A/N - Where did the time go? A bit of M content near the end. Thank you for reading!
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Chapter 10 - Sonata
The lift gave a sudden jolt as it started its ascent. Harry leaned against the metal interior, absently scrolling through the messages on his phone. If there was anything of importance in the queue it was lost to him. His body may be present but his thoughts roamed happily elsewhere. His thumb paused on the screen, his mind reflecting back on how many times he had ridden in that particular car. Like clockwork, each new tenure had ushered in their obligatory updates, modernising the work areas, revising security measures, but the interior of the lift had stayed reassuringly the same. Apparently, no one saw the need to improve on it. After all, it had only one job - collect its passengers and quickly deliver them. Like his office, the walls of the car had borne witness to his emotions, both contained and overt, anger, disappointment, satisfaction, and on the rare occasion, elation. The last time his heart had soared along with the gears and pulleys had been the morning after their dinner date. He had selfishly pushed away all thoughts of South African arms dealers and thermobaric bombs, indulging in musings of a more sordid nature. The walls had surely blushed. As the car trundled upward, he gave himself leeway for such an indulgence.
The bed had been warm, her skin soft, the cold call of responsibility easy to ignore. Duty lay outside the walls of his bedroom. His alarm was quickly silenced, the buzz of his phone muted. Drowsy lids, half-awake, neither one of them wanting to break the spell of pleasure that they had chanced upon. She had been the one to push him out of the bed, words muttered through sleepy kisses. In his kitchen, they had stood by the window, drinking tea. He had made a mental note to pick up some milk. Precious second stolen, Ruth had lingered by the window, hoping for the return of the goldfinch. He let her linger. Let her believe that salvation lay in his garden. It was a draw that ensured her return. Words of affection passed between them, softly mumbled, tinged by lingering sleep and embarrassment. She never wanted to put him in a position where he would have to choose between staying in bed with her or work. He vowed that he would always choose her. She rewarded him with a shy smile. It was a promise made in the sentiment of the moment, both knowing that he would always choose duty. A part of his heart disagreed, he was old and worn, if the choice was levelled, duty or her, he may not have the will to sacrifice the woman. Talk of their relationship was suspended, boundaries left undefined. There would be other days, longer nights and quieter mornings where they could untangle the workings of such things. Time hurried on, signalled by the ticking of his kitchen clock. They hurried in a flurry of coats and boots, a forgotten sweater retrieved from his upper floor. The door of his house opened to the cold wind of the world.
He had dropped her off at her flat, clumsy lips brushing in a hasty kiss. The farewell to one life, the welcoming of another. This was how his days would unfold, he silently acknowledged. Intimacy snatched and hoarded whenever it was available. As she stepped out of his car, she uttered some parting words but his mobile had rung. Attention diverted, he had missed the gist of her comment, but she was off before he could call her back. It made no matter, he would see her in a few hours. This time he was certain that their relationship, as fragile as it may be, would not sputter under the harsh lights of scrutiny. He would ask her out for a proper dinner, enjoy an expensive bottle of wine, return to his house and...
The bell dinged and the lift door opened. Harry stood, oblivious to the floor. The timer ticked, uncaring of the man who daydreamed. The mechanics of the world continued. The doors left their pockets and started their track towards each other. Startled by the motion, Harry quickly roused himself and stuck his hand between the doors. He pushed the door back and stepped out into the hall. He must be careful; losing his focus in reverie could prove to be costly. Straightening his tie, he headed down the corridor towards the pods.
The frames of the security doors stood empty, their panes of glass missing. Two mechanics, drills in hand, worked intently on the inner mechanism of the doors. Harry frowned. Another victim of progress. Had he missed the notification of this update? The alert had most likely landed in his inbox and was quickly passed over, ignored in the chaos of Nightingale. The job was always about shifting priorities. The missing glass irked him, it left him with a sense of vulnerability. A security guard stood by the entrance. For once a machine had been replaced by a human. Harry gave the man a curt nod as the guard granted him access. One of the perks of being known to all.
