupboards lying open and bare. A tin of soup rested incongruously alongside an orange from the upturned fruit bowl. A soft sigh of shock escaped her and Ruth left the room, shivering.
The rest of the house was just as empty, just as ransacked. Books pulled from the shelves in the living room, the computer and television both gone. The wardrobes in her room had been emptied too, more out of malice, she thought, than any real expectation of finding anything. Some jewellery was missing too – a pendant George had bought her for her first birthday in Cyprus, a bracelet of amber beads she'd never worn above twice, and the garnet ring her father, an only child, had inherited from his mother and intended to give to Ruth on her eighteenth birthday. The same garnet ring she'd worn on her one and only date with Harry all those years ago. It was this thought rather than anything else that made her sink to the floor, allowing harsh dry sobs to tear through her body. Nothing like this had ever happened to her and she fervently thanked God that Beth was no longer here to see her in this state. There were no tears, however. After the past few months, she had felt nothing but emptiness. Emotions of any depth had been impossible.
The burglary felt like a violation and she couldn't help wondering why it had happened to her. Ruth was a good person – she donated money to charity and paid her council tax on time and had once spent a whole afternoon in hospital with her elderly neighbour when had she broken her leg. This had nothing to do with karma. She swiped a vicious hand across her face, and stood shakily. She didn't want to be on her own. The house felt dark and cold and impersonal, and she had no idea how to go about picking herself up after something like this. She wandered downstairs and sat on the bottom step, disturbed only by Fidget meowing pitifully as he tried to work out why Ruth had suddenly decided to become so messy. He clambered into her lap and she buried her face into his ginger fur, comforting herself. With one hand she rummaged in her abandoned bag for her mobile.
She intended to call Beth, ask for her to come round and sit with her for a while. But her fingers had other ideas, and they wandered across her keys in an entirely different sequence of numbers. Numbers she'd often wished she had the courage to dial. Harry's direct line on the Grid. For what must be the millionth time she experienced a deep sensation of gratitude that he worked later than anyone else. This had been especially true since the inquiry. He had escaped with a slapped wrist and a month's suspension and then life had gone back to normal. Their relationship was softly, pleasantly awkward these days, and Ruth often privately likened it to what it used to be before her exile, before either of them realised that the feelings they had for each other weren't purely platonic. The phone barely rang twice before he answered and she sighed in relief to hear his voice.
"Pearce speaking." He sounded gruff and tired and she hesitated for a moment, wondering whether it was right for her to disturb him like this. At last, biting her lip, she admitted, "It's me. Ruth." She was under no illusions – he wouldn't require her second sentence to work out who was calling him – but she was determined to treat him just like any other colleague...
In his office, Harry's face softened and the deep-set wrinkles about his eyes and mouth appeared to smooth out. He suddenly looked – and felt – more youthful. "Hello," he replied gently. Then, confusion dawned. This was the first time Ruth had rung him since that horrid night just after his proposal, when he'd rather coldly warned her against "late night tète a tètes." So why was she calling now? Supressing the rising bubble of hope in his chest, he asked, "Are you alright?"
Ruth uttered a horrid shuddering noise, halfway between a hysterical laugh and a sob. "Not really," she whispered. "I've been burgled." He was already standing up, eyes wide with sympathy and pity, before she'd even finished speaking. Ruth, his Ruth, alone and clearly frightened – the thought was unbearable. "Alright," he told her soothingly. "Try not to fret. I'll be there as soon as I can." Ruth sat back on her stairs, feeling incredibly guilty. She had no right to call Harry and claim his assistance with anything. She was not his responsibility. So she did what she did best with Harry. She allowed her mouth to run on autopilot. "Really," she cried frantically, "I'm fine, Harry, you don't have to come over, I just wanted to hear your voice... I mean, somebody's voice, not necessarily yours, I meant to call Beth, and I wouldn't dream of interrupting your evening – "
Since Harry's evening consisted of a bottle of malt and whatever intolerable documentary was being shown on BBC4 tonight, he had no qualms whatsoever about telling Ruth firmly, "Calm down. You shouldn't be alone. I'm on my way." He gave her no more time to argue, merely setting the phone back in its holster and flicking the light switch off on his way out.
He arrived impossibly quickly, having broken the speed limit several times, and knocked on the door, noting with an experienced eye the scratches in its paintwork left by the burglars. Ruth opened the door cautiously, poking her head into the tiny gap she allowed between the door and its frame, before stepping back, her eyes clearing slightly at the sight of him. Harry stepped in and took a long look at her. She was wearing that awful, heartbroken, dead look, the one she hadn't been able to get rid of for weeks after Lucas' death. Or Jo's, for that matter. But she hadn't been weeping. Perhaps that was worse than anything. Stepping forwards slowly, he wondered if she was still in shock.
He took her hands in his own gloved ones and grimaced. "You're frozen stiff, Ruth!" he scolded softly. She shook her head silently, struggling with her self-control, and then a single tear slipped down her cheek. "Harry..." she whispered, and finally her face crumpled. She tottered into his shirtfront, revealed by his open jacket, and wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging tightly to him. He said nothing, merely cradling her against his chest, one hand resting on her damp curls, the other on her lower back, holding her like the precious thing she had always been.
AN: This isn't fully written yet, but I thought I'd throw out the first few chapters, just to see what people think of it... Leave a review?