I don't own Spooks, never shall, never will. I only own my meager bank balance and the debt that comes with it. There's really no reason for this story, just pure fantasy and self-gratification.

Fancies
by ScintillatingTart
December 2014 –

One:
Unguarded

The first time Portia asked, they were in the kitchen. Ruth was making breakfast; pancakes and scrambled eggs with cheese. The five year old was sitting at the table, her little feet dangling as she kicked restlessly, her eyes still droopy with sleepiness. She was armed with a cup of juice and her teddy bear, but it obviously wasn't enough because she said very solemnly, "Mommy, why don't I have a daddy?"

Ruth hesitated a moment, then turned back to the skillet, afraid of letting the food burn. "You have a dad, love," she said softly.

"Then why's he not here?" Portia persisted. Ruth knew without looking that she was animated, confused, her eyes huge and blue as the ocean. She knew these things as surely as she knew that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss such important things.

So she told the truth. "Your dad can't be with us," Ruth murmured.

Portia paused. "Is he dead?"

Dead was a thing five year olds weren't meant to know about; but their cat had died and Ruth had been forced to explain the concept of going away and never coming back to the little girl. "Sweetheart," Ruth said softly, "your dad loves you very, very much even if he can't be here with us. I want you to remember that, okay? Always."

Ruth plated up a pancake with strawberry jam and some eggs, and carried it over, placing it in front of her daughter. Portia looked up at her mother and all Ruth could see in her in that moment was echoes of her father – and it hurt so badly it took Ruth's breath away.

"I love you, mommy," Portia said with a sad smile.

Ruth reached out and gently soothed her daughter's ginger curls, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. "I love you, too," she whispered.

The second time Portia asked, they'd just moved into a new apartment and she'd been forced to change schools for the fifth time in as many months. "Mom?"

"Yes, love?" Ruth asked, unpacking a box of random things that had accumulated into clutter. She didn't know half of what they were, and there were some odd manuals tucked in here and there for appliances that hadn't made the trip.

"Did you love my dad?"

Ruth stopped dead and stared at her. "I did – I do," she stammered.

"You never talk about him," Portia said. At eight, she was far wiser than her years, and far more perceptive than Ruth wanted to give her credit for. "If you love him, why don't you talk about him?"

"Because I miss him something dreadfully," Ruth said very softly. "And it hurts, love."

"Oh," Portia said. "What's his name, mom?"

Ruth studied her for a long moment, then said, "Henry."

Portia took that in and slowly nodded. "That's a nice name for a boy," she acknowledged. "I'm going to go unpack my stuff."

After she was certain Portia wasn't lurking, Ruth exhaled a hysterical sob of pain. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much time passed… the pain never went away.

The third time she asked, Ruth had just picked Portia up from the next door neighbors' after a date with Iain Lewis. Ruth had been seeing Iain off and on for several months, and tonight's 'date' had consisted of entirely too much wine, an entirely too expensive dinner, and a quick, sordid fumble in one of the most expensive rooms in the Beverly Hilton. She was really rather ashamed of being human and craving intimacy… but he was convenient, and so was Ruth. She knew that neither of them saw it as anything other than a casual relationship without strings.

"Mom," Portia said very quietly, "Cate is really sad since her husband died. Is that like how you feel when you think about my dad?"

Ruth swallowed hard and got down the bottle of tequila, pouring herself a healthy shot before tossing it back. Eleven years had passed and every day was more difficult than the last. She was going to be hung over and sick the next day, but what the hell did she care? She hated herself for being human, for having needs. Needs must. An echo of him in her head.

She exhaled very slowly, then said, "Portia, that's exactly how I feel when I think about your dad. I'm sad and I'm scared and I'm so alone." Ruth looked over at her daughter and couldn't hide her tears; nor did she want to anymore. Portia was ten now, and she was old enough to know that her mother wasn't perfect and definitely wasn't infallible.

"You're not alone," Portia said quietly, coming over and hugging Ruth around the waist. "You've got me, mom."

