[The Child Ephemeral] - spooks fic
The Child Ephemeral
S7; Ros Myers Wes Carter
"I don't trust anyone else, Ros."
Lay your sleeping head...
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral
- ‘Lullaby’ W.H Auden
Today
Wes stood on the doorstop, fist raised, ready to knock. His knuckles were scarce inches away from the heavy wood, when the door swung open, revealing its occupant. Ros stood in the narrow hallway, and looked out, her green eyes fixed upon his. Wes waited, and eventually she took a step back and allowed him to pass. He tried not to notice the state of her home as he walked into the living room; the upended furniture and shattered glass a stark contrast to its former pristine state. Ros leant against the wall, and folded her arms across her chest, observing him carefully.
“I'm sorry,” he said, gesturing around, “for all-”
“It's hardly your fault, Wes,” Ros interrupted.
Her voice was as cool as he remembered, and Wes found himself flustered. Ros said nothing further, and regarded him in silence, the way once does a stranger in the street. The light was dim, throwing her into shadow, and Wes thought that she exuded the air of a 'femme fatale', one who could materialise from the mist only to disappear again without leaving a trace.
“I came to see how you were,” Wes began, “you know, after...”
He nodded towards her, refusing to look at her grazed shoulder.
“I'm fine, Wes,” Ros assured, sounding more gentle than he had ever heard.
“Good.”
He looked at the floor, noting the scuff marks and scratches. A sound made him look up, and he found Ros drumming her fingers against the wall, a clear message to leave. He said nothing as he walked back through the apartment, Ros following behind. She rested her shoulder against the door frame, and Wes turned on instinct and touched her forearm, wanting to say 'thank you,' something, anything, to show the depth of his gratitude. He faltered, and caught himself tracing the shape of her body beneath the fitted blouse and skirt. Ros coughed, and he pulled back, instantly reprimanding himself.
“It's getting late,” he said, unnecessarily waving toward the dark street.
“Yes.”
Wes looked at her, and without thinking raised himself on the tips of his toes and kissed her on the cheek. Ros didn't move, though didn't flinch, and as he lowered himself back down he searched her lips. It seemed to him that they parted a little, that she was forcing herself not to lean forward, but at the last moment she turned her head to the side and looked down.
“Goodnight, Wes.”
He nodded, recognising the faint dismissal in her voice.
“Goodbye, Ros.”
-
Three weeks ago.
Wes was forced to jog to keep up with Harry, who held the collar of his jacket, pulling him along the London Street. It was a good area, that much Wes could tell from the surrounding buildings, but he had no idea where in London he was; Harry having ordered him to keep his head down in the car and not look above the dashboard. Wes looked into the shadows, searching for something, anything, to explain Harry’s behaviour. He had pulled Wes out of his apartment two hours ago, saying only that his ‘safety was in jeopardy’ and hadn’t said a word since, ignoring all of Wes’ questions.
“Here.”
Harry pushed Wes in front of him, scanning his surroundings, and it was then that Wes noticed that Harry had his hand tucked into his coat, holding something close to his chest. Wes tried not to think it was a gun, but could find no other explanation, and he looked forward again at the wooden door. Harry reached past him and rang the bell, holding his finger on the button so the ‘trill’ echoed through the night.
Nothing.
Harry gritted his teeth, muttering beneath his breath, but was forced to jerk backward as the door was pulled back. A woman stood in the hallway, eyes hard; she held a gun close to her thigh, the silver metal glinting dully in the pale light, and looked from Harry, to Wes, then back again, her expression giving nothing away.
“What the hell is going on?” she hissed, stepping back to allow them past.
“Inside.”
-
The apartment was white, almost blindingly so, and Wes stood awkwardly watching Harry and this mysterious woman as they spoke in the kitchen. She looked vaguely familiar, a figure from his past, and he took the time to examine her carefully. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in parts. Her features were sharp, angular, as if sketched with firm strokes, and framed with blonde hair that fell above her shoulders, barely out-of-place despite having just been woken up.
“Ros,” he heard Harry snap, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “We don’t have a choice here.”
The woman - Ros - drew up to her full height and glared.
“I am not a baby-sitter, Harry,” she responded harshly.
