Twenty-five:
The Little Things

Ruth came into the kitchen and slammed her purse down onto the table, making Harry jump. She was glad of his reaction; it gave her something else to fuel the fire of her irritation. "You want to tell me why my receptionist was replaced by a 'don't know crap' from Five today?" she inquired. "Because when I asked Joe, he seemed to think that you'd know more than he does. He just… went along with it. Because apparently, that's what people do."

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead, the unconscious gesture making her want to throttle him even more. "There's a problem," he said quietly. "Five is attempting to handle it." He looked up at her, then frowned. "The less you know, the better, honestly. But they've put a team out to see to our protection."

"The blighters parked on the street at all hours of the day and night?" she shot back, still pissy and spoiling for a fight. "The substitute teachers at Portia's school? The new people at our jobs?"

"Yes."

"Harry… do I need to –"

"No!" he yelped, immediately knowing what her concerns were. "It's nothing to do with you, my love. I swear it has nothing to do with Cotterdam or anything that happened afterward." Harry sighed again. "But you do need protecting from this."

"Harry, I'm a bloody big girl and I can fight my own battles!" she almost shouted. "For god's sake, I didn't need you holding my hand for eleven years, so what makes you think I do now?"

He shot up out of the chair and whirled to face her so quickly she startled a bit. "Because this is not about you; it's about me… and my son… and Sarah," he said, his voice raising to equal hers. "And the less you know, the better!"

"We used to talk," she snapped. "We used to be partners –"

"I can't talk about this." His words were icy, clipped, painful. "It has to do with an operation that went tits-up. I made a bad call then, but I won't hesitate to protect my family now."

"Harry –"

"Ruth, I can't," he said, shaking his head. "And the last thing I need right now is you glaring daggers at me because I've tried to keep you safe."

"How can you claim to be saving me if I don't know what you're saving me from?" she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"The same way it's always been between us," he muttered. "Always. Excuse me; I need to nip to the loo."

It was nearly a half hour later that she finally realized he wasn't coming back downstairs. Her irritation with him suddenly swelled to outright anger. There was no way she could just sit there and 'be rational' about this; his withholding information could be putting Portia in danger and she was not about to let that happen. She sighed and finished her cuppa and biscuit, then headed upstairs.

Harry was in what was left of the office, pulling down wallpaper. They'd spent a lot of time and money moving the heavy office furniture up into their bedroom the week before to clear the room out to turn it into a nursery. He was determined to have it ready in time for their grandchild to come home from hospital.

She watched him up on the ladder, carefully scraping at the wallpaper with a putty knife, and felt her anger begin to melt away. Ruth knew that there was no malice in his desire to keep them safe, or to keep her in the dark. It just rubbed her the wrong way that he would want to; like she wasn't an actual consideration in his life, just an afterthought. But she also knew that thinking that way was wrong in and of itself, as well. He loved them all and was just trying to do what he could to protect them.

"You could come help," he pointed out after a couple of minutes.

"In these shoes? Not on your life," Ruth laughed. "Let me go get changed. One of us will have to go get Portia soon."

"I'll go," he said. "We're having a chopped salad tonight… and baked potatoes with cheese and broccoli. Portia's request."

"It sounds delicious, actually," Ruth replied with a small smile. "Do you want me to go get her and you can keep working?"

He sighed. "Are you still furious with me?"

"Only a little," she admitted. "We do need to talk about it, though."

"Not today," he said in an unequivocally firm tone.

"Soon."

"But not today," he repeated.

"I'll go get Portia," she repeated. "Have they decided what colors they want you to paint?"

"Off-white for the walls, and a Paddington Bear border," Harry replied. "And then from there, the bed linens will be cream and navy – regardless of if it's a boy or a girl."

"I like that," Ruth said with a small smile. "Has Portia asked about redecorating her room?"

"No," Harry replied. "Wait, has she asked you?"

"She'd just like a new duvet cover and curtains," she replied. "Nothing overwhelming."

