As I am waiting, I try to formulate an explanation for Ruth's uncharacteristic behaviour; but try as I might, the only thing I can come up with is Pope's immortal line, Hope springs eternal in the human breast…I must be the biggest masochist in existence, I think, as I watch Ruth and her target make halting small talk over glasses of vin extremely ordinaire in the nave, then leave together, walking out into the crisp London autumn night, nearly, but not quite, touching hands. My heart plummets to new depths as I contemplate what this means, even though I wait for quarter of an hour, just in case. Harry would say, never leave an operative in the field without backup. As I am gathering my coat and scarf from a pew at the rear, preparatory to departing alone, I hear Ruth's footfall behind me, and turn in disbelief to see her standing there, eyes misty with unshed tears. "Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, isn't that what they say, Malcolm?" Her voice is shaky, striving too hard for nonchalance, but failing miserably.
In a quick, embarrassed movement, she dashes a couple of tears from her cheeks, her dark hair falling across her face as she does so. In that moment, all I can think of is comforting her. Hesitantly, I open my arms in invitation, and to my utter astonishment she steps into them and wraps her own arms around my middle-aged middle. And then Ruth Evershed does something no-one on the Grid has ever seen her do: quite simply, she goes to pieces. Safe within my embrace, her head resting on my shoulder, she begins to weep. We stand in the deep shadows of the ancient church as I gently draw her closer, trying to calm and soothe her as she soaks my best dinner jacket with her tears and heaves great shuddering sobs born, I surmise from the few words she chokes out, of loneliness, frustration and disappointment. With an almost childlike trust and need for physical contact, Ruth presses her body into mine from the knees up, and the effect of such sudden and thorough closeness almost results in a total abandonment of all standards of acceptable gentlemanly conduct, except for those long years of developing iron control over my thoughts and feelings.
That training is my saving grace, because the feeling of her soft body against mine is almost overwhelming. I am keenly aware of her breasts, rising and falling maddeningly with each sob, so soft against my chest; of the ends of her hair tickling my hands as I hold her close; of the silken texture of her dress; her delicate perfume, and underlying it her own, even more intoxicating scent; of the warmth generated by the closeness of our bodies, and of my own body stirring in response. I feel twenty years younger in an instant. My heart is pounding alarmingly fast, which in any other circumstance I would take as a sign of an imminent cardiac event of catastrophic proportions; but tonight I know that it is simply bursting with the indescribable joy of finally holding Ruth, of having her here in my arms, trusting me with her vulnerability and loneliness. I feel as if she is an inexpressibly precious gift, one to be cherished and treated with infinite tenderness.
As she cries, I find myself soothing Ruth in the Welsh of my early childhood, its lilting cadences and lyrical expression more suitable to expressing my feelings than everyday English – and I know she doesn't have Welsh, so I am free to speak all the small, tender endearments I have longed to say to her since that first meeting, more than two years earlier. My beloved, my only, my beautiful dark-haired one, I call her, among other things, and I hold her until she is still and quiet once more, the only sign of her recent upheaval the preternaturally deep breaths she draws as she tries to regain her equilibrium. Her body, still pressed against mine, feels nearly boneless now, worn out from the force of her emotional outburst, and she is holding onto me as if I am the only reason she is still standing. I never want to let her go.
Finally, her breathing is slow and calm again, and she tilts her head back to look at me, still maintaining our embrace. "I must look a fright, and I feel such an idiot, weeping buckets all over you like that, I don't know what came over me," she begins, shakily. I smile at her from a distance of about six inches, and say, "It's quite all right, Mozart frequently has that effect on me, too', trying to lighten the mood, and to my delight it works; I am rewarded with a small, watery smile, and her eyes brighten the tiniest bit. I am loath to break our connection, but I know that the church will shortly be locked up - everyone else has long gone - and I have no desire to be shut in for the night. Gathering my courage, I suggest supper at a cosy little place I know of, and to my utter amazement, she accepts happily. I assist her with her coat, and she tucks her hand through my arm as we leave, maintaining some of our recent physical proximity. I practically float out of St Martins and into Trafalgar Square with Ruth on my arm, and for the first time in nearly thirty years, I no longer feel prematurely old, full of caution and reserve, and resigned to a life of perpetual loneliness. In short, I don't feel the slightest bit like me; I feel, for once, as if I hold the winning hand in that great game of chance called life. Malcolm 2, Harry nil.
Settled into a deeply upholstered and very private booth in an upstairs corner of a discreet French restaurant just off the Strand, we sit in a comfortable silence after our meal, with the remnants of our second bottle of Chateau Latour on the table between us. A routine check of the room reveals that we are the only patrons left, but we are in no hurry to go back out into the sharp coldness of the night. It's a rare quality to find in someone, that ability to just be, to inhabit silence with ease. Ruth has it in spades. Not for her a superficial stream of meaningless chatter. It's one of the things I love most about her; I find so much peace, just being in her presence. After a while, she smiles at me, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. "Malcolm, when I was…when we…back there, what were you saying to me? I know I was pretty incoherent, but I don't think you were speaking English." I cough slightly, and look away for a moment to gather my thoughts. How much to say? What to tell her? Should I take my courage in both hands, or draw back from the brink? Her eyes rest on me, waiting patiently for my answer. "Er, it's a bit silly, really. It was just a bit of Welsh, just something my father would say to comfort me when I had hurt myself. I hope you didn't mind?" She looks at me incredulously. "Mind? Why would I…? Malcolm, don't be ridiculous. You know how much I trust you, what good friends we are. I love that I can make a sodden mess out of your best dinner jacket, and not only do you let me, but you say nice things in Welsh while I do it", and she reaches across the table and gently takes my hand, turning it over to lie palm up as she traces the lines and creases with the index finger of her other hand, head bent in concentration. Classic misdirection, I think, even while my heart skips several beats at her touch. I try to put a coherent sentence together, and fail miserably. "Ruth, I…I must say something. I can't keep silent, not anymore, not after tonight," I begin, my voice sounding strange in my own ears.
She glances up at me through her lashes, the same look I have seen her give a hundred times to Harry, and I waver in my resolve. Harry. I had almost forgotten the third factor in this particular equation. They are both my friends, both my colleagues. I must tread carefully. She waits for me to continue, so I blunder on with, "I really don't think it's right to bring you any more Registry files at home. Even if it's for a legitimate reason. It only leads to situations like tonight's, it seems." Then I wait while she mulls this over, an odd little smile playing around her mouth. "Yes, I think you're probably right. It does seem to lead to situations. Like tonight's. Although this isn't so very unbearable, is it?" she concludes. In the next heartbeat, she is leaning over the table, drawing me into a kiss, her soft lips meeting mine in a breathtaking moment of delight, and then, as the kiss deepens, she suddenly draws back, her eyes huge and storm-dark as she says to me, "Let's get out of here. Now." I sit there, stunned, thinking I have upset her in some way, watching her gather her coat and bag, then she gives me the most direct look I have ever seen her give to anyone, and the truth of where this is heading begins to dawn on me. I can't get to my feet fast enough, can't believe that she might actually want me as I have longed for her, can hardly bring myself to think about all the permutations and ramifications of…of this, of us.
A/N: Hardcore H/R shippers may wish to look away for the next couple of chapters...well, it's not as if they ever actually DID anything about it for all that time! And life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans...(my thanks to John Lennon for that little snippet of truth!)