Inside the door, Harry stopped short. The Grid was different. A quick assessment told him there had been no repairs or renovations. He inhaled slowly. It was not a physical change that had stopped him but an atmospheric change, a magnet missing in the alignment of the universe. He turned to an empty desk. Ros. Gone, never to return. No acerbic greeting, no sly comment at the lateness of his appearance. Damn. His heart, so recently elevated, plunged to his shoes. The haze of his contentment threatened to dissolve under anger and grief. His fingers curled into a fist. Someone would pay. Blood for blood; it was the least she deserved.
Harry pulled himself back. Revenge was a waiting game; he could not lose himself in the short term. He needed to stay strong for the sake of the team. He would assemble his people, shore up morale, give Ros her due. These were always the hardest of days. He turned his head away searching for the one person who could elevate his humour. Ruth's desk was disappointingly vacant. Tariq sat at the adjoining station, absorbed in his work.
"Have you seen Ruth?"
"No I haven't," the young man shrugged, attention remaining on his computer.
Harry did not press further. Of course, she wouldn't have arrived before him. She would need to shower and change. Perhaps she was stuck in transit, a slow down on the line. He had offered to drive her into work but she had refused. Stubborn woman. He would have to remedy that. He continued to his office.
The phone on the desk blinked repeatedly. Scathing messages from every level of government, all of them wanting a piece of him. Shoring up his intestinal fortitude, Harry sat down and fired up his computer. Mail filled his inbox. A summons from the JIC, a meeting with the DG, Special Branch, queries from Six. The only thing that was missing was the Home Office. They were still reeling from the death of Lawrence. Harry glanced out onto the Grid. Her desk was still empty. He brushed away unsettling thoughts, but a low hum of disquiet remained. He concentrated on replying to his emails, a chore that he detested, his speed hampered by his hunt and peck method of typing. One hour and then two. Neck stiff, he looked up from his screen. Her desk was vacant. He walked out to the floor and spoke curtly to Tarq, his sharp tone masking his worry.
"She's still not in?"
Tariq's eyes widened, certain that he was being blamed for the tardiness of the analyst. "I don't know where she is," he stuttered.
Lucas was on his phone, immersed in a conversation, leaving Tariq to bear the brunt of Harry's growing ire.
"Tell her I want to see her when she gets in."
Tariq nodded, relieved that his boss walked away without any further damage.
Harry marched back to his office. He was meeting with the DG in half an hour; he needed to brief the staff, catalogue everything about Nightingale, assemble a trail of decision making. He needed his analyst and he needed her now. A band of tension seized his shoulder, and he tried to shrug it off. Annoyance piled upon worry and grew into outrage; she was taking advantage of their new association. It did not give her the latitude to show up on the Grid whenever she pleased. Scowling, he sat down at his computer, hunched over the terminal as he pounded at the keys. His fingers stilled on the keyboard, the hair on the back of his neck stirring. Something had happened to her. Their tryst had been discovered. Enemies unseen, waiting for such a development, working to uncover his weakness and exploit it. Had she taken the tube? Memories flooded back in; a rainy morning, a panicked call, a suspicious suicide. He needed to phone her. He should have done that in the first place.
"You wanted to see me?"
Harry's head swerved at the sound of her voice. Ruth stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. Harry squinted adjusting his eyes to the contrast. She was a dark silhouette against the glaring light of the Grid. Where the previous day her form had been hidden beneath unflattering layers, it now revealed angles and curves. He inhaled sharply. She was dressed entirely in black. He stared at her, speechless.
"Did you need something?" she prompted.
Harry blinked and returned to the moment. "Come in. Close the door."
She did as he commanded and walked to the edge of his desk. The light of his lamp caught a glint at the opening of her blouse. Around her throat, she wore a silver chain. The piece of jewellery hypnotised him. It lay nestled in the hollow of her clavicle, moving when she spoke.
"I've assembled a file," said Ruth. "A timeline of events, decision processes, weaknesses, next steps forward. If that's what you…" Her voice trailed off.
Her words passing over him, Harry remained fixated on the necklace. Where had it come from? What had she been up to? Dallying in shops while there was work to be done. His fingers curled on the desk. He wanted to lash out at her for letting him worry, berate her for her tardiness, remind her of the pressure he was under. Anger danced with desire. He imagined the feel of the chain beneath fingers, his lips pressed against the links, have her in that and nothing more. Ruth shifted uneasily beneath the beam of his scrutiny.
"Harry?"
"Where were you?" he asked softly, unable to completely erase the undercurrent of anger.