He exhaled in what seemed to be relief. "When Catherine was her age, she wanted her room at my house done up in lace and ribbons and purple everywhere," he said. "I spent ages decorating, then she and Graham never came over." He glanced away from her guiltily, sadly. "I just want her to be happy, Ruth. And you. Happy and safe."

"I am happy," Ruth said. "I'm quite happy to be here with you. Safe… well, who is ever really, truly safe, I ask? There's always something unseen challenging our safety. Like you being up on that ladder."

"Steady on," Harry muttered. "If that was a fat joke –"

"No, it was a warning to be careful," she sighed. "I'll go get Portia, then. Do you need anything from the shops while I'm out?"

"No, I think we're good," Harry replied. He turned and smiled at her, and she swallowed the urge to laugh at the way the plaster dust was sticking to what little hair he had. "What's so funny?"

"You've got paint chips and plaster dust all over you," she sighed.

"Ah," he replied. "Well, maybe you can help me wash it off later." His smile turned positively lurid, and she found herself blushing like a schoolgirl – like the old Ruth would have done.

"Oh, I think I'd like that," she replied, "so long as I get to choose the bath scent this time."

"What, you don't fancy the patchouli and ylang ylang?"

"I'd prefer something a little less overtly sexual, yes," she said, chuckling a bit. "I went to work that morning and everyone thought I was coming onto them."

His smiled disappeared into a pout. "Ah, well… how about that orange and spearmint, then?"

"Sounds lovely," she replied. "I'll be back shortly."

Dinner was a quiet, sedate affair. Graham was tired and non-communicative. Sarah was struggling with some swelling in her legs, so she ate upstairs in bed with her legs propped up. Portia had had a rough day at school and didn't want to talk. Harry found himself reminded of many meals in the past; sullen silences from his children and disastrous tongue lashings from Jane. The only difference was that Ruth silently, gently, accepted that her family wanted quiet and contemplation, rather than fighting it.

And he loved her desperately for her acceptance, her devotion, her love. She showed it by making sure that another twice-baked potato ended up on Graham's plate, and that an extra spoonful of custard found its way onto Portia's strawberries during dessert. And her foot spent an awful lot of time nudged up against his ankle and calf beneath the table, gently reminding him that she was there, even if there were no words shared between them.

"Mom, I miss Charlie," Portia complained quietly.

"I know you do, love," Ruth replied gently. "How about we Skype with them on Saturday?"

Portia's glum face brightened considerably. "Yes, please, mom," she said in an eager tone. "Can we go back to California and see them soon? And get some of my stuff?"

"Maybe," Harry said. He pointed at her with his fork. "Finish your dinner so you can get a bath and get ready for bed. You have an early day tomorrow, remember? Your class trip to the National Gallery."

Portia made a face. "I don't want to go," she sighed.

"We all have to do things we don't want to do," Graham finally spoke up. "It's better you learn to deal with it now, Little Bit."

Portia stuck her tongue out at him, then finished her dessert. "Fine," she muttered, "but I won't like it. Who wants to go look at boring old paintings?"

Harry chuckled. "Some of your ancestors are hanging in the Gallery, young lady – you'd do well to find them," he teased, reaching over and ruffling her hair. She pulled away, scowling at him. "Oh, come on now… what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she muttered, getting up and taking her dishes to the sink. Once she'd rinsed them, she took off.

Harry glanced at Ruth, who shrugged and sighed. "I don't know, Harry," she said quietly. "Do you want me to go talk to her? I think she needs some time alone, honestly."

"I think you're right," he said.

Graham interjected, "I think she's feeling out of sorts because she's at a new school and it's nothing at all like she was used to before. And she doesn't feel like she can talk to either of you about it because she's scared that things will change more. So just leave it be for now."

Harry paused, then sighed. "Yes, you're probably right –"

"I was a kid once, you know," Graham said. "I was a kid who had to go back and forth between you and mum and got kicked by both of you right and left, so yeah… I've been there, done that. She'll be fine soon." He finished his glass of water and took his dishes to the sink. "Good night – I'm going to have an early night, seeing as how I work both jobs tomorrow."

