A/N Thank you all for sticking with this story. Your support through your reviews motivates me to keep going. What an epic fic this is turning out to be! I've got over 100,000 words written already! I feel that I should acknowledge that the postcard in this fic is mentioned in Spooks: the Personnel Files - though, as rahleeyah pointed out recently, Harry adding it to Ruth's personnel file makes no sense at all. But hey, that's Kudos for you. Cheers, S.C.
1 November 2006 – Harry
Another birthday, alone again, with not even Ben for company this time. He'd hoped so much, last year, that this year he'd have Ruth to celebrate with, but it seems like he's destined to never be happy in this life, to never have anything good last long.
His marriage to Jane had never really been good, had never really satisfied him in the way that a marriage should, and he knows now that it had been his own fault for marrying too quickly, for being too immature and headstrong, for destroying any chance of real intimacy and trust through his words and actions, his posturing and inability to open up and let Jane in, and his choice of profession that had only compounded all their problems. The secrets, the uncertainty, the danger and the loss that go with the territory are not conducive to a stable home life with someone special, to building intimacy and trust, and over the years, he'd found himself becoming progressively more distant from everyone, save perhaps Ben – it's hard to bullshit someone who's known you since you were three years old and who's seen you in so many unguarded moments.
The lies, the secrets, the betrayals he's suffered over the years have taken their toll on his ability to trust, to open up, to love freely, but then Ruth had entered his life, and like Ben, she'd had an innate, uncanny ability to read him, see through the bluster and bravado, the posturing and rough exterior he presents to the world, get past all his defences to the man he is inside, and make him feel worthy, valued, admired, loved in spite of everything he's done. So despite everything, despite the secrets, the danger, the uncertainty, he'd really hoped there was a chance this time, with Ruth, to break the cycle of lies, pain, betrayal, and loss. Ruth being in the Service herself, part of his world and behind a desk like him, had given him hope that they could overcome all the obstacles to intimacy and love, and make it together.
How wrong was I, he thinks bitterly, filling his mouth with more scotch. He's sitting in his armchair, Rachmaninov playing in the background as he stares into the electric fire, Scarlet curled up contentedly before it with Fidget between her paws, Wol preferring the comfort of the sofa beside him.
Where are you, Ruth, he wonders, blinking to clear the moisture from his eyes at the thought of her, the yearning for her that threatens to overwhelm him. Is she safe? Is she well? Is she thinking of him tonight? The questions are endless and without answer, so he turns his mind elsewhere, recalling his lunch with Catherine and Fabian earlier today, feeling pleased that his daughter is well on the mend now and able to walk short distances without support. She's made remarkable progress as he knew she would – there's not a thing that phases her and her determination is quite something to behold and fills his heart with pride. They'd told him that they'd moved out of Jane's apartment a couple of weeks ago and are now living together. Fabian has managed to get a transfer to the French Embassy here, which means that they're all set to stay in London for a while and, as far as Harry's concerned, it's the best birthday present his daughter could have given him. As it happens, she'd also given him a lovely, dark green scarf that he's planning on using when the weather gets colder. She's always had good taste in clothes, has Catherine, and always manages to get him something he'll actually wear.
Graham had rung him too to wish him a happy birthday and had promised to have lunch with him at the weekend. Jane had sent a card and rung him before he'd left the Grid, suggesting they have coffee sometime when he's not too busy, so he'd agreed to that, knowing it's unlikely to happen any time soon, but pleased she'd made the suggestion. Jane seems to be almost as busy as he is these days according to his children, which is nice for her and eases his guilt somewhat for having ended their marriage. He's no idea if she's seeing someone yet and he doesn't want to ask because he knows that'll lead to questions about Ruth and he'd rather not talk about that – the pain is still too raw, too deep, too overwhelming.
He misses her so much – every moment of every day, with every breath he takes. Memories of her are everywhere – on the Grid, in his car, in his home, in his bed – all of them still sharp, still vivid, though he knows that they will fade with time. And he dreads that. He dreads waking up one day to realise that he can't quite recall the exact colour of her eyes, the softness of her lips, the sound of her voice, the musical tinkle of her laugh, the taste of her, the feel of her skin against his, or the precise sensation of her walls contracting around him. And though at times it's near torture to remember all that he's lost with her departure, he spends much of his time recalling her, hoping that it'll help his mind hold onto her for longer and make his dreams of her more vivid and frequent.
He dreams of her almost every night, and though the dreams are often far from pleasant and sometimes downright terrifying, there are times when they're exquisite – quite conversations full of her smiles and laughter, loving cuddles and kisses that make her eyes sparkle and her cheeks flush, or love making that is breathtaking, ardent, fiery and blissful. And somehow, the happy dreams make up for all the rest and he wakes with a smile on his lips, a fullness in his heart, and often as sticky as a teen or so near the edge that all it takes is a quick rub to get there.
His phone rings, making him groan as he sits up, then frown when he realises it's not his work phone, but the burner phone he'd bought after Ruth left. He gets up quickly, retrieving it and walking into the bathroom where he turns on the shower – he sweeps his place for bugs regularly, but one can never be too careful – before he answers. "Yes?"
"Happy birthday, Captain," Ben's voice greets him and though he knew only Ben has this number, he's momentarily disappointed. A part of him had been hoping that Ruth had got in touch with Ben and had got this number from him.
