It was very late, when Will came stumbling home. He had promised his mother he would take a taxi back from the pub, and so he did, much as it galled him to pay for it when he could have just as easily taken the bus. She'd been back in his life for barely three days, and he was still so grateful to have her back that he was willing to do whatever she asked of him, no matter how trivial her requests seemed.
As he shuffled through the door, Will smiled a little to himself, remembering a night two years ago when he'd taken a taxi home from the pub, stinking drunk and weeping for his mum. His whole life changed, that night; for a few terrible hours he'd believed her to be dead, believed that he had lost the only family he'd ever really had. That grief was like nothing he had ever felt before, nothing he ever wanted to experience again. It was as if part of him had been ripped away; perhaps that was a bit dramatic, he thought, but she had been the center of his life from the day he was born, the only constant in a sea of uncertainty. She had kept him grounded, made him feel safe, reminded him that even in times of sorrow there was still love and hope and joy to be found. That night, so hazy in his memory, had ended in a spectacularly bizarre fashion; he'd woken to the sight of Harry Pearce looming over him, intimidating and terrifying despite the bemused expression on his face.
Not for the first time he wondered what might have happened, had he never met Harry. Had he never learned that his mum was really alive, had he been forced to endure two years believing she was gone, believing he was alone, believing that there was no one else in the world who loved her, who grieved for her as he had done.
That was a reality he would never have to face; Harry had been by his side, through triumphs and heartbreaks, every step of the way. And he was grateful to the man, for his steady companionship, for placing his trust in a boy he barely knew. They had made a good many memories over the years, the pair of them, and they had come to be fast friends.
It was strange, now that his mum was back, strange seeing her talk to Harry, seeing her smile at him. He'd never really had an opportunity to see her like that before, to see her as a person, and not just his mum. And he knew what he was seeing, when he watched her talking with Harry; right before his eyes, he was watching her fall in love with him all over again. Perhaps, as her only son, as a young man who for the last twenty-three years had been the only man in her life, he ought to have felt a bit jealous, a bit concerned by the way she so readily opened her heart and her home to this man. Perhaps if he had not been given the chance to get to know Harry first, if Harry and everything that went with him had just been thrust upon Will without warning, he might have reacted differently. As it was, he found that he felt only happiness, when he thought about her and Harry together. Harry was a good man, a kind man, and Will didn't mind making room in his life for him.
As he toed off his shoes in the front hall, Will caught sight of Harry's coat, still hanging there on the hook by the door, its sleeve tangled up beneath his mother's coat.
That shocked him, more than he thought it would. For a long moment he simply stood and stared at that coat, thinking about all the implications of Harry's coat hanging in the hall, this late at night, when the doors were locked and the lights were off. It was far too cold for Harry to have run off without it; if his coat were still here, then he must be, too.
It was to be expected, he knew, that something like this might happen eventually. They were fond of one another, Harry and his mum; more than fond, to be honest. And Will had been trying, in his own ham-handed way, to force them into a situation where they could be alone together, where they would have no choice but to talk to one another. The prospect of Harry eventually staying the night had seemed inevitable, really.
Only Will hadn't realized that it would happen so soon. The coat had ceased to be a coat at all, and became to his mind a swirling maelstrom of innuendo. He tried very hard not to think about what they were doing, Harry and his mum, or what they had done, or…whatever. He wondered if he ought to be worried, that this…whatever had happened so soon after her return, so soon after George had died. Will knew Harry, knew him well, and knew that he was not the sort of man who would take advantage, who would tumble into bed with Ruth at the first opportunity and run like the devil in the morning. And he knew his mum, too, knew that she did not give her heart away lightly, and that it had been far too long since she'd last had any sort of romance in her life. Perhaps it wasn't anything to worry about; perhaps they'd just realized, after two long years of separation, that they weren't willing to wait any more.
