[Purple] - spooks fic
Purple
S7, S8; Ros Myers, Harry Pearce
As he holds her close, he realises three things.
Purple
Adam is dead.
Kachimov is dead.
And yet Harry feels nothing. He has just murdered somebody and he feels nothing. No remorse, no satisfaction of revenge, just an emotion chasm that potentially might never be filled. He swills the scotch in the tumbler, watching the amber liquid nearly spill over the brim. It is displacement activity, he knows that, anything to stop him thinking about Adam and Kachimov.
He closes his eyes and drinks the rest of the scotch in one swallow.
Adam.
Kachimov.
Ros.
His eyes snap open; Ros is still here despite everything, still strong, now the only person who has an inkling of what he is not feeling. He rises to his feet and crosses to the hallway, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. It is late, he knows that, but he is absolutely sure Ros will still be awake.
--
He is right, Ros is not asleep, but unlike him she has at least tried. When she opens the door, she does not look at all surprised to see him, and merely steps back, allowing him inside. They stand together in the centre, neither speaking, neither knowing what to say.
Ros breaks the silence.
“Drink?”
“Please.”
She goes to the small fridge and withdraws a small bottle of scotch. He merely watches as she pours him a glass and he downs it in one go, not caring that it burns his throat. Ros sits down on the couch and is looking at the floor. Blonde hair falls forward, out-of-place, and without thinking Harry pulls her to her feet. A moment of uncertainty flickers in her eyes but almost instantly disappears and she doesn’t protest when he cups her cheek in his hand. She looks almost delicate and for the first time he realises how small she is. At work, she is larger-than-life, a force to be reckoned with, but right now, when he can feel the fine bone structure beneath his fingers, he sees that she is human.
Ros reaches out, almost hesitantly, and deftly undoes his tie, the purple silk falling to the ground between them. She looks up, and he sees uncertainty once again.
Perhaps this is why he kisses her.
She responds quickly and snakes one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards her. In turn, he finds himself pushing her towards the bed, hands skimming up-and-down her sides. This is dangerous; he knows that, but when they reach the bed he finds himself not caring.
He can think about it tomorrow.
--
The morning after isn’t awkward as he had expected.
When he wakes and feels Ros’ body beneath his hands, he does the only thing that seems logical. He draws her closer.
They stay that way as long as possible.
--
Danger, danger.
Ros proves to him, to the politicians, to herself that she is the right woman for the job, but as he walks past her that evening he knows she feels guilt over the two police officers. He isn’t sure what to do, so merely bids her ‘good night’ and keeps walking. He hopes that is the right thing.
Later, when he sees her car pull up in his street, he realises he was wrong, but also knows he can fix this. Ros stands outside, hesitant, for a full five minutes and Harry grows impatient and opens the door before she can knock.
She says nothing and moves past.
Harry is quietly pleased when she stays the night.
--
“Should we be doing this?”
She asked this question yesterday and Harry raises an eyebrow, even as he pushes a cup of coffee towards her. They are in her flat, which is closer to Thames House, finally conceding temporary defeat in finding the Tigetian missile. It is an operation which falls more under MI-6’s jurisdiction, but Harry wants to mount his own operation.
“What do you think?” he asks, taking a sip.
Ros is somewhat of a coffee connoisseur he has come to know, and this particular blend is his favourite.
“I think...” she pauses, biting her lip briefly. “I think we have work to do.”
Harry smiles. “Yes, so do I.”
--
“Where are you?”
“Meynell’s hotel room.”
Those three words repeat themselves in Harry’s mind like a record whose needle stays firmly in the groove. Honey-trap operations can go horribly wrong, especially for women, and to hear the slight tremor in Ros’ voice, his Ros’ voice...
He pushes his foot down on the accelerator.
--
Ros’ skin is red-raw and he merely looks at her for several moments before pulling her close to his chest. She won’t talk of what happened, he knows that, and neither will he but he hopes he can offer comfort.
When he feels tears seep through his shirt, he knows his hopes have been realised.
“Shh...”
--
Sugarhorse is compromised.
He decides to tell the one person who he truly wants to.
As if on automatic pilot, he reaches for the phone and dials a number that has become as familiar as his own.
