Disclaimer - Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC.
A/N - This is the second part of the S4 trilogy and is set during 4.5. Dialogue from the opening scene is borrowed from the ep. This part turned out longer than anticipated but that happens sometimes. There's a vague reference to another of my fics. Well done if you spot it. Oh, I didn't intend for there to be such a long gap between posting part 1 and part 2 but sometimes that happens as well...
If I could read your mind, love
What a tale your thoughts could tell.
Gordon Lightfoot
-x-x-x-
Ruth knocks lightly on the half-opened door of Harry's office and steps quickly across the threshold. "I'm off, " she announces, softly.
"I take it your friend is behaving?" he asks, a trace of distaste evident in his voice.
"Er, Zaf's babysitting him. I think he's got things under control."
"How did you ever get mixed up with someone like Hicks?"
The question catches Ruth slightly off guard.
"He wasn't always like that. He used to write the most brilliantly incisive pieces about just about anything. He wrote a piece about Kosovo." She stops, momentarily lost in a memory. "He cared." She takes a breath. "And then he realised people were more interested in finding out who Sven Goran Ericksson was scrumping that week."
A faint smile flickers across Harry's face and she seizes the moment to ask him the question that has been troubling her.
"Harry, do you really think we should be doing this?"
"What?"
Nervousness makes her throat constrict but she forces herself to speak. "These people, they're obviously willing to do whatever it takes to suppress it."
"Someone's got to draw the line somewhere."
He hasn't raised his voice but it carries a tone that doesn't invite argument.
"I-I understand that," she continues, clinging on to the courage she has found to challenge him. "I know Clive was your friend and you can't let his murder go unanswered but-"
"It isn't just about Clive's murder…or about the book," he replies, softly.
"Hicks chose me; he turned up on my doorstep and there's nothing we can do about that." She pauses, frightened by what she's thinking, by what she's about to say. "You can't really think they're going…"
"You call me, when you get to the safe house."
"Right."
Harry watches Ruth leave his office, worry gnawing at his insides. Not for the first time today, he wonders if he is risking other peoples lives for something that he alone believes in.
-x-
Quashing the urge to hurry, Ruth walks down the steps of Thames House at an even pace. She wraps her scarf more securely around her neck and glances around, mentally noting who is in the vicinity. As she rounds the corner into Horseferry Road, a gust of wind blows a stinging mixture of sleet and snow into her face. She hurries towards the bus stop, relieved to see a number of people are already there. No one appears to be out of place but she continues to monitor her fellow travellers, discreetly scrutinising each new arrival.
The line of weary commuters becomes more animated and Ruth looks up the road towards Lambeth Bridge. She is pleased to see two buses approaching. The crowd surges forward, all pretence at queuing abandoned, as the vehicles come to a stop. Ruth allows herself to be briefly caught up in the group heading towards the second bus but then breaks away, and darts across the road.
She walks quickly, heading towards the dark outline of St John's. Smith Square is almost deserted and the dim street lighting does nothing to ease her nerves. She keeps going, sticking to the side streets, slowing only as she nears the entrance to Westminster School. The gate is locked but the key Malcolm provided works perfectly and the well-oiled mechanism operates with barely a sound. She slips quickly through the gate, relocks it and places the key back in her bag as she crosses the small green at the rear of the school. Exiting Dean's Yard, she picks up her pace again and heads towards Westminster tube.
-x-
Harry's gaze drifts away from the report in front of him and settles on the time display on his computer. Forty-nine minutes since Ruth left for the safe-house. She'd given him a small wave and a smile before she stepped into the pods but he'd known she was scared, he could tell from her body language. She was doing a good job of hiding it but he'd seen it.
The thought brings him up short and he wonders when he became so perceptive about Ruth's state of mind. And then he decides this is not the time to start exploring that aspect of his psyche. The situation is complicated enough without delving into his feelings for Ruth; and he does have feelings for her. He forces his attention back to the report he's supposed to be reading.
It's a hopeless endeavour. He gets up from his desk, retrieves the bottle of whisky from the shelf behind him and pours himself a generous measure. He sips it, slowly, and paces around his office. He checks the time again; fifty-six minutes since Ruth left. He turns and looks out across the Grid, his eyes coming to rest on an empty desk.