Wes bristled at her words, but said nothing, more interested in observing the two. Ros rolled her eyes as Harry spoke again, and raised a hand to brush away a strand of errant hair that had fallen across her forehead. The movement caused the musculature in her arms to ripple, and he saw that she retained a body that women half her age would envy. That was not to say she looked old, but it was obvious she’d broken the forty barrier.
“Ros, I don’t trust anyone else.”
She faltered midway through preparing another retort, and her eyes moved to Wes who looked away quickly.
“How long, Harry?”
“Until Khalid is apprehended,” he answered.
She looked to Harry, one eyebrow raised.
“In other words, you don’t know,” she said drily.
They shared an ironic smile and Wes supposed this must be some sort of insider joke, one which, at the moment, he didn’t find remotely funny.
“Wes,” Harry called, pulling Wes back into the present. “Meet Ros Myers.”
-
Two weeks ago.
He had fallen into a restless, sleepless pattern, not helped by the fact that Ros seemed able to function on two hours rest. Wes stretched his back, a series of ‘cracks’ sounding around the bedroom, his bedroom, and padded to the window. It was a deliberate defiance, breaking the rules Ros had so stringently impounded upon him, and a thrill ran through his veins at the thought he might be caught. He opened the window an inch, letting in the cool breeze, and the curtains fluttered, the fabric touching his skin. Wes peered into the street as far as the darkness permitted, and his brow furrowed when he caught a glimpse of a motionless figure standing at the end of the street, leaning against a neighbour’s gate smoking a cigarette. He wore dark clothes, one hand inside his coat, and Wes felt his blood run cold. There was something sinister about this stranger, something that set Wes’ nerves on edge.
Danger, danger.
Breathing quickly, Wes slammed the window shut and hurried downstairs. Ros was sitting on the couch watching, ostensibly, the news and looked up as he entered. Her eyes registered alarm as she took in his appearance; sweaty skin, hyperventilating, and she was on her feet immediately.
“What is it?” she asked urgently.
“There’s a man in the street,” Wes managed after a pause. “He looks-”
Ros frowned as she went over the window and looked outside. Wes watched in fascination as she stiffened, every muscle in her body tense, before she turned to face him.
“Get your coat,” she said calmly. “Now.”
“What-?”
“Now.”
-
He was midway across the room when the apartment was plunged into darkness. Panic welled inside of him, and a straggled scream emerged from his throat. He had never been this terrified and found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. His hands shook as he held them outstretched, a futile gesture of help, and he struggled when a hand clamped over his mouth, stifling another scream that threatened to spill from his lips. Ros dragged him backward, until they were flush from the wall, and he heard her' voice whisper in his ear.
“I need you to be quiet, and do exactly what I say.”
Wes nodded and she slowly removed her hand. He shivered as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and pulled him not to the door, but rather toward her bedroom, keeping close to the wall. Wes followed obediently, and his eyes widened as she opened a door, leading to a fire escape. Their footsteps rang against the metal staircase, piercing to his ears, and he mimicked Ros in keeping his head down. Behind them, he heard a muffled 'boom' and knew that Ros' apartment had bared the brunt of an explosion. Ros didn't look back, instead digging her nails into his flesh, and pulling him harder. They wove a twisting journey over the rooftop, finally descending onto the street. The street lamps finally illuminated them both, and he saw that Ros had had no time to grab shoes, or even a coat, and she looked odd on the London street.
“Come,” she ordered, nodding towards a parked car. “We need to move.”
Wes rounded the car and slid inside, watched as Ros did the same. She switched on the ignition but, to his surprise, didn't move, instead reaching across him and into the glove box. Inside were three phones, and she took one and dialled an unfamiliar number, putting it on speaker.
“Ros?” came Harry's voice.
“Harry, they found us.”
Wes heard Harry's sharp intake of breath before he spoke again.
“No safe-houses, Ros. If they could find out your address, then they know the MI-5 safe-house locations. Ring me, when you stop somewhere. I will then work something out.”
He cut the connection and Ros unceremoniously threw the phone out the window, where it shattered against the bitumen. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel and Wes was thrown backward as she pushed her foot against the accelerator.
