{ Casse Glasse }
Casse Glace
S8; Ros Myers, Joanna Portman
Ros, despite numerous assumptions, wasn't cold enough to simply forget.
Cassé Glace
The gun is heavy in her hand and she cradles it, unsure what else to do. She can hear noises around her, but she doesn’t listen, her eyes fixed on the blur of colours ten feet away, unshed tears turning Jo into blues and greens and pale yellows, a poor substitute for a vibrant young woman. Her hands burn, her skin crawls and she leans forward, her forehead nearly touching the ground as she doubles over, unable to scream.
Guilt.
Unbearable guilt.
Her stomach twists, horrifically painful, and she puts one hand against the floor, stopping herself from collapsing.
She doesn’t let go of the gun.
--
The car speeds back to Thames House. Ros leans her forehead against the window, her breath fogging the glass. People crowd the pavements on either sound, some with their heads down, others laughing, arms slung over another’s shoulders. And none of them have any idea what had happened a scarce half-hour before.
A state of wilful ignorance.
Words, spoken long ago, echo in her mind and she sees their validity. Lucas drives, not looking at her, and she closes her eyes as guilt presses down on her shoulders. Jo is gone... by her hand. Logic tells her that she had no choice, that dozens would be dead if it were not for her actions, herself included, but she keeps seeing Jo’s eyes, filled with resignation as she fell down to the ground. Ros shifts in her seat, more for something to do than any wish to be more comfortable and feels rather than sees Lucas turn towards her. He retains his judgemental silence, deafening in the small space of the car, and she closes her eyes. Jo hadn’t been angry and it is this more than anything that makes Ros want to scream. Jo was young, tarnished though not spoiled by the Security Service.
She deserved more.
--
The Grid is warm, stifling so, and Ros slides her jacket over her shoulders and throws it onto her desk, not caring where it lands. Tariq’s eyes meet hers and she sees thinly veiled dislike coupled with fear. She was the woman who could shoot, who could kill, one of her own team. Lucas has left her, gone to another part of the Grid, and Ros leans against her desk, unsure what to do. A hand touches the small of her back, neither probing nor flinching away, and she turns to see Harry. He simply looks at her and she wills him to scream, to call her ‘heartless’, ‘ruthless’ and any other derogatory adjective that came to mind. Instead he beckons for her to come into his office.
She has barely crossed the threshold when her legs give out and he has to move forward to stop her falling to the ground for the second time that night. She tells her body to move, waits for it to respond as usual, but her mind is sluggish and her limbs don’t respond. Harry pulls her to the sofa and sits her down, making sure she is comfortable.
“Ros.”
His voice is soft, not accusatory, and she wills him, once again, to rant and rave. Instead he takes her hand in his and sits down, nudging her leg with his knee to give him room on the small sofa. It is a familiar gesture, one that neither is used to, and an awkward silence fills the room though, to his credit, Harry does not flinch away.
“I saw the video footage,” he says softly, tracing small circles on the back of her hand.
She nods, though doesn’t speak.
There is nothing to say.
“You did the right thing.”
Tears, once again, fill her eyes, and she looks down at their clasped hands. She knows he is right, she knows she is not to blame, but that doesn’t stop the tearing in her chest. Jo, one of the few people who Ros truly liked was dead and Ros, despite numerous assumptions, wasn’t quite cold enough to simply forget.
--
He doesn’t let her go home alone that night.
For once, she is grateful that someone is ordering her about. Usually she would protest, but exhaustion nips at her heels and she follows him obediently to his car. Harry opens the passenger door and she slips inside, shifting in the seat. Ros peeks at him as he drives, watching the strips of light that stream across his face as they move beneath street lamps. His face is stoic, but she can see his whitened knuckles, holding the steering wheel too tightly.
They sit in silence, which he breaks when he pulls up outside her apartment block.
“I would have done the same.”
She simply stares at him and she takes a moment to fully recognise the host of emotions contained in six syllables. Grief, for Jo; resignation, for their profession, but there is also... relief? Relief that she, Rosalind Myers, was alive. She sees herself in his eyes; cool, ruthless and experienced. In many ways she is the quintessential stereotypical ‘spook’, a woman could pull the trigger to end anyone’s life, who could seduce a man to obtain his secrets, to trample over a person’s private life to achieve what was needed.
She was valuable.
Any other day that might be a comfort; today it is a mockery.
--
The apartment, as ever, is immaculate and Harry makes his way into the centre of the living room. Ros watches him for a moment before clearing her throat.
“I need to...”