"So your flight lands at six am local," Catherine said cheerfully. "The girls and I are so happy you finally got your act into gear so you can come visit, dad. Charlie and Gracie have been talking about nothing else since they found out."

Harry sighed and said, "Yes, well, I didn't want to trample on your toes so soon after Stephen… after Stephen died. You've got enough to deal with without your retired father getting underfoot."

Catherine laughed a little, then sighed. "Yes, well… oh, yeah, I forgot to mention – we'll have the neighbor's kid over a lot, too. Portia and Charlie are best friends, and Janet works long hours, so Portia spends a lot of time with us. She's like one of the family."

Harry said, "Ah. I see."

"She's a good kid," Catherine defended. "We should all make plans to go do things while you're here – it's only two weeks, after all."

"Yes, I'm afraid that I've got commitments booked right after the trip – my annual physical and a few other choice things," Harry said apologetically. Truth be told, he wasn't sure how Catherine and his grandchildren would react, emotionally, to him being there so soon after Stephen's death. He didn't want to outstay his welcome; he wanted to be free to return another time and try to persuade Catherine to come back to Britain. He hated that she was stuffed up in Burbank, a stone's throw away from where she worked as a producer for a highly successful drama series. Stephen had been a director, and the two of them had been a powerhouse in Hollywood circles. But now, she was on her own with a ten year old and an eight year old; he wasn't entirely certain she would survive it alone.

"Oh, well… maybe Christmas, then?" Catherine said hopefully. "We can talk about it while you're here. I've got to go – I've got to get back to the head of the network before he sends me another apoplectic email. I love you," she added as an afterthought as she hung up the phone.

He grunted and crossed the busy foyer to stand in line at the counter for his flight check-in.

Los Angeles in July was a special kind of hell, Harry was quick to discover. It was barely eight in the morning and it was already ninety-eight degrees Farenheight. His shirt was awkwardly clinging to him with sweat and he really rather wanted a nice cup of coffee and a nap.

"How was the flight?" Catherine asked.

"Long," he replied. And it had been. Long, lonely, and he'd found himself dreaming more than once about people who had left his life long before. Adam, Jo, Zaf, Colin, Ros, Connie… Ruth. Always Ruth. His stomach twisted in a knot and he fought to calm his breathing. Nothing hurt as much as watching Ruth sail away. Nothing. "Can we stop somewhere and get a coffee?" Harry asked. "I've got a frightful headache coming on."

"Oh, yeah, we'll stop at Starbucks – there's one five minutes from the house," Catherine said. "We've got to get back before Janet goes to work; Portia will be coming over after breakfast."

"So you're a glorified baby-sitter, then?" Harry asked.

"No, dad, I'm glad to do it – Janet takes the girls when I need a bit of time to myself, and it… it just works out, okay?" Her tone was entirely too defensive, and Harry wondered fleetingly if she had a crush on the other woman. Catherine had always been widely-swinging as far as her sexual proclivities, so it wouldn't surprise him if she was having a torrid affair with her neighbor.

"So, Starbucks?" Harry said. "Do they have real coffee or is it all covered in sugar and whipped cream?"

"I'll get you a plain black coffee," Catherine said. "And caramel hot chocolate for the kids."

Harry held his tongue: his grandchildren were going to turn out obese like all the other children in America if she didn't watch herself. Bloody hell. Ten years on, and it still bothered him to be a grandfather. Some days, he didn't feel old enough; others, he felt entirely too old.

About thirty minutes later, they were through the hellish crush that was Starbucks on a Friday morning and Catherine was letting him into a small, unassuming house. "Go on through – I'll make breakfast, if you'd like, dad. The girls should be up by now."

He passed the living room and a squeal of delight was issued by Charlie. "Grandpa!" she hollered at the top of her lungs, blonde curls flying everywhere as she catapulted into his arms for a hug. "I missed you! Hi! Want to come watch tv with us? We're watching cartoons. Portia came over early 'cause her mom had to go to work, so we're eating cereal and watching tv."

