A/N: This chapter is this mildly M-rated, and the next one not quite so mild.
Oliver Mace, JIC Chair though he may be, is a man who repulses me, with his unctuous, self-satisfied voice, murky motives, and highly questionable methods. When he attempted to take over the Grid in the wake of Tom turning rogue (unthinkable, and in the end, not true) and shooting Harry, all of Section D developed a hearty dislike for him, but for me it goes deeper; I can hardly stand to be near the man, so unsettling do I find him. I hesitate to use such a word about anyone, but there is an air of evil about him, a miasma of darkness that follows him and taints us all. His reptilian eyes chill me to the core, the blackness in them testament to the unspeakable things he has seen and ordered done. He seems to bear a special malice towards Harry, in particular; Harry, who still holds certain old-fashioned principles and beliefs dear, will always be a thorn in the side of totally amoral and ruthless men such as Mace, for which I thank heaven, as the idea of a Britain fashioned in Mace's image fills me with deep fear. I had thought that Ruth felt similarly towards him, but now, as I watch her dance with the most dangerous man in the room, I am beginning to wonder if I know her at all. My knees refuse to hold me up any longer, so great is the shock; and I slump onto a chair, unable to tear my eyes away from this utterly incomprehensible sight.
Mace isn't dancing with Ruth as much as controlling her by main force, I soon realise; he looms over her menacingly as he shuffles about the floor, holding her uncomfortably close; and when he looks at her, beautiful in her sea-green dress, there is a predatory expression on his face that sickens me. I don't know what to do; presumably, Ruth must have accepted a dance with him, and I'm certain that she won't welcome it if I play the part of the jealous lover – besides, bravery is a thing which terrifies me…and then they turn, so that I can see Ruth in profile, and every line of her body is rigid, her eyes enormous. In the same moment, his hands are suddenly all over her, and I can see her discomfort becoming fear as she tries to escape his groping, roving clutches, while he leers at her ineffectual attempts to free herself; suddenly, I am on my feet, striding towards them. My heart hammers as adrenaline floods my body in anticipation of a physical confrontation with Mace, who is actually laughing as Ruth begins to struggle in earnest, but I hold my nerve. If anyone else notices, they are evidently unwilling to risk a run-in with him; his reputation for holding a grudge and exacting his pound of flesh is legendary, and I doubt that any of them even know who Ruth is, or care, if they do. There's no backup here, no Special branch storm-troopers to charge in…only me, full of fear and trepidation, but determined to intervene.
As I approach, the acrid reek of whisky emanating from Mace is eye-wateringly strong, and Ruth's eyes fill with relief as she sees me. Next, I do something I have never done in my life; I pick a fight. Mace swings around unsteadily at my sharp tap on his shoulder, squinting to focus on me, and I can see that he is very, very drunk. Stepping right up to him, I say quietly, "Let her go, Oliver." He blinks in surprise as he recognises me, and snarls, "And if I don't, what are you going to do about it, little mousy Malcolm?" Amazed at how steady my voice is, I reply succinctly, "This," as I seize his right arm near the elbow, and dig in hard with my long, strong fingers, seeking the large ulnar and radial nerves; Mace sucks in his breath as pain begins to register in his alcohol-logged brain, so I increase the pressure until his hand opens involuntarily, nerves deadened by my grip, and Ruth is able to break free, twisting herself out of his clutches and delivering a raking kick to his shins, before stamping hard on his instep with her high heel, loathing plain on her face. Mace staggers at Ruth's parting shot, then attempts to swing at me with his free arm; I squeeze harder, and he gasps in agony, twisting in my grasp. I lock eyes with him, noting how glassy his stare is - he must have been drinking hard all evening to be in such an advanced state of inebriation – and in the same even tone of voice, I say, "I mightn't be a field officer, but I am very good with other things, such as practical anatomy…do you know what the vagus nerve is?" A spark of alarmed comprehension flares briefly in Mace's unfocused eyes, and he nods, raising his left hand in surrender. I release him and step back, hearing him curse under his breath as feeling begins to return to his arm – most unpleasant for him, I shouldn't wonder – and the pain caused by Ruth's unexpected attack on his shins begins to assert itself. "Harry will hear about this," he slurs as I start to walk away, and I turn around, my heart clenching at those words, and at the sly look on his face, before reason asserts itself. "Oh, I don't think so, Oliver. If I tell him that you were on the point of raping her, which of us is Harry is going to believe? Yes, I rather think so, too," as I see his shoulders slump in admission of my unassailable logic. As Mace lurches off in the direction of the bar (Good, I think savagely, hopefully he'll drink himself into a coma and won't even remember seeing us here), I turn from the ballroom and go to find Ruth.
