Apologies for the delay. First, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed G&M, it is most appreciated. Second, it seems that this little fic is going to be significantly longer than originally anticipated, so I hope you'll stick with it. Third, the "M" rating is correct, just a bit down the road. H/R Smut is in your future, I promise. Finally, it freaks me a bit to see that people as far as Finland (WHAT?) are reading some little thing I wrote. Humbled and many, many thanks to all. This chapter is very stream of consciousness, Harry POV, and I hope that you enjoy.
"Feel my blood enraged,
It's just the fear of losing you.
Don't you know my name,
You've been so long.
And I've been putting out the fire,
With gasoline."
-Georgio Moroder/David Bowie,Cat People (Putting Out the Fire)
Embracing the comfort and solitude of his chauffeured return to Thames House, he leans back, resting his head as he absently watches the city he loves, would give his life to protect, pass by in a kaleidoscopic blur of stops and starts. London's multitudes, complacent, enjoying the warm turn in weather, tourists micromanaging any opportunity to relax and enjoy completely from their holiday with their maps, itineraries, and cameras, children running, jumping, explosive forces so full of energy he tires watching them. Unaware of his scrutiny, observing them unobserved, hidden behind tinted glass, equally, as one mass of humanity, unaware he ensures their safety, it's existence presumed, taken for granted, without knowing the cost of such, without understanding the sacrifice made by others to guarantee purchase. Blissful, untroubled by the truths found in his nightmares, of the dangers they face everyday, systematically completing, and possibly resenting, the mundane and tedious tasks which compile their individual lives.
He understands that each is more important than him, in the grand scheme, collectively becoming the body for which so many in the services have paid in blood, in death, willingly volunteering to fall on the sword to spare another's sacrifice. The multitudes will not mourn for those sacrificial souls, and no one will ever look to the shadows for safety and security, which is where you will find them, that streak caught, yet unidentifiable, in the corner of your eye. No casual conversations between Mr. Shadow and Mr. Civilian, "I prevented a thermobarric bomb from taking out half of London today. And you?" No, that he is expendable, a sacrifice to the greater whole is not lost on him. Ironic, really, that so many unwittingly depend on him, yet would gladly discard him, a stranger, without consciously knowing they were doing so, an unconscious act of self preservation, survival of the fittest. He is one against many, they are, as a unit, few against hundreds. It was always thus, and there are no awards waiting at the end of the road, only a wall erected in the bowels of Thames House, standing sentry, scarred with the names of those who have made the ultimate sacrifice, a testament to the dangers flourishing in the shadows, the reality of life in the terror age. Their end game is simple, stark in it's inherent absolute, black and white nature, death or retirement, pick a name or pick a pasture, that is all.
He is, loathe to admit, facing what he has come to think of as the twilight of his career. That period in time that is not exact, neither entirely light, nor wholly dark, but lush with colors, preternaturally vivid, fecund and glowing with indecision, questions forming faster than one can hope to find solutions, waiting, obscured yet thriving, for choices to be made. It is a foolish man who ignores that moment when come face to face, when who he has been informs who he shall yet be, neither light nor dark, but glowing with possibility. He is not, presently, what he would consider a foolish man, but he has been, bold and confident, swaggering, foolish in disregard, careless with those he loved and had been loved by. As a young field agent, he never thought to examine what his future would hold, never contemplated much beyond the immediacy of his moments, rather than the story they told, and would tell. Brash, self confident, bold and so cocksure, his being fueled by youthful hubris, his attentions occupied by immediate situations, questions, operations, risks, goals, dangers. So to, the immediate available woman, laying herself open, legs spread, lush, inviting him to taste. And taste he did, he devoured, with relish, all that was lain before him, wanting more, needing it, an addicted adrenaline junkie from the start. And he, that beautiful, damaged and golden boy with the cherubic face, so effective, so deceiving, chasing something beyond his reach, indefinable and obscure, laying waste to anything that dared get in his way, discarding those he loved with indifference. It is only now, as his youth has bid him a fond farewell, waving from beyond twilight's illuminations, that he sees the foolishness, and muses at the predictability, the eventuality of hindsight. Hadn't he been warned by those older than him then, disregarding in his certainty, in his absolute self absorption? You will regret, they had said, you will want to turn time back onto itself to change the things you have done, will do, the choices you have made, and have yet to face. Beware, sang proverbial Greek chorus, the malignancy growing in your heart, beware the toxins you will carry, entangled with your blood, your heart and mind, beware the nightmares that have yet to manifest, beware of it all, a silent mantra spoken in the wee hours, the darkness enveloping, and comfort beyond your reach. A self manifesting prophecy, haunting him, those choices, and the absence of those who warned him. Power he possesses in abundance, but he cannot turn back time, erase the aches and strains of his aging body, halt the questions that plague his mind as he finds himself cresting the peak, descending into middle age, his twilight receding in the distance as the days, years march on. Does he take a risk, the chance for companionship, embrace family, hearth and home? Or, does he continue alone, a known and familiar existence, rattling about until death claimed him?
