10

Breaking down

Set immediately after 8.8. Probably three chapters. Rating will increase...

The idea is to set out how HR move from their 'chaste' relationship to intimacy, given all that we know about their temperaments, fears, etc...many thanks for reading! Your reviews make it all worthwhile. HRFan.

CH1.

1.

No news since Harry called her mid afternoon, from the bomb site, to tell her that the search for Ros and the Home Secretary was under way, that Lucas had a broken leg and severe concussion, that he himself was unscathed. Since then, nothing. She checks her mobile phone for messages, obsessively, and can't bear to be away from her desk. Had she not had to use the bathroom, desperately, she would not be walking back to the Grid, she would be on the Grid, ensconced in phone lines and computer feeds, trying to get a handle on possible culprits, fighting the urge to get a car to go to the site, knowing that as the most senior of their reduced team of two, she had to hold the fort and help Tariq through the first major crisis of his fledging career.

She swipes her card in, hands shaky, and is met by the distraught face of her younger colleague.

'Tariq. What? What's happened? What's happened?! Harry?!'

She knows she sounds hysterical but she feels out of control, the icy fingers of fear clutching at her heart.

'Harry called', he mutters, on the verge of tears. 'Five minutes ago. It's…'

'What?!'

'It's Ros', he stammers. 'They found her. She was…the paramedics tried but…they couldn't…she's….'

She steps away from him, blindly looking for a chair for support, sinking down, physically and emotionally broken by the news that once again, and for the second time in two months, a trusted, cherised colleague has been taken away from them. But whereas for Jo, the tears came almost right away, this time, they are locked somewhere, deep within her, unable to push their way through to the surface. She looks up at Tariq, whose own tears are flowing now, and who looks like a lost soul. She gets up heavily, wearily, and gives him a long, heart felt hug.

'Is it….is it always like this?', he asks hoarsely, in an almost childlike voice. 'Do you always lose people in this place? I mean…'. He shrugs helplessly through his tears. What can she tell him? Recount the long list of those who went in a long burst of flames? Explain the peculiar pain of losing someone you wouldn't regard as a friend but who would die for you and you for them….She can't. Not now. Perhaps not ever. She squeezes his arm one last time, and dial Harry's number.

He picks up at the twelfth tone, as she was about to hang up. He does not say anything.

'Harry', she whispers.

'I know', he says, his voice barely recognisable.

'What…where are you?'

'I'm on my way to Wormwood Scrubs. Someone has got to tell her father. I could have rung the Governor but….'

She closes her eyes. 'Do you want me to go and talk to her mother?', she asks, praying he will say no.

'No need. Her mother has had Alzheimer's for two years. Her deterioration has been…'

'I see.' There's so little I know about Ros, she tells herself. So little…' Are you…afterwards, are you…?'

'I'm going home after I've seen Myers. I need to…You should go home too. There isn't much more we can do at the Grid today…I'll see you at the Grid tomorrow morning', he says heavily. 'Tell Tariq I'll debrief him first thing.'

He hangs up unceremoniously. Almost abruptly – and she remembers the way he brushed her off earlier that morning, on the rooftop, unable, and unwilling, to lean on her and accept the support and friendship she was offering. Unseeingly, tears forming at last, oblivious to Tariq, she makes her way to Harry's office, draws the blinds down, and collapses on the sofa, rolled in a ball, arms clutched against her stomach, the waves of pain finally overcoming her. She does know how long she stays there. But when she emerges, Tariq is still there, at his desk, not doing anything, staring into space. She places her hand on his shoulder. 'Go home', she tells him softly. 'I'll organise a rota here throughout the evening and the night. Harry will see you tomorrow….but really you should go home. OK?'

He nods, relieved, pretending not to notice her redenned, puffy eyes. 'See you tomorrow', he says awkwardly, grabbing his helmet.

She welcome the silence and quiet of the Grid, the semi darkness a cloak for her distress. She places phone calls and requests for staff to the relevant departments, aware of the weight and authority her voice commands – as if they all know, in the Service, and beyond, that she now is Sir Harry Pearce's right-hand woman. That when she speaks on his behalf, it is as if he is addressing them himself. Normally, to know that she is so tightly linked to him in the eyes of their colleagues would please her. But not today, of all days.

When the agents sent by the other services arrive, she briefs them quickly, methodically, her training taking over. She accepts the offer, from the DG herself, of a car to drive her home – a car which will pick her up in the morning to bring her back. She receives everyone else's condoleances, addressed to her, to Harry too….'Tell Harry that…It must be so hard for Harry…Please pass on…How do you think he is...

And she wants to scream. I am not his permanent private secretary!, she wants to say. I have no special claim on him, he can't even bring himself to accepting my friendship! But she bites the words back, and lets herself be driven home, numbly.

