Thanks all for staying the course with this story, and absolutely to all of those who have taken the time to review. Attempting to write fiction that has plot and character development for a known quantity like Spooks, which is so well written to begin with, is a challenge and takes a fair amount of time, so your reviews have been very appreciated!
Chapter 14
Lucas entered the critical care ward with Beth and Tariq in tow, and walking up to the charge nurse asked, "Can you tell me which bed Robert Pearsall is in please?"
The nurse looked him over, and then past him to his two unlikely companions. "Are you immediately family?" She asked haughtily.
"Yes. I'm his son, Bobby, and this is my sister, Judith, and her fiancé Heydar." He put on his less personable look, adopting a more intimidating one. "I'd like to see my father please…"
The nurse examined him again; Pearsall did not seem quite old enough to have a son in his 30s, and there was no question that Mrs. Pearsall was far too young; but then perhaps Mr. Pearsall had had a previous marriage and started early. "Very well. But he's still quite weak, so don't overtax him. He's in bed 12, over there," she pointed down the hall to the right.
"Thank you," Lucas responded. "Come on then," he said to his two companions.
The three of them made their way down the hall and into the cubicle that was bed 12. Harry was asleep, and Lucas walked up and stood on the right side of the bed, Beth and Tariq on the left. Lucas reached for Harry's shoulder, but Beth's voice stopped him.
"Lucas," she whispered low, "don't wake him." She looked into Harry's face and found herself trying to stifle an emotion that was a combination of relief that Harry was alive and anger that he had subjected all of them to his "death."
Lucas looked at Beth and could easily see the emotions playing out on her face; it wasn't a surprise: seeing Harry lying there, alive, had caused his own emotions to rise.
"It's all right, Beth," he responded quietly, "we won't keep him awake. Just long enough for him to know that we're here."
Lucas gently shook the older man's shoulder. "Harry? Come on, mate…"
Harry's eyes fluttered open, and widened when he realized who was standing around his bedside. He looked into Lucas' blue eyes and could see the hurt but also the relief in them. Beth couldn't keep the tears from falling as she instinctively took Harry's hand in hers. Tariq stood quietly, staring at Pearce, his hand over his mouth.
Harry reached out for Lucas, gripping the fabric of his jacket. "I'm sorry," Pearce said, his voice sounding gravelly and tired. "I really am."
"I know," Lucas said softly, "the home secretary filled us in."
"Did he," was all Harry said.
"Next time, Harry," Beth cajoled him, "could we do it without the Shakespearean plot devices?"
Harry sleepily smiled at her and squeezed her hand before letting go. He looked at Tariq who hadn't said a word. "Tariq? Everything okay?" The young man nodded, but couldn't keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks, angrily wiping at them. "It's all right, Tariq…" Harry soothed.
Beth put her arms around the younger computer tech, hugging him. "Tariq and I are going to take a walk. Lucas, we'll catch you up, all right?"
"Yeah."
"Harry," she said smiling at him, "I'm glad you're back, but if you ever do anything like this again, I'll just kill you myself, understood?"
"Understood, Ms. Bailey."
Harry and Lucas waited for the younger operatives to leave, and an air of awkward silence encompassed them.
It was Lucas who finally spoke. "Harry, Towers explained the situation to me, but I don't understand why you cut out your own team. Why put yourself and us through a fake death on the Grid? We could have helped you instead of shooting you because we thought you were some assassin." His voice was filled with barely controlled anger, "I just don't understand why you cut us out."
"Don't you, Lucas?" Harry licked his chapped lips. "Do you really want to have blood like that on your hands?"
Lucas looked deeply into Harry's hazel eyes. "I already have blood on my hands, Harry, and you know it."
"Not like this, Lucas." Harry looked away, a pained expression overtaking his features. "Not like this," he echoed softly. After another moment of silence, he looked back at his officer. "I killed 19 unarmed people in cold blood, Lucas; some of them whilst they slept. What kind of a human being does that make me? What kind of a man?"