Before her, the answer was simple, really. So much a simplicity that it's eventuality became, in his mind, fated, destined, beyond his ability to alter or adjust, or his wont to do so. Early retirement, if he were fortunate enough to survive. A cottage by the coast, quietly puttering, perhaps consulting from time to time, maybe a visit or two from his children, but always alone.
But for Ruth.
But for Ruth.
She had exploded into his life, quite beyond his considerable control of such things, and obliterated any vision of a future which did not include her, instantaneously. From their first encounter she had intrigued him, fascinated him. Her exuberance and enthusiasm, her extraordinary sea green eyes alight with a future she had yet to embark on. Wasted, her superior talents only just beginning to evolve, the tip of the iceberg, toiling away, initially another nameless cog within the machine of Cheltenham, she had distinguished herself immediately at GCHQ. From the start, he knew, of course he knew, she was a plant, a mole, but he found himself enthralled with her, their interview taking longer than necessary, his hesitation to conclude obvious, he silently feared, wanting to hear what she would say next, enthralled with her undeniable nervousness and strength simultaneously. That he was conducting the interview, rather than Tom, began to appear, in his mind, fortuitous in casual examination. Then, as the interview continued, fated, destined as he began to find her in his thoughts more frequently than could be thought of as appropriate. His mind wandering through questions of a more personal nature he had, thankfully, managed to avoid giving voice to, he had contented himself to wonder about her favorite tea, movie, book, those inquiries best associated with a first date, rather than an interview concerning her proposed secondment, feeling her voice, the tone and cadence washing over him, soothing something otherwise riotous inside of him. Observing her, concluding she was a tactile creature, touching the documents, running her fingers across the words as if gleaning something invisible but to her fingertips. Pausing in increments, taking her time answering questions posed to her, a thinker, a deep roller this one, this would be spy he failed in every attempt to avoid being charmed by. He watched, his face masking the inappropriate turn his thoughts had taken, and enjoyed the feelings he had thought deadened in him resurface, wanting to know the touch of her fingertips, the process by which her mind worked, her thoughts and desires, the list of topics which made her blush, her warmth and generosity on display, effortless in expression.
Despite his misgivings, his certain knowledge of her eventual treachery, he had chosen her, above all others, for secondment. The depth of his distraction became obvious her first day, as his uncharacteristic failure to inform Tom of her arrival, bursting through the door in a manner prophetic, he lost all train of thought, a rare and surprising exposure on his part, that first instance of his infatuation, revealed, subtle and insidious, and, alarmingly, not lost on those observing their curious exchange.