She answers on the third ring.
“Myers.”
“Ros, could you...?”
She hangs up the phone before he can finish his sentence and twenty minutes later is sitting on his sofa, legs curled beneath her, eyes attentive.
--
Bernard has betrayed his country, him, every one. Harry’s sense of grievances is almost overwhelming and he clenches the armrests, trying not to think of it. The SAS will be here soon, he knows that, and he looks straight ahead.
He debates calling Ros but ultimately decides against it.
He needs her on the Grid, where she can uncover the information needed to prove his innocence.
He closes his eyes briefly; he needs her.
--
“First, I want to talk to Ros Myers.”
Harry waits and soon enough hears Ros’ heels snapping against the floor. She appears as composed as ever but he sees the way her eyes narrow when they fall on his handcuffed wrists.
“Can you at least give him a glass of water?” “
I’m afraid not.”
Ros glares briefly but returns her attention to him and sits down. Back straight, hair immaculate, icy demeanour firmly in place and she looks as she always does.
“None of this is true, is it?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
Guilt floods through his veins at the widening of her eyes, the way her mouth falls ajar briefly, her neck tightens. She says nothing and he presses on, willing her to look past his words and into his eyes which, he hopes, scream the truth. At least to her.
“I betrayed you and the entire team. I gave the names of my Sugarhorse assets to the FSB. I can understand how you must feel but in mitigation my priority has been the renaissance, the renaissance of something I believe in profoundly.”
He dips his head, hating the betrayal that emanates from her in waves.
“I’m very sorry, Ros.”
She still appears shocked but looks across to Grady, paying him no further attention.
“Can you let me out now?”
She leaves without a word and Harry wants to pull her back.
Instead he writes down a list of names.
--
It takes Ros only minutes to decipher his message and soon he is back on the Grid. Connie is in custody, Lucas is on his way back and Ben... Ben is dead, his throat slit with piano wire. Ros’ eyes are red-rimmed, not from grief for he knows she didn’t particularly care for Ben, but for the fact yet another person from Section D has lost their life. She sits down opposite him, head bowed.
“I...” she begins.
He knows she wants to offer an apology and stops her in her tracks. “You recognised ‘renaissance.’”
She looks up, puzzled. “Yes, what does-?”
“I knew you would.”
She opens her mouth to speak but he interrupts. “Come home with me?”
Ros smiles.
“Of course.”
--
Ros is out there with Connie and Lucas.
Harry hides his panic well as he coordinates with Jo and Malcolm. Ros is more-than-capable, one of the best agents he’s ever had, and he knows he shouldn’t worry.
Nevertheless, he does.
--
The trunk of the car is small, cramped, and Harry fights with the bonds around his wrists to no avail. Sarkissian has taken him god-knows-where and Harry is under no illusions as to what will be done to him. An officer of his rank, with his knowledge, is a prized asset and the torture he will undoubtedly endure will be horrific.
He closes his eyes and prays for his team to find him.
--
Ruth.
The woman he loved, the woman who was forced to leave three years ago. She screams for her husband, for her step-son, and Harry hates himself even as he refuses to tell Mani the location of the uranium. It is more important than one man, one child, and he wills Ruth to realise this.
When she screams he knows that she doesn’t.
He closes his eyes and tries not to listen but finds he can’t.
“Shoot the boy.”
“Harry!”
The silence is deafening as he juts his chin forward, still refusing to tell, and relief threatens to overwhelm him as he hears the sound of thundering footsteps. Mani comes towards him with a knife, ready to slit his throat, and Lucas bursts into the room and shoots.
Ros follows but he finds he can’t look at her, not when Ruth’s eyes are full of such hatred.
Perhaps Ros knows this for she doesn’t spare him a second glance as she cuts through his bonds, simply standing and walking away.
--
“Are we in agreement about that?”
“Absolutely.”
They fall back into a work routine but it’s forced, with none of its usual flow, and Harry clenches his jaw as Ros leaves his office, slamming the door behind her with more force than is strictly necessary. It is not a lover’s spat, neither of them are prone to such things.
That’s what he tells himself anyway.