“Where are we going?” he asked, bracing himself as Ros turned the corner in a squeal of tires.
“Away from London,” she answered shortly.
He nodded, his nails digging into the seat upholstery.
“I don't suppose you'll give me a more in-depth answer?” he asked, already knowing her response.
“You suppose correctly.”
-
One week ago
Ros' hair splayed on the pillow, and Wes watched her sleep as he sat by the fire. She looked different to how she did when awake; the tension that seemed permanently etched on her face gone, a small smile playing at her lips. She shifted, and Wes saw her shiver, not surprising given the temperature of the cottage. Slowly, he leant forward and pulled up the blanket to her chin, making sure it covered all her body. Ros turned onto her side, towards him, and a memory flickered in his mind. At his father's funeral, a woman in the pews opposite, standing close to Harry. Her face betrayed no emotion; nothing through the eulogy, through Malcolm's short poem, through the priest's sermon; nothing until they followed the coffin outside on its twisting journey through the cemetery. Finally, a solitary tear ran down her cheek as she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground before she turned and hurried away, soon lost down the gravel drive.
Wes looked again to Ros, comparing his memory to reality.
There was no doubting it now; Ros was the woman at the funeral.
He reached for the iron poker, and stoked the fire, careful not to let sparks fall onto the carpeted floor. Next to him, Ros stirred, and he looked down to find her looking at him, her green eyes cold.
“Ros,” he said as she sat upright, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “How did you know my father?”
She raised an eyebrow as she arched her back.
“We worked together,” she answered after a pause.
“Just worked together?” Wes asked.
Ros didn't say anything, instead she eyed him shrewdly.
“I remember you at his funeral,” he said quickly under her harsh stare, “you were... sad.”
She sighed, and her gaze moved to the floor.
“We were close,” she said carefully, “very close.”
Wes nodded, knowing that this was the best answer he was going to get.
-
Later, again by the fire, Ros handed him a cup of tea. It had become a routine of sorts, an afternoon snack, though their conversation had yet to break generalities. Wes watched as Ros stretched her legs out before, and placed her cup by her side. She flexed her feet, and her muscles elongated, visible against the denim of her jeans. Wes observed, fascinated, as she leant forward and touched her toes.
“Problem?” he asked as she pulled back.
“No.”
She reached for her tea and held it in her hands, and took a small sip. The firelight flickered, throwing her into shadow. As she turned her head, exposing pale neck, he saw a drop of moisture fall from her lips. He leaned over and raised a hand to her face, and brushed his thumb beneath her bottom lip. Ros looked startled, something Wes thought he'd never see, and her eyes fell on his hand which he still held out-stretched. She looked at it as though she would do an insect and he withdrew it quickly.
“Why did you do that?” Ros demanded, though she didn't raise her voice.
“I... I don't know,” he confessed, looking past her shoulder at the opposite wall.
“Why didn't you just tell me?” she continued.
Wes blushed and he rubbed the back of his neck, anything to distract him from Ros' piercing glare.
“I just did,” he said quickly, “I don't know why...”
Ros eyed him a moment longer before turning away.
“It's getting dark, you should rest.”
She rose to her feet and left the room, leaving Wes alone. He shook his head, not quite believing what had just happened. Then he looked down at the tips of his fingers, one still damp with tea, and knew it was real.
What it meant, he had no idea.
-
Three days ago
Ros was sleeping again, and Wes sat in the corner, a good ten feet away. He had voluntarily put physical distance between himself and Ros, for his own sanity, but his eyes didn't waver as he watched her chest rise and fall with her breathing. His eyes moved to her face, and he memorised every contour, every faint line, the way her eyelids occasionally flickered, making him want to know her dreams. He leant against the wall, hating that he even had to blink, and started when he heard a noise outside. Perhaps because he was so attuned to silence, the noise seemed ear-splitting, and an icy flood-head ran through his veins. Slowly, he crawled over to Ros who hadn't woken, and touched her shoulder. She sat up so quickly he had to flinch back to avoid being hit, and her eyes were wide, silently asking what was wrong. Another noise, and she threw the blanket to the side and uncurled herself.
“Over there,” she mouthed, nodding toward the kitchen, “quickly.”
