A/N: This chapter revolves entirely around 4.5 because I thought that the first episode to overtly address Harry's growing attachment, and Ruth's ability to see past the walls he uses to hide himself, and his more vulnerable aspects. Also, the phone call early in the episode never fails to make me laugh, and thus is provided here, all credits due KUDOS/BBC.
I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to review, particularly r4ven3 for your very kind words as regards chapter 5, and to those "guests" who leave reviews-as a former guest myself, I enjoyed a great many authors/fics, but it was Hook, Line, and Sinker that was so exceptional, (70 plus chapters-what!) to me that it was my first review, and the impetus for my becoming a member, and trying my hand after a very long time. So, thank you, Airgead for your unintended, much appreciated, inspiration. I actually feel rather bad that I didn't review all the works that I have enjoyed, in no small part because I never understood the importance until I found myself waiting for the same. Please consider this my blanket thank you for every single effort each of you have put forth, and enjoy!
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"If you could hear me love,
I'd tell you my story.
To you and only you,
So love that you might save me.
I woke up from a dream,
I woke up I was crying.
I saw an animal,
With Eyes like mine on fire.
I saw my own true love,
She was a sullen flower,
Was she forget-me-nots,
White Lillies or red roses.
And then from far way,
Who's that I see come riding,
Upon a pale white horse,
Come riding fast as lightning.
Oh, if you can hear me love,
I'd tell you my story,
So that you might save me.
So that you might save me,
So that you might save me."
*The Gutter Twins, All Misery/Flowers*
"It's you, it's you, it's all for you,
Everything I do.
I tell you all the time,
Heaven is a place on earth with you,
Tell me all the things you wanna do.
I heard that you like the bad girls,
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew,
They say that the world was built for two.
Only worth living if somebody is loving you,
Baby, now you do.
*Lana Del Rey, Video Games*
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GODS and MONSTERS
Chapter VI
Still riding the high from the previous evening spent with Ruth, euphoric with the knowledge that he had, in those few short hours, been tested, his nature provoked, wanting to succumb, wanting to take her, soil her, infect her, sink himself deep inside her warmth and reveal themselves to one another, but he had abstained, stepped back from the void, met it eye to eye, smiling as he released her from his claws, his moment of redemption realized, and it was enough, more than, truthfully.
He had, subsequently, offered his resignation to the Home Secretary, reluctantly detailing the cause without revealing Juliet's part in his decision, and was, in a word, rebuffed, the Home Secretary's refusal to accept presented in a calm, but firm, denial. Despite his assertion that Juliet Shaw was a, quote, ruthless, untrustworthy, right-wing crazy who will stop at nothing, deliberately leaving out who is blackmailing me whilst stroking the PM, proper duplicitous lick-spittle that she is, she was, nevertheless, named National Security Coordinator, and to his absolute vexation, became, with the stroke of a single extravagant pen, one of a few supervisors he was immediately subject to.
The fates, with their macabre sense of humor never failed to surprise, their endless avenues of attack, their ingenuity, frustrating him by reestablishing this albatross around his neck for want of entertainment, Pandora's Box a play thing to be volleyed about to amuse and delight. And, as expected, she became a thorn in his side from the moment she assumed her post, predictable as taxes, and just as bloody interfering and annoying.
His saving grace, the point on which he meditated with alarming frequency, smoothing his ruffled feathers, soothing his festering resentment of Juliet's continued presence and position, his evening with Ruth, unparalleled in his concentration and focus, the entirety of his immediate future evolving, in his darkest heart, to include her in an increasingly inappropriate way. Staggering, the moments within a day she came to mind, his memory of her breath in his ear, the warmth of her cheek against his lips, and inevitable that his interpretation would begin, quite unconsciously, to embrace the moments they had shared at her front door as an invitation for him to pursue her, receptive and welcoming. In his daydreams he came to believe she was, her lips against his ear, panting, trembling for him to touch her, and while she had not actually behaved thus, his fantasies had been unleashed from forced slumber, resuscitated, alert, the results kaleidoscopic in colors and rich with embellishments.
In his darker, more disconsolate moments, he found himself angry he had not availed himself a shower in his office, and began to close his blinds with greater frequency, a vain effort, he knew with absolute certainty, to block his line of sight to her, preventing her from becoming more incapacitating, desperate to continue his victory over the eyes that beckoned from deep within the void, sirens calling to his nature, hypnotizing and demanding, the language of his desolate heart pouring from the murky depths. And, she, innocently unaware of his desperate efforts, barging without knocking, breathless with some new piece of intelligence, assaulting his senses, luminous, flush, his dream in flesh, his nightmare taunting.