--
Bebe is dead and Harry feels a twinge of guilt. Usually, he would speak with Ros about such things, but now... since Ruth’s return, it hardly seems right. Instead, he walks past her with a cursory goodbye which she doesn’t bother returning. She has become even colder, more ruthless, which isn’t a good thing.
As he walks through the pods he glances over his shoulder and sees Lucas watching Ros from his desk. The two are well-suited, he thinks, both with their own inner-demons, the same recklessness.
He still doesn’t want Lucas anywhere near her.
It’s possessive and unfair but, then again, emotions are not governed by logic.
--
Jo is dead by Ros’ hand.
Harry knows Ros had no choice but is also well-aware that self-flagellation is one of the blonde’s specialities. This, he tells himself, is why he stands on her doorstep at three o’clock in the morning. He doesn’t hear her walk across the apartment and starts when she opens the door. She has been crying, that much is obvious, and when she sees him she covers her mouth, holding back a sob.
He touches her shoulder gently and she falls into him.
“Shh...”
She pulls herself together until she is composed and takes a step back. Up close, he can see the tear tracks on her cheeks and he reaches up and cups her face in his hand. It is a throw-back to their first night together and he doesn’t stop her as she leans forward and brushes her lips against his.
Ruth, Jo, everything disappears.
Danger, danger.
--
Asleep, she looks impossibly different.
Eyes closed, hair tussled and out-of-place, cheek obscured by the white pillow and he finds it difficult to reconcile her with the woman she is at work. He notices that the sheet has shifted at some point, slipping down and exposing her shoulder, and when he touches her skin it is ice-cold. Gently, he pulls at the covers but stops when she places her hand over his.
“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, voice hoarse.
“You’re cold.”
“Oh.”
She is already asleep again and Harry places his arm around her and pulls her close. Her body is lithe, almost hard, unlike any other woman he’s ever been with and he traces circles on her stomach with his thumb. Once again, her hand covers his.
“Sleep,” she says softly.
He rests his chin on her shoulder as he closes his eyes and listens to her breathing.
--
As he holds her close, he realises three things.
One. That he can’t live in the past.
Two. That he and Ros are almost the same person.
Three. That he has well and truly fallen.
links with Inferiority, Observations, and Apprehension
S7, S8; Ros Myers, Harry Pearce
As he holds her close, he realises three things.
Purple
Adam is dead.
Kachimov is dead.
And yet Harry feels nothing. He has just murdered somebody and he feels nothing. No remorse, no satisfaction of revenge, just an emotion chasm that potentially might never be filled. He swills the scotch in the tumbler, watching the amber liquid nearly spill over the brim. It is displacement activity, he knows that, anything to stop him thinking about Adam and Kachimov.
He closes his eyes and drinks the rest of the scotch in one swallow.
Adam.
Kachimov.
Ros.
His eyes snap open; Ros is still here despite everything, still strong, now the only person who has an inkling of what he is not feeling. He rises to his feet and crosses to the hallway, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. It is late, he knows that, but he is absolutely sure Ros will still be awake.
--
He is right, Ros is not asleep, but unlike him she has at least tried. When she opens the door, she does not look at all surprised to see him, and merely steps back, allowing him inside. They stand together in the centre, neither speaking, neither knowing what to say.
Ros breaks the silence.
“Drink?”
“Please.”
She goes to the small fridge and withdraws a small bottle of scotch. He merely watches as she pours him a glass and he downs it in one go, not caring that it burns his throat. Ros sits down on the couch and is looking at the floor. Blonde hair falls forward, out-of-place, and without thinking Harry pulls her to her feet. A moment of uncertainty flickers in her eyes but almost instantly disappears and she doesn’t protest when he cups her cheek in his hand. She looks almost delicate and for the first time he realises how small she is. At work, she is larger-than-life, a force to be reckoned with, but right now, when he can feel the fine bone structure beneath his fingers, he sees that she is human.
Ros reaches out, almost hesitantly, and deftly undoes his tie, the purple silk falling to the ground between them. She looks up, and he sees uncertainty once again.
Perhaps this is why he kisses her.
She responds quickly and snakes one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards her. In turn, he finds himself pushing her towards the bed, hands skimming up-and-down her sides. This is dangerous; he knows that, but when they reach the bed he finds himself not caring.
He can think about it tomorrow.
