fic: 'oblivion with bells' (spooks)
Yuletide goodtimes!
oblivion with bells
Spooks; Ruth, Ros, core cast
1872 words, G
Post-6.08. Ruth, Ros, and the end of the world.
Notes: Written for daygloparker as part of Yuletide 2009. Title from an album of the same name by Underworld, who I am obviously not obsessed with. My unreserved thanks go out to the beautiful delgaserasca for the last-minute beta job. (What a girl!)
It is the chill in the air Ros feels first, stepping off the flight from London to Moscow - the bone-deep cold that assaults her immediately and stays with her, an unwelcome but apt reminder of her betrayal.
Next to set in is the feeling of utter isolation and disconnection as she collects the single bag of necessities she had departed England with. Clothes; a pay-as-you-go mobile that is safe for her to use; a dreary letter from an invented aunt containing instructions on how to find an MI6 safehouse, noting specifically that she has exactly seven days to stay there before she is being thrown out into the cold by her former country.
Rosalind Myers has always been exceptionally good at the game of survival, but for the first time in her life, she has not a single idea as to what comes next.
It is weeks before she feels anything change.
Ruth's new existence, cut loose from the ties of MI5 and England, feels ghostlike. It has been a year and three weeks exactly since that chilly morning on the dock, and since then it has been nothing but unbroken solitude and quiet loneliness, drifting from city to city, country to country.
Five weeks in Hamburg, two months in Naples. She managed a single day in Paris before fleeing, crushed by a sense of hopeless longing and nostalgia, of loss. Simple office jobs worked here and there, then home to a silent, utterly unwelcoming flat. Nights, days, weeks pass; then something shifts and she gathers up her things, leaves for somewhere new.
The world is beautiful in its infinite wonders - it seems ironic that she'd spent her days in MI5 daydreaming of escaping the world of espionage, even briefly, just to get lost in new and unfamiliar cities - but now, she yearns for nothing more than London. Nothing feels like home.
This time, Moscow. She leaves the airport with her bags, emerging in the midst of a chilly twilight, and catching a taxi into the middle of Saint Petersburg for a cup of tea before she finds a hotel.
When Ruth first catches a glimpse of Ros, she freezes. Impossible, she thinks, and yet - there was no mistaking the slim, razor-edged beauty, walking up the street with that distinctive, graceful stride. She had to assume something had gone wrong - could she be on a black op, here in Moscow? Had she abandoned the service - what could have possibly happened?
She stays standing in the same spot for minutes, possibilities whirling around in her mind. What seemed clear to her was that she couldn't possibly attempt to track down Ros - who knew what had happened?
Before she knows it, Ros is next to her.
"Fancy seeing you here, Ruth," she says, lightly.
"I thought - I thought you were dead," Ruth says, uncertainly, struggling to keep up with Ros. The wind is cold against her face, blowing her coat and skirt around her knees. She had attempted to keep tabs on her friends on the Grid in the most ineffectual manner possible - reading any English newspaper she could get her hands on - and only a week ago, had seen Ros' name in the obituaries section of the Daily Mail.
Ros looks back at her, an enigma in black, silhouetted against an entirely grey city. "You aren't the only ghost MI5 has, Ruth," she says, unreadable as ever, never breaking her stride.
Ruth follows her for what seems like an eternity, making sure to stay far behind in order to avoid the suspicion that they know each other.
It begins to rain as they enter a teashop - empty, except for the two of them - on a decidedly shabby and unkempt side-street. Ruth chooses a table by the grimy-looking window in order to watch the rain falling gently but steadily outside. The old woman working in the shop looks at them with resentment, but leaves them alone.
"What happened, Ros?" Ruth finally asks, unable to make eye contact, instead fiddling with the cup and saucer in front of her.
After a moment of silence, she looks up. Ros' mouth is set in a hard line, her eyes impenetrable.
"I did what I had to do," Ros says, simply. "Things happened. I betrayed the service and I betrayed my country. But in the end? I saved lives, and I make no apologies for my actions." She glances away, outside, and Ruth knows that this is all she will say on the matter.
"And now you're here," Ruth says, absently, stirring more sugar into her tea. It was terribly weak - another small reminder of her previous life. Sweet tea, she thinks, how very English.
"I haven't been contacted by Section D, since I left," Ros says. "That was weeks ago. I'm sure they've attempted to keep an eye on me - the surveillance in my new flat was appalling. So, now? I wait." Abruptly, she stands up, picking her bag up from the floor, next to her seat. "I need to go, but I'll stay in touch."