They had not, in the time he began referring to as between then and now, endeavored further into their developing friendship, and in his deliberate dismissal, his denial that evening, and every day that laboriously followed of anything beyond such, he began to appear more melancholic, behaving as though he had suffered some great loss unidentified to the greater whole of those present around him. Short in temper, callous and cutting in commentary, the sudden death of Clive McTaggart shook him to his very foundation, the conclusion drawn to that of suicide an additional offense he was both hard pressed to accept and wrap his mind around, stoking his already simmering melancholy and disenchantment. In a rare nod to solidarity, he sought out Juliet and Roy Woodring, current head of Six, field colleagues, all, in years past, each offering tidbits of history, some known, some a revelation, all meant to help bid a fallen comrade farewell, safe passage.
Death, the hallmark of their curious union, the catalyst of every moment he treasured as fated for him, them, alone, drawing her to his side again, and his callous heart rejoicing, willing to suffer so many deaths if it meant she would remain tethered to him, next to him in the exchange, a life for their life together yet undetermined, his vile, immoral nature concluding it fair.
He remembered she had quietly crossed the threshold of his office, standing there, stealthy little minx, before he'd opportunity to notice, atypical for them both, and, momentarily catching him off guard, had inquired softly if he was okay. Unaccustomed as he had become to displays of concern for his wellbeing, he literally could not fathom an answer, the words lost to him, feelings alighted with her gentle way, her token of concern disquieting, bewildering, jarring and, yes, God help him, so terribly desired, staring at her, open faced, dumbfounded by the rush of foreign emotions thundering across his habitual state of weariness.
"If you need to talk, I'm available...Well, no, not availa...That's not what I meant to say. I'm willing to listen. No, that's...Not like a chore, I wouldn't look at it like...It's just that it helps, sometimes, to talk...Get it off my chest...Your chest, yours, my...my chest is fine, No, I'm...oh, shag it. A drink, with me, to talk, is all...or something. Or not. That would be fine, too." He'd identified the tells the moment she stopped speaking. Eyes closed, mouth dropped open, the "O" shape delighting him no end, shaking her head, the physical hallmarks of someone in the midst of an internal dialogue in the vein of what the actual fuck did I just do? And, while evaluating her physical betrayals, his mind and nature confounding him with images of her chest, exposed, wonton, lush, he had, despite these considerable distractions, or possibly because of them, managed to isolate three words, a refrain dancing gleefully in his consciousness. Drink. With. Me. Drink with me. Drink with me.
Oh, if only...
He had spent an exorbitant amount of time during his evenings at home, customary drink in hand, surrounded by solitude, deafening, rationalizing his actions with Ruth in the period surrounding Danny's death. He had habitually vacillated between justifying his daring to place his lips on her, unbidden, venturing to hold her hand, an unsolicited caress, as merely physical expressions of comfort, an innocent attempt to keep her tethered, and damning himself for knowing his actions, while genuine in intent, maybe, who was he kidding, were reflections of his baser needs, his lust and desire to conquer her, his truer self in evidence, his need for her to be present with him, to look at him in that way, that signature Ruth look that spoke to his ego, petting and smoothing his vanity, his self absorption, that sang clear and bright, you interest me, I see you.
It became part of the exercise that he ignore the glaring absences of similar behavior with others, part of the exercise that he consistently remind himself that his better angels were accessible to him, should he desire, but the dark void, the mirror by which he defined himself, knew his truer self, embraced by the treachery in his heart, repelled every justification his fecund mind could mine, laughed in the face of every rationalization used to pacify, and screamed from indefinable depths, I see you, too.
He'd declined her offer, added gratuitous reassurances that he was quite fine, thank you, though he appreciated the offer. He knew, as the words left his mouth, he would regret this as a missed opportunity, her silent acceptance, curt nod and concentration involving the patterns within his office carpeting all suggested, resoundingly, she would not be likely to risk another olive branch in the future. Though he knew it was the right decision, deemed it proper, the truth was he didn't trust himself alone with her, didn't trust he'd have the willpower to repeat his self denial, releasing her again seemed an impossibility. It was one thing to toast Danny, the two of them in an unnamed pub in an unfamiliar place, they had both known him, both mourned him in their individual ways, but Clive was unknown to her, and given the absence of an established familiarity with him, his desire to join Ruth for a drink was exactly that, a desire for a drink by any means available, Death his willing accomplice, Clive the incidental corpse and friend, yet necessary to propagate the lie. The obscenity of his thoughts both sickened him, and validated his decision to decline, distance himself from her as he had distanced himself from everyone, for their own good, for their own safety, for his peace of mind.
