"Harry," her voice is muffled as she calls out to her husband, "have you seen my brown boots?"
She's sitting on the floor, legs crossed, her chocolate skirt floating around her legs, as she sticks her head under the entry way bench in her quest to find the boots. The boots she knows had been sitting on the floor of the cupboard the night before when she'd dropped her navy ones next to them.
Now, both pairs were missing.
And unless a pair of elves had visited in the overnight, her husband was the culprit for the missing footwear. That or they'd been burglared for two pairs of women's boots. "Harry?" she calls out again, not receiving an answer from the man in the kitchen.
"What do you want on your toast?" he asks, stepping to the doorway to watch as she carefully pulls herself up from the floor onto the bench, waiting for an indication that she needs his assistance.
"Strawberry jam," she says, looking up to meet his eyes. "My boots?"
"Anything else besides the jam?" he asks, seemingly not hearing her question as he moves away.
Frowning, she leverages herself to a standing position, pausing a moment to ensure she has her balance before following after him. She stops in the doorway, momentarily distracted by the sight of her husband's back; the material of his crisp white shirt pressed loosely against broad shoulders by the gray bracers he's wearing; the muscles in his shoulder blades pulling against the material as he works on buttering his own toast
"Ruth," he mutters, not turning from his task, "anything besides the jam?"
"No," she says, shaking her head as she steps into the brightly lit kitchen, the morning rays of summer sun shining through the windows. Settling into her chair, she looks around the space, hoping to spot the missing footwear. Not seeing them in the immaculate space, she's about to ask again when a plate of toast is set before her, strawberry jam evenly spread across the two pieces he's cut into bite sized triangles. Eyebrow lifted, she looks at him in question.
"Practice," is all he says as he settles into the chair next to her, his own plate of bite sized triangles sat in front of him, a smile gracing his lips as he begins his breakfast.
Ruth watches him a moment, sees his smile, and shakes her head. Picking up her own toast, she takes a bite, before asking again. "Harry, where are my boots?"
"What boots?" he asks, eyes twinkling as they focus on the bread before him.
"Harry what did you do with them?"
He sighs, setting the small triangle down on his plate and reaching for her hand, before lifting his eyes to hers. She can still see the twinkle behind the irises, but also the determination of a man set on getting his own way. Leaning back in the chair, she folds her arms across her chest, settling them on bump that is their children. "Harry," she starts again, settling in for the argument she knows is inevitable. He's been trying; unsuccessfully; for the last two months to persuade her to give up her normal low-heeled shoes and wear instead any number of flats he produces from some vast shoe collection he has hidden somewhere in the house. Under normal circumstances, she's sure she would be happy to receive an unlimited supply of new shoes, all tailored to her particular style, but between his overprotectiveness due to the twins and his obsessiveness with protecting her from the yet unknown threat he's created from Peter, she's unwilling to accept any infringement of her normal routine.
Not without an argument.
His fingers curl around hers, gently untangling her crossed arms as he lifts her hand to his lips. The soft caress of his lips against her skin coupled with the tender, heated look of his eyes would normally have her resolve weakening, but to give in now on something as minor as shoes would be opening the way for more changes she was unwilling to give into.
"Harry," she says threateningly, tugging on her hand to free it from his grip.
"Ruth," he counters, not releasing his hold on her. "Before you argue with me, just listen to what I have to say."
"There's nothing to argue about; you're going to tell me where my boots are."
"You have a doctor's appointment today," he says, ignoring her statement and instead allowing his thumb to brush along the skin of her palm.
"Yes, I remember from when I made sure it was on your schedule last night." She mutters, ignoring the tingle in the skin of her hand. "All the more reason for me to have shoes to wear."
"And you will. But even you have to admit that the walk from the car park to the actual Doctor's office is too much in heels. You yourself made that comment last month."
"So I'll switch them after we leave for the appointment," she says, her resolve weakening as she silently admits that he's right, she had complained of the ache in her back and legs after walking the twenty minutes it had taken to cross the hospital campus. And his concern for her comfort coupled with his remembering something seemingly trivial does cause a warmth to spread through her. But not enough to make her change her mind. "Where are my boots Harry?"
"Safe," he mutters, eyes never leaving hers. "And staying where they're at. You know fate never lets you have your way," he continues quickly, his free hand reaching to the empty chair on his left. "Something will come up, delaying us from leaving the Grid, and forcing you to wear the boots. I don't want to see you in pain tonight because of something within our control. Please just wear the flats."
He offers her a pair on sensible brown flats, the style almost the same as the boots she had wanted to wear minus the heel, and she feels her resolve give way. He does have a point, fate does tend to spoil the best laid plans for them, and so, with a sigh, she holds out her hand. "Give me the shoes."
"Thank you," he whispers, smile filling his face as he stands, setting the shoes on the table. Leaning forward, he kisses her softly. "I love you."
"I love you too," she says, shaking her head as he settles back into his chair. Picking up a toast, she takes a bite, smiling at him as she asks, "What would you have done if I had insisted on my boots?"
"Persuaded you to see things my way," he says with a chuckle, picking up his own toast.
He's just finished cleaning up their breakfast plates when the doorbell rings. Frowning, he looks at the clock on the wall, dread filling him at just who would be calling on them at 6.30 in the morning. Ruth is upstairs grabbing their pregnancy binder from the office for their appointment that evening, and so he knows she's safe enough.
"I'll get it," he says up the open stair well as he makes his way to the door. Stepping to the side, he peers out the frosted glass, his frown deepening at the two men standing on the stoop. Behind them he can see the two security services men watching, and some of the dread lifts. They'd have verified the identities of the two as well as checking them for any possible threat. It takes him a moment to disable the alarm and unlock the locks, and by the time he's pulling open the door, Ruth has joined him, the question in her eyes easily interrupted.
Ignoring her for the moment, he focuses on the two men, his confusion growing as both hold up badges. "Mr. Pearce?"
"Yes."
"I'm DI Jones, and this is DC Langston. May we come in?"
With a glance to the men at the end of the walk, he nods stepping back to let them into the entry. Closing the door, he silently watches as they introduce themselves to Ruth before she leads them into the sitting room, both passing on the coffee or tea Ruth offers to get for them.
"Can I ask what this is about?" he asks after a moment's silence.
There's the slightest of hesitation between the two, as well as a shared glance at Ruth before the DI speaks. "Samantha Buxton."
"What about her?" Harry asks; dread filling him again at the mention of his ex-employee.
There's a pause as the two men look at each other again, their shared gaze settling on Ruth, accessing, before he continues. "She was murdered last night."
AN: Firstly, I'd like to thank all the reviewers; new and old; who have taken the time to let me know their thoughts on this story, as well as inquiring when the next update would be. I cannot express how much each and every review means to me. I do have a plan for this story and know what'll be happening. And I do hope that you'll leave one on this letting me know your thoughts of this transition chapter as it's not particularly of favorite.
Secondly, I would like to apologize for the extended period of time between updates, it's never my intention to let so much time pass between updates, and I am working to eliminate that with some help. Unfortunately, it's only in the last few months that I've accurately identified a major disorder that I have, and it does affect my creative cycles and ability to write during certain periods. Hopefully with the extensive work I'm doing right now, I can eliminate it and continue to update more regularly.
Thirdly, I do owe many people apologies for various things over the past 6 months to a year before I began to get my head on straight, specifically the women of 3W8L and how I handled different things. As I don't really have any other means, I'd just like to say here that I'm sorry.