She became, in short order, indispensable, vaulting almost from the start to legendary status, quietly filling an absence no one had even known existed. Perfectly suited in temperament, intellect and strength, she became the much envied asset of their sister services, and it was a poorly contained, well known secret that each department, in turns both obvious and covert, had attempted to poach her, as was her refusal to entertain them. That she occupied his thoughts more often than not remained a private secret, and became, for him, an exquisite form of torture. Her subsequent treachery revealed, his relief was almost palpable as is the case with events one expects finally come to pass, he had allowed Tom to interrogate her, attempting, by his deliberate absence, to remain uninvolved. Ironic, then, that he found himself incapable of entertaining the idea of her dismissal, and thus set about ensuring that despite Tom's furious and justifiable objections, he would ensure Ruth was granted a rare opportunity to redeem herself, a second chance. He remembers that he could not contain the smile when Tom revealed her confession of finding her double agent status exciting, confirming for him the very thing he had suspected of her from the outset, that she was, first, a spook by pure instinct, and an intellectual second. She, he knew given time, would become addicted to the excitement, the adrenaline, the full throttle rush so different from desk duties, yearning, he saw, for the challenge.
She moved something in him, some unidentifiable mass long since hibernating, the sleeper inside, and he simply could not discard her as he had so many others, discount her, dismiss her as a momentary fancy once conquered, dispensable, a distant memory of lips and body joining the others present in the vague corners of his memory. She was electric, her every movement captivating to him, every success celebrated in his heart, privately, one more step to becoming what he knew her to be, her every thought enchanting, her future, brilliant. Oh, he was quite lost in short order, gazing at her from his office, her place next to him during meetings becoming an unspoken, yet understood, rule. Bugger the Home Office she had blurted, mischievous, her eyes on him, and he very nearly stopped breathing. Oh, if only, indeed. Bugger knocking as well, apparently, her charming habit of bursting through doors becoming her signature, and another distinction, something muttered about, fuel for gossip, that he did not roar his frustration directly at her as he was known to do, frequently, with anyone, hell, everyone else. No, she was special from the start, and he, captured from the get, snared without lifting a finger to stop it, a pacing and caged animal eyeing his intended prey.
At what point did I begin to want her physically? At what point did he begin his days with thoughts of her, end his days yearning, physically longing for her touch, her comfort, her entire submission to him? Closing his eyes, his frustration at the frequency with which he meditates on these very questions, the inevitability of arrival, the inability to discern and yet the overriding need usurping all other concerns, both state and security, primary in his focus, absolute in his concentration. The multitudes beyond his tinted window would, no doubt, quake in fear if informed how very profoundly she compromises him, the man entrusted with their safety, likely agreeing with Tom, however unaware, that she, in body and mind, should have been exiled back to the monotonous corridors of GCHQ, and in her absence, restore the order her very presence puts into jeopardy. Sighing, his mind demanding the ritual, the rite that has become the cornerstone of his days, he, again, tries to pinpoint the exact moment when his customary care and concern for his agents, both field and desk, began to evolve into something more instinctual, sexual, hell, borderline obsessive with regard to Ruth.
Ruth, the physical embodiment of years spent wanting, searching, needing, Ruth, his drug, his medicine, his curse, his downfall, his salvation, his twilight.
His...Ruth.
He hadn't been looking forward to the exercise, knowing that it would either draw his team together, or destroy them completely. The suggestion that Tom needed to be tested was, in his estimation, ridiculous, but when the Lord High Executioner commands, he is not to be ignored. He had, as was his right, his duty he told himself, exiled Ruth to the periphery, on the outside of meetings, giving voice to suspicions she was a mole, sent to report back their activities, sent to observe the maverick in his native habitat. She had, of course, surmised she had made some error of calculation, a mistake not yet revealed for which she was being punished, her confusion writ on her face, her frustration at being left out, set aside, tangible. She had, despite her exile, uncovered vital intelligence, refusing to be sidelined, redoubling her efforts to prove herself invaluable to the whole, even in her noted absence. Her treachery, once revealed, a relief for them both if he was forced to guess, she began to establish herself a necessity to Thames, as though it's very foundations were tied to her physically, bone to bricks, her skills enhanced, and tested by fire, expanding exponentially. It was EERE which established her, this shy and scurrying book worm, as a surprisingly formidable force. Believing they were faced with the great and rumored Apocalypse, the end of everything known to them with a capital "A," she had, much to his, and everyone's surprise, become the rock on which the exercise rested on. Standing strong as each intelligence blow was delivered, one by one, each worse than before, remaining calm and focused as those around her, one by one, began to nip and bite, accuse and curse, his worst imaginings realized. He became, as directed from on high, an absent observer almost immediately, a consummate actor, a Mr. Shadow, play acting infection.