That was about as much consideration as he cared to give the present circumstances; thinking of his mother and Harry in such a way was deeply uncomfortable, and the sheer volume of alcohol he'd consumed that evening threatened to make a reappearance should he continue in that vein. He gave his head a little shake, and made his way up the stairs as quietly as he could.
Will smiled, just a little, when he reached the landing, and saw the moggies curled up outside his mother's door, looking a bit peevish about their having been locked out of their favorite sleeping place. He gave the big one, Fidget, a little scratch behind the ears, and then promptly scampered off to his own room when he realized the potential for disaster inherent in his standing around outside his mother's door when he knew Harry was inside. It was awfully late, and surely they were sleeping, but if they weren't, he desperately did not want to hear what they were getting up to.
When Harry woke the next morning, he was warm and blissfully happy. Ruth had draped herself over him like a blanket in the night; her head rested peacefully on his chest, just above his heart, her arm slung out over his stomach, her legs tangled with his beneath the duvet. He had been impulsive, and perhaps a bit foolish, in pursuing her so ardently the night before, right on the heels of all that she had suffered, but he did not have it in him to regret a single moment of the time he'd spent in her arms. He could feel the scratches she'd left on his back, could still smell her on his fingers when he reached up to rub the sleep away from his eyes, and his heart felt full to bursting with love of this woman.
He knew that soon he would have to move. The sun had risen, and though he did not have to go into work, there were things he would need to attend to. Breakfast, for one. He could linger for a while longer, though, and so he did, watching the light playing across her shining chestnut hair, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest in time to her gentle breathing. He watched her, and he considered all that had passed between them, in the years they'd known one another and the years they'd spent apart.
The time for waiting had long since passed him by. He had wondered, briefly, if upon her return Ruth might be indelibly changed, if he might find that their paths had diverged so completely that no hope of rekindling their budding romance would remain to them. And in some ways she had changed; she was bolder, more prone to speaking her thoughts aloud, more willing to chase after the desires of her heart. She was sadder, in a way, glorious even in her wounding. In her heart, though, she was still Ruth. She was still passionate and gentle, still kind and strong, still stubborn, still lovely. It was in his mind to worry that perhaps she might have found him changed as well, and not for the good; while she had been away he had endured hardships and loss and felt the pieces of his heart turning brittle and sharp in his chest. Still, though, she had welcomed him, into her home, into her heart, into her bed. She had touched him with reverence, with wonder, with affection of a kind he had never known before. Perhaps they were both of them different people, from those who had bid each other a bitter farewell by the riverside two years before, but the people who had risen from the ashes of their heartbreak were still just as fiercely in love as those two sorry souls had been.
In his arms Ruth began to stir, and he smiled to see it, to watch the muscles shifting along the smooth plane of her back, to see her thick eyelashes fluttering across her porcelain cheeks. She was a masterpiece, a Bernini sculpture come to life before him, and he was spellbound by her, as always. When finally her ocean-blue eyes opened and fell upon his face his smile grew, and he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"Good morning," he murmured in a voice rough from sleep.
"Good morning," she answered softly.
As she woke she hid her face from him, ducking her head and taking several deep, steadying breaths. This sudden introversion alarmed him; he fancied he could hear the wheels turning in her mind, and he knew that he needed to address whatever was bothering her, now, however much it might grieve him to hear it.
"You're thinking awfully loudly," he told her, keeping his voice low, not wanting to startle or overwhelm her.
"Oh, Harry," she sighed sadly. He didn't like the sound of that. The only time the words Oh, Harry ever heralded good news was when they were spoken in the midst of orgasm. The rest of the time, they were only a portent of trouble to come.
"I can't help thinking," she continued, and his heart ached to hear such sorrow in her sweet, soft voice. "Is it wrong of me, to be so happy, after everything that's happened? Do we deserve this, you and I?"