She runs a bath. Changes into clean clothes. Eats half a piece of toast. Drinks half a mug of tea. Picks up some book on Greek poetry, only to discard it. Starts working out arrangements for Ros' funeral, only to push the awful thought aside. She looks at her watch. It's 8pm. Harry hasn't rung.

She stands up, angry, enraged in fact by his behaviour. She grabs her keys and opens the main door to the flat – the drab, anonymous safe house she hasn't brought herself to leaving since she came back from Cyprus.

Her jaw drops.

2.

'What…what are you…?'

'Can I come in?', he asks tentatively.

'I thought you were going home.' She knows she sounds accusatory, but can't help it.

'I was. But then I thought…' He looks away.

She stands aside to let him in, inwardly berating herself for the way she is so instantly aware of him, his body, the big solid mass of him moving past her, taking great care not to touch her. 'Do you want something to drink? Tea or…I'm afraid I don't have whisky.'

'Tea would be lovely. Thank you.', he says, excruciatingly, unbearably polite. She clenches her teeth as he follows her to the kitchenette and watches her make the tea. The silence is heavy, a lumpy ball of grey lead hanging over them. In the harsh, yellow light, he looks truly awful: ten years older than he is, every sinew and line of his body screaming exhaustion – and something else too, a tension, an effort, as if he is trying, with all his strength, to remain upright, erect, composed.

'Milk?', she asks neutrally.

'I'Il do it', he offers, grabbing the carton from the fridge. He hands her a steaming mug of tea, she smiles at him, for the first time since he turned up on her doorstep – a diffident smile, but a smile nonetheless.

He sets his mug down so sharply that some of the tea spills over. With a curse, he turns away from her, both hands gripping the worktop to stop them from shaking.

'Harry?', she calls out.

He doesn't respond, solely focused on controlling the torrent of grief about to engulf him. It's pointless. He feels her move besides him, and he fears that she will leave him there, unwilling to offer once more what he rejected twice today. But she stays. He senses her arm around his back, her other hand sneaking up to his face. She almost forces him to look at her. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, and something else too which he recognises as love.

And at last he breaks down– for Ros, for Jo, for Danny, for Zaf, for Adam and Fiona, for those he lost over the years, ripped apart by senseless violence. Somehow she manages to manoeuver him out of the kitchen and into the living room, and to sit them both down on a sofa. She draws him into her arms, and he allows himself to be held, heaving with sobs, his head buried in her shoulder against the slender curve of her neck, his hands clutching her, aware that she too is crying, though more quietly than him.

Slowly, falteringly, he finds himself grow calmer. He rouses himself and leans against the backrest, one hand supporting his head, the other still around her waist. 'Thank you', he whispers shakily, exhausted. 'I didn't mean to do this. I…'

'Why did you come here tonight?', she cuts in softly.

He brushes a tendril of hair away from her face. 'I was worried about you.' He swallows. 'Also…I needed you.' His voice breaks again. 'I needed you very badly.'

She strokes his cheek. 'It's hard for you to say it, isn't it', she says.

He gives her a small, sad, pitiful smile. 'Very'. He doesn't trust himself to say more. They're silent for a few moments, just looking at each other, still touching. 'Ruth. You know how much I l…'

'Harry. Don't. Not today. I don't want it to be said when we've just lost Ros. Not in the middle of all this grief. Please.'

He nods. 'But one day, Ruth….one day, will you let me say it?', he asks gently.

Her eyes are luminous in the darkness. 'I will. I promise.'

3.

A month later.

'Harry?', she says as soon as she enters his office – without knocking, as usual.

He looks up with a smile. 'Yes?'

'Are we still going out for diner tonight?'

She sounds tense, nervous. 'Yes. At least as far as I am concerned. I was planning to pick you up from your flat after my meeting with the new Home Secretary. Why?' Please don't cancel on me, he pleads with her inwardly, not when it's going so well, when we are becoming so close to each other, when…

'Could you pick me up from the rooftop instead?',she asks.

He stares at her, dumbfounded. 'From the rooftop?'

'Yes.' Her jaw is set, her tone firm. But he knows her well enough by now to spot the flickers of insecurity in her eyes.

'Alright. Meet you up there at 8? Good.'

He tries, and fails, throughout the day, to quell the uneasiness which grips his guts as he goes over that odd, weird, eccentric conversation. By the time he is through with the HS, he is racked with anxiety, drained by the endless round of speculations which has been plaguing him since the morning. A break up? No, since she obviously still wants to go out to diner. An illness? Surely he would have seen the signs. They are not intimate yet, they are taking things very slowly – and God knows he has his own reasons for that - but still, he would have noticed it if something were wrong….