She had discovered him, the imaginary tether with which they were seemingly joined, pulling at her, requiring her attention. Watching her face, a mixture of pain and fear, compassion and care, as she realized his condition, circumstances uncontemplated and unforeseen. She had hesitantly stepped towards him, reaching her hand out to touch him, make contact, and the hurt so raw and visible when he jerked away, abruptly commanding that she back away, that he didn't want to infect her, was as hard to bear as was illuminating. He had wanted her to reach out, and she had, and were it not for his mandated state of imaginary infection, he would have allowed it, and so much more, if he's honest. As it had been, he very nearly did allow her to touch him, his innate, almost primal inability to avoid damaging, sometimes irrevocably, those around him forcing his hand, himself a willing pawn. That he would infect her became, turning the irony over in his mind, an unnervingly accurate prophecy, both a reflection of his burgeoning urge to possess her whole, and one with which he was all too familiar. Once touched, those that dare the connection to him, regret, the corollary consequence of having made contact, of allowing their minds to open to him, their hearts to welcome him inside, and in too many cases to count, their legs to part, inviting him to plunge, eyes half lidded, needing to be seen and loved. And he, Mr. Toxin, happy to oblige, infected, waiting to use, discard, manipulate, lie, watching as you feel your soul die, telling you, casually, it was necessary.
Tom deliberated, deciding for the greater good, measuring risk against reward, resolved, in demanding both her silence, and his solitude. In those brief moments, as she left his office, left him to his quarantine, as Tom forbade her from comforting him, touching him, before she could act on it, as she hesitated, accurately reading her intentions in her countenance, he experienced a pain he had not expected, unprepared for the deep, thrumming hum resonating through him. It had hurt him deeply, deeper than he wanted to acknowledge then, that he had caused her pain, caused her worry. And the loss of that comfort intended, yet not given, lives with him today, even now, years later, keen in the comfort of his car. He told himself that it was simply an exercise, one of many, nothing but an imaginary instructive scenario, for their own good, designed to enhance their skills, internal justifications which did little to diminish his concern for her, watching as the denouement was revealed, the fabrications identified. His stockpile of rationalizations offered were hollow words and empty comforts, their relied upon efficacy diminished as each face reflected betrayal and distrust, his cross to bear, his grave to dig.
They had, as a team, come through unscathed, relatively, and after two proffered bottles of celebratory champagne, and the following obligatory liquid lunch at The George, hurt feelings had been resolved, and the team proper quickly restored to it's previously formidable unit. He had resolved to speak to her alone, away from the grid, separate from their colleagues as the opportunity availed itself, and as they left for The George, she had turned to smile at him. It was later, however, after everyone gathered, as she deliberately avoided him, moving from person to person, casual in her disregard of him, enjoying that rare respite from standing the wall, that it occurred to him she had, perhaps, expected to find someone else sharing a pod with her, his presence an unwelcome surprise. The realization both stunned and unnerved him, the idea that her smiles were for another, that he was an unwelcome trespasser in her mind, that she would not, he feared, forgive him his role, his skill at being a spy.