"Good night," Ruth said softly.

"Oh, don't worry, Jan," Graham said as he headed out. "I've got nothing against you except you love him in spite of all his bloody failings."

Ruth made a particularly comical face as she turned to face Harry. "Bloody hell," she muttered, "he doesn't pull any punches, does he?"

"Only when he's had enough sleep to be polite," Harry replied with a sigh. He turned his mug round and round, then took another swig of tea. "I can't blame him, not really. I was a shit husband and a shit father, and it upsets him to see me happy with you and Portia. What he doesn't realize is that I love all of my children and grandchildren with all my heart… and there's no difference between them to me. And we don't talk about Jane. Because I was never happy."

"And what about me?" Ruth said very softly, so softly that he almost didn't hear it. So quietly that he might have imagined it.

He was quiet for a long time, trying to formulate the words in his head. Finally, Harry said in a low voice, "You're the reason I get up in the morning and the reason I look forward to bed every night. You mean more to me than the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the sky. I'm lost without you, Ruth." He was on the verge of tears with that admission, and before she could respond, he got up and moved his dishes to the sink. "I'll load the dishwasher," he volunteered, "if you want to give me your dishes."

"Harry –"

"Just… give me your dishes," he instructed plainly. "And then we can go upstairs and make sure Portia is getting ready for bed. After that, I don't know. Maybe that bath we were talking about earlier. Maybe not."

"Harry –"

"Just give me your bloody plate!"

She thrust a pile of dishes into his hands, then said, "You're everything I've lost and everything I've found; everything I was missing and everything I never knew I was missing. And you're too bloody anal about cleaning the dishes immediately after the meal."

"There's no use scrubbing off all the mess later," he sighed as he began to load dirty dishes into the dishwasher. The dishwasher was a concession to Sarah and Graham and a time-saving tool for him, really… or it had been when he'd first retired. Now it was just another bloody thing to remember to take care of. There were too many things to take care of.

He felt her hand on his back, and her whisper of, "Harry, you're so tense. Why?"

Harry chose to ignore her question and continue filling the dishwasher. Once he'd put in the dish powder and set it on to clean, he glanced over at her, taking in her concern and her worry. "Ruth, I'm fine. Just tired, and we did argue earlier –"

"Because you were withholding information," she interjected.

"Yes," he sighed. "I'm just tired. Can we not fight again, please?"

"I wasn't going to," she murmured, taking his hand in hers and holding it tightly. "I'm just worried about you, is all. I love you, Harry. In spite of all my other failings, I take great pleasure in loving you."

His lips twitched with hollow amusement. "Great pleasure, eh?"

"Naughty boy," she scolded gently, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Now, you mentioned a bath, and I think that sounds like an excellent idea, my love."

He felt a slow, aching pain in his heart as he remembered the night they'd spent together before she'd left in disgrace. When they'd taken their time in the bath, the scent of lavender, rose, and sea salt winding around them, purifying them against the weight of their sins. And there had been so many sins to atone for… She had made him feel clean again for the first time in ages, and he had fallen so deeply in love with her in those stolen moments that he'd thought he might drown without her.

He had only been treading water, praying for a miracle.

And then she had reappeared in his life and everything since had been… overwhelming.

"Harry?"

He inhaled deeply and wrapped his arms around her, surprising her. "I'm sorry, I was a million miles away," he whispered. "God, I love you, Ruth. I can't lose you again. I wouldn't survive it."

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered. "I promise."

He prayed to a god he'd forgotten to believe in that she'd be able to keep that promise.

She knew his knee was bothering him by his selection of bath accoutrements. He'd chosen a bath bomb in a lemongrass scent, and bath oil that was orange and ginger. When his arthritis acted up, he tended to go toward the energetic and cheerful scents. Harry was already chest deep in the immense bathtub, his eyes closed and probably half-asleep when she came in after tucking Portia in for the night and reading to her.

She puttered softly around the bathroom, picking up his dirty clothes and putting them in the hamper, then making sure his pills and tablets were set out for when he got out of the bath.

