AN: Apparently being sick has prompted my muse to write. Set after 5.3 but as though 5.5 never happened and somehow the two have found themselves together. I apologize for any mistakes, it's almost 3 in the morning and I can't sleep.
It's 2.17 on the dot when Ruth realizes she's not going to make it in in the morning. She'd not been feeling the greatest the night before when she'd had a late meal of beans on toast. But at the time, she'd chalked it up to the long hours she'd been working and the lateness of the hour. Tummy rummbling, she'd put some food into a dish for the mogies and taken herself off to bed.
Once upstairs she'd changed into the oldest and softest t-shirt she had and a pair of loose, purple striped boxer-shorts she'd aquired from an ex sometime over the years, and crawled beneath the soft cotton of her sheets. There she'd curled on her side, the extra pillow from her bed clutched in her arms, as she'd tried to sleep.
Until she had awoken some hours later with the need to vomit. Mouth slick with saliva, she'd rushed to the hall bath, just lifting the loo lid in time to be sick.
Which is where she found herself now, bare legs curled to her side on the cold bathroom tile, her fingers gripping the porcelain sides of the toliet bowl as she rested her sweaty forehead against the rim. Her hair hung limply around her face, a stray lock hanging in front of her eyes. With stomach muscles clenching and an awful taste in her mouth, she weakly pulled herself up.
Arms wrapped around her middle, Ruth makes her way to the sink. Twisting the taps on, she fills a glass with the cool liquid and sips, swishing it round her mouth before spitting it out. She repeats this twice more before taking a flannel and soaking it. Then, lifting her eyes, she glances in the mirrow, grimmacing at the bloodshot eyes and broken blood vessels under her skin as she wipes her race.
Feeling slightly more human than she had just five minutes before, Ruth shuffles barefoot back to her room. Stopping at the waste bin, she dumps the few tissues from the bottom on the floor, vowing to pick them up in the morning, and places it by her nightstand. Climbing into bed, she hesitantly reaches for her mobile, wondering if she should wait till morning.
No, she thinks, better to do it now incase your sleeping.
Flipping open the top, she quickly types a brief message to Harry, letting him know she won't be making it in come morning, that she's ill. Pressing send, she closes the mobile and sets it back on the nightstand. Then pulling the pillow back into her arms, she curls on her side and tries to sleep.
Twenty minutes later, Ruth wakes with a start. For a moment, she thinks she's going to be sick again and reaches for the bin. The urge passes, for now, and she sets the bin back on the floor. Awake now, she listens to the sounds of the house around her, tensing at the soft click of the front door closing. It's the soft beeps of a number being typed into the alarm system and the heavy tread of feet on the steps that has her relaxing.
A minute later she's greeted to the rumpled site of Harry Pearce standing in the bedroom doorway. Clad in a loose pair of old, black running shorts, a gray MI5 training shirt, and scuffed trainers, she'd think he'd just been out for a run, were it not for the stuck-up whisps of blonde hair on his head and the fading crease of a pillow on his cheek.
That and Harry Pearce didn't run. Not anymore.
"What are you doing here?", she asks, watching as he toes off his trainers.
"I got your text," he replies, crossing the room to sit on the bed. "And after what happened the last time you supposedly texted out; or called me in the middle of the night; I had to be sure you were alright. Which clearly you're not."
His hand has moved to her cheek where he slowly cups the heated flesh with his palm.
Ruth turns her head, comforted by his touch, and closes her eyes. "I feel awful," she admits.
"What's wrong love?" he inquires softly, his skilled eyes taking in the changes from the last time he'd seen her.
Before she can answer, her stomach churns and she feels the need to be sick. Pushing him aside, she rushes from the bed to the bath, sinking to the floor as she empties the last of her stomach contents into the bowl. Subconsciously she's hating the fact that Harry will see her like this, heaving into a toliet, when the gentle touch of his fingers caress her neck. Before she can think much of it, he's gathering her hair from her face and kneeling on the floor beside her.
"Oh Ruth", he whispers, free hand rubbing her back soothingly.
"I'm sorry" she mumbles into the bowl, embarrassment flooding her at his seeing her like this, before her stomach once again turns.
"You've nothing to be sorry for."
They stay like that for awhile, crouched on the floor by the loo, until there's nothing left but bile in her stomach. Then achingly slowly, he helps her stand, his free arm sliding around her waist in support as he continues to hold her hair back. They make their way to the sink where once again Ruth rinses her mouth out. When she's done, Harry helps her back across the hall to her bed, where he helps her settle beneath the sheets.
"Try and get some rest." he says, hands tucking the duvet under her chin.
"Don't leave" she manages weakly, fingers reaching out to grasp his hand, all thoughts of earlier embarrassment gone as she seeks his comfort.
"I was just going to sleep in the guest room," he mumbles, "Let you have your space to rest."
"I want you to stay...if you want to that is."
"Of course I do." Leaning forward, he presses a lingering kiss on her lips.
"I taste like sick." She mutters, and "you'll catch what I have."
"Budge over" he says, ignoring her as he slips beneath the sheets beside her. Arms wrapping gently around her middle, he holds her close. "Try and get some sleep."
"Mmkay" she whispers, eyes fluttering closed as he softly brushes his fingertips against her forehead.
TBC