-x-
The train is crowded but Ruth has managed to find a seat close to the doors. She holds a book in her hands, occasionally turning a page to give the appearance that she is reading but her mind is filled with her conversation with Harry. Conversations. Her brain flits between their phone call of just over twenty-four hours ago and the short exchange in his office, picking apart every sentence, analysing every nuance.
She still doesn't know what to make of their rather awkward telephone conversation. Her mind had fallen into disarray once she'd realised Harry's thought process was going in entirely the wrong direction. Wrong but not unwelcome. That notion had lodged itself in her brain, alongside the observation that Harry had been disappointed when she'd finally explained her real reason for calling him. The two things are related, which is why her analytical mind had filed them together. And that in itself is another interesting, and mildly unsettling, idea.
Something is happening between them although Ruth can recognise there's a certain reticence on her part to fully acknowledge it. Not that she's entirely sure what the 'something' is. All she does know is that this evening's conversation has provided further proof of a shift in their relationship. She could dismiss his concern for her as purely professional – a manager worried about a member of his team – but her heart is telling her it's more than that; more deep-seated.
Her desire to follow her heart, to test the logic of her feelings, is tempered by fear and self-doubt. The fear is born partly out of the situation with Hicks but also from what she might discover about herself, and Harry. And that in turn feeds the self-doubt. After all, she's not had a lot of luck with men over the years. Ruth is momentarily shocked. Her brain has already taken the next step and associated Harry with romance. Maybe she is beginning to acknowledge her feelings.
Movement beside her brings Ruth's attention back to her surroundings. A brief moment of panic is quickly suppressed. She's still on course but she needs to focus her attention on the here and now.
-x-
Harry has abandoned the pile of reports in his office and is prowling around the empty Grid. He stops by Ruth's desk. No paperwork has been left out, as per the rules, but there are several pens scattered across the surface in defiance of a grey plastic desk tidy. He pulls out the chair and sits down. He doesn't touch anything; despite the haphazard appearance, he's certain Ruth knows the exact position of every biro, note and paperclip. The thought amuses him.
He peers at a half-folded piece of paper peeking out from underneath the keyboard. He can only make out some of the writing on it: 'get ring'. His brow furrows and his fingers hover over the note for a moment before he starts to draw it from its hiding place. He shouldn't really be doing this but she'll never know. This is basic tradecraft, after all. He's careful to pull the paper out only far enough to be able to read it. His eyes scan over her familiar scrawl: Fidget: ring Alice?
Now he understands. Fidget is her cat and Alice is…a friend? No, a neighbour. He'd met her, briefly, the day he'd driven Ruth home after she'd taken flowers to Danny's grave. He's lost for a moment, recalling that bright but chilly autumn Saturday. They'd said little as he drove them through the weekend traffic, both content with each other's company, and both deep in thought. He'd known then he was starting to admit to himself just how far into his heart she had got. Further and deeper than anyone had been in a long time, perhaps ever. And he'd been scared by it; so petrified he had pushed the feelings away, hoping ignoring them would make them fade but it hadn't worked.
Harry lightly runs a finger over the words on the paper. He feels guilty about the cat; in their hurry to get Ruth out of her home and to the safe-house, he'd not given the poor creature a thought. But neither it seemed had she, or, if she had, she hadn't felt able to mention it. He resolves to ask her when she rings him. He checks his watch; seventy-eight minutes since she left.
-x-
Ruth briefly glances over her shoulder as the taxi slows to a halt. There are no vehicles behind them but she still wants to get indoors as quickly as possible. She hands the driver the ten pound note she's been clutching since she got in the cab and tells him to keep the change. Another quick look around as she hurries towards the safe-house reassures her she's not been followed.
She presses the doorbell twice, in quick succession, then once more, letting her finger rest on it for a couple of seconds. It's a simple code and means she's there alone, everything is OK, no one is hiding in the shadows. Later, she'll find out someone had been hiding in the shadows for quite a while but, this time, they were friend, not foe.
As she enters the flat, Ruth greets the dark-haired officer borrowed from Section A to assist with babysitting Hicks.
"Evening Nick, everything OK?"
"Fine, all quiet. Our houseguest has stopped whinging for the moment," he replies, giving her a friendly smile.
"Thank God for small mercies," she comments, shrugging her coat from her shoulders. "Is Zaf here?"
"Yep. He's in the kitchen, organising dinner."