Lucas could easily hear the anguish, regret and guilt burdening Harry's heart. "And you saved countless thousands from a biological weapon, Harry; in my book that makes you a hero."
"Bullshit, Lucas," Harry snarled low, "a spook-coward from the shadows is more the bloody truth."
"Perhaps that's why you should have shared the responsibility, Harry."
"No," Harry growled sharply, then after a moment he said softly, "no." He gripped Lucas' hand hard in his own. "This kind of guilt is not something I want for you, nor anyone on my team." Harry swallowed hard, "It's the kind that stays with you and eats at you over time." His voice grew softer and he fought the lump in his throat, "The kind that eventually takes your soul."
"Only if you let it, Harry," Lucas replied softly. Harry shuddered slightly in pain, and Lucas felt a tinge of worry. "Anything I can do?" Harry shook his head, still gripping the younger man's hand tightly. "Ruth went home for awhile?"
Harry's tired eyes looked up into Lucas' bright blue ones. "I suppose…"
Lucas could read the false disinterest clearly in Harry's tone, and he remembered well the scene on the Grid that he had witnessed the day Harry faked his death. "It's none of my business, Harry, but you two obviously have some personal things to resolve, and—"
"—You're right, Lucas," Harry growled dangerously, "it's not your business."
Lucas sighed. "Okay, have it your own way. But if you don't work it out with her, Harry, you're a daft old man." He saw the anger in Harry's eyes, and quickly added with a smile, "But that's just my opinion."
Pearce shook his head, softening. "It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, Lucas, it's just…complicated." He let go of the younger man's hand. "And you're assuming that I'm the hold out; but it's neither here nor there, I've resolved it."
And Lucas knew that that was the last word and the end to any conversation on the subject; he also could easily see that Harry was devastated by the outcome, but had clearly resigned himself to letting it go; or rather, to letting her go. There was nothing left for Lucas to say, so he remained silent, but stood by the bedside until Harry had fallen into a restless sleep.
When Ruth arrived at hospital, it was already after visiting hours, but as "immediate" family, "Mrs. Pearsall" was allowed to visit her husband in the critical care unit. He was asleep when she walked in, so she sat in the chair by the bed and watched him sleep. It was clearly not a restful sleep from the shudders and quiet moans she witnessed, and while a part of her wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, she knew she couldn't bring herself to be that demonstrative with him, and given what he'd said to her, she was fairly certain such attention would be unwelcome by him in any case.
Her mind floated back to happier days on the Grid when stolen glances, flirtatious repartée and an occasional light touch on a hand or shoulder had been the order of business for them. But Cotterdam, George, Nico, and an off-the-cuff proposal had come between them. It was too much to overcome for her; she had needed to shut down completely in order to survive. And that is what she had done when she had reappeared on the Grid following the devastating events that had led her back to clandestine service; back to MI-5; back to him – she had deadened her feelings. Like a disregarded seashell, her soul begun to decay, and her emotions had withered until there was nothing left but the burnt-out remains of a heart that had once loved so deeply she thought she might burst from the joy of it.
Yet he had taken the time and the care to show her slowly how much he loved her still, and to an extent, things had returned to a perhaps more mature version of what they had shared before she had been exiled to Cyprus, yet still it had been undeclared and safely tucked away from becoming real through any words spoken aloud. Until Ros.
She had heard the grief in his voice when he called in the news to the Grid, and when he had returned to Thames House later that evening, after reporting to Whitehall, she had easily seen what the loss of Ros had cost him. Perhaps if she had really been paying attention to his emotional state, she might have seen it coming, that business in the churchyard. But she had chosen to tuck away the moment she had held him in her arms in his office, allowing him to openly grieve for Ros, and the tender look of love in his eyes when she had wiped away his tears. Tucking it away was so much easier than facing it.