"Harry, you don't have to talk to me. That's...that's fine. Really, it is." She was speaking so softly, he'd found himself leaning forward, catching every other word despite his proximity, but her face suggested she was on the verge of another question, one she intuitively understood would cross a boundary between them, steeling herself before his eyes. He also knew that whatever it was she asked of him, he would answer, without question or delay, if only to keep her there with him, if only to extend this moment in time with her.
"Do you...Who is...Who is there for you, Harry? Who do you turn to when...When you need someone? Is there anybody who...?" She had left the remainder hanging between them, unspoken, but understood, afraid to breach protocol without being aware that he spent a fair portion of his waking moments imagining she would.
Who do I turn to, for Christ's sake? How does she strike, with effortless consistency, straight to the center of my deepest insecurities and fears?
Well, Johnny Walker Blue was the short answer, the first that came to him, followed in short order by nameless pull from a pub, wine, and, finally, Scarlett. He had chosen the lesser of all his coping evils, internally chiding himself for refusing her even as he applauded himself for his self restraint.
"Scarlett. She's the best listener, never interrupts me, doesn't judge, and knows how to keep a secret." He had smiled at her, his meager attempt at brevity, his bravado on full display, a rooster in full flourish.
"Oh, I see, of course," backing away, moving quickly, and his oversight occurred to him, so obvious he could have kicked himself, rushing to clarify before she escaped.
"Of course, she does have a tendency to sit on my lap and lick my nose, she leaves food all around where she eats, very sloppy eater, she's a bit hairy, which isn't unattractive if you like that sort of thing, chews my socks, sometimes I have to brush her teeth, and she has a very offensive habit of licking her own ass, if I'm being honest. Ruth, Scarlett is my..."
"...Dog."
"...Dog."
Spoken simultaneously, she had giggled, adorably covering her mouth, her posture becoming the most beguiling aw shucks, ya got me pose he had ever known, but it was the look of relief that lit up her face as she had first turned back to face him, as realization dawned with an emanating light that would rival a sunrise in his eyes, that there wasn't some women waiting for him, waiting to comfort him, waiting to make his pain go away, which made his lower spine begin to tingle, his fingertips itching to touch her, his instinct that she felt the same echoing throughout him. And the dark void, their unseen spectator, urging him forward, she feels the same, mate, it whispered, and his resolve to distance himself collapsed, folding in on itself, as though it had never even existed.
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Her single request was a pub other than The George, too many witnesses, her voluntary reason, and he found himself struggling to control his immediate reaction to the illicit connotations, his nature acutely attuned to the deep-seated harmonious existence between his instincts and those situations inherently prohibited, unsanctioned, lurid. They had walked from Thames House, each maintaining a distance between them that suggested friendship, but not so much that it telegraphed merely colleagues, their hands brushing the back of the other's intermittently, but frequently enough to imply more than accidental. He was reminded of when he was a boy, mad for Rebecca Swanson, who ended up dating his best friend at the time, what was his name, David, Daniel? Daniel. The name struck him, serendipity having it's curious way, affecting him to such an extent that he slowed his pace, and she, having continued, turned, a question on her face, and he thinking only surely another sign.
They had settled on The Hound, off the beaten path of those in the services, clandestine and rather seedy, but not in an altogether unpleasant way, dark and prone to catering to "regulars," the kind not unfamiliar to daylight hours spent with hands wrapped securely around alcohol of some form or another. The place, at least to his eye, seemed appropriate in a way he was unable to define, full, loud, and fortuitous that they had managed to capture the two remaining bar seats available. This was a place Clive would have frequented, sitting in a corner, his eyes bright and alert, watching without watching, evaluating, divining backstories, a participant without any effort to engage.
They ordered, and she had turned to him, a look of expectation on her face, waiting for him to begin, waiting for him to unmask and expose his pain, grief, his feelings of loss, he couldn't know exactly, his intention more alined with simply observing her.
"So, Scarlett," she volleyed, her eyes dancing with amusement, leaning far into him, her hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer "I wouldn't have guessed you a fan of Margaret Mitchell..."
"Then you would be..." But she was shaking her head, pointing to her ear and leaning in, gestures he had assumed meant she couldn't hear his reply. He had turned sideways in the stool, facing her, and placing his hand on her right arm, pulled her until she mirrored his position, facing one another. Acting on impulse, two anonymous people in a pub full of regulars after all, he slid his hands to the seat of her chair, dragging it towards him while simultaneously moving his left leg to allow for her right leg to fit securely between his, effectively establishing her proximity to as close to in his lap as would suit while both remained seated.