"Really?" Ruth answers, grinning widely. "This I have to see."
She finds her colleague looking remarkably relaxed and with no obvious sign of food preparation taking place.
"I thought you were making dinner."
Zaf turns at the sound of her voice. "And good evening to you too, Ruth."
"Sorry," she offers, trying to look contrite. "It's just that Nick said you were organising dinner."
"Organising, yes; cooking, no. Sorry to shatter your fantasy of me in a pinny, chopping vegetables." He winks at her. "Another time perhaps?"
Ruth laughs. "Only in your dreams."
He sighs, dramatically, and places his hands against his chest. "Oh Ruth! I'm heartbroken."
She shakes her head at him but is smiling. "Enough of the am-dram, Zafar. What are we having to eat? I'm starving."
"I thought we'd have a takeaway; might as well make use of the Chinese around the corner." In response to Ruth's concerned look, Zaf continues "it's not a problem, I've got an asset in there."
"Oh, right. Pretty is she?"
He feigns indignation. "Why does everyone always assume my assets are female?"
"Because they usually are."
"It's my dazzling charm, Ruth. No woman can resist."
"Of course. How silly of me to think otherwise," she replies, a serious tone to her voice. "I'll leave you to charm your asset. I just need to…" She waves vaguely towards the hall.
"Sure. Dinner will be about half an hour."
Ruth retreats to the room she's using - the master bedroom with the en suite. As soon as they'd arrived, Adam had suggested she take it, remarking that he was sure she'd appreciate the privacy. She'd been grateful for his tact. She sits on the bed and pulls her phone from her bag, noting with some surprise that her hands are trembling.
She presses speed-dial and waits for Harry to pick up.
"It's me, Ruth," she gabbles when he answers. "You said to ring as soon as I got to the safe house."
"Is everything all right, Ruth? You sound a bit…flustered."
She knows from the question and the unmistakeable concern in his voice that she needs to take a breath, calm down. It's only a phone conversation with Harry. Her mind involuntarily jumps back to their last telephone call. Shit. She swears under her breath but not quietly enough.
"Ruth? Is something wrong?"
Harry can feel the familiar surge of adrenalin, mixed with a large dose of dread, as he waits for her answer.
"No, no. Nothing's wrong. Sorry." She gives a weak laugh. "I nearly dropped my phone," she adds, wishing she could think of a better explanation for her strange behaviour.
"Oh right, I see." The relief in his voice is palpable, and Ruth's mind sees fit to add this piece of information to the file marked 'Proof of Harry's feelings'.
She makes herself focus on what she needs to say.
"I'm fine, I'm at the safe house. Everything is as it should be."
She doesn't give him a chance to reply, instead, rattling on, telling him about her convoluted journey that evening.
Harry is happy to listen to her, grateful she is safe, shocked at how quickly the fear had built inside him during those few moments he'd thought she was in danger. He realises she's gone quiet, waiting for him to say something.
"An uneventful journey, just the type we like," he comments, at a loss for more intelligent conversation.
"Yes."
Ruth is also struggling to find something meaningful to say.
"You're sure you're…everything is all right? It's not that I doubt you," he continues, hurriedly, "it's…I…"
"I'm fine, really, Harry."
There is a softness to her voice, a gentle reassurance.
"Good," he replies, calmer, more certain of himself, his feelings.
There is a moment or two of silence and then he hears her small intake of breath; she's getting ready to ask him something.
"There was just one thing, Harry. Er, I know it's a bit silly but…my cat. W-we left in such a hurry…I should have thought about him at the time."
"Of course. Fidget, that's his name, isn't it?"
She gives a slight laugh. "Yes, yes, that's right."
He knows she's embarrassed; he remembers the light blush that had spread across her face when she'd first told him what the cat was called.
She cuts across his train of thought. "I was going to ask my neighbour to feed him but it would be a bit awkward. I've managed to avoid letting her have a spare key. I mean, Alice is nice enough but she's a bit…"
"Inquisitive." Harry completes the sentence for her. "Yes, I noticed that. She'd have buttonholed me that Saturday I met her if I hadn't made such a swift exit," he chuckles. "The sweet old lady act didn't fool me for a moment. She's sharp as a tack."
"She is. So," Ruth asks, tentatively, "what about Fidget? I'd left him some food but I expect it's all gone now."