The loss of Ros had almost been too much for him. Ruth had known that they were close; a closeness that she could not completely understand as she had not been part of the team when their bond had taken root. But an attachment was undeniably there, and her death had torn him apart inside, although he had maintained a somber exterior and stoic face for the majority of the team, Ruth knew he had suffered an impossible blow. And then he had given in to it: he proposed out of the blue; out of emotional suffering and a grief so devastating, that at times she was certain it would overtake him. Damn him for his ill-begotten timing. If only he had asked her before then; before George and Nico; before that day on the docks.
If only.
But there was nothing to do for it now. There were feelings buried deep within her; that she could hardly deny following her responses to his faked death, subsequent injury and a close brush with death a mere 24 hours ago: but those feelings had to stay buried. Ruth sighed, there would be no miracle for them; no resurrection of a love lost – a love that was doomed from the start and had never been allowed to taste the spoils of desire. She closed her eyes, for their lives in her mind's eye had always been so much brighter and more beautiful than the truth of their shared reality. His words had hurt, deeply. Yet she could not deny the truth in them. It wasn't fair of her to constantly push him away because of the one emotion she could still feel, fear; to push him away only to try and keep him safely tucked away for her private thoughts, keeping him close enough to not stray, but not so close that he would dare ever express his heart to her again.
How he had tolerated it and was still speaking to her at all, she wasn't entirely sure. And worse, when he had really needed a trusted friend, it was she to whom he had gone. That little fact was almost the most hurtful thing of all, for it spoke to who Harry Pearce really was: a loyal, trustworthy, loving man who hid behind the horrors of his job and the things he'd done in the name of Regnum defende, in order to protect the one thing he'd never lost – his soul. Yet he was willing to entrust the only untouched thing he still had to her; and there she had been, setting about to destroy the last precious part of him that he had refused to give to MI-5 or any of the deceitful people with whom he'd dealt.
So deep in her thoughts had she been, that his soft voice startled her.
"Ruth?"
Her eyes snapped open to find him staring at her in the dimly lit room. She smiled sadly at him and said, "Hi."
"You seem miles away…"
"Yes," she said softly as she stood and moved closer to the bed, "I was."
"A schilling for your thoughts?"
"An entire schilling is it now?"
He smiled sweetly, the habit of his love for her taking over. "Inflation and the infusion of investment money from the cousins."
"I see," she looked down, then back at him. "Harry," her tone had dropped the lightness of their interchange, and his stomach fluttered as she continued, "there are a few things that I'd like to say to you, if you'd be willing to listen for a bit."
His face turned sad, but he nodded. "Of course."
She started to take down the guardrail so that she could sit on the edge of the bed, but stopped awkwardly in mid-motion. "May I?" He nodded again, and she made herself comfortable on the bed, but not so close that he felt impinged upon. "I should like to tell you that what you said yesterday is right." His eyes bore into hers, a combination of anguish and relief at her words. "I do need to let you go, and it has been incredibly unfair of me to have played upon your feelings in the way that I have," she looked down briefly, then back into the pained amber eyes staring at her. "I want you to know that it was not anything that I did consciously; I can't stress that piece enough, Harry." Her crystal blue eyes were like laser beams into his hazel ones. "I would never have purposefully set out to do such a thing. The only reason I can offer you by way of explanation is that on some unconscious level, I couldn't bear to face the world or what we do without having the comfort and safety of your love," she looked away, embarrassed, "and yes, that is a terribly selfish and unfair thing to do. I've thought on this a lot, Harry, and I am ashamed for that part of all of this," she looked at him again, "but it's important for me to know that you understand it wasn't calculated or purposeful."
He nodded, his voice soft, "I never thought you were sitting around dreaming up ways to hurt me, Ruth, but I appreciate your taking the time to come by and say it to me."
She smiled at him, realizing he was done with her confession, and her. "I'm afraid I'm not quite finished yet, Harry."