Once again he was surprised by the sheer complexity of her mind, by all the twists and turns and myriad pitfalls that comprised her conscience. It had never once occurred to him, to wonder if they deserved one another; his only thoughts had been of how good they felt together, how much he had longed for her, how happy she seemed to be in his arms. He wasn't sure that it had anything to do with what they deserved, and he told her so.
"I think," he said slowly, "that no one gets what they deserve. Bad things happen to good people. People live, people die, people hurt one another. That's life." He tightened his hold on her, pulled her closer still. "I've done things I'm not proud of. I've hurt people. But I love you, Ruth. I love you, and you-" here he faltered but, as always, she was there to pick up the thread.
"And I love you, too, you stupid man," she said, turning her face up to smile at him through a thin veil of tears.
"And you love me," he said, beaming down at her. He couldn't help himself; despite the serious nature of their discussion, hearing those words from her lips had left him giddy as a teenager. "And that's what matters, I think."
Ruth pressed her body forward to give him a proper kiss, a kiss that sent shockwaves through him and had his cock hard and straining for her in a moment. He held himself back, knowing that in all likelihood her son was sleeping just down the hall, and knowing that she would frown upon engaging on any sorts of…shenanigans under those circumstances. He was content just to kiss her, just to share her warmth and her bed, to bask in the warm glow of her radiance.
"I'm glad you're here," she whispered when she pulled away, blushing just a little and lowering her gaze from his face in a bashful sort of way. Harry reached out and caught her chin in his hand, lifted her back up to look upon him once more. The time for shyness and obfuscation was long gone, he thought; he wanted her to be brave, wanted her to be bold, wanted her to be comfortable with him, as he was with her.
"So am I," he told her, smiling.
Ruth kissed him again, and then laid her head once more on his chest, listening to the steady thrumming of his heart. As they reclined together, at ease for once, without any burdens, without any secrets, without any impending disasters looming on the horizon, he lazily dragged his fingers up and down the path of her spine, delighting in the shivers his touch elicited in her.
"Would you like something to eat?" he asked her after a time. Harry would have been content to lie with her like that all day, but he thought he ought to at least extend the offer.
She propped herself up on her elbows, smiling. "Seeing as we're in my house," she said in a playful tone of voice, "shouldn't I be the one offering you breakfast?"
Playful Ruth was a delicious, deliriously beautiful sight, and Harry found his cheeks were beginning to ache from the smile that seemed permanently plastered on his face.
"I've been told I know my way around the kitchen," he answered, lifting an insinuating eyebrow at her.
Ruth promptly collapsed in a fit of giggles, and he held her close, chuckling, relieved and nearly overjoyed to hear the sound of her laughter once more.
"Breakfast would be lovely," she told him once she regained her composure.
"Consider it done," he said. He kissed her once more, and then pulled himself away from her side, shuffled into his clothes, and made his way downstairs.
Will made his way downstairs, feeling that a cup of tea was in order. He had a pounding in his head, courtesy of the drinks from the night before, and though he'd intended to have a shower first he'd woken to the sounds of the pipes in his mother's bathroom banging. The house was old, and running two showers at once was a recipe for disaster. He knew he'd have to wait, and in the absence of a shower, tea seemed like the next best thing.
When he reached the kitchen he stopped for a moment; Harry was already up and puttering around, skirting around the cats and whistling contentedly to himself. He was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, looking a little the worse for wear, but he seemed happy enough.
It's too early for this, Will thought, running his fingers through his hair. He was pleased for them, really he was, but he absolutely did not want to have a conversation about what Harry was doing in his mother's kitchen at this time of the morning.
He wanted tea, though, and to get it, he'd have to speak to the man. Will squared his shoulders, and made his presence known.
"Good morning," he said as he made a beeline for the kettle.
"Good morning, Will," Harry answered.
Though Will had expected this particular exchange to be excruciating in its awkwardness, he found himself rather pleasantly surprised. Harry was cooking bacon and eggs and the kettle was still warm. The whistling was grating on his nerves; his head was feeling a bit tender this morning, and he did not share Harry's chipper mood.