--
The morning after isn’t awkward as he had expected.
When he wakes and feels Ros’ body beneath his hands, he does the only thing that seems logical. He draws her closer.
They stay that way as long as possible.
--
Danger, danger.
Ros proves to him, to the politicians, to herself that she is the right woman for the job, but as he walks past her that evening he knows she feels guilt over the two police officers. He isn’t sure what to do, so merely bids her ‘good night’ and keeps walking. He hopes that is the right thing.
Later, when he sees her car pull up in his street, he realises he was wrong, but also knows he can fix this. Ros stands outside, hesitant, for a full five minutes and Harry grows impatient and opens the door before she can knock.
She says nothing and moves past.
Harry is quietly pleased when she stays the night.
--
“Should we be doing this?”
She asked this question yesterday and Harry raises an eyebrow, even as he pushes a cup of coffee towards her. They are in her flat, which is closer to Thames House, finally conceding temporary defeat in finding the Tigetian missile. It is an operation which falls more under MI-6’s jurisdiction, but Harry wants to mount his own operation.
“What do you think?” he asks, taking a sip.
Ros is somewhat of a coffee connoisseur he has come to know, and this particular blend is his favourite.
“I think...” she pauses, biting her lip briefly. “I think we have work to do.”
Harry smiles. “Yes, so do I.”
--
“Where are you?”
“Meynell’s hotel room.”
Those three words repeat themselves in Harry’s mind like a record whose needle stays firmly in the groove. Honey-trap operations can go horribly wrong, especially for women, and to hear the slight tremor in Ros’ voice, his Ros’ voice...
He pushes his foot down on the accelerator.
--
Ros’ skin is red-raw and he merely looks at her for several moments before pulling her close to his chest. She won’t talk of what happened, he knows that, and neither will he but he hopes he can offer comfort.
When he feels tears seep through his shirt, he knows his hopes have been realised.
“Shh...”
--
Sugarhorse is compromised.
He decides to tell the one person who he truly wants to.
As if on automatic pilot, he reaches for the phone and dials a number that has become as familiar as his own.
She answers on the third ring.
“Myers.”
“Ros, could you...?”
She hangs up the phone before he can finish his sentence and twenty minutes later is sitting on his sofa, legs curled beneath her, eyes attentive.
--
Bernard has betrayed his country, him, every one. Harry’s sense of grievances is almost overwhelming and he clenches the armrests, trying not to think of it. The SAS will be here soon, he knows that, and he looks straight ahead.
He debates calling Ros but ultimately decides against it.
He needs her on the Grid, where she can uncover the information needed to prove his innocence.
He closes his eyes briefly; he needs her.
--
“First, I want to talk to Ros Myers.”
Harry waits and soon enough hears Ros’ heels snapping against the floor. She appears as composed as ever but he sees the way her eyes narrow when they fall on his handcuffed wrists.
“Can you at least give him a glass of water?” “
I’m afraid not.”
Ros glares briefly but returns her attention to him and sits down. Back straight, hair immaculate, icy demeanour firmly in place and she looks as she always does.
“None of this is true, is it?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
Guilt floods through his veins at the widening of her eyes, the way her mouth falls ajar briefly, her neck tightens. She says nothing and he presses on, willing her to look past his words and into his eyes which, he hopes, scream the truth. At least to her.
“I betrayed you and the entire team. I gave the names of my Sugarhorse assets to the FSB. I can understand how you must feel but in mitigation my priority has been the renaissance, the renaissance of something I believe in profoundly.”
He dips his head, hating the betrayal that emanates from her in waves.
“I’m very sorry, Ros.”
She still appears shocked but looks across to Grady, paying him no further attention.
“Can you let me out now?”
She leaves without a word and Harry wants to pull her back.
Instead he writes down a list of names.
--
It takes Ros only minutes to decipher his message and soon he is back on the Grid. Connie is in custody, Lucas is on his way back and Ben... Ben is dead, his throat slit with piano wire. Ros’ eyes are red-rimmed, not from grief for he knows she didn’t particularly care for Ben, but for the fact yet another person from Section D has lost their life. She sits down opposite him, head bowed.
“I...” she begins.