Set apart, nursing his drink, he watched as she ignored him, basking in the thrill of success, of passing the test, and felt the coil of resentment begin to tighten within him, the first seeds of hatred for her planted in his heart, waiting patiently, her imagined judgements couched within, a malignancy ready to be sewn. That she was ignoring him was, to him, a certainty, so absolute in deliberation that entertaining the theory she was simply enjoying the camaraderie of colleagues never occurred to him, an admittedly valid theory dismissed before having the chance to breathe. But, as is the way with malignancies, they require feeding, suffocating their host for noncompliance. How could he have misjudged her so, he wonders now? Or, more correctly, had he, at the time, misjudged the depth of his desire for her to such an extent that, once realized, his only recourse was to hurt her, cause pain, make her feel the uncertainty she drew from the depths of him, the fears, the acknowledgement and solitude of his meager existence. Had he misjudged the lengths he would go to punish her for his feelings, perhaps unreciprocated, her involvement incidental, his need to watch as she fell from the pedestal he constructed, his desire to dismantle her rich and throbbing, an appropriately malignant ending?
Had she concluded him heartless and cruel for his part in deceiving them all? Had she thought he had a choice? That he had the option to abstain, for Christ's sake? Did she know so little about him that she could believe he derived some measure of enjoyment in breaking them down, watching them tear at each other, mumbling like a madman? She did, of course she did, and why not? She'd had little experience with him which would suggest otherwise. Worse still, her judgements, however lacking in concrete experience, were more accurate, more intuitively perceptive than he could bring himself to admit, a proverbial bullseye dead center in his psyche. Had he not watched them from a distance? Had he not, down deep in the places you first begin to lie, enjoyed the games, the manipulations, the subterfuge? Had his body, slumbering behind a desk, not reached for the familiar adrenaline, the active field agent awakening, blood pumping, responding, wanting? Had she not seen him, then, recognized him, her conclusions precise, his desire for her ever more keen, electric? And if she had touched him, if she hadn't been prevented, would he have trembled as she willingly risked being infected? Would he have carried on, pretending madness, watching her as she waited for the first signs of her death to manifest themselves, knowing it would not happen? Would he tell her his secret, his role, or would he observe her, anticipating actions which otherwise would not occur, those life and death actions, the reaching out, the physical need for comfort, the touch now allowed, the confessions now offered, in death, the moments allowed to live? In his selfish heart, he couldn't know, unable to answer, incapable of deciding, would he calm her, relieve her fears, or use them, take advantage of their proximity, to find his way into her, delving deep, to grab and capture, to own and manipulate, to make her his, and he hers, life perceived in the midst of death?
The whiskey spurring him forward, his mind reeled, knowing that, in his heart, he would have taken advantage, for when had he been known not to, at any age, or time? He would have let her await the first stirrings of her death, allowed her to believe his was the last face she would see, in their quarantine, in their deadly union, he would have done all of it, and more, and labeled it fair, his selfishness supreme, his ego preening before her, his inherently corrosive nature revealed, her victimization complete and absolute. Victimization. An ugly word for a reprehensible act, and yet more true than false, more possible than not. He was a spy, after all, victimizing those around him as easily as choosing to protect, calling it duty, hiding behind Queen and Country, damaging his way through those weaker than him, more vulnerable than him, those he should protect, rather than destroy, classifications of hunter or hunted ever changing from one day to the next, amorphous.
Malcolm had, he remembers, quietly, as was his way, encouraged him to join the group, leave his meditations and recriminations with the marred surface of the bar, allowing them the opportunity to forgive him, joke with him, reconnect with him. Instead, gripping his tumbler tighter as if he half expected Malcolm would claim it as his own, he had asked if Malcolm had, recently, that day's exercise notwithstanding, noticed anything out of sorts with Tom, knowing he would volunteer his thoughts, knowing Malcolm was as concerned as he, both having witnessed in years past what it looks like when a spy dissolves from the inside out, implodes, the tells of self destruction all too familiar. He will always wonder if Tom could have been saved, or if, alternatively, it was his refusal to deny his conscience any further which became his salvation? One more secret, one more promise of discretion extracted between them done, despite Malcolm's continued insistence, Harry, they need to know you are still with us, part of us, he had elected not to join them in celebration. Instead, returning to the quiet of his office, the grid virtually deserted but for a few, He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, and visualized the boxes of himself in his mind's eye, the parts withheld from the world, exposed, those aspects he had unconsciously begun to associated with Ruth. One by one he examined the contents, one by one he bid goodbye, locking each in turn before moving to the next. He remembers that it felt a bit like suffocating, primal in alarm, a physical absence of a life sustaining necessity. He remembers that it seemed to take years to complete. He remembers that the seed planted earlier was still seductive in his heart, beating, waiting to corrode, waiting to destroy. He remembers he didn't return home until long after everyone else had left.