"Oh."
She touched the back of the hand nearest her lightly before quickly pulling her hand back as though it had burned her. "Sorry, old habit…" She looked down then back up at him. "I promise I'll do better in the future about things like that…"
It killed him inside to hear her say such a thing, yet he knew it was for the best. He tried to keep the ice from his voice, but he wasn't entirely successful, "If you've something more to say, Ruth, best get to it."
Her eyes reflected the sting of his frosty statement, but she tried her best to ignore it. "Erm, yes, yes I will. I do—" Such a bad choice of words, and she regretted it immediately. "I mean, yes, I shall…"
If she weren't about to tell him that she was sorry she didn't love him, Harry knew he would have found the return of his babbling Ruth endearing; but as it stood, it was like a knife slicing into his already ruptured heart. Yet old habits were not easily broken for either of them, and he said, "Ruth, slow down, take a breath." She did, and he nodded. "Okay, speak, now…"
"The other thing I want to say to you Harry is in reference to the day that you well, that you faked your death."
His face flushed with deep shame, and he said softly, "Ruth, I really do apologize for that, I just—"
"—Harry, it's my turn to speak, and I'd really like you not to feel guilty about anything, and listen to what I have to say with an open mind, and don't judge either one of us, all right?" He nodded, fighting the overwhelming emotion rushing his heart when she showed such strength. "I said something awful to you that day—"
"—the part about treating you with coldness, diminishing respect and contempt, or the part when you confessed that you never loved me—"
"—Harry," she ground out his name, "Please give me the courtesy to say my peace to you. Please just do that one last thing for me, all right?"
"Sorry," he muttered, the pain of the previous conversation flooding his heart.
"I know I've hurt you; I know that. I can apologize for the next hundred years, but I can't take it back, Harry. What's done is done; what's said is said." She swallowed hard. "The only thing I can do is apologize and admit to you that I lied." His eyes darted to hers, blinking with disbelief.
"You what?" He asked quietly.
"I lied when I said that, well," she fidgeted slightly, "the part about not loving you, I mean." She glared at him then, "the bits about you freezing me out and treating me with contempt, I meant."
He smiled sadly as a few silent, errant tears rolled down his pale cheeks. "Why?"
"It was anger, Harry."
"At me?"
"At you, and the things we've seen together, the choices we've been forced to share; at the universe actually," a slight smile tugged at her lips as her own tears formed in her eyes. "When you proposed to me, I was so bloody angry, Harry. I was angry at Ros for being so bull-headed in her duty that she stayed in that damned building even though she could have saved herself; it was a wasteful death, Harry. I was angry at the former home secretary for betraying you, Ros, us, hell, for betraying the whole damned country by taking up with Nightingale in the first place; and I was angry that after all the thousands of times I had prayed you would have the courage to show me your heart, you chose the one moment in which I simply couldn't bear it." Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks then, and she looked deeply into the eyes she had known so well and so long. "I'm shut down, Harry; it's the only way I can survive right now. And you chose a moment when I couldn't bear to feel what is truly in my heart for you, to ask me to marry you." Her eyes flicked down, then back at his. "I still can't bear to feel, not yet, not now. There's been too much pain mixed up with the love…"
Harry covered his eyes with his hand, partly from embarrassment in crying, and partly from wanting to shield himself from witnessing her heart's anguish, which was playing out in front of him. After a moment, he wiped at his eyes, trying to rid them of any moisture.
"What are you saying to me, Ruth?"
"Harry, do I need to paint a picture?"
"Yes, after all we've been through, yes you do."