"Thanks," he replies, lowering the loo seat and sitting down. "Any news?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. That's why I'm ringing on this number. I received a postcard this morning from someone calling themself Stubborn Mule, and seeing as you're the only stubborn mule I know and, I figured, you'd just ring me if you wanted to get in touch, I assumed it was from Celeste," he says, using the code name they'd agreed for Ruth.
Harry smiles, his heart warming, overflowing with love for her. "What does it say?" he asks softly.
"It says, you did the right thing," he replies. "We both did the right thing. Salus populi suprema lex. Grand tours are less fun alone, but I am well and safe. Look after yourself. I think of you often. Quos amor verus tenuit tenebit. Signed, Stubborn Mule."
Harry covers the microphone with his thumb, his eyes filling with tears, her words getting past all his defences, unravelling his self-control, his shoulders beginning to shake as the tears fall, a sob escaping him even as he fights for control.
"I looked up the Latin," Ben adds, "just in case yours is as rusty as mine. Let the welfare of the people be the supreme law is the first one, and true love will hold onto those whom it has held, the second."
Silence reins for long moments as Harry endeavours to calm himself, his thumb still over the microphone, and though he hadn't needed the translation Ben's provided, he's grateful for the extra time it's afforded him to bring his emotions under control again.
"Harry? You alright?" Ben asks after a few moments.
He takes a deep breath and murmurs, "Fine," the roughness of his voice betraying the lie even as he covers the microphone once more lest Ben hear his rugged breathing.
"It'll be alright," Ben replies, his voice gentle. "You'll see her again and probably a lot sooner than you think. She's well and safe. That's the important thing right now, and you're working on clearing the charges from your end. She got in touch. That's good. It means she's feeling confident and secure where she is. Maybe next time she'll try the phone, or send me her email address or something. Don't despair, Harry. It took me more than thirty years to win round Sarah. It won't take that long for you."
"It's my fault," he whispers, wiping his tears away.
"What is?"
"They went after her because of her connection to me," he admits miserably. It's not something he's told Ben before.
There's a pause while Ben digests this. "That may be true, but that doesn't make it your fault. It's still someone else who did this to her, to those men. It's still their fault. Besides, either way, it sounds to me like she doesn't care anyway. She's telling you that you did the right thing. You're not responsible for everything that happens to the people you love, Harry. Next you'll be telling me it's your fault Sarah and I didn't get together sooner."
"Well," he begins and hears Ben laugh, making him smile as he wipes away the last of the tears from his cheeks.
"Lighten up, Harry. Cut yourself some slack and stop trying to blame yourself for everything. The guilt will kill you as sure as any bullet, and then, where would Celeste be? She sacrificed herself to stop you falling on your sword to save her because she knew you had a better chance of getting her back from exile than she had of getting you out of prison. So do it. Get her back. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and guilty about her predicament and act!"
"I am," he replies with annoyance at the implication that he's just sitting around on his arse, wallowing. "I'm doing all I can at this end. The problem is, at some point, I'm going to need someone at that meeting to cooperate, and given that they all hate my guts for exposing them, it's not going to be easy."
"You'll find a way. There must be something you can give them in exchange, or something you can take away. Men like that can always be bought or threatened into cooperating."
"Yes," he agrees. He's already thought of all this himself, but it's good to talk about it with someone else, someone he trusts completely. He doesn't normally do this because Ben doesn't have the clearance, but this is not an op, just his personal quest to get back the woman he loves and enough of the info regarding the extradition of those prisoners to Egypt has been made public for him to feel comfortable that he's sharing only a little more detail with his brother. Besides, he knows Ben would never betray him. "Where was it posted from?" he asks, his thoughts drifting back to the postcard.
"Paris. The front looks like a painting of a café with Sacré-Coeur in the background. I don't remember any café with such a clear view of it, so I guess there's a fair amount of artistic licence involved, but it's pretty."
He smiles, remembering his first dinner date with Ruth. He's not doubt the choice of postcard is deliberate, a message to him that she remembers and misses him too.
"Do you think she's in Paris?" Ben asks.
"I doubt it," he replies. "She wouldn't have sent the postcard herself. She'll have asked someone to post it for her." He takes a deep breath. "Listen, Ben, I'd better go."
"Alright. I'll be home over Christmas. Sarah wanted me to ask you if you fancy a large family gathering. She was thinking of bringing everyone together, her brothers and their families and you lot if you're interested, anyone who can and wants to join us. She's not sorted anything yet, but she asked me to ask you, so think about it, ask Catherine and Graham, Jane too if you like, and let me know."
"Will do."
"Take care, Harry. Talk soon."
"Bye, Ben," and with that he hangs up, pockets the phone and switches off the shower, leaving the room to lock up and head to bed, feeling somewhat better after talking to his brother, a new determination to make the best of everything and keep plugging away at clearing Ruth's name taking hold of him, knowing that sooner or later he'll succeed in bringing her home.
He gets ready for bed and slips under the covers, turning on his side to face the empty spot beside him, closing his eyes and imagining Ruth lying there, smiling at him. He hopes he dreams of her tonight and that the dreams are pleasant, hopes that his dream-self visits her in her dreams too. If they can't be together in real life, than they'll have to make do with the land of dreams until they're reunited.