December 4, 2011

"Dad?"

Catherine approached her father cautiously, afraid of what she was going to do but hoping it didn't turn out disastrously. He was sitting in his usual armchair, listening to a classical record and drinking whiskey in the dark. Typical evening for him, she'd found. But she was going to do this tonight. Now, before she could talk herself out of it again. She told herself it was cruel to make demands of him. He was grieving, he needed to take his time. It was Catherine, though, who didn't want to take any more time. She'd been here a whole month. She'd surmised a number of things, but now she needed to hear it straight from him.

"I was wondering if we could talk. If I could…ask you something," she continued as he looked at her expectantly from his chair, not saying anything yet.

Harry took the remote and turned down the volume on the symphony. "What do you want to ask me?"

"Tell me about Ruth," she said, getting the words out before she could hide from them again.

His whole face went tight, and he grunted, "That's not a question."

Catherine rolled her eyes. He used sarcasm as a defense mechanism. She inherited that trait from him. Nothing was too terrible that a snotty joke couldn't be made. "The question is implied. I think I'm entitled to know about the third person I've been living with for over a month."

He frowned. "She's not here, Catherine. She's dead."

The flatness in the way he said those words cut straight through to her heart. "I know that," she answered gently. Kindness was what Dad needed from her. No matter how hard he made it for her to show it to him sometimes. "But she's here anyway. She's a part of everything in this house. Everything about you holds onto her. And I know she was very special to you, but I…well, I'm just really curious about her."

Harry softened. Hopefully that meant that this would be a nice conversation, that he might find some comfort in it. "What do you want to know?"

Catherine wasn't quite sure where to start. And perhaps she should have thought about that. If she had, she would have come up with something better than what she blurted out. Because what she asked was, "How did she die twice?"

Inexplicably, he started to chuckle. "You have been curious, haven't you? You would have needed her full name to find that. Malcolm couldn't scrub the newspaper archive because it was digitized offsite."

"What?"

"Never mind that. She worked with me. And she sacrificed herself to save me, actually. Because I was being framed for treason—which I did not commit," he added firmly. "And the only way to let me escape it was for someone else to confess and take the blame. But instead of allowing her to be sent to prison, we faked her death. I said goodbye to her on the London docks in 2006 and I thought I'd never see her again."

"But you did."

He nodded. "She was found. Because of me, again. All those years ago, I had secret information and she was the only one I told. And some very bad people who wanted that secret somehow found her and captured her and did some very terrible things and made me watch."

Catherine could not hide her horrified expression. After all, she knew what sorts of thing bad people who wanted to get things from her father were capable of.

Quickly, he explained, "They didn't physically harm her. Other than zip-tying her to a chair for hours in an abandoned warehouse with me. But the damage was worse than any injury or physical violation could have been, I think. And after that, I was able to pull a few strings and get her reinstated. Gave her back her life and her identity and her job. And we worked together for another three years before she died."

It all seemed like a very short story, and Catherine found herself slightly confused. "When…I mean, you loved her."

Harry nodded and took another sip of his drink.

"So when was your grand romance?"

He gave a dark sort of laugh that brought a chill to Catherine's spine. He explained, "We didn't have one. Not in the way you're thinking. We never got a chance."

Catherine was quiet, processing what he'd said. And then it all made sense. The way he mourned Ruth, the way he was so tormented by losing her. It wasn't just her that he lost. It was the promise of a future. The possibility of anything more between them. They worked together, and Catherine knew that her dad was closer to the people he worked with than with anyone else on earth. Harry and Ruth must have had so much…so much potential. There had to be a better word for it, but Catherine couldn't think of one.

"I was going to retire. She asked me to leave the Service. She bought a house in Suffolk and wanted us to live there together," he said quietly. "We were going to have a life together. Before she…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

It was so horribly cruel. Catherine could hardly fathom it. No wonder he was so distraught. To have happiness right there only to have it snatched away. "I'm so sorry, Dad," she told him, not knowing what else to say.

"She died in my arms. That's what my nightmares are about. Holding her body in my arms and begging her to stay. I'm sure you've figured that much out. In some ways it's a nicer nightmare than ones I've had in the past. At least she's there. I can hold her."

Catherine felt tears well up in her eyes as she watched her father drink more whiskey and speak about the most tragic thing she could contemplate. He wasn't even really speaking to her anymore. He had a faraway look in his eyes, looking off in the middle distance.

"I don't want to relive her death five times each week. But I don't want the nightmares to go away, somehow. I don't want to forget her. I don't want her to leave me. This is all I have of her now."

"Dad," Catherine choked out, starting to cry.

He turned to her and regarded her gently. "Shh, none of that. You know better than anyone that I'm not worth your tears. This is what Ruth would have wanted, I think. For me to carry on, to stay in my position and be able to do good. I'm uniquely suited to the job, and it's my duty to do it as best I can. And I think she would have liked that you're with me. I certainly like having you here."

"Do you really? I was starting to think that I was getting in the way." Her breath was shaky and she did her best to wipe her eyes, feeling a little silly for falling apart like that.