She took his hands in hers, holding them tightly. "I-I lied to you when I said what I said in your office that day—"
"—No Ruth, speak plainly," he commanded. Then his voice turned as soft as a whisper and his eyes implored her to be brave. "Tell me…"
"I-I love you, Harry. I have always loved you." A sob escaped her throat and he squeezed her hands giving her courage to continue. "I'm not ready to say that we can have the little house in Sussex, nor am I ready to act on it, but… but…"
The soft and sensual voice she knew so well, the one that became husky in certain moments between them, spoke then, "But what, Ruth?" He pulled her closer down toward him. "Tell me…"
"I can't let you go, Harry," she sobbed, "I can't bear to lose you again." Her voice turned soft and the anguish that was truly in her heart began to pour out. "I've lost you twice already, and I can't, I won't let you go again." She sobbed harder and he pulled her closer. "I want… I…"
He was holding her in his arms, and he pulled her face very close, his voice even rougher with emotion and something else, something deeper. "What do you want, Ruth? Tell me…"
"You, Harry. I want to love you," her sobs were coming so fast she could barely breathe, and then she looked him in the eyes, forcing herself to calm slightly. "I want to try again, Harry. I can't promise that it will be easy, or that there won't be moments when I try to run away from the emotions, from…from…"
"From me?"
"Yes, even from you."
"But?" His soft voice prompted.
"But I want to try. I want to fight for us, Harry."
"'Us,' Ruth? I thought there was no 'us'…"
She looked so powerfully at him then, it took his breath away. "There's always been 'us,' Harry, we just haven't always known how to be us."
Ruth held his face in her hands then, and pressed her open mouth lightly onto his in a soft, warm but brief kiss. She pulled away and he realized she was preparing to get up from where she lay crushed against him on the bed. He let her sit up, putting some distance between them, but he held her firmly in place by the arms.
"Stay," his warm voice was soft, "please…"
She smiled at him then. "Until you fall asleep…"
"Sing to me?"
"You've no longer the excuse that you've never heard me sing," she teased softly. "We had a deal, remember? Just once, and you were never to tell."
His full lips pursed slightly as a smile tugged at his mouth and exhaustion pulled at his drooping eyes. His voice was like a velvet whisper barely brushing across her ears.
"Sing to me because it comforts me, Ruth, and makes me feel safe; sing to me because your voice above all others acts like a salve upon my tattered heart; sing to me because your love is the only chance I have to rescue my damaged soul."
A rush of tears poured down Ruth's face as his words landed home. "Close your eyes then," her tender voice trembled as she spoke to him, her hand softly caressing his forehead, brushing into his thinning hair on the top of his head and entwining into the curls in the back.
And she sang softly to him as Harry's eyes gently closed.
"Of all the money that e'er I had, I spent it in good company… and all the harm that e'er I've done, Alas it was to none but me… And all I've done, for want of wit, to mem'ry now I can't recall; so fill to me the parting glass, Good night and joy be with you all."
###
The Parting Glass
Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
Of all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call:
Good night and joy be with you all.
If I had money enough to spend,
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a fair maid in this town,
That sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own she has my heart in thrall,
Then fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with you all.
Printed as a broadside in the late 18th century, The Parting Glass also appeared in Scots Songs by Herd and in Scots Musical Museum in the early 19th century, although the song and its text are older than any of those publications. The tune is dated to the early 1600s in the Skene Manuscript (c. 1615-35) and the Guthrie Manuscript (c. 1675), it also appears in Playford's Original Scots Tunes (1700), and was published by Sam Henry in 1938 in Ireland. The tune can be traced to the Old Celtic song Te Traa Goll Thie (It's Time to Go Home). The text – at least the first stanza – can be traced back to 1605, when it appeared in a farewell letter written by a man convicted of murdering Sir John Carmichael in 1600, it the poem now known as Armstrong's Goodnight:
This night is my departing night,
For here no longer must I stay;
There's neither friend no foe of mine
But wishes me away.
What I have done through lack of wit,
I never, never can recall;
I hope you're all my friends as yet;
Good night. And joy be with you all.
The song was often sung at the end of events or gatherings as a farewell song, and was one of the most popular songs used in both Ireland and Scotland until Robert Burns penned Auld Lang Syne.