"Would you stop fussing and get your kit off?" he grumbled from the tub. "You need to relax as much as I do."

She sighed and gave him a baleful look. "I rushed home early because I was concerned I was being spied upon only to have it confirmed – and you want me to relax and climb into the bath with you?"

He grunted and sighed. "Please don't start."

She frowned and stripped down to bare skin in a hurry, unceremoniously dumping her dirty clothes in the hamper and slamming the lid shut. He turned his head to look at her, and she refused to blush or feel embarrassed before him naked. Wasn't it what he wanted, after all?

His pupils dilated and he swallowed slowly. Then he closed his eyes again and relaxed back into the water. "Are you coming in or what? The water is going to get cold soon."

"I'm going to get cold sooner," she pointed out shamelessly.

"Then you'd better get in," he replied, barely opening one eye to look at her.

"You are incorrigible," Ruth scolded, coming over and slipping into the tub without preamble. She settled in front of him, leaning so her back rested gently against his front. "And rather naughty."

"We are married," he pointed out wryly, wrapping an arm around her waist. "I don't know how naughty it is when you're man and wife."

She sighed and closed her eyes, relaxing against him. "I go in for the results of my bloods and the scan tomorrow," she said. "It should be good news; they would have called if it wasn't."

"I know you've been worried," he said softly.

"I'm always worried," she sighed. "About you, about Portia, about Cate and the girls and Joe and his kids and now Graham and Sarah and your dad… but worrying about myself? It's scary. It's a big frightening world where everything can and will go wrong, Harry. I've already survived it once when Stephen failed to –"

"He was a good man," Harry said. "He made Catherine very happy."

"He did," Ruth agreed. "And I still feel guilty for making it out in one piece when he didn't. He had so much more to live for than I did – god knows, Portia could have come home to you so much sooner if I had…"

"Don't even think it," he said, his voice sharpening. "Don't you dare even think that you should have died in his place."

"But, Harry –"

"If you had died," he whispered in her ear, tone low and breathy, "I would have had Portia, but I would have been no use to her. I would have been so broken from losing you, so completely broken, that the world would have stopped for me, Ruth. Do not ever think that you aren't worthy to be here with me, do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I understand…"

He murmured, "Budge up a bit. It's high time I got these paint bits out of my hair."

She sat up and turned around to face him. "Let me help," Ruth insisted softly. When he nodded and sat up a bit, she cupped her hands, collecting water in them, then rinsed his hair till it was soaked. He spluttered a bit, but otherwise didn't react. She reached for the shampoo and carefully washed his hair, then rinsed it just as carefully as she'd wet it down to begin with. "There," she murmured. "All better now."

He smiled at her and whispered, "I am capable of washing myself, you know."

"So am I," she pointed out. "But you'd never get the paste and plaster bits out of your hair without help."

"You said that the day that bomb went off," he said very quietly. "Right before we –"

She smiled. "You're the one who went down to the bomb site," she pointed out. "You got mortar dust in your hair and god knows you weren't getting that out without help."

He pulled her close and kissed her. "God, I loved you so much then," he whispered. "You were so bright and fresh and innocent… and you loved life."

"And now?"

"And now, I love you even more," he promised, his hazel eyes boring into hers, imploring her to understand. "You've seen things, experienced things, that no one should ever have to. You brought up our daughter on your own and did a damn good job of it… You are jaded and bitter and you're tired of it all, but you're still my Ruth down in there somewhere." His hand slid over her breast to lie flat against her ribs in the spot over her heart. "Always, Ruth."

"Always, Harry," she murmured in reply.

"And I can't leave it something wonderful that was never said," he added.

"But you say it every day," she said.

"I know," he sighed. "I love you; of course I say it every day." Harry leaned in closer, brushing tender kisses over her skin; her cheek, her neck, the outer shell of her ear… And then, on the wings of angels and butterflies and sweet hummingbirds came the faintest whisper of breath.

"I'm utterly, hopelessly in love with you."

END PART TWENTY-FIVE