He didn't hesitate, and looked over his shoulder when Ros didn't follow. She was crouched on the ground, and he inhaled sharply as she withdrew a gun from the back of her jeans. It was deceptively small, but Wes had no doubt how deadly it could be. A 'bang' sounded and both he and Ros were flung backward, colliding heavily with the floor. Ros was on her feet again instantly, and Wes winced as she grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin so deeply he was sure she drew blood. Her grip didn't lessen as she all-but-dragged him to a side entrance.
“We have to run to the car,” she whispered, “but for about ten metres we'll be exposed. Now, whatever you do, do not turn around. Are we clear?”
“But-”
“Are we clear?” Ros repeated, her voice cold.
Wes nodded, and Ros pushed him through the door. He ran as instructed, keeping his head down as bullets flew through the air, and flinched as a muffled scream rang through the air, foreign amidst the gunfire.
He couldn't help it, he turned and found Ros on the ground, clutching her shoulder. Without thinking, Wes ran to her and, despite her protests, he picked her up and ran again toward the car. Ros was light, and he carried her easily, throwing her into the back seat. She crumpled, but he didn't have time to make her more comfortable as he raced to the front and got inside. He rammed the keys in the ignition and pushed his foot hard on the accelerator, ducking as more bullets were fired, shattering the windows. Somehow, he managed to get down the gravel drive and he burst onto the street in a 'screech' of tires. He kept at the same speed, avoiding other motorists, and every so often he glanced into the back.
Ros' eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, and panic welled in his chest at the thought that she might not survive. Wes wrenched his eyes away from the blonde, to the road ahead, and saw a hospital sign. Without thinking, without caring of the ramifications, he crossed over the intersection, the car squealing in protest, and skidded to a halt in front of the emergency department.
He tried not to think what Ros would say when she woke up. If, not when, a voice reminded him. Wes shook his head as doctors ran to the car and Ros was loaded onto a stretcher.
When, not if.
-
Footfalls made Wes jerk his head upright, and he was subjected to the full force of Harry's glare as he entered the room.
“What earth were you thinking?” the older man growled.
“I couldn't leave her there!” Wes snapped, refusing to be intimidated.
Harry glared at him a moment longer and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Ros' groggy voice.
“You're like your father,” she said, trying to sit, “you don't follow orders.”
She looked even paler than usual, the bandage contrasting starkly with her skin, and Wes felt unimaginable guilt that she'd been hurt protecting him, that indirectly, he might have caused her death. He flushed and looked down at the floor.
“Khalid?” Ros questioned, now addressing Harry.
“Dead,” Harry said. “And now their leader's gone, his men don't care about our Mr Carter.”
At this, Wes looked up again, relief threatening to make his knees buckle.
“So, this is over?” he asked
Harry's eyes softened as he took a seat by Ros' bed.
“Yes, it's over.”
Wes nodded, and looked to Ros, wanting to say 'thank you.' She had fallen asleep again, and he stood awkwardly, unsure what to do.
“Go home, Wes,” Harry said gently.
Wes hesitated, torn between staying beside Ros until she woke up, or returning to the relative comfort of his flat. Either way, he would be haunted with images of Ros, still and bleeding. Eventually, he turned and left Ros' room, walking through the hospital and out from reception. A taxi was there, as if waiting for him, and he stepped inside and told the driver his address. As he sat back in the seat, a wave of tiredness hit him.
Nevertheless, Wes knew he would not sleep, not for some time.
-
Today
“Goodbye, Ros.”
Before Wes had a chance to say anything further, Ros had closed the door. He stood on the landing and listened to her footsteps as she retreated back into her flat, waiting until all he could hear was silence. He closed his eyes, gathering his composure, before he turned and walked down the stairs. He could still see Ros' face, hear her voice, and her smell was embedded in his mind. An icy wind hit him, pulling him from his ruminations, and Wes welcomed the cold air as he walked along the street. He thought back to Ros, who he could see in his mind's eye, sitting on the sofa and surveying the mess around her, deciding where on earth she should start.
It took all his will-power not to turn around, walk back to her door, and ask if he may help.
Instead, Wes turned the corner and entered the main street with the knowledge he would never see Rosalind Myers again.