Tom had unravelled, in spectacular fashion, and was summarily turned out, ostracized, from the rest, a civilian, who, some say, used to be MI5. He had asked her to stand by him, support him, despite her initial refusals, loyal to a fault, her insistence that Tom couldn't be, as he suggested, unravelling. That she had an affection for Tom was obvious, familial as a sibling, her loyalties divided between what she knew, and what she suspected. Protect someone she looked on as a brother, or sacrifice him, disregard their history, toss him to the wolves, watch as they tear with teeth and claws, indifferent as the gods. He needed her with him, her considerable skills better able to predict Tom's escalating and erratic behavior, and her ability to empathize, he secretly hoped, able to break him down, draw him back into the fold, barring that, close enough for capture. She had risked infection for him once, he reasoned with himself, and later, on a bench, as he had detailed his suspicions, he'd asked her to risk again, wondering, as she deliberated, staring into the Thames, if the two situations were really so different, each man losing the thread down to a woman's influence, the proverbial there but for the grace of god cautionary tale. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until she had agreed to stick by him, quietly, sadly pledging herself to him, and thus his chosen course of action. Perhaps, he had dared to hope then, she had forgiven him the EERE exercise, his role therein, his dishonesty, but he did not, for a single moment, believe she would forget his forcing her to choose between them both, he and Tom, demanding her allegiance as though he had a right to it, when in truth of fact, she'd had little option otherwise. The voice in his head, an alarm beginning to toll, had spoken of lies as he manipulated her to his side, as he began to cultivate the seeds of doubt about Tom in her consciousness, so desperate to have her at his side, telling himself it was for the best, after all. Add a shotgun blast to his map of scars, and another name to the evolving list of people he's failed, his reward for being correct, his punishment for failure.
Had Tom turned himself inside out for love, or had love had it's way, twisting him into someone else, destroying the person he was, ruining a life? Cautionary tale it may be, and he, even in this moment, sat idly gazing, could not decide, ruined or redeemed? She was clever, our Ruth. On side, a spook by instinct, she'd adeptly maneuvered to reach him quarantined at hospital. He smirks now, drawing the connection, their relationship, if it could be called such, marked by quarantine, each infected, each fueling the illness of the other, hazardous, dangerous, seductive. Her note, a smuggled bit of trade-craft by a nurse who would become her asset, Oliver Mace holding court, Tom dead, begging his return, demanding he reclaim his territory. When the nurse spoke of his lover's concern, her worry likely not beneficial to her pregnancy, he had held consciously his breath, allowing the statement to wash over him, reverberating. Her legend, his lover, his pregnant lover, it was, in a word, a revelation, that she should choose such a story. Galvanized he nearly vaulted from the room, barely registering signing the forms to obtain his ill-advised release, disregarding the pain that radiated through him with every step towards her.
"She does love him, you know," she had said of Christine Dale, and he was so rankled, so distracted with thoughts of how similar he and Tom's predicament was that he snapped a curt and cold So what in reply, his eyes hard and volatile, her's soft and understanding.
"Have you never loved someone so much that you can't help but throw everything you know away, and consider it fortunate, a kindness the universe designed for you, bestowed on you, a sin almost to ignore? Do you truly feel so little compassion for them, for him, at least? I don't believe you are that heartless, Harry, I can't."