"Then you would be wrong," he repeated, leaning in next to her ear, one hand still grasping the side of her stool, his thumb absently caressing the side of her thigh, his mind occupied by how fluid it all seemed to him, natural, completely, utterly, devastatingly natural.
"Is this Harry Pearce? The Harry Pearce admitting to a fondness for something Irish?" Her voice had dropped in tone, deep and seductively whiskey soaked, he could feel her smile close to his ear, leaning towards him, her hand on his knee for balance, causing an involuntary twitch along his inner thigh, delicious.
"I've been known to enjoy their whiskey on occasion." Pulling back, smiling, tilting his head to the left, regarding her as she considered his reply, hoping she wouldn't remove her hand from his knee, envisioning her moving it further up his thigh, feeling the pleasing tremors as they shivered towards his cock, knowing he was approaching dangerous territory, welcoming it's arrival and satisfaction.
Instead, she had leaned back, removed her hand, the imprint suddenly cold where it had lain, sipping her drink, watching him, the wheels turning behind her eyes, no hint of their mechanics or conclusions in the offing, her face content, serene, expectant. The potential this woman has is unfathomable, he remembers thinking, that her innate skill at knowing exactly when to approach and when to retreat, the push and pull of human connection, communication, completely unconscious, authentically a part of her make up. He'd concluded, in that moment, that he hadn't the strength to deny the urge to delve deep into her, to mine her for the riches she could offer up, to scrape her out from the inside and examine the totality of her contents, reverently, gently fondling each finding as it was revealed, taking her hand, asking that she plunge into the dark void with him.
"Scarlett." He didn't actually hear her, but had watched her mouth form the words, recalling her earlier question, her face reflecting a heightened awareness of the effect she was having, her eyes taking on a dark shine, and before he could stop himself, his cock beginning to stir, his pulse throbbing rhythmically along it's length, he had grasped both her legs behind her knees, drawing her forward to him, her bum sliding along her seat, leaning into her ear, breathing her name, rolling it on his tongue before releasing it.
"Ruth, brilliant, dark haired, light eyed women who refuse to conform to conventions continue to be a weakness of mine. One of very few, I might add." He had touched the tip of her ear lobe with his tongue, and she had shivered, dropping her head back slightly, Mona Lisa smile decorating her mouth, eyes closed, her right hand moving to cover his left, squeezing it as he squeezed her lower thigh. Staring into the abyss, moving too quickly and not quickly enough, her wanted to take her then and there, force her to reveal the meaning behind her smile, the secrets she kept hidden, demand to know if she was likeminded in intentions, or if she was, like those before her, after something from him not yet named, unspecified, but certainly not him, not his heart and soul. Could he fuck her, ruthlessly fuck her senseless, like those before her? Yes, the dark void answered, bury yourself deep, divest yourself of conscience, guilt, infect her even as she destroys you.
The din of the room had faded, the patrons becoming blurred faces melding easily into one another, indistinguishable, and she had reached her hand up, her thumb smoothing the creases next to his eye, moving further up to his forehead, applying some pressure, as if to push the mutinous thoughts contained within away, a soft Harry escaping her lips.
The physical connection was all it took, and his walls crumbled, gave way to his need to unburden himself, his desire to share his burden, to trust in another enough to expose himself, unresistant, in defiance of his stoic and guarded nature. He confessed to his fear that Clive was a cautionary tale, a prophetic event which foretold his eternal solitude, his marriage to the security services, like his, one of absolute monogamy, not made to suffer the attentions of a rival, demanding submission, name on a wall, or retirement to some distant lonely someplace, carrying his burdens even after his last breath, his duty, marooned with only his bitterness and solitude for company. She had kept her palm against his forehead, her other placed gently against his cheek, allowing him to pour out those fears and nightmares that haunted him unchecked, uninterrupted, her focus both terrible and unconditional.
"When I was a boy, I can't remember what age, but I remember Gone with the Wind, back before I knew what horrors the world would hold for me, when I was...fresh and still...able to hope. My mother took me to see Clark Gable, big fan she was, but I remember the instant Vivian Leigh came on the screen and, Ruth, I thought, well, I thought I had never seen anything quite so beautiful, and I've been a sucker for the dark haired beauties ever since." He'd curled the corner of his mouth up, an ironic, self depreciating smile, leaning his cheek further into her hand, resting his head, eyes closed, relishing how weightless he felt in her care.
"I named her Scarlett partly because I loved my mother very much, and lost her before I really understood what loss was, so, party to remind me of her, but more to remind me that there was a time, once, a long time ago, forever it sometimes seems, that I had hope, that I could see something so beautiful and allow it to open my heart because I didn't know how not to, I hadn't learned, trained myself to embrace isolation and distrust, I only knew how to love, in the purest sense. So, in a way, Scarlett reminds me I was once pure of heart and mind, I wasn't always...this way."