S7; Ros Myers Wes Carter
"I don't trust anyone else, Ros."
Lay your sleeping head...
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral
- ‘Lullaby’ W.H Auden
Today
Wes stood on the doorstop, fist raised, ready to knock. His knuckles were scarce inches away from the heavy wood, when the door swung open, revealing its occupant. Ros stood in the narrow hallway, and looked out, her green eyes fixed upon his. Wes waited, and eventually she took a step back and allowed him to pass. He tried not to notice the state of her home as he walked into the living room; the upended furniture and shattered glass a stark contrast to its former pristine state. Ros leant against the wall, and folded her arms across her chest, observing him carefully.
“I'm sorry,” he said, gesturing around, “for all-”
“It's hardly your fault, Wes,” Ros interrupted.
Her voice was as cool as he remembered, and Wes found himself flustered. Ros said nothing further, and regarded him in silence, the way once does a stranger in the street. The light was dim, throwing her into shadow, and Wes thought that she exuded the air of a 'femme fatale', one who could materialise from the mist only to disappear again without leaving a trace.
“I came to see how you were,” Wes began, “you know, after...”
He nodded towards her, refusing to look at her grazed shoulder.
“I'm fine, Wes,” Ros assured, sounding more gentle than he had ever heard.
“Good.”
He looked at the floor, noting the scuff marks and scratches. A sound made him look up, and he found Ros drumming her fingers against the wall, a clear message to leave. He said nothing as he walked back through the apartment, Ros following behind. She rested her shoulder against the door frame, and Wes turned on instinct and touched her forearm, wanting to say 'thank you,' something, anything, to show the depth of his gratitude. He faltered, and caught himself tracing the shape of her body beneath the fitted blouse and skirt. Ros coughed, and he pulled back, instantly reprimanding himself.
“It's getting late,” he said, unnecessarily waving toward the dark street.
“Yes.”
Wes looked at her, and without thinking raised himself on the tips of his toes and kissed her on the cheek. Ros didn't move, though didn't flinch, and as he lowered himself back down he searched her lips. It seemed to him that they parted a little, that she was forcing herself not to lean forward, but at the last moment she turned her head to the side and looked down.
“Goodnight, Wes.”
He nodded, recognising the faint dismissal in her voice.
“Goodbye, Ros.”
-
Three weeks ago.
Wes was forced to jog to keep up with Harry, who held the collar of his jacket, pulling him along the London Street. It was a good area, that much Wes could tell from the surrounding buildings, but he had no idea where in London he was; Harry having ordered him to keep his head down in the car and not look above the dashboard. Wes looked into the shadows, searching for something, anything, to explain Harry’s behaviour. He had pulled Wes out of his apartment two hours ago, saying only that his ‘safety was in jeopardy’ and hadn’t said a word since, ignoring all of Wes’ questions.
“Here.”
Harry pushed Wes in front of him, scanning his surroundings, and it was then that Wes noticed that Harry had his hand tucked into his coat, holding something close to his chest. Wes tried not to think it was a gun, but could find no other explanation, and he looked forward again at the wooden door. Harry reached past him and rang the bell, holding his finger on the button so the ‘trill’ echoed through the night.
Nothing.
Harry gritted his teeth, muttering beneath his breath, but was forced to jerk backward as the door was pulled back. A woman stood in the hallway, eyes hard; she held a gun close to her thigh, the silver metal glinting dully in the pale light, and looked from Harry, to Wes, then back again, her expression giving nothing away.
“What the hell is going on?” she hissed, stepping back to allow them past.
“Inside.”
-
The apartment was white, almost blindingly so, and Wes stood awkwardly watching Harry and this mysterious woman as they spoke in the kitchen. She looked vaguely familiar, a figure from his past, and he took the time to examine her carefully. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in parts. Her features were sharp, angular, as if sketched with firm strokes, and framed with blonde hair that fell above her shoulders, barely out-of-place despite having just been woken up.
“Ros,” he heard Harry snap, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “We don’t have a choice here.”
The woman - Ros - drew up to her full height and glared.
“I am not a baby-sitter, Harry,” she responded harshly.