He knows she wants to offer an apology and stops her in her tracks. “You recognised ‘renaissance.’”
She looks up, puzzled. “Yes, what does-?”
“I knew you would.”
She opens her mouth to speak but he interrupts. “Come home with me?”
Ros smiles.
“Of course.”
--
Ros is out there with Connie and Lucas.
Harry hides his panic well as he coordinates with Jo and Malcolm. Ros is more-than-capable, one of the best agents he’s ever had, and he knows he shouldn’t worry.
Nevertheless, he does.
--
The trunk of the car is small, cramped, and Harry fights with the bonds around his wrists to no avail. Sarkissian has taken him god-knows-where and Harry is under no illusions as to what will be done to him. An officer of his rank, with his knowledge, is a prized asset and the torture he will undoubtedly endure will be horrific.
He closes his eyes and prays for his team to find him.
--
Ruth.
The woman he loved, the woman who was forced to leave three years ago. She screams for her husband, for her step-son, and Harry hates himself even as he refuses to tell Mani the location of the uranium. It is more important than one man, one child, and he wills Ruth to realise this.
When she screams he knows that she doesn’t.
He closes his eyes and tries not to listen but finds he can’t.
“Shoot the boy.”
“Harry!”
The silence is deafening as he juts his chin forward, still refusing to tell, and relief threatens to overwhelm him as he hears the sound of thundering footsteps. Mani comes towards him with a knife, ready to slit his throat, and Lucas bursts into the room and shoots.
Ros follows but he finds he can’t look at her, not when Ruth’s eyes are full of such hatred.
Perhaps Ros knows this for she doesn’t spare him a second glance as she cuts through his bonds, simply standing and walking away.
--
“Are we in agreement about that?”
“Absolutely.”
They fall back into a work routine but it’s forced, with none of its usual flow, and Harry clenches his jaw as Ros leaves his office, slamming the door behind her with more force than is strictly necessary. It is not a lover’s spat, neither of them are prone to such things.
That’s what he tells himself anyway.
--
Bebe is dead and Harry feels a twinge of guilt. Usually, he would speak with Ros about such things, but now... since Ruth’s return, it hardly seems right. Instead, he walks past her with a cursory goodbye which she doesn’t bother returning. She has become even colder, more ruthless, which isn’t a good thing.
As he walks through the pods he glances over his shoulder and sees Lucas watching Ros from his desk. The two are well-suited, he thinks, both with their own inner-demons, the same recklessness.
He still doesn’t want Lucas anywhere near her.
It’s possessive and unfair but, then again, emotions are not governed by logic.
--
Jo is dead by Ros’ hand.
Harry knows Ros had no choice but is also well-aware that self-flagellation is one of the blonde’s specialities. This, he tells himself, is why he stands on her doorstep at three o’clock in the morning. He doesn’t hear her walk across the apartment and starts when she opens the door. She has been crying, that much is obvious, and when she sees him she covers her mouth, holding back a sob.
He touches her shoulder gently and she falls into him.
“Shh...”
She pulls herself together until she is composed and takes a step back. Up close, he can see the tear tracks on her cheeks and he reaches up and cups her face in his hand. It is a throw-back to their first night together and he doesn’t stop her as she leans forward and brushes her lips against his.
Ruth, Jo, everything disappears.
Danger, danger.
--
Asleep, she looks impossibly different.
Eyes closed, hair tussled and out-of-place, cheek obscured by the white pillow and he finds it difficult to reconcile her with the woman she is at work. He notices that the sheet has shifted at some point, slipping down and exposing her shoulder, and when he touches her skin it is ice-cold. Gently, he pulls at the covers but stops when she places her hand over his.
“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, voice hoarse.
“You’re cold.”
“Oh.”
She is already asleep again and Harry places his arm around her and pulls her close. Her body is lithe, almost hard, unlike any other woman he’s ever been with and he traces circles on her stomach with his thumb. Once again, her hand covers his.
“Sleep,” she says softly.
He rests his chin on her shoulder as he closes his eyes and listens to her breathing.
--
As he holds her close, he realises three things.
One. That he can’t live in the past.
Two. That he and Ros are almost the same person.
Three. That he has well and truly fallen.
links with Inferiority, Observations, and Apprehension