He had never told anybody about that day, not Rebecca Swanson, who to his youthful eyes looked enough like Vivien Leigh to love, not Daniel, his boyhood friend who eventually won her, nor Ben, his brother, closer to him than any single person that had ever meant anything to him, not Jane, a woman he had vowed to love until death's parting who gave him two children he knew next to nothing about, or any of the partners in the revolving shag-a-thon marking the early years in his career. No one. Except Ruth, in a seedy pub some forty years later, after the death of a good friend and colleague, a mentor and guide, a man who would have loved this venue, and, no doubt, would have spied them early on, hidden from the back, unraveling an extravagant background, weaving the story of their life without benefit of introduction, and this feeling is so intense, so sharp that he can imagine Clive there with them, picture him watching as Ruth quiets him with a gentle caress, his confessions, for the moment, complete.
She, taking his head in both her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye, the furrow between her brows indicative of the seriousness with which she spoke.
"Harry, I think...I know...you've done things, things which you regret, things that sit in your heart, I know it. But...you are more than what you've done, Harry. I know that, too. None of us get out with a clear conscience. My grandmother used to say a clear conscience was just a bad memory, and a life not fully lived." Eyebrow raised, smirk forming, "I think you would have liked her." Removing her hands, leaning back again, "You've just been looking in the wrong places, finding the wrong people for a safe haven. Find those, and you'll find a bit of the peace you're searching for, not all, but it's a start." Her earnestness, her belief that what she was saying was categorically true, was, to him, infectious, a curious reversal of station between them, and he felt in his bones, lighter, relieved, tranquil, his earlier baser urges abating, but his decision to pursue her intensifying.
"There are right places to look?"
"Yes,"
"Where?"
"Here."
"And people?"
"Yes,"
"Who?" Oh, God wait for it.
"Me." Blushing as she spoke, her composure a delicate balance between vulnerability and unguarded generosity, her proposition, candid, coloring his thoughts with double entendres a consequence of his nature and her guileless approach.
"What I mean to say is...that you can, you can talk to me, trust me, I would like to do that...for you, be a safe place...be that for you, when you have a need, for times like, like this." A slight shrug, gone before it was there, her mouth curved in a half smile, and he had taken her hand in between his, warm, soft, "I can assure you my level of discretion rivals Scarlett's, and I'll even promise not to chew your socks." A full grin lighting up her face, her eyes buoyant, dancing with mirth.
"Bold statement, Ruth. I've never known you to boast quite so." Smiling in return, lending the intended humor to his words. "I'll entertain your offer. There is, of course, Scarlett to consider. She is a very jealous mistress, our Scarlett, very sensitive to rejection. It will have to be handled delicately lest she make her displeasures known in unsavory ways throughout my house."
"That wouldn't do." Laughing outright, full throated, the muscles in her exposed neck moving sublimely to accommodate, her nose wrinkling in the way he found so endearing, rather a triumph if you could get her to do it.
"No, but she's sweet on me, so I think we'll have luck on our side." Winking at her, leaning back, allowing her space, the cock-up of his baser urges avoided, his achievement in releasing her from his grasp realized anew.
"Another, then?" His face, weathered, all bushy eyebrows and ravages of time, alcoholic excesses creasing his face, "Whiskey. Will it be another, then?"
"We should get back, Harry..." Mischievous, certainly, open to suggestion, maybe, and he was shocked to discover they had been gone nearly two hours, undetected, hoping that their return to the grid would leave them as equally unidentified.
They didn't rush, neither adopting a shared stride of urgency, nor one of lethargy, but somewhere in between which, by design, balanced companionship with burgeoning affection, that pace which embodied a yearning to extend time's passage, but simultaneous, a concurrent acceleration into the next moment wherein those newly discovered emotions, fondness, devotion, passion, could be built upon, the appetite for such fueled by eagerness and an almost tragic state of idolatry.
With the exception of Jane, he had never ventured to know a woman, really know her, and he concludes that this elation, this feeling of euphoria is the result of discovery, the rush found at the end of searching, a puzzle piece uncovered and placed, the individual stamp identifying an other, your other, designed for you as you begin to see, as you begin to unveil, and taste, and crave. Not with Jane, his sight of her never materializing despite her pleas, enabling the ebulliency he feels now as they walk, side by side, the deep craving for more, the mind numbing obsession of it, absolute and irrevocable.