Wes bristled at her words, but said nothing, more interested in observing the two. Ros rolled her eyes as Harry spoke again, and raised a hand to brush away a strand of errant hair that had fallen across her forehead. The movement caused the musculature in her arms to ripple, and he saw that she retained a body that women half her age would envy. That was not to say she looked old, but it was obvious she’d broken the forty barrier.
“Ros, I don’t trust anyone else.”
She faltered midway through preparing another retort, and her eyes moved to Wes who looked away quickly.
“How long, Harry?”
“Until Khalid is apprehended,” he answered.
She looked to Harry, one eyebrow raised.
“In other words, you don’t know,” she said drily.
They shared an ironic smile and Wes supposed this must be some sort of insider joke, one which, at the moment, he didn’t find remotely funny.
“Wes,” Harry called, pulling Wes back into the present. “Meet Ros Myers.”
-
Two weeks ago.
He had fallen into a restless, sleepless pattern, not helped by the fact that Ros seemed able to function on two hours rest. Wes stretched his back, a series of ‘cracks’ sounding around the bedroom, his bedroom, and padded to the window. It was a deliberate defiance, breaking the rules Ros had so stringently impounded upon him, and a thrill ran through his veins at the thought he might be caught. He opened the window an inch, letting in the cool breeze, and the curtains fluttered, the fabric touching his skin. Wes peered into the street as far as the darkness permitted, and his brow furrowed when he caught a glimpse of a motionless figure standing at the end of the street, leaning against a neighbour’s gate smoking a cigarette. He wore dark clothes, one hand inside his coat, and Wes felt his blood run cold. There was something sinister about this stranger, something that set Wes’ nerves on edge.
Danger, danger.
Breathing quickly, Wes slammed the window shut and hurried downstairs. Ros was sitting on the couch watching, ostensibly, the news and looked up as he entered. Her eyes registered alarm as she took in his appearance; sweaty skin, hyperventilating, and she was on her feet immediately.
“What is it?” she asked urgently.
“There’s a man in the street,” Wes managed after a pause. “He looks-”
Ros frowned as she went over the window and looked outside. Wes watched in fascination as she stiffened, every muscle in her body tense, before she turned to face him.
“Get your coat,” she said calmly. “Now.”
“What-?”
“Now.”
-
He was midway across the room when the apartment was plunged into darkness. Panic welled inside of him, and a straggled scream emerged from his throat. He had never been this terrified and found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. His hands shook as he held them outstretched, a futile gesture of help, and he struggled when a hand clamped over his mouth, stifling another scream that threatened to spill from his lips. Ros dragged him backward, until they were flush from the wall, and he heard her' voice whisper in his ear.
“I need you to be quiet, and do exactly what I say.”
Wes nodded and she slowly removed her hand. He shivered as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and pulled him not to the door, but rather toward her bedroom, keeping close to the wall. Wes followed obediently, and his eyes widened as she opened a door, leading to a fire escape. Their footsteps rang against the metal staircase, piercing to his ears, and he mimicked Ros in keeping his head down. Behind them, he heard a muffled 'boom' and knew that Ros' apartment had bared the brunt of an explosion. Ros didn't look back, instead digging her nails into his flesh, and pulling him harder. They wove a twisting journey over the rooftop, finally descending onto the street. The street lamps finally illuminated them both, and he saw that Ros had had no time to grab shoes, or even a coat, and she looked odd on the London street.
“Come,” she ordered, nodding towards a parked car. “We need to move.”
Wes rounded the car and slid inside, watched as Ros did the same. She switched on the ignition but, to his surprise, didn't move, instead reaching across him and into the glove box. Inside were three phones, and she took one and dialled an unfamiliar number, putting it on speaker.
“Ros?” came Harry's voice.
“Harry, they found us.”
Wes heard Harry's sharp intake of breath before he spoke again.
“No safe-houses, Ros. If they could find out your address, then they know the MI-5 safe-house locations. Ring me, when you stop somewhere. I will then work something out.”
He cut the connection and Ros unceremoniously threw the phone out the window, where it shattered against the bitumen. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel and Wes was thrown backward as she pushed her foot against the accelerator.