My first instinct is to look for her outside, certain that she will be seeking privacy and solitude in which to gather herself, so I step through one of the French doors, and walk along the terrace, relieved myself to be out in the soft evening air after the strain of the last few minutes; and sure enough, I soon spot Ruth on a bench at the far end of the terrace, under a magnificent old wisteria in full flower, its light perfume fragrancing the night. As I walk up to her, I see that she is holding something small and square in one hand – a powder compact, perhaps, by its metallic gleam - which she tucks into a fold of her dress as she hears me approach. She smiles tremulously at me, and I am filled with such an overwhelming sense of relief that she is safe – that we are both alright – that I begin to shake. It's the adrenaline, I realise, as I sink onto the bench next to her and wrap an arm around her shoulders, drawing her towards me. She allows me to, resting her head against my chest; and for a while, we simply sit silently, breathing together, each deep in our own thoughts. Mine go along the lines, at first, of she's safe, thank God, she's safe, and then, I can't believe I just DID that, and then outrage at the deliberate lack of interest shown by any of the other guests – it just goes to show how powerful a man Mace is, and how far-reaching his insidious influence is – and then I begin to recall certain images which my brain had captured and filed away to consider once the danger was past. Mace, suddenly pulling Ruth to him and running his hands all over her – he had even tried to delve into her cleavage, the dirty dog! Ruth's odd look of fear as she fought him off, and the confusion on Mace's face when I first appeared… yes, something is off here, something is not as it seems, but what it is escapes my overstimulated mind. Later, I tell myself, I'll think about it later...
Eventually, the shaking eases, and I feel ready to speak. "What happened, Ruth?" She sits up to face me, and gives a little half shrug, surprisingly composed – she has a core of steel, I have begun to realise, for all her fragility and uncertainty, and it emerges at odd times, revealing her as one of the warrior band, in spirit if not in substance. "I was just sitting there, waiting for you, when Mace appeared out of nowhere and insisted on a dance. He was so drunk, he stank of it, but he wouldn't take no for an answer – and then I thought that perhaps it would just be easier to go along with him – I mean, what could happen in a room full of people? (Plenty, I think to myself, plenty, my trusting, naïve Ruth…) And once we got on the floor, he was horrible, just horrible…the things he was saying to me… he wouldn't let me go, and then he started to maul me, and then…then you came…what did you do to him?" Her voice holds a note of wonder; she's never seen me as anything other than a gentle and rather timid man, shying away from any sort of conflict – but then, nor have I. And yet, Nature shows us that even the most retiring of creatures will defend the ones it loves…and I love her, more than life itself.
I cough in embarrassment, then say, "Promise you won't laugh?" Ruth shakes her head, and looks at me gravely. "It's a little move that Tessa taught me once, but I never imagined I'd have occasion to use it. She said that even a physically incompetent technical officer like me should be able to immobilise an opponent, if they were discovered while doing field surveillance, and that it would give the real spooks one less thing to worry about, if an operation did go pear-shaped. So she showed me what to do – my arm was numb for days afterwards – and when I asked her where she had learnt it, she laughed and said, 'from Mossad – it's what they teach their female recruits, because you would never be able to manage what they teach the males' - those were her exact words". I wince at the recollection, both from the memory of the pain Tessa had caused me physically, and of the barbed little comments she had made while doing it.