"I told you earlier when I was getting out of your car. I needed to get a new coat."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did," she countered. "I said that I was going to take a few hours off. That I had kept a running log of the operation and I could quickly pull something together for you."
"But I didn't give you my permission."
"Permission?" Her eyebrows rose. Her mouth moved in with silent umbrage. She looked away, composing herself, remembering that she was talking to her boss and not her lover. She took a deep breath. She gave him a tentative smile, vainly searching for a way to lighten the mood and mollify the man. "I won a morning off as part of a bet, remember?"
It did little to placate Harry. "I didn't know where you were."
"I did tell Lucas."
Harry pursed his lips; he had not had a chance to ask the officer about her. She had every angle covered. He should know by now that he could not win an argument with this woman. She had arrived, that was all that mattered. In her presence, the stew of emotion that he had allowed himself to wallow in seeped away. Anger, fear, resentment; he let it all go. He remembered the lesson for the car, his musings in the lift. He needed to take advantage of this rare moment of solitude. He leaned forward onto his desk and lowered his voice.
"Thank you for your gesture of consolation yesterday."
"Is that what it was?" Her mouth crooked wryly.
"I was hoping to repay the kindness by taking you to dinner."
Her eyes widened with surprise. Such an overt offer made in the highly visible confines of his office. A flutter of panic passed through him. He had been too forward, made an assumption about the state of their relationship. Surely, they had progressed to dinner. But then, they had never followed a linear path. He presented his case.
"My day is full of meetings where I will no doubt be summarily drawn and quartered. The thought of a pleasant evening may very well be the only thing that sustains me."
"Alright," she relented. "But I get to pick the place."
Harry frowned, taken aback by her request. He had already chosen the restaurant, a little spot that he had frequented on other romantic occasions, dark, discreet. He had envisioned an entire scenario. He reluctantly relinquished his fancy.
"Of course."
Her eyes crinkled, lit with a knowledge known only to her. He would let her have this one battle. He turned back to his computer.
"Briefing room in five."
With his abrupt words of dismissal, the air of intimacy left his office and professionalism returned. Her clothes rustled as she walked away. Harry watched from the corner of his eye, admiring the cut of her new ensemble. A cloud of her scent remained in his office, its notes as hard to define as the woman herself. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes and relished the perfume. He may very well be dreaming. His alarm would ring and he would start the day again in a different dimension. He shook his head. No, she was with him. He would plod on with his beast of a day, trusting that she would pick a venue suitable to a burgeoning romance.
The metal leg of Harry's chair screeched as it slid across the tile. The pad missing from the bottom, it rocked slightly as he adjusted his position at the table. The crackle of a deep fryer sizzled in the background, particles of grease slipping into the weave of his overcoat. An overhead fluorescent light bathed the shop in a greenish hue. An order ready was shouted from behind the counter. None of it mattered. He was sitting with her. A tiny smile played upon Ruth's lips as she opened up the carton that contained her meal. She appeared perfectly content to spend the evening with him in a side street chippy. She knew what type of restaurant he had envisioned. Imp. She had played with his expectations. He shouldn't have been caught off guard by this quirk in her personality so at odds with the exterior of seriousness that she always presented on the Grid. He had seen her like this before on rare occasions. A throwback to her earlier self, when her smile was quick and her humour more freely shared.
Watching Ruth dig into her meal reminded Harry of his own hunger. He could not remember when he last ate, the day spent ricocheting between meetings, his body was battling fatigue. He regarded his meal with suspicion. Two pieces of fish packed with potato wedges in a Styrofoam tray. It would have to do, he was famished. The plastic knife proved frustratingly useless at cutting through the batter. He pressed on, after all, it wasn't heart surgery. Popping a morsel into his mouth, he chewed on it reflectively. It was surprisingly good. He waved his fork in the air.
"This is not what I expected."
"I like to keep you on your toes."
"That you do," he murmured, looking down at the tray.
They sat side by side, her leg swinging idly beneath the table, her foot brushing across his calf. He didn't mind. He let his eyes rest on her. A stylish black overcoat had appeared, an extension of her new wardrobe. The reason for her lateness. It was a marked upgrade from the formless grey trench. The collar accented the column of her throat. Decidedly more sophisticated. He glanced at their reflection in the greasy glass, two rather well dressed business people, sharing a meal in a shoddy shop. An unexpected piece of heaven. Her shoulder rubbed against him as she reached across and took one of his chips.