“Where are we going?” he asked, bracing himself as Ros turned the corner in a squeal of tires.
“Away from London,” she answered shortly.
He nodded, his nails digging into the seat upholstery.
“I don't suppose you'll give me a more in-depth answer?” he asked, already knowing her response.
“You suppose correctly.”
-
One week ago
Ros' hair splayed on the pillow, and Wes watched her sleep as he sat by the fire. She looked different to how she did when awake; the tension that seemed permanently etched on her face gone, a small smile playing at her lips. She shifted, and Wes saw her shiver, not surprising given the temperature of the cottage. Slowly, he leant forward and pulled up the blanket to her chin, making sure it covered all her body. Ros turned onto her side, towards him, and a memory flickered in his mind. At his father's funeral, a woman in the pews opposite, standing close to Harry. Her face betrayed no emotion; nothing through the eulogy, through Malcolm's short poem, through the priest's sermon; nothing until they followed the coffin outside on its twisting journey through the cemetery. Finally, a solitary tear ran down her cheek as she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground before she turned and hurried away, soon lost down the gravel drive.
Wes looked again to Ros, comparing his memory to reality.
There was no doubting it now; Ros was the woman at the funeral.
He reached for the iron poker, and stoked the fire, careful not to let sparks fall onto the carpeted floor. Next to him, Ros stirred, and he looked down to find her looking at him, her green eyes cold.
“Ros,” he said as she sat upright, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “How did you know my father?”
She raised an eyebrow as she arched her back.
“We worked together,” she answered after a pause.
“Just worked together?” Wes asked.
Ros didn't say anything, instead she eyed him shrewdly.
“I remember you at his funeral,” he said quickly under her harsh stare, “you were... sad.”
She sighed, and her gaze moved to the floor.
“We were close,” she said carefully, “very close.”
Wes nodded, knowing that this was the best answer he was going to get.
-
Later, again by the fire, Ros handed him a cup of tea. It had become a routine of sorts, an afternoon snack, though their conversation had yet to break generalities. Wes watched as Ros stretched her legs out before, and placed her cup by her side. She flexed her feet, and her muscles elongated, visible against the denim of her jeans. Wes observed, fascinated, as she leant forward and touched her toes.
“Problem?” he asked as she pulled back.
“No.”
She reached for her tea and held it in her hands, and took a small sip. The firelight flickered, throwing her into shadow. As she turned her head, exposing pale neck, he saw a drop of moisture fall from her lips. He leaned over and raised a hand to her face, and brushed his thumb beneath her bottom lip. Ros looked startled, something Wes thought he'd never see, and her eyes fell on his hand which he still held out-stretched. She looked at it as though she would do an insect and he withdrew it quickly.
“Why did you do that?” Ros demanded, though she didn't raise her voice.
“I... I don't know,” he confessed, looking past her shoulder at the opposite wall.
“Why didn't you just tell me?” she continued.
Wes blushed and he rubbed the back of his neck, anything to distract him from Ros' piercing glare.
“I just did,” he said quickly, “I don't know why...”
Ros eyed him a moment longer before turning away.
“It's getting dark, you should rest.”
She rose to her feet and left the room, leaving Wes alone. He shook his head, not quite believing what had just happened. Then he looked down at the tips of his fingers, one still damp with tea, and knew it was real.
What it meant, he had no idea.
-
Three days ago
Ros was sleeping again, and Wes sat in the corner, a good ten feet away. He had voluntarily put physical distance between himself and Ros, for his own sanity, but his eyes didn't waver as he watched her chest rise and fall with her breathing. His eyes moved to her face, and he memorised every contour, every faint line, the way her eyelids occasionally flickered, making him want to know her dreams. He leant against the wall, hating that he even had to blink, and started when he heard a noise outside. Perhaps because he was so attuned to silence, the noise seemed ear-splitting, and an icy flood-head ran through his veins. Slowly, he crawled over to Ros who hadn't woken, and touched her shoulder. She sat up so quickly he had to flinch back to avoid being hit, and her eyes were wide, silently asking what was wrong. Another noise, and she threw the blanket to the side and uncurled herself.
“Over there,” she mouthed, nodding toward the kitchen, “quickly.”