She disappears into the rain, and Ruth realises she is just as confused as ever.
A phone call wakes Ros up. She rolls over, still lost in a haze of sleep, groaning as she answers the phone.
"What?" she snaps, her voice still husky with sleep. She rubs her eyelids, glancing over at the radio clock. 3:14AM, it reads, in glowing red letters. Christ, she thinks to herself, this had better be bloody important.
The line is riddled with static and loud background noise, but she could recognise that voice, anywhere. "Ros - Ros! It's- Malcom, we need you in London-"
And the line cuts out. Ros is fully awake, the urgency and fear in Malcom's voice instinctively kicking her brain into overdrive with panic and worry. She gets out of bed, dresses, and leaves the flat, heart beating wildly.
"I had a call. From Malcom," she says, as soon as Ruth opens the door to her at four in the morning, dressed in a nightgown and looking dazed and miserable. She blinks once, processing the information, and bites her lip.
"What's happened?" The dread in her voice is obvious, and Ros can almost see all the possible scenarios flashing through her mind.
"We need to go to London," Ros says. "Get your things."
The traffic is hell. Ruth watches Ros' expression slowly but steadily darken, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a characteristic display of irritation.
Purgatory, she thinks. This part is the most unbearable: not having a single clue what has happened, wondering whether they will arrive in time to help prevent whatever catastrophe that has recalled them to their former service.
There is nothing to do but wait.
When they step off the red-eye flight at four in the morning, local time, it is as if they have entered another world. Heathrow is deathly silent - Ruth's footsteps echo strangely through the terminal. They don't pass a single person.
As soon as she is able to, Ros tries to contact Malcom again. The line is dead, and Ros looks at Ruth with an expression Ruth had never seen from her before - confusion, mixed with fear. Both know that it has to be serious.
It is a perfect day in London - the sun has just risen into a clear, blue sky, dissipating the chill of night-time. The light falls gently over the buildings and high rises of London. Beyond them, the river waits, deep and shimmering. It's the sort of day that makes it easy to imagine new possibilities waiting in every single side-street and alleyway in the city. The view is heart-rendingly beautiful from their vantage point along the Embankment, but disconcertingly, no people are visible, and the city is utterly silent. Ruth feels as if she's stepped into some distant dream, and that she and Ros are there, just waiting for something - anything - to happen.
A few metres away, Ros tries the phone again, gazing distantly at something across the river. It rings, once, twice, and-
The voice is hazy with static, but audible. "Those of us remaining are at Thames House."
"We're waiting on the Embankment," she says. "I'm with Ruth. Meet us here."
"What happened?" she asks.
Malcom looks utterly defeated. "It's no longer important," he says, looking much older than he had, the last time she had seen him. "What matters now is that London is - is gone. Everybody has gone."
Ros shakes her head, her blond hair falling around her face, obscuring her eyes. "Who's left? Have you made contact with-"
"There's nothing we can do."
"Ben and Jo? Connie?" she asks. "Adam?"
Malcom looks impossibly sad. "We have no idea."
Ros processes this information quietly. Malcom carefully studies her expression, and thinks he can see something approaching regret in her eyes.
"I see," she says, finally.
They join Ruth at the railing, overlooking the river.
"I like London, without the people," Ros says, finally. "Very peaceful."
"Of course you would say that," Malcom says.
Ros smiles. "I think I might go home, for a bit. Make a cup of tea, read a book. Revel in this newfound peace and quiet."
"There's somebody who wants to see you," Malcom says, to Ruth. His eyes are sad, but his smile is sincere. He leans over, and kisses Ruth on the cheek. "Stay safe," he advises, turning to follow Ros.
She'd spent so much time thinking about it, that to have it really happen - to see his figure finally emerging from the distance - seems completely unreal.
Harry looks surprisingly good, given the events which must have occured over the past few days. Then again, she remembered, Harry had always been dependable like that - immovable, the very heart of Section D.
There is a moment where the silence between them holds as they gaze at each other, taking in the sight of each other.
"I - I thought I'd never see you again," he says, his voice uncharacteristically full of emotion. A single bird cries out, the sound coming to them with the wind. "Have you- have you been alright, Ruth?"
She laughs, sounding slightly hysterical. "I... I don't know how to answer that."
"It's strange, isn't it," he says, quietly. "But I'm glad... I'm glad you're safe."