That evening, the weightlessness remained with him, not as acute, but enough in tangible substance that he had foregone his customary half bottle, his ritual of self medication, the application of numbing techniques unnecessary in the wake of his unexpected time spent with Ruth earlier. It does not escape his notice that his hands tremble, almost undetectable, but there, his risk of becoming ever more like his father a time worn dance he's well versed in, the steps ingrained.
She had stopped at his door, announcing her intention to head home, his head buried in reports, messages, the accumulated detritus of his two hour absence.
"Do please think about it, Harry, yes? Anytime. Really, no worries." Her smile was kind and genuine, developing and vanishing within seconds before she turned to leave.
"Thank you, Ruth. I...I will." The best he could muster, his inner dialogue continuing, I want you to stay, I want you to sit whilst I finish up, and I want to take you to dinner, I want you to come home with me, I want to see you, I want you to see me, I want...I want you. The void manifesting in his mind, clouding his thoughts, testing his ability to look but don't touch, quantifying his receptivity to leap into its maw, judging him passive, willing, laughing for knowing his weakness.
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"If this isn't hugely important I hope your passport's up to date..."
"Harry, it's me."
"Ruth..."
"Yes."
"What time is it?"
"Late. Look, I'm sorry to be calling you at this hour but-"
"Are you all right?"
"Me? Yes, I'm fine, thanks."
"Well, that's ahhhh...That's good."
"Harry, I was just wondering... I was just wondering if perhaps you could come over?"
"Come over? Now?"
"There's someone I need you to meet."
"...Oh."
Of course, of course you daft git...what? You thought she'd just ring you up, ask you over, shag you the moment you arrived? As he drove, haphazardly, recklessly, his mind preoccupied with self recrimination, she has offered you friendship, a shoulder to lean on, and the very first phone call from her, your cock is ready to spring from your shorts, and here's you, keen to invite her into the sexual cesspool of your overactive imagination, so much for wanting to know her, to see her, it's a pathetic tale, ego and vanity the only children worthy of an aging philanderer.
She had greeted him upon his arrival, and he sensed her agitation, her heightened nervousness within moments of entering. Her initial greeting was brief, a curt Hey, turning away towards the kitchen, and he finds the atmosphere uncomfortable, tangibly different from the last time he was within these walls. The pictures, the organized chaos all remained intact, but indefinably altered, tumultuous, and he found himself steeling his emotions with every step towards where she had disappeared.
Gary Hicks. Gary Bloody Hicks. This is the man Clive trusted with the oft rumored book of secrets, Pandora's Box of Nightmares. So, it was true, then. Clive had not kept his end of the security services bargain, and in failing to do so, engendered the caliber of enemy that wouldn't waste time attempting to talk him out of going public, establishing suicide as the cause of death highly implausible, as he had initially suspected. But, Gary Hicks, this twitching, alcoholic, festering piece of humanity, this vainglorious, self engrossed journalist, in the loosest meaning of the term, had, in his overreaching arrogance, placed Ruth, his Ruth, in danger by daring to approach her, let alone break into her home in an exceedingly cavalier fashion typically characteristic of sociopaths. That he hated this man was a laughable understatement, not least as it gradually became clear that they had, at some point inconceivable to him, had some manner of relationship, Ruthie, setting his teeth on edge, overcome with the urge to serve him up on a platter and be done with it.
On the heels of this satisfying image, his better angels vaulted themselves violently into the fray of his present consciousness, demanding, for the sake of Clive, that he set aside his sophomoric urges towards Hicks, usurper, entitled intruder, vessel of intelligence better left hidden in the shadows. Encouraged, strengthened by the routine, the rote ritual of facing risk, he poured himself the last of Ruth's whiskey, the bottle they had shared, depleted by this braggart standing before him, chain smoking, entirely unaware of the danger he had placed them all in, he had placed her in, and began the process of taking control, arranging a safe house for them, dismantling cell phones, while experiencing a brief, but thoroughly satisfying, and obscene level of pleasure in placing Gary Hicks, effectively, under house arrest, knowing, instinctively, he would chafe at restrictions, his freedom in another's hands, anticipating his impending amusement. He would enjoy watching him squirm. He told himself it was for Clive, and to a certain extent, it was. But, in the deep recesses of his true self, he couldn't ignore his sense of urgency, his evaluation of risk was informed by Ruth, his affections entangling with his loyalties towards Clive, and then his commitment to his duty, obliterating his ability to be objective, giving him a small taste of what his life would be were he to pursue and claim her as his.