He didn't hesitate, and looked over his shoulder when Ros didn't follow. She was crouched on the ground, and he inhaled sharply as she withdrew a gun from the back of her jeans. It was deceptively small, but Wes had no doubt how deadly it could be. A 'bang' sounded and both he and Ros were flung backward, colliding heavily with the floor. Ros was on her feet again instantly, and Wes winced as she grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin so deeply he was sure she drew blood. Her grip didn't lessen as she all-but-dragged him to a side entrance.
“We have to run to the car,” she whispered, “but for about ten metres we'll be exposed. Now, whatever you do, do not turn around. Are we clear?”
“But-”
“Are we clear?” Ros repeated, her voice cold.
Wes nodded, and Ros pushed him through the door. He ran as instructed, keeping his head down as bullets flew through the air, and flinched as a muffled scream rang through the air, foreign amidst the gunfire.
He couldn't help it, he turned and found Ros on the ground, clutching her shoulder. Without thinking, Wes ran to her and, despite her protests, he picked her up and ran again toward the car. Ros was light, and he carried her easily, throwing her into the back seat. She crumpled, but he didn't have time to make her more comfortable as he raced to the front and got inside. He rammed the keys in the ignition and pushed his foot hard on the accelerator, ducking as more bullets were fired, shattering the windows. Somehow, he managed to get down the gravel drive and he burst onto the street in a 'screech' of tires. He kept at the same speed, avoiding other motorists, and every so often he glanced into the back.
Ros' eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, and panic welled in his chest at the thought that she might not survive. Wes wrenched his eyes away from the blonde, to the road ahead, and saw a hospital sign. Without thinking, without caring of the ramifications, he crossed over the intersection, the car squealing in protest, and skidded to a halt in front of the emergency department.
He tried not to think what Ros would say when she woke up. If, not when, a voice reminded him. Wes shook his head as doctors ran to the car and Ros was loaded onto a stretcher.
When, not if.
-
Footfalls made Wes jerk his head upright, and he was subjected to the full force of Harry's glare as he entered the room.
“What earth were you thinking?” the older man growled.
“I couldn't leave her there!” Wes snapped, refusing to be intimidated.
Harry glared at him a moment longer and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Ros' groggy voice.
“You're like your father,” she said, trying to sit, “you don't follow orders.”
She looked even paler than usual, the bandage contrasting starkly with her skin, and Wes felt unimaginable guilt that she'd been hurt protecting him, that indirectly, he might have caused her death. He flushed and looked down at the floor.
“Khalid?” Ros questioned, now addressing Harry.
“Dead,” Harry said. “And now their leader's gone, his men don't care about our Mr Carter.”
At this, Wes looked up again, relief threatening to make his knees buckle.
“So, this is over?” he asked
Harry's eyes softened as he took a seat by Ros' bed.
“Yes, it's over.”
Wes nodded, and looked to Ros, wanting to say 'thank you.' She had fallen asleep again, and he stood awkwardly, unsure what to do.
“Go home, Wes,” Harry said gently.
Wes hesitated, torn between staying beside Ros until she woke up, or returning to the relative comfort of his flat. Either way, he would be haunted with images of Ros, still and bleeding. Eventually, he turned and left Ros' room, walking through the hospital and out from reception. A taxi was there, as if waiting for him, and he stepped inside and told the driver his address. As he sat back in the seat, a wave of tiredness hit him.
Nevertheless, Wes knew he would not sleep, not for some time.
-
Today
“Goodbye, Ros.”
Before Wes had a chance to say anything further, Ros had closed the door. He stood on the landing and listened to her footsteps as she retreated back into her flat, waiting until all he could hear was silence. He closed his eyes, gathering his composure, before he turned and walked down the stairs. He could still see Ros' face, hear her voice, and her smell was embedded in his mind. An icy wind hit him, pulling him from his ruminations, and Wes welcomed the cold air as he walked along the street. He thought back to Ros, who he could see in his mind's eye, sitting on the sofa and surveying the mess around her, deciding where on earth she should start.
It took all his will-power not to turn around, walk back to her door, and ask if he may help.
Instead, Wes turned the corner and entered the main street with the knowledge he would never see Rosalind Myers again.