"What can we do, now?" Her voice wavers. Harry always seemed to have an answer, a solution for every problem - but this seemed too big, too impossible to even begin to deal with. She had no idea what had happened, no idea what could be done - the impossible had finally come true. Armageddon.
But Harry, too.
Across the river, somewhere, she can hear the ringing of bells. The eleventh hour, she thinks, and remembers a cold morning on a dock, a boat, the feeling of his lips on hers, warm and sweet. When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.
She takes Harry's hand and gazes into the sunlight.
oblivion with bells
Spooks; Ruth, Ros, core cast
1872 words, G
Post-6.08. Ruth, Ros, and the end of the world.
Notes: Written for daygloparker as part of Yuletide 2009. Title from an album of the same name by Underworld, who I am obviously not obsessed with. My unreserved thanks go out to the beautiful delgaserasca for the last-minute beta job. (What a girl!)
It is the chill in the air Ros feels first, stepping off the flight from London to Moscow - the bone-deep cold that assaults her immediately and stays with her, an unwelcome but apt reminder of her betrayal.
Next to set in is the feeling of utter isolation and disconnection as she collects the single bag of necessities she had departed England with. Clothes; a pay-as-you-go mobile that is safe for her to use; a dreary letter from an invented aunt containing instructions on how to find an MI6 safehouse, noting specifically that she has exactly seven days to stay there before she is being thrown out into the cold by her former country.
Rosalind Myers has always been exceptionally good at the game of survival, but for the first time in her life, she has not a single idea as to what comes next.
It is weeks before she feels anything change.
Ruth's new existence, cut loose from the ties of MI5 and England, feels ghostlike. It has been a year and three weeks exactly since that chilly morning on the dock, and since then it has been nothing but unbroken solitude and quiet loneliness, drifting from city to city, country to country.
Five weeks in Hamburg, two months in Naples. She managed a single day in Paris before fleeing, crushed by a sense of hopeless longing and nostalgia, of loss. Simple office jobs worked here and there, then home to a silent, utterly unwelcoming flat. Nights, days, weeks pass; then something shifts and she gathers up her things, leaves for somewhere new.
The world is beautiful in its infinite wonders - it seems ironic that she'd spent her days in MI5 daydreaming of escaping the world of espionage, even briefly, just to get lost in new and unfamiliar cities - but now, she yearns for nothing more than London. Nothing feels like home.
This time, Moscow. She leaves the airport with her bags, emerging in the midst of a chilly twilight, and catching a taxi into the middle of Saint Petersburg for a cup of tea before she finds a hotel.
When Ruth first catches a glimpse of Ros, she freezes. Impossible, she thinks, and yet - there was no mistaking the slim, razor-edged beauty, walking up the street with that distinctive, graceful stride. She had to assume something had gone wrong - could she be on a black op, here in Moscow? Had she abandoned the service - what could have possibly happened?
She stays standing in the same spot for minutes, possibilities whirling around in her mind. What seemed clear to her was that she couldn't possibly attempt to track down Ros - who knew what had happened?
Before she knows it, Ros is next to her.
"Fancy seeing you here, Ruth," she says, lightly.
"I thought - I thought you were dead," Ruth says, uncertainly, struggling to keep up with Ros. The wind is cold against her face, blowing her coat and skirt around her knees. She had attempted to keep tabs on her friends on the Grid in the most ineffectual manner possible - reading any English newspaper she could get her hands on - and only a week ago, had seen Ros' name in the obituaries section of the Daily Mail.
Ros looks back at her, an enigma in black, silhouetted against an entirely grey city. "You aren't the only ghost MI5 has, Ruth," she says, unreadable as ever, never breaking her stride.
Ruth follows her for what seems like an eternity, making sure to stay far behind in order to avoid the suspicion that they know each other.
It begins to rain as they enter a teashop - empty, except for the two of them - on a decidedly shabby and unkempt side-street. Ruth chooses a table by the grimy-looking window in order to watch the rain falling gently but steadily outside. The old woman working in the shop looks at them with resentment, but leaves them alone.
"What happened, Ros?" Ruth finally asks, unable to make eye contact, instead fiddling with the cup and saucer in front of her.
After a moment of silence, she looks up. Ros' mouth is set in a hard line, her eyes impenetrable.
"I did what I had to do," Ros says, simply. "Things happened. I betrayed the service and I betrayed my country. But in the end? I saved lives, and I make no apologies for my actions." She glances away, outside, and Ruth knows that this is all she will say on the matter.