"Your mum's in the shower," Harry told him as he leaned back against the sink, cradling his mug in his hands. "She'll be down in a bit. There's plenty to go around, if you're hungry."
The tips of Harry's ears had turned pink but he gave no other outward sign of discomfort. Will realized it was up to him, to determine how this morning would go; he could raise the issue, address the elephant in the room and make everyone terribly uncomfortable, or he could relax, and eat his breakfast with the pair of them the way he had done earlier in the week.
"I could do with some breakfast," he said, and watched as Harry smiled.
"Bacon?" Harry asked him, slapping a few more pieces down on the hot pan.
"Bacon," Will agreed.
Ruth had to give herself a bit of a pep-talk, before she felt brave enough to enter the kitchen. As she'd descended the stairs she had clearly heard Will and Harry speaking to one another, although she could not discern the words. It was unavoidable, really, facing Will, knowing that he knew that Harry had spent the night. She wouldn't have been able to hide it, even if she'd wanted to, but still, the reality of having that particular conversation with her son was galling. They'd always shared so much with one another, but Ruth was inexperienced when it came to the technicalities of navigating both her relationship with her son and her relationship with the man she loved. No man had ever meant as much to her as Harry did, but no matter how she might love him, Will had to come first. What if Will was upset, to find that Harry was still here, that he had shared her bed? What would she do? It was a completely distressing thought. She had no reason to think that Will be cross but still, she fretted.
Come on, you can do this, she told herself, and so, taking a deep breath, she walked into the kitchen.
Will was sitting at the table, his hair a terrible mess and his eyes looking a bit bloodshot, tucking into a plateful of bacon and eggs. Harry was manning his post by the cooktop, whistling. It was simultaneously blissfully domestic and completely foreign to her, this morning-after breakfast scene.
"Good morning," she said softly, going over to drop a kiss on her son's cheek. "Did you have fun last night?"
Will nodded, gave her a little smile. "I did. It was good to see Paul, it's been too long." He did not ask her how her night had gone, for which she was very thankful.
"Tea?" Harry asked her, motioning towards a mug on the counter, already poured and ready to go.
He really is a wonderful man, she thought as she crossed the kitchen to fetch her drink.
"Breakfast is nearly ready, I'll bring it to you in just a moment," Harry told her.
Impulsively Ruth leaned forward, and kissed his cheek, too.
"Thank you," she murmured, hoping he understood, that he could see she wasn't just thanking him for the food and the tea, but for the way he was helping her navigate these uncharted waters, for the way he'd made things easier for all of them.
This was right, she thought as she sat at the table, sipping her tea and watching her son fondly, fighting the urge to reach out and tousle his hair and chide him about it for the thousandth time. For so long she had been adrift, struggling through the world on her own, with no one to help her shoulder her burdens, no one to confide in when she was afraid, no one to comfort her, no one to love. For so long she had believed that she had to do everything on her own, that she could not trust anyone else with the secrets of her heart. She knew better now, though. They had been bound together through grief and pain, she and Harry, but there was no one else in the world who understood her as he did, no one else who could make her feel as safe, as cherished, as peaceful as she did when he held her.
And he had made room in his heart not just for her, but for her son. Maybe one day the past would come back to haunt them; there was blood on their hands, both of their hands. There was a man called George, and a man called Davie King, and Ruth knew that the day might well come when there would have to be a reckoning.
She remembered the words had spoken to her that morning, though, and she held them close to her heart, clutched them as a talisman to ward off the terrors of the dark. She loved him, and he loved her, and perhaps that was enough. Perhaps that was all they'd ever really needed.
A/N: Thank you, for sticking with this story! I have very much enjoyed writing it, and I am grateful to all of you for reading, and reviewing, and generally supporting me throughout. Just an epilogue to go now. I think.