She waves her hand, not finishing her sentence, but Harry merely nods and sits down on the sofa. Ros swallows, not used to having another person in the apartment, but goes into her bathroom. Her clothes she sheds quickly, making a mental note to throw them away, and she steps beneath the jetting water. It is far too hot and burns her skin but she finds that she doesn’t care. She stays inside until the hot water runs out and wraps herself in a fresh towel. It is soft against her skin, warm, and she wishes she could burrow inside and hide from the world. Instead she goes into her bedrooms and gets dressed.
Harry is in the kitchen and turns as she steps out. He looks up, but unlike other man, his eyes don’t travel up-and-down, memorising the planes of her body. Instead he holds up two glasses he has found in the cupboard.
“Drink?”
She nods and crosses to the kitchen, Harry pouring her a generous amount of scotch. She takes the glass and goes into the living room, seating herself on the sofa. She doesn’t drink immediately; instead she nurses the tumbler, staring into the amber liquid. Harry follows and sits opposite, not speaking. There are no words to say; comfort is hardly fitting; reassurance isn’t necessary and guilt cannot be assuaged. Harry drinks slowly, leaning back into the chair, and watches her over the tumbler. She curls up, tucking her feet beneath herself, to give herself something to do.
“You should go, Harry,” Ros says, not liking the way her voice sounds brittle to her ears.
“Are you okay?” he asks, tone sceptical.
She opens her mouth but no words come out and she shakes her head.
“I thought not.”
--
She falls asleep in the chair, huddled into a ball. When she wakes a blanket is around her shoulders and she spares a small smile. It is barely daybreak, the colours still pastel, and she stretches out her legs and rises to her feet. The apartment is empty, except for herself, and she presumes that Harry left soon after she had fallen asleep. She pads into the kitchen and finds the two tumblers from last night next to the sink, washed and dried. Ros leans against the bench, head bowed, forcing her thoughts into order.
Jo is dead; the human part of her grieves but she, as she has so many times before, pushes it to the back of her mind, next to the grief she holds for Adam, for her father, for any loved ones she has lost. Taking a deep breath, she allows her professional facade to fall in place; cool eyes, hard mouth and straight back.
Today is a new day.
--
Lucas looks up as she walks through the pods and she can see lingering accusation in his eyes along with disbelief that she can appear like nothing has happened, not care that Jo’s desk is empty. She goes past him, to her desk and sits down, ignoring him completely. Footsteps sound from behind her, stopping some twenty feet away, and Harry’s voice floats across the Grid.
“Ros, a word.”
And so another day begins.
S8; Ros Myers, Joanna Portman
Ros, despite numerous assumptions, wasn't cold enough to simply forget.
Cassé Glace
The gun is heavy in her hand and she cradles it, unsure what else to do. She can hear noises around her, but she doesn’t listen, her eyes fixed on the blur of colours ten feet away, unshed tears turning Jo into blues and greens and pale yellows, a poor substitute for a vibrant young woman. Her hands burn, her skin crawls and she leans forward, her forehead nearly touching the ground as she doubles over, unable to scream.
Guilt.
Unbearable guilt.
Her stomach twists, horrifically painful, and she puts one hand against the floor, stopping herself from collapsing.
She doesn’t let go of the gun.
--
The car speeds back to Thames House. Ros leans her forehead against the window, her breath fogging the glass. People crowd the pavements on either sound, some with their heads down, others laughing, arms slung over another’s shoulders. And none of them have any idea what had happened a scarce half-hour before.
A state of wilful ignorance.
Words, spoken long ago, echo in her mind and she sees their validity. Lucas drives, not looking at her, and she closes her eyes as guilt presses down on her shoulders. Jo is gone... by her hand. Logic tells her that she had no choice, that dozens would be dead if it were not for her actions, herself included, but she keeps seeing Jo’s eyes, filled with resignation as she fell down to the ground. Ros shifts in her seat, more for something to do than any wish to be more comfortable and feels rather than sees Lucas turn towards her. He retains his judgemental silence, deafening in the small space of the car, and she closes her eyes. Jo hadn’t been angry and it is this more than anything that makes Ros want to scream. Jo was young, tarnished though not spoiled by the Security Service.
She deserved more.
--
The Grid is warm, stifling so, and Ros slides her jacket over her shoulders and throws it onto her desk, not caring where it lands. Tariq’s eyes meet hers and she sees thinly veiled dislike coupled with fear. She was the woman who could shoot, who could kill, one of her own team. Lucas has left her, gone to another part of the Grid, and Ros leans against her desk, unsure what to do. A hand touches the small of her back, neither probing nor flinching away, and she turns to see Harry. He simply looks at her and she wills him to scream, to call her ‘heartless’, ‘ruthless’ and any other derogatory adjective that came to mind. Instead he beckons for her to come into his office.