"They say that the secret to success is adaptability." She dipped the chip in some unknown sauce.
"Survival of the fittest?"
"Something like that."
"We won't be the fittest if we continue eating like this."
Ignoring his comment, she stole another chip. She could steal everything from him. She had already taken his heart.
"I used to come here," she said. "After work, when it was late. Too tired to make anything, too hungry to care what I ate. It would be dark like this." She pointed with the chip to the window. "I'd sit here and watch people go by."
"You didn't take your dinner home?"
"And eat by myself?" she asked innocently.
He gave a melancholy smile at her reasoning - that eating amongst strangers was thought to be the remedy to eating alone. His heart skipped a beat for the little analyst that she once was, traipsing about the city, by herself. How many times during those years had they eaten at separate tables when they could have been eating together?
"Funny what you miss," she observed. "Little things that you never really paid attention to but were always there. Things taken for granted."
She finished the chip, a drop of sauce remaining on her lip. She licked it off. Harry swallowed. It had been an extremely long day, and he had been subjected to at least three intense grillings from three different governmental departments. His mind had been completely absorbed in defending his decisions. Even when he had used the words collected by her to buttress his arguments, he had given her little thought. But in two seconds, with her tongue running over her lips, he had lost it all.
"Yes, the little things," he murmured.
His eyes fell down to the chain at her throat. It stood out in stark contrast to the black of her coat and the colour of her skin. It lay resting near her pulse, taunting him. It was a link to all the other ornaments that she had worn around her neck, varied necklaces that over the years had teased him. This one was sleeker, more refined. A different reiteration, like the woman who wore it. A strand of hair curled against the chain. He longed to brush it out of the way, place his lips on the spot, and mark her as his.
"You've done something." His voice came out far huskier than he intended.
"What do you mean?" She gave him a worried look.
He smiled, easing her fears. It would be so easy at that moment to tell her what she had done to him. Knocked him off of his stride, given him a new life, released him from his museum. He could open his heart and tell her how he felt. Instead, he carried on with his original observation.
"Your hair."
"Oh," she said, relieved. "I got a little trim."
How had she managed to transform herself in such a small window of time? He wanted to believe that it was because of him, that their night together had released the woman who was buried beneath grief and ill-fitting clothes. With a self-conscious hand, she brushed the strand away from her neck and wrapped it behind her ear, denying him the pleasure of doing the act. It did not matter, he would do it himself soon enough. He leaned in closer. Her lips were stained a darker colour. He smiled. It was for him. Whether it was true or not, he wanted to believe that it was for him. His eyes rose to hers. Blue verging on green, pools reflecting back his desire. If he waited any longer, he would give in and kiss her, regardless of their surroundings.
"Let's get out of here," he whispered.
She nodded.
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The clatter of her keys echoed in the empty hallway. An eternity ticked on as she fumbled for the correct match to her lock. Harry stood by her side, eyes caressing the contour of her cheek. His chest brushed against her shoulder, urging her on, his skin taut with anticipation. He wanted to kiss her in the hallway - he had barely made it through the taxi ride and up the walk to her building. He had held back, spook paranoia too deeply ingrained. She paused with her hand on the key. She knew the thoughts that burned in his mind. Did she have the same? Her head moved slightly, studying him from the corner of her eye. Her delay was purposeful, meant to wind him up. Minx. He leaned down, his lips near her ear.
"Open the door," he whispered.
She turned the key. He left no space between the time she opened the door and their passing over the threshold. He turned her around, swiftly closing the door with one hand, pushing her up against it with the other. The world shut out, he claimed the coveted spot on her throat, pressing his body into hers. A small gasp of surprise escaped her lips before he covered them with his own. He pulled away but only slightly. He ran a finger along the chain at her neck. Her breasts heaved as she caught her breath.
"I wanted something beautiful," she whispered. "Is that wrong?"
"No." He looked at her from beneath hooded lids. "There is nothing wrong with wanting something beautiful."