He's worked himself up to a fever of nerves as he climbs the stairs to the rooftop. She is already there, bundled in her coat, admiring the winter night above London. She hasn't heard him so he allows himself the pleasure to admire her profile, to imagine what it would be like, what it will be like to have her fully, completely – if only he could bring himself to progressing from chaste kisses to…

'You're here', she interrupts his train of thought.

'Ruth, what's wrong? I know there's something going on, but if there's anything I can do to help, anything at all you know that…'

'Harry.'

'You know that I would do anything to….'

'Harry.'

'Anything to help and…what?'

She smiles at him, shyly, nervously. 'I believe there is something you wanted to tell me', she says, her voice shaking slightly.

He goes very still, understanding dawning in his eyes. This is the moment he has been waiting for, for years literally. 'Are you sure?', he whispers, taking two steps towards her.

She steps forward too, so that they are standing so close to each other they are almost touching. She nods. 'I didn't quite hear that', he insists softly.

'Yes. I'm sure.'

'I love you.' He gets hold of her face in both hands. 'I. Love. You.'

Her smile widens. 'I love you too, Harry.'

He captures her mouth with his, gently, tenderly, softly. 'Thank you', he says hoarsely.

'For what?', she replies, giddy with happiness.

'For being here. For giving me this. For loving me.' His voice breaks. 'I feared, at times, that it wouldn't happen. That you would decide I'm too old, too set in my way, too restrained…'

She silences him with her fingers on his mouth. 'I never stopped loving you. I just needed time to make my peace with the past. My own. And ours.' She reaches up and kisses him. 'Thank you for giving me that time, Harry.'

He enfolds her in his arms, tightly, not wanting to let her go, savouring that long awaited moment. Her stomach rumbles. 'Are you hungry?', he chuckles.

'Ravenous. Let's go and eat.'

They walk downstairs, out of the building, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist, not caring in the least who might see them. They go to a lovely restaurant close to her flat which they discovered two weeks before, but can't for the life of them register what they are eating or drinking, focused as they are on each other. And yet, as the evening wears on, their conversation flows less easily, it becomes somewhat awkward, stilted, as if they do not quite know how to take the next step together.

'Shall I give you a lift home?', he offers in the end.

She looks at him thoughtfully. 'Yes. That'd be lovely.'

In the car, they are both very quiet. He pulls up in front of her house and switches off the engine, uncertain suddenly of himself, of her, of this new stage in their relationship. She clears her throat. 'Would you like to come in for coffee?', she asks hesitantly, mentally kicking herself. For God's sake...you might as well invite him up to take a look at your collection of erotic prints...not that you have any.

He swallows. He knows what she has in mind. What she wants. And it's what he wants to, of course it is. Or is it? Is it really? He loses his nerve. 'I think...it's quite late, actually, and...I'd better get back. I'll just see you inside and ...'

He can't bear to see the look of disappointment in her eyes, the hurt too, the question. He's seen it before, on some of their outings, when he's pulled back from her and shied away from greater intimacy. So he follows her in, makes sure that she locks the door securely, and with one last kiss, and words of love, and the enticing prospect of seeing her at work the next day, he goes back to his car. You idiot, he berates himself. You've been waiting for years and today, of all days, you couldn't do it...you're going to lose her. She won't wait forever. You've got to talk to her, you've got to explain...she'll understand. With a weary sigh, he gets himself home, unable to believe that the an evening which started so well, on such a high note, can end like this, tinted with despair.

4.

She potters around in her kitchen, trying to keep the tears at bay, unable to settle down to sleep. In her bathroom, she looks at herself in the mirror. She could be thinner, slenderer...the lines of her face are deeper than they were, the shadows under her eyes darker since she has been back from Cyprus. She isn't beautiful like Ros, or attractive like Jo was. Or Zoey. There's something ordinary looking about her, and although it normally doesn't bother her, tonight, she feels depressed: she was hoping that by accepting his words of love at last, she would finally break through his reserve, but no such luck. She doesn't understand him. One step forward, two steps backward....He can't but have seen, and felt, that she wanted him to stay and take that final step with her. She runs her hands over her body in the dark solitude of her bed, imagining them to be Harry's large, strong hands instead, and she sighs. Seven years Harry. Seven years to get to that point...are we going to have to wait another seven years before making love? Come on....She knows he enjoys kissing her, though his touch is light, and soft, free of any demand and urgency. She knows too that he knows, because she has told him, that she enjoys kissing him. And yet, there is this nagging voice at the back of her head, insistently telling her that maybe he doesn't find her that desirable after all, that he loves her (of that she has no doubt) for her brain and her qualities as a person, but does not really see her as a woman with needs and desires – a woman of flesh and blood. I won't wait forever....I've got to talk to him, to ask him what's wrong....

Easier said than done.