And there it was. He had wanted to scream at her, of course I'm that heartless, you silly, naive child, push her away, anger roiling as she again peered effortlessly into his soul, his fears, giving them voice, forcing him to hear wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she pledged to stop, promised to leave him be, distant and safe. He had loved Jane, his children, but in that love, he had pushed them away, pushed them into obscurity, the periphery of his conscience, telling himself it was for their protection, to save them from harm. He knew, revolting as the knowledge was, his deliberate distance had served his needs more than theirs, that they were a hinderance, an obstacle in his career, his advancement through the ranks, his nature better suited to the immediate, the thrust and parry of the field, alive and kicking. He had never loved her enough to throw that away, neither she nor his children. He had never loved anything that much, and at that moment he had wanted to scream all of it into her upturned face, that beautiful face that made him nearly as undone as Tom Quinn. In the dark of night, as he sat in the silence that was his empty house, he understood his hatred, his fury with her was a measure of his affection, twisted and sullied, but indicative of an all but overpowering infatuation. He did understand Tom, in his twilight contemplation of things past, he understood completely the pull of another, the inexplicable connection that once made, would be a slow and painful death in the attempt to sever. He feels it now, the mere thought of her affecting his mood, his heart rate. So it was, he decides, redemption for Tom Quinn, and bless.
She had, to her credit, never brought the subject of Tom up with him again, though she did mourn him for a time. Adam, seconded from Six to assist in resolving the Quinn situation, as it was referred to in the hallowed halls, had seamlessly slid into the space that once looked like Tom Quinn, and she had kept whatever resentments at his arrival to herself, though she was one of a very few. Adam, for his part, had recognized, in much the same way Harry had, Ruth's potential, and had set about exploring her abilities almost immediately. Becoming another surrogate sibling, they worked well together, she and Adam, and he was liberal with his praise at her natural ability in the field, pantomiming her mannerisms for Harry, excitement for both her admirable performance and the chase literally dripping from him. That it would end with them both blown, kidnapped, and hunted by a crossbow wielding racist was, well, certainly unfortunate, but as he thinks of it now, he can't help but chuckle aloud at the freak-show aspect of something so ridiculous occurring in the day to day lives of those for whom they are bound by duty to protect, en masse. He had conducted her debrief, as much to relieve Adam of the duty, as to allow the opportunity to hear, first hand, what her thoughts were, and, consequently, to verify if indeed both he and Adam were right about her potential.
"What were you thinking turning back for Adam, you could have been killed, Ruth?" The question, more for his benefit, out of his mouth before he could filter his meaning.
"You would have preferred he kill Adam?"
"No, of course not, but you, my dear, disregarded a direct order..."
"...And saved his life...from a sociopathic, megalomaniacal, racist who wanted to shoot us both through with a crossbow bolt."
He eyes were wide, he remembers, and the mirth she felt, her recognition that it was all so beyond what one imagines a day at work to entail, working at her mouth, twitching, attempting to contain the smile that threatened, the subsequent laughter crinkling both her nose and the corners of her lovely, vibrant eyes.
"Soooo, there's a sentence I never imagined I'd say..."
"What did it feel like, Ruth? Can you tell me? Just me. I won't include it. How did you feel when you hit him?" Almost predicting her exact answer, knowing it intuitively before she had even thought to form the words, listening, intent and focused, her answer passing lightly across her lips.
"Exhilarated. And I would have been happy to hit him again," smiling at the thought, content in her admission.
But her eyes had shown bright with something else, something field agents have come to recognize in others, vibrant and glassy, the result of having gotten their fix, their target captured, their inability to rein themselves in, antsy, darting, riding adrenaline as one would a wave. And in his contemplation of her, he saw himself, aspects of himself reflected back, finding the similarity, anticipating the comfort, opening those boxes he had spent half an evening closing in deliberate meditation, welcoming her perusal.
Oh shag, this woman, he thought.
She had him by the balls.