She has barely crossed the threshold when her legs give out and he has to move forward to stop her falling to the ground for the second time that night. She tells her body to move, waits for it to respond as usual, but her mind is sluggish and her limbs don’t respond. Harry pulls her to the sofa and sits her down, making sure she is comfortable.
“Ros.”
His voice is soft, not accusatory, and she wills him, once again, to rant and rave. Instead he takes her hand in his and sits down, nudging her leg with his knee to give him room on the small sofa. It is a familiar gesture, one that neither is used to, and an awkward silence fills the room though, to his credit, Harry does not flinch away.
“I saw the video footage,” he says softly, tracing small circles on the back of her hand.
She nods, though doesn’t speak.
There is nothing to say.
“You did the right thing.”
Tears, once again, fill her eyes, and she looks down at their clasped hands. She knows he is right, she knows she is not to blame, but that doesn’t stop the tearing in her chest. Jo, one of the few people who Ros truly liked was dead and Ros, despite numerous assumptions, wasn’t quite cold enough to simply forget.
--
He doesn’t let her go home alone that night.
For once, she is grateful that someone is ordering her about. Usually she would protest, but exhaustion nips at her heels and she follows him obediently to his car. Harry opens the passenger door and she slips inside, shifting in the seat. Ros peeks at him as he drives, watching the strips of light that stream across his face as they move beneath street lamps. His face is stoic, but she can see his whitened knuckles, holding the steering wheel too tightly.
They sit in silence, which he breaks when he pulls up outside her apartment block.
“I would have done the same.”
She simply stares at him and she takes a moment to fully recognise the host of emotions contained in six syllables. Grief, for Jo; resignation, for their profession, but there is also... relief? Relief that she, Rosalind Myers, was alive. She sees herself in his eyes; cool, ruthless and experienced. In many ways she is the quintessential stereotypical ‘spook’, a woman could pull the trigger to end anyone’s life, who could seduce a man to obtain his secrets, to trample over a person’s private life to achieve what was needed.
She was valuable.
Any other day that might be a comfort; today it is a mockery.
--
The apartment, as ever, is immaculate and Harry makes his way into the centre of the living room. Ros watches him for a moment before clearing her throat.
“I need to...”
She waves her hand, not finishing her sentence, but Harry merely nods and sits down on the sofa. Ros swallows, not used to having another person in the apartment, but goes into her bathroom. Her clothes she sheds quickly, making a mental note to throw them away, and she steps beneath the jetting water. It is far too hot and burns her skin but she finds that she doesn’t care. She stays inside until the hot water runs out and wraps herself in a fresh towel. It is soft against her skin, warm, and she wishes she could burrow inside and hide from the world. Instead she goes into her bedrooms and gets dressed.
Harry is in the kitchen and turns as she steps out. He looks up, but unlike other man, his eyes don’t travel up-and-down, memorising the planes of her body. Instead he holds up two glasses he has found in the cupboard.
“Drink?”
She nods and crosses to the kitchen, Harry pouring her a generous amount of scotch. She takes the glass and goes into the living room, seating herself on the sofa. She doesn’t drink immediately; instead she nurses the tumbler, staring into the amber liquid. Harry follows and sits opposite, not speaking. There are no words to say; comfort is hardly fitting; reassurance isn’t necessary and guilt cannot be assuaged. Harry drinks slowly, leaning back into the chair, and watches her over the tumbler. She curls up, tucking her feet beneath herself, to give herself something to do.
“You should go, Harry,” Ros says, not liking the way her voice sounds brittle to her ears.
“Are you okay?” he asks, tone sceptical.
She opens her mouth but no words come out and she shakes her head.
“I thought not.”
--
She falls asleep in the chair, huddled into a ball. When she wakes a blanket is around her shoulders and she spares a small smile. It is barely daybreak, the colours still pastel, and she stretches out her legs and rises to her feet. The apartment is empty, except for herself, and she presumes that Harry left soon after she had fallen asleep. She pads into the kitchen and finds the two tumblers from last night next to the sink, washed and dried. Ros leans against the bench, head bowed, forcing her thoughts into order.
Jo is dead; the human part of her grieves but she, as she has so many times before, pushes it to the back of her mind, next to the grief she holds for Adam, for her father, for any loved ones she has lost. Taking a deep breath, she allows her professional facade to fall in place; cool eyes, hard mouth and straight back.
Today is a new day.
--
Lucas looks up as she walks through the pods and she can see lingering accusation in his eyes along with disbelief that she can appear like nothing has happened, not care that Jo’s desk is empty. She goes past him, to her desk and sits down, ignoring him completely. Footsteps sound from behind her, stopping some twenty feet away, and Harry’s voice floats across the Grid.
“Ros, a word.”
And so another day begins.