She had become close to Zaf, in Danny's absence, and it was because he himself could not be at the safe house, a breach in protocol that would not go unnoticed, that he had instructed both Adam and Zaf to rotate attendance, ostensibly to guard Hicks, but, if he was honest, to ensure Ruth was never left unattended with him, never unguarded, confident that both Zaf and Adam would do what was necessary to guarantee her safety. That she and Hicks had some previous entanglement stung, his mind attempting to pinpoint what had attracted her, and yearning to understand how he had failed so spectacularly in his assumptions, never once contemplating she, too, would have ex lovers. It was true, she had never turned in a S24, and apart from the Fortescue debacle, had shown little to no inclination towards dating, courting, hell, interest beyond total devotion to her job. If he were honest with himself, she had offered nothing beyond simple friendship, her generosity of spirit compelling her to compassionate acts so rare in evidence in his life he had allowed his imagination to color beyond the lines, embellishing, hearing words he wasn't sure she'd spoken, believing what he wanted to believe, not seeing her actions as definitive of her character, but as explosively yearned for expressions of fancy and affection, him, him, him, always him. The hypocrisy of his assessment of Hicks was not lost on him, mirrors both, suitors claiming territory.
She had been caught in the crossfire between CO19, Zaf, and as yet unidentified assailants attempting to assassinate Hicks, throwing herself over him, shielding him with her body, and he couldn't allow himself to contemplate his reaction were she to have been injured, murdered outright to ensure that Pandora's Box remained securely closed. Years of experience told him this would not be the last time she was in danger, and her proximity to Hicks served only to heighten that considerable and established risk.
Entrusting Malcolm to construct a passable duplicate manuscript, taking advantage of information gleaned from an asset of Adam's, a fortuitous bit of luck there, possibly, he, however, had fancied, Clive working the numbers, parting the clouds, demanding to be heard even after death, he'd concluded the only solution ensuring both Ruth, and Hicks' continued safety was to let it be known he was also in possession of Clive's manuscript, provided to him prior to his demise, and would have no compunction whatsoever in using it, setting fire to the lot of them, watching as they twist and turn, betray and reveal, the destruction of cleansing one's soul a spectator's sport. He had to admit, privately, that Woodring organizing the death squad over at Six had come as a shock, initially, but given the kernels of information contained within provided, reluctantly, by Hicks, he imagined it more of a shock that Woodring appeared to have acted alone, though he was hard pressed to believe Juliet had not been active within the loop of conspiracy. She was, of course, resplendent in justifications, washing herself of guilt with necessary acts, those decisions which allow the government to continue unimpeded by scandal, and, in this specific case, scrutiny. If the complacent masses only knew what acts were executed in their collective name, for their own good, for the sanctity of the realm. The dark void visits us all, smiling.
He had decided to place Hicks on the shelf for future use, extracting from him his word the manuscript would remain undisclosed, it's contents and truths more effective as camouflaged ravings of a terminally ill and bitter man, manipulation tools disclosed as needs must, divulged to bend the will of man to suit his wants and desires. He took no small amount of pleasure in watching as Hicks was forced to sign the Official Secrets Act, and enjoyed the opportunity to detail for him the magnitude of consequence should Hicks disregard the pledge of silence in all areas concerning Clive McTaggart, and his Pandora Box of Secrets.
"You are never to approach me again. Is that clear?" Her tone was dangerously calm, deceptively soft, serene, a shiver of recognition traveling his spine, her imitation of him alarmingly spot on. Full circle, time passing, retracing the beginning, her skills developing even as he watched her slice.
"Ruthie..." Adopting an obsequiously cajoling attitude, attempting to appease, smooth her over, engender himself in her graces, and he squeezed his hands at his sides to avoid doing worse, indulging in the impulse to physically harm him.
"Is that clear?" Each word bitten off before the next, she stared at him unflinchingly, steady, cold as ice, her breathing barely lifting her chest, her emotional state a mystery behind her impassive expression. He knew, then, in the quiet as she awaited Hicks' acquiescence that she was returning to him, discarding this past liaison, closing the door on him until she had use of a shelved asset, alining herself with MI5, with Pandora's Box, willfully immersing herself, her path chosen, her allegiance decided. His.
It was, quite literally, the sexiest thing he had ever witnessed from her to date, his list of eminently sexy things having narrowed to include only those involving Ruth some time ago, becoming an awestruck spectator, and she emanating strength from within, his desire stirring, his need to claim her primary, his hands squeezing and releasing at his sides, as she turned and calmly left the room.
It was in that moment he'd decided to share with her the truth of the manuscript, both forged and authentic, each in his possession, Clive, ever resilient, having stacked the deck, choosing to provide him with every seedy, underhanded event he had documented over his forty plus years in service. One book with enough information to topple an entire government, and awesome weapon in the wrong hands, or, for that matter, his own.
