Late Autumn 2004
Malcolm came into Harry's office with a tentative knock and a concerned expression. "I've just been to Ruth's house," he started.
Harry looked up, intrigued and slightly worried. "Oh? She's rostered off today."
He nodded. "She asked me to bring her a file. And you know, she didn't even answer the door? Just called me inside. She had a cat in her lap, and she was watching The Red Shoes. You remember that film?"
"Malcolm…"
"Right, well, anyway, I just thought you should know that she's requested a file off the Grid."
"What file was it?" Harry asked with a furrowed brow. What the hell was Ruth up to?
"Chap named John Fortescue. Potential future asset. Routine surveillance."
Harry frowned. "Why did she want it?"
"I'm not quite sure. But…"
"But what?"
Malcolm sighed heavily. "I think she's a bit sad."
Harry immediately felt wildly uncomfortable for a whole host of reasons he had no desire to examine. "Thank you, Malcolm," he said, dismissing his technical officer.
Once Malcolm had gone, Harry sat back in his chair, thinking. Ruth had been a bit sad, he realized. He'd noticed it when they were in a briefing the day before. The way she'd seemed a bit smaller than usual. The way she'd gazed at Zoe as everyone gushed about her engagement to Will, the way she'd watched Danny so carefully in his distress over the situation.
Before he could think the better of it, he picked up his phone and called Sam. "Meet me on the roof in ten minutes. I've got a task for you."
And so it began, Harry's illicit mission, running Sam to investigate Ruth. He professed to the young Scotswoman that he was unsure about Ruth's motives, unsure if she'd compromised security with whatever she was doing looking into this John Fortescue. His private concerns about Ruth's wellbeing were of secondary importance, at least outwardly. The notion that Malcolm had thought enough of Ruth's actions to warrant telling Harry, to actually bring up that she seemed sad…his team certainly cared for each other, but this anxiety felt somewhat dire to Harry's mind.
As it turned out, Ruth's intentions were as far from nefarious as possible. Sam's reports to him were full of, for lack of a better term, pity. "I think she just fancies him, actually. It's really sort of sweet. She likes that he sings," Sam had told him.
Harry nearly blurted out that he himself could sing, but luckily he'd spared himself that embarrassing revelation. This was not about Harry's own virtues, nor was it about his personal feelings where Ruth might be concerned. "I want you to help her, Sam. Help her see this through, wherever it will lead. Bring Malcolm in as well, if you need him," Harry told her.
Sam regarded him curiously. "How come?"
He bristled slightly at being questioned, but this was not a proper operational issue, so Sam had every right to wonder what the hell he was playing at. But Harry answered her honestly. "If you haven't already figured it out, Sam, this job can be ruthless. Not just in what we do, but in what parts of humanity we are exposed to. Ruth still possesses a beautiful sense of romantic optimism. She's our friend, and we should help her be happy if we can. So long as it doesn't compromise security, which this certainly doesn't. Ruth deserves the opportunity to be brave, even if she might need a small push from a certain well-meaning blonde."
The next time Harry heard about John Fortescue, it was from Malcolm again. "It's over," he announced, coming into Harry's office late in the evening.
"What is?"
"Ruth sang the Requiem and she chatted with John Fortescue and everything seemed to be going smashingly," Malcolm said with a proud smile.
Harry's heart plummeted to his stomach. "And?"
"And as they walked together by the fountain, they stared at each other and wished each other goodnight, and he walked away. I think he was just as scared as she was. Pity, really. She did look very pretty."
Privately, Harry wished he could see what she'd worn, if it was something brightly colored or ill-fitting, or if perhaps she had a slightly better dress sense when she had romantic intentions.
Malcolm continued, "But the file is back where it belongs, and I don't think Ruth will be trying anything like this ever again."
Harry heard the sadness and disappointment in Malcolm's last words. Harry merely nodded and dismissed Malcolm. They wouldn't speak of this again.
In spite of himself, Harry smiled. Yes, he'd wanted Ruth to have that opportunity to be happy. She'd done so much for him, bolstering and supporting him through his personal vulnerabilities over the last year or so, that he'd just wanted to return the favor. She deserved it. She deserved everything good in the world. But the dark, selfish part of him was glad it hadn't worked out with this John Fortescue. Whoever he was, he was certainly not good enough for Ruth. Then again, no man probably was. If Ruth had found love, like Zoe had, things would change. She'd have something outside of the Grid, a reason to leave in the evenings instead of joining him for a drink in his office. Harry had to admit that he needed her, both as an analyst and as a friend, and he wasn't quite ready to share her with anyone else.
The next morning, he'd gone to speak with Ruth, knowing that as Section Head, he couldn't let his staff just take files home at their pleasure. He'd need to acknowledge this situation at least to that extent. "Ruth, what you do on your personal time is your own business, but you cannot allow such things to cross over into our work here," he'd reminded gently.
The exact words of her response were lost to him, for all he could hear was the tone of her answer. So cold. So sad. Harry felt guilty for the hand he'd had in cracking the shiny shell of her innocence and naïveté. But of course such traits could not survive here on the Grid. Ruth had to learn that for herself, and as her boss, he was glad she was starting to understand. Still, he possessed an infuriating desire to protect her, and he had failed. He wanted better for her. Truly, he did.
Harry walked away with an exasperated sigh. Harry Pearce felt more of an old man and a bastard than he had in quite some time. Despite what may have been masked as honorable and friendly intentions, he knew now that he was absolutely no good for her.