He had no choice in the matter: Charlotte dragged him into the living room and he sank into a recliner. Grace looked up from her bowl of cereal and smiled at him, but she didn't say anything. She was much more reserved than her sister, and looked a lot more like Stephen than Catherine, where Charlie was the reverse. The third girl in the room was very quiet, and eyed him with suspicion. This must be Portia, then; she had incredibly pale skin, freckles everywhere, enormous blue eyes, and flamingly auburn hair. And she didn't say a word, just looked at him, then looked back at the tv.

Harry was too tired, really, to protest when Catherine brought him an omelet and toast a bit later, and after that, he disappeared into the guest bedroom and collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion.

His dreams were haunted by memories, by desires long suppressed. He woke up in a cold sweat, then realized that the air conditioning vent was blasting icy cold air at him. Harry sat up and shook it off, feeling just as tired as when he'd laid down in the first place.

He got up, took a quick shower, and changed into fresh clothes. When he went to the kitchen in search of a snack, he found Portia sitting at the table, eating cheese and crackers. "Hello," Harry said. "You must be Portia."

"Yes," Portia replied. "And you're the grandpa."

Harry laughed; she was observant, at least. "Yes – but you can call me Harry," he said. "Your mum's at work, then?"

Portia nodded slowly. "She's always at work," she said.

"What does she do?"

"She's in PR," the girl said in a world-weary voice. "I don't know what that means, but she's always running out to take care of problems even when she's not at work."

Harry smiled wanly. "What about your dad?"

"I don't have a dad," Portia replied, repositioning a piece of cheese on the cracker. She added a bit of tomato and smiled up at him. "It's just mom and me."

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "It's okay. I love my mom, a lot." She stuffed her cracker masterpiece into her mouth and didn't say anything else.

Harry made himself a sandwich, and retreated to the living room where the others were. "She's a prickly kid," he said to Catherine.

Catherine blinked, confused. "Who?"

"That Portia girl."

"Oh, no, she's not… she just doesn't trust people very easily," Catherine said dismissively. "Janet should be home soon – I made reservations for us tonight, so we can go out as a family. Did you sleep well?"

They discussed banalities, things that mattered but didn't matter, and he found himself relieved when the front door opened. "Portia, time to come home!" came the shout. "We're having pita, hummus, and falafel for dinner, love."

"Mom, what are we having?" Gracie asked.

"We're going to Uncle Bob's for barbeque," Catherine replied.

Portia skipped into the room to get her backpack and smiled. "Harry, would you like to meet my mom?" she asked cheerfully. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the chair. "Come on. She's really nice."

He followed the little girl – he hadn't realized how petite she was until he was towering over her – into the front hallway, and Janet said, "Love, we don't have time for this – you've got your clarinet lesson after dinner, remember?"

"But, mom," Portia said, "I want you to meet Harry. He's Charlie and Gracie's grandpa. He's just come visiting."

The woman turned and Harry's sandwich surged up into his throat, like it might come back up. He'd know those eyes anywhere – he knew that face, had caressed it so intimately…

"Ruth," he croaked.

"Janet," she corrected brusquely, but he saw the recognition and pain flare up in her eyes. "Nice to meet you, Harry. Portia, we have to go – now."

Portia sighed and released his hand. "Sorry, Harry – mom must've had a bad day," she apologized very quietly. "I'll see you tomorrow. Cate said we're going to the Zoo." She followed her mother out the door, which slammed behind them.

Harry felt sick; after so long, so many years of being unable to find Ruth Evershed, here she was. Here she was with a little girl who was the right age to be his child. Here she was, within reach… but would it all be swept away again?

"Dad?" Catherine said. "What's wrong?"

"I… I – nothing," he denied. "So barbeque, then?"

"Yeah, let's get the girls ready and go – reservation's for six-thirty," Catherine said with a small smile. "You meet Janet, then?"

All he could do was nod dumbly.

END PART ONE