"She isn't what she seems, you know. You think you know her? Don't fool yourself, Harry. She discarded me before, and she's discarding me now. No remorse, no afterthought. Done, and done." Slapping his hands together, a casino card dealer making way for the next, washing his hands of the game on the table.
"Perhaps it's more likely she simply decided it was time to expunge herself of excess garbage." His tone light, disregard dripping from every word spoken.
"Ha! I'm not the only garbage needing removal in this room," eyes sharp, drilling into his own, daring him to flinch, daring him to deny.
"She'll discard you as easily, once she really sees you. You and I, we're the same, Harry, much as it may sicken you." Smiling, sardonic, twisting the knife with enthusiasm. "Opportunistic, manipulative bastards both of us, willing to do whatever is necessary to secure the end we demand, feel entitled to, earned by blood or trickery, doesn't matter because in the end, we're cut from the same cloth, and when she sees you, she'll make you bleed, and you will never be washed of her. I'm paid to be observant, Harry, and I've observed you, with her. It won't be long, now."
Offering a sarcastic salute in parting, "I wish you luck. You're going to need it."
He allowed Hicks the last word, his flair for the dramatic worn on his sleeve, a performer masquerading as a journalist. Sitting, the silence of the room enfolding him, he concentrated on erasing his altercation with Hicks, the fundamental truths revealed, more unpalatable due to the source, the fount of illumination, a sociopath much like himself, though clearly more at ease with that stamp of amoral tendency, ability. Was he not, in deciding to bring Ruth into his confidence, placing her in the very same level of danger as Hicks first appearing at her home? Could he truly distinguish a difference, or is the inherent hypocrisy flowing in his bloodstream, his heart coursing treachery with every thumping heartbeat, so skilled at deception, obscuring what he is, who he is in its purest fundamental form, believing the lies he tells himself?
Still entertaining the idea of taking Ruth into his confidence, vacillating between what he should do versus what he wanted to do, he waited until the grid was all but deserted, the two of them illuminated, she by desk lamp, he by the signature scarlet that pulsed with life in his office. He beckoned, she came, as it was, as it always seemed to be, seating herself gingerly across from him, waiting for him to begin.
"I need to share something with you. Only you." Staring at her in earnest, telegraphing his meaning, manipulating her curiosity with his eyes alone. Nodding her assent for him to continue, choosing not to speak.
"I have Clive's original manuscript. If something were...were to happen...to me...something fatal...I can't have it falling into the wrong hands. You're my Plan B, Ruth."
"Harry...surely there are better choices..." Shaking her head, her hands beginning to rise, a movement meant to ward off any continuation.
"No. You're not an active field agent, and as such, your chances for survival increase exponentially. I have to chose someone who will, well, to be blunt...who possesses the highest chance of survival. It's critical that whomever I chose will out live me. Simple as that." Internally coaching himself, clinical, suitably removed, emotions dampened, you must be as a surgeon's scalpel, quick and without indecision.
Staring at him, eyes wide with shock, mumbling something he didn't catch but which sounded like not so simple.
"There will come a time when you will be required to make this same choice. I won't be there to guide you, but I trust that you will decide as necessary. You will chose well, I have great faith in that." Tilting his head, watching her as she began to synthesize his words, breaking them down in her mind, full sentences into smaller components, accommodating their presence, reconciling meaning, conforming to duty, succumbing to his spoken need. The steps of her distillation flickering across her face, her expressions like that of a slide show, each revealing more than before, each a bread crumb of thought, there for the taking, the trail into the mystery of her mind.
She will make you bleed.
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Looking back now, the number of secrets he has shared with her, the things she knows presently that will outlive him through her, are numerous, insidious plagues all, establishing her as the vessel by which he ensures his legacy, in some sense, his immortality bought the moment of his death, and then hers through another, rather like a child carrying the genetic stamp of familial lines into adulthood, the species surviving generations, tied by blood, and vows, and oaths, time retracing the beginning, full circle. There was a tragic beauty in the memory, the first metaphorical conception between them, their immortal union secured, done, and done. A life created from another death, a vow bestowed in the face of treachery and betrayal, an affection born of awe and recognition, a warning issued, beware, old man, it won't be long now, the vanquished departing the field.
She will make you bleed.
His melancholic, despondent heart welcomed it, the little death, the rapturous defeat.
I see you, Ruth.
See me, and let me bleed.
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A/N: I'm going on vacation, off the grid, and will be enjoying numerous elaborately garnished cocktails brought to me by men wearing khaki shorts, swimming, over eating, and indulging in very bad decisions the likes of which would make a Roman Emperor blush, with not one single computer in sight. I will resume G&M upon my return, and hope that y'all will accommodate this delay, while anticipating the next installment. Be Well!