Ruth frowns slightly, then replies softly, "Tessa was a snake, but I am very glad she taught you that…and for the record, I don't think you're physically incompetent in the slightest…quite the opposite, in fact." Even by moonlight, I can see her blush as she says this, and the air between us takes on a few more degrees of warmth, as I flush in response to this unlooked-for praise, and my adrenaline surges again, this time seeking a very different sort of resolution. From the ballroom windows, music drifts out, and I smile as I recognise the beginning of the tune. Getting to my feet, I assist Ruth to rise, saying, "We've only had one dance, after all…may I have this one?" She looks towards the ballroom; I can read her reluctance to go back inside, and quickly add, "Out here, just the two of us, and the moon…it is Midsummer's Eve, after all…" Ruth's eyes sparkle as she answers, "'Lulled in these flowers, by dances and delight', do you mean, like Titania?" I slide one hand around her waist, take her hand with the other, and we begin a slow foxtrot to the old Cole Porter song, In the Still of the Night, the words of the chorus revolving in my mind even as I am swamped by the sensations aroused by Ruth's physical proximity:
Do you love me, as I love you
Are you my life to be, my dream come true
Or will this dream of mine fade out of sight
Like the moon growing dim, on the rim of the hill
In the chill, still, of the night...
As we dance, I can feel Ruth pressing closer to me, her body moulding to mine as we move, and when I kiss her, her response is immediate and demanding – residual adrenaline response, I think dazedly – and then, we are not dancing any more at all, but are somehow leaning next to the twisted trunk of the wisteria, while we kiss and fondle and caress and touch, and showers of purple petals are falling around us as Ruth, with her back against the wall that supports the old vine, hooks her lower leg around mine and whispers things I have never heard her say…things that I would dearly love to follow through on, right here and now, if only it weren't for the fact that I am still marginally aware of the security officers patrolling the perimeter of the building, and of the night-vision-equipped helicopter circling above Havensworth.
With my arms on either side of Ruth, braced against the rough brick, I strive for control, even as her hands slide around my waist to meet in the small of my back, under my dinner jacket, before drifting further down to hold me firmly against her lower body. "Ruth…we should go in…upstairs…we could be seen, out here…" I groan as she changes position slightly to press her hips against mine and smiles up at me archly. "They'll just think it's Midsummer madness…I'm sure we won't be the only ones taking advantage of the lovely night…" Her eyes are huge and luminous in the moonlight, and she looks otherworldly, in her shimmering dress, with her hair falling free from its formal style into loose tendrils around her neck, tendrils I want to twine around my fingers as I tip her head back to expose her throat to my kisses… I close my eyes for a moment, fighting to hold on to my last shred of rational thought, and Ruth shifts beneath me, seeming to slide downwards, down…my eyes open wide in shock as I realise her intent. I have seen it happen enough times during the course of my work, I know that most men seem to crave it, if not downright demand it…but I just can't come to terms with it… the act itself seems so selfish, and somehow degrading to one's partner; and in all the times that we have been together, I have never sought it nor wanted it. I force myself to step back, and Ruth looks up at me in confusion. "Not that, my darling," I tell her gently, and her eyes reflect her puzzlement, before she says, "I know we haven't done it before, but trust me, most men in your position would think they had just died and gone to heaven." I shrug uncomfortably, "Well, I'm not most men…" She dimples at that, and agrees, "No, you're not...sometimes, I think you're from another age altogether, and you still have a lot to learn about the twenty-first century..." I'm not sure what to make of that, until she continues, "His square-turned joints, and strength of limb, Showed him no carpet-knight so trim, But in close fight a champion grim… Malcolm, you're my knight in white tie, if not in shining armour."
With that, Ruth takes my hand and leads the way back inside, across the emptying ballroom, and up the sweeping oak staircase to our room.
A/N: the lines of poetry Ruth quotes at the end are from Sir Walter Scott's The Knight.