"No," he assured her, a small smile. "I don't think I could survive having an empty house. I know I'm not the best company, but I…well, I am trying. Perhaps not well. But I love you very much, Catherine, and I'm glad you're with me."

She gave him a watery smile. "I love you, too, Dad."

His smile grew and he stood up from his chair. He crossed to where she was curled up on the sofa and took her face in his hands, wiping away her tears with his thumbs and placing a sweet kiss on her forehead. "I think I ought to go up to bed," he whispered.

"Wait," she protested, grabbing his arm when he moved away. "You can't leave like that. Not sad. I…well, I still have questions."

He paused for a moment. "Alright, then. Would you like a drink?"

"Please," she answered with a nod.

Harry went back to the bar and poured another glass for himself and one for Catherine in a clean glass, giving her slightly less. "Water?"

"No, that's fine."

"I suppose you do have something in common with me then," he chuckled, turning to hand her the drink.

"We have lots of things in common," she insisted in return. "Will you sit over here with me?"

He hesitated but ended up taking a seat beside her on the sofa. Catherine snuggled herself up against his arm. He tensed at her action for a moment before relaxing. They clinked glasses.

"To Ruth," Catherine said softly.

Harry hummed in agreement, and they both took a sip. "Right, what questions do you have?"

"Well, what was she like? Obviously very smart and very brave and very duty-bound. And brilliant, if she was translating book titles into Latin for you to alphabetize."

He chuckled at that. "She was brilliant. I've never met anyone with a mind like hers. She wasn't just well-read and well-educated—she read Classics at Oxford, actually—but she had this unpretentiousness about her. Her brilliance was subtle. I didn't quite see it for a long time. But it was in the little things, the connections she made, the things she could recall and put together. She figured out things none of the rest of us ever could."

"Is that why you fell in love with her? I know you like remarkable people."

"No, that wasn't why. It was part of it, of course, since her mind was so much of who she was. But I fell in love with Ruth for her kindness. It wasn't that she was nice or well-mannered, really. She could be quite snippy sometimes. Ruth went through some of the most horrible experiences a person could ever endure. And she came out the other side stronger. Sadder, certainly, but stronger and most of all kinder. She was something of a mother hen to the other officers on the Grid. Felt like it sometimes, that we were Mum and Dad to our team." Harry shook his head at the memories filling him. He took another sip of his drink.

Catherine took a sip of hers and then asked, "Was she funny?"

"She could be. She used to be quite quick to smile, which would stop my heart sometimes. But she had a quick wit and she'd tease me sometimes. We were well matched in sarcasm, I think."

That made Catherine smile. That made sense. That dark humor was a very integral part of her dad. Mum wasn't funny like that. Whoever Dad fell in love with would have had to be, Catherine thought. After another sip of whiskey, she asked another question. "Was she pretty?"

He hummed. "I thought she was beautiful. She wasn't my usual type. Petite and perhaps a little plain. No real sense of glamour to her. But she had the most incredibly beautiful eyes. And this exquisite pale skin and high cheekbones and full lips. Dark hair. I don't think anyone would have called her a great beauty, but she was quite lovely to look at."

"Did you look at her a lot?" Catherine teased.

"My office has a large window that looks out onto the rest of the Grid. Her station was right in front. And I'd sometimes look up from my desk and watch her work. Sometimes she'd catch me staring and she'd smile. Those were always nice days." He went quiet again and had more whiskey.

Catherine felt hers start to go to her head, so she put the glass down without finishing it. Dad wouldn't let it go to waste, she knew. She rested her head on his shoulder. "She sounds wonderful. I've been wondering about her. Thank you for telling me."

"Thank you for asking. It was actually quite nice to talk about her. I've missed her very much."

"I know." She snuggled closer to him, and he wrapped her in his arms. Catherine could not recall having a conversation like this with her father ever in her life. And it had been a very long time since they'd sat cuddled together this way. She'd been younger than ten, surely. But now, at thirty-one, it felt nicer than she could say.

Dad broke the short silence. "Can I ask you a question now?"

"Sure."

"How did you find out her name?"

Catherine froze. "I…erm…I found it in your things."

"What things?"

"Your estate documents. Drawer of your desk," she answered nervously.

But Dad didn't seem bothered. "Ah yes. I suppose I'll have to take care of that. But yes, her full name would be in there. I know you'll hate me saying it, but you'd make a very good spook if you wanted to be."

"I don't want to be," Catherine said darkly.

"Nor do I want you to be. I'm already worried enough about you in all those bloody warzones."

She smiled. He worried about her. Despite everything in the last month, it was still a strange and wonderful thing for Catherine to hear that her father cared about her. It was one thing to know, that he was her dad and he loved her and wanted to protect her. It was quite another for him to come out and say so, particularly when he held her like this. She was rather sure she'd never felt safer in all her life.

But for all the loveliness that this moment brought her, there was a heaviness in Catherine's heart still. It struck her that Romeo and Juliet had only lived without each other for a few minutes. It would have been far sadder for one of them to have been forced to suffer the pain of living without the other. It was far sadder to be Harry Pearce.