"I'll do it." The words fall out of Harry's mouth before he's even had a chance to think through the practicalities, or the potential dangers.
"You…"
"Yes, me. Well, if you don't mind," he adds, wondering if she's not keen about him being in her house on his own.
"But you haven't got any keys."
"You've a set lodged with HR haven't you?"
"Yes, but Harry, it's nearly eight o'clock; all the HR staff will have gone home."
"Not a problem. The Duty Officer can get them."
Ruth considers telling him not to bother, that she'll phone her neighbour and get her to take the cat in, temporarily, but Harry doesn't give her the opportunity.
"Right, that's settled then. Leave it with me, Ruth."
She explains where to find the cat food, questions him again as to whether he's sure he doesn't mind feeding Fidget and finally, nervously, asks him to be careful.
"I'll be fine, Ruth, don't worry. I'll ring you later, to let you know everything is OK."
It's an interesting reversal of their earlier conversation, and one that Harry will find himself pondering in the small hours of the morning.
-x-
Ruth's cat stands in the kitchen doorway, watching Harry as he fills its food bowl. It creeps forward a few steps, still undecided as to whether this unexpected visitor is friend or foe.
"Come on, Fidget, you remember me don't you?" Harry says, putting the bowl on the floor. "Come and have something to eat." He busies himself with tidying up and when he looks round again, Fidget is tucking into the food.
"Good moggy," he says, and can't help smiling when the cat looks up at him and miaows. "Like me now, don't you? Now I've fed you."
The comment brings back a memory, a snippet of a conversation he'd had with Ruth, in The George, not long after she'd joined Section D. He shakes his head; it seems all his conversations with Ruth are safely stored away in some part of his brain.
He's still contemplating this when his phone rings. It's Adam, and something in the younger man's voice immediately puts Harry on alert.
"What's happened?"
The reply is drowned out by a police siren and raised voices in the background.
"Adam? Adam? What the hell's going on?"
He finds himself having to grip the kitchen worktop for support as his section chief explains, as calmly as he can, that there has been a shooting at the safe house where Hicks and Ruth are staying. Harry fights down the nausea and the panic, willing himself to listen carefully to everything he's being told.
Once the call has ended, Harry leans over the kitchen sink, chest heaving, stomach churning. The feeling abates, and he splashes his face with cold water. Bloody Hicks. Bloody Hicks and bloody Clive. Paradoxically, the anger he now feels at the journalist and at his friend helps him gain his equilibrium. He takes a couple of deep breaths and looks down at the cat, suddenly aware it's stopped eating and is watching him.
"She's OK, Fidget. Ruth's OK."
-x-
Harry takes a sip of whiskey and looks out across the Grid. It is ridiculously late, or ridiculously early, depending on your point of view, but Ruth, Adam and Zaf are sitting at their desks, tapping away at their keyboards. They all have a tumbler of his finest single malt in front of them. For medicinal purposes, he'd said, handing out the glasses.
His gaze settles on Ruth and he feels his heart turn over just as it had when she'd walked back onto the Grid. He'd been longing to see her ever since Adam had told him about the shooting, and, just as it had taken all of his willpower not to rush straight to the safe house, he'd also had to fight the urge to gather her into his arms the moment she stepped out of the pods. The relief he'd felt at seeing her, relatively unscathed, had been overwhelming and he realises he didn't hide it. Where once he would have worried about that, now he feels untroubled by it, glad even. He knows she saw his reaction; she may not have consciously acknowledged it but it will be there, filed away in that brilliant, intriguing mind of hers, waiting to surface at some point. He's hoping it won't take too long.
Something compels Ruth to look up from her workstation; her eyes meet Harry's and she gives him a quick smile before looking away. She refocuses on the screen in front of her but her fingers are motionless, resting on the keyboard. Her brain is sifting through the evening's events, analysing and interpreting everything she's seen, everything that's happened. It comes to a stop at a specific image; not the look on Zaf's face when he'd first realised something was wrong; not the fear in Hicks' eyes as they'd bundled him out of the safe house. It's the image of Harry, standing by her desk, waiting for them, waiting for her.
She lets her gaze drift slowly back to Harry's office. He's still watching, still waiting. Her skin tingles. Her brain adds the information to the file marked 'Proof of Harry's feelings'.
Thanks for reading. :)