Their lips met again. She pulled at the lapels of his overcoat, and he tugged at hers. He gave no thought to the state of the newly purchased garment as he slid it off of her arms and let it unceremoniously drop to the floor. She showed a similar disregard for his overcoat. Refusing to let go of each other, they clumsily stepped over their abandoned coats. In his previous visit, he had only seen her living room, he had no concept of the rest of her flat. He vaguely recollected a table; that would do. There must be a sofa somewhere. He manoeuvred her with unseeing steps across the floor, halting when they bumped into the back of her sofa. She pulled off his suit jacket, blindly draping it on the back of the sofa, only to have it slide to the floor. He undid the buttons of her blouse, sighing as he unwrapped the fabric. He pulled her back with thoughts of getting her onto the couch. She fumbled with the knot of his tie, pulling him along as she did. Teetering unsteadily, they careened away from the couch and crashed into the frame of a door. Harry opened one eye. A pile of dishes on a counter told him it was the kitchen. Where was the bloody bedroom?
"Do you have a bed?" His lips moved against her neck.
"Only a hammock," she teased.
He held her tighter. He wanted to be teased by her forever. This was the part of her that was known only to him. And he adored her for it. A wave of tenderness overcame him, hands becoming gentle, kisses growing soft. They paused for a moment, breathing erratically. They should slow down, he thought, enjoy each other. Her ragged breath punctuated the silence of her flat. She had no intention of slowing down. It was his turn to be surprised when she bumped against him, pulling at his shirt, intent on fulfilling her own desires. Her fingers flew down his buttons, teeth nipping his bottom lip, her body grinding against him. All thoughts of a leisurely pace were quickly abandoned and they quickly reached the fevered pitch at where they had started. They continued their staggering waltz down a short hall, a trail of discarded clothing left behind them. His tie, her blouse, his shirt. A door came into view and he steered her toward it.
"Not that one," she mumbled against his mouth, correcting their course.
They stumbled into her bedroom. In the darkness, he had no idea of its design. She struggled with the buckle of his belt, groaning at her inability to undo it. He took over, unhooking the leather, sliding the zipper down. Her hands free, she unfastened her skirt, the material billowing as it floated to the floor. He moved her to the bed and they fell onto it together. Bouncing on creaking springs, she laughed, full and throaty. He smiled into her skin. Young lovers, uncaring of the consequence, blood flowing under rejuvenated muscled. He was a boy with her. She was a girl beneath him. It may only be for a short time but he would experience it with every fibre of his being.
Frantic fingers pulled at the scant pieces of cloth that were left between them. The care and delicacy of the previous night was supplanted by raw hunger. There was nothing subtle in this union. No whispered endearments, no hesitant touches, both intent on fulfilling their need. Pushing him back, she climbed on top of him. He smiled at this side of her also known only to him; like his garden, slightly untamed. She swayed, buoyed by his movement, his hand on her hips as he let her set the pace. The curve of her waist, the edge of her ribs, his palm finding the roundness of her breasts. The chain around her throat glittered in the darkness, the link that bound them together. Her thighs pressed against him, muscles wavering as each thrust tipped her toward fulfilment. He did not want to let go. He shifted her off of him, a soft moan of disappointment leaving her lips. On their sides, back to front, he slid into her. The heat of her skin sparked a million points of contact, igniting him. He struggled for mastery, he would make this last forever, but it quickly became evident that the strategy was useless. All thought ceased, breath and body moving to a primaeval rhythm. Overwhelmed, he could not fight it, and gave into release, moaning as her body shuttered against him.
He lay pressed against her back, the flesh of her breast cupped in his hand. His lips moved at the nape of her neck, skin damp from exertion. Salty and sweet. Denied for so long, it had only taken one taste to set the craving afire. She was an addiction. He needed her. When he was with her, the void of darkness that filled his soul could be ignored. He did not want to contemplate what lengths he would go to feed his need. Words formed. He would say that he loved her, protect her, but she must know. There would be other times to tell her so.
"Maybe later, you can take me on a tour of your apartment," he murmured.
She pulled his arm tighter around her body, wriggling back into him. He wanted to ask if she was happy - if the grief that had plagued her for months had finally abated. He knew that it was wishful thinking. That for her, he too was an escape, a panacea to ease the pain of the uncaring world that they inhabited. Grief was a long journey. He made a vow that they would travel the road together.