"And now you're here," Ruth says, absently, stirring more sugar into her tea. It was terribly weak - another small reminder of her previous life. Sweet tea, she thinks, how very English.
"I haven't been contacted by Section D, since I left," Ros says. "That was weeks ago. I'm sure they've attempted to keep an eye on me - the surveillance in my new flat was appalling. So, now? I wait." Abruptly, she stands up, picking her bag up from the floor, next to her seat. "I need to go, but I'll stay in touch."
She disappears into the rain, and Ruth realises she is just as confused as ever.
A phone call wakes Ros up. She rolls over, still lost in a haze of sleep, groaning as she answers the phone.
"What?" she snaps, her voice still husky with sleep. She rubs her eyelids, glancing over at the radio clock. 3:14AM, it reads, in glowing red letters. Christ, she thinks to herself, this had better be bloody important.
The line is riddled with static and loud background noise, but she could recognise that voice, anywhere. "Ros - Ros! It's- Malcom, we need you in London-"
And the line cuts out. Ros is fully awake, the urgency and fear in Malcom's voice instinctively kicking her brain into overdrive with panic and worry. She gets out of bed, dresses, and leaves the flat, heart beating wildly.
"I had a call. From Malcom," she says, as soon as Ruth opens the door to her at four in the morning, dressed in a nightgown and looking dazed and miserable. She blinks once, processing the information, and bites her lip.
"What's happened?" The dread in her voice is obvious, and Ros can almost see all the possible scenarios flashing through her mind.
"We need to go to London," Ros says. "Get your things."
The traffic is hell. Ruth watches Ros' expression slowly but steadily darken, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a characteristic display of irritation.
Purgatory, she thinks. This part is the most unbearable: not having a single clue what has happened, wondering whether they will arrive in time to help prevent whatever catastrophe that has recalled them to their former service.
There is nothing to do but wait.
When they step off the red-eye flight at four in the morning, local time, it is as if they have entered another world. Heathrow is deathly silent - Ruth's footsteps echo strangely through the terminal. They don't pass a single person.
As soon as she is able to, Ros tries to contact Malcom again. The line is dead, and Ros looks at Ruth with an expression Ruth had never seen from her before - confusion, mixed with fear. Both know that it has to be serious.
It is a perfect day in London - the sun has just risen into a clear, blue sky, dissipating the chill of night-time. The light falls gently over the buildings and high rises of London. Beyond them, the river waits, deep and shimmering. It's the sort of day that makes it easy to imagine new possibilities waiting in every single side-street and alleyway in the city. The view is heart-rendingly beautiful from their vantage point along the Embankment, but disconcertingly, no people are visible, and the city is utterly silent. Ruth feels as if she's stepped into some distant dream, and that she and Ros are there, just waiting for something - anything - to happen.
A few metres away, Ros tries the phone again, gazing distantly at something across the river. It rings, once, twice, and-
The voice is hazy with static, but audible. "Those of us remaining are at Thames House."
"We're waiting on the Embankment," she says. "I'm with Ruth. Meet us here."
"What happened?" she asks.
Malcom looks utterly defeated. "It's no longer important," he says, looking much older than he had, the last time she had seen him. "What matters now is that London is - is gone. Everybody has gone."
Ros shakes her head, her blond hair falling around her face, obscuring her eyes. "Who's left? Have you made contact with-"
"There's nothing we can do."
"Ben and Jo? Connie?" she asks. "Adam?"
Malcom looks impossibly sad. "We have no idea."
Ros processes this information quietly. Malcom carefully studies her expression, and thinks he can see something approaching regret in her eyes.
"I see," she says, finally.
They join Ruth at the railing, overlooking the river.
"I like London, without the people," Ros says, finally. "Very peaceful."
"Of course you would say that," Malcom says.
Ros smiles. "I think I might go home, for a bit. Make a cup of tea, read a book. Revel in this newfound peace and quiet."
"There's somebody who wants to see you," Malcom says, to Ruth. His eyes are sad, but his smile is sincere. He leans over, and kisses Ruth on the cheek. "Stay safe," he advises, turning to follow Ros.
She'd spent so much time thinking about it, that to have it really happen - to see his figure finally emerging from the distance - seems completely unreal.
Harry looks surprisingly good, given the events which must have occured over the past few days. Then again, she remembered, Harry had always been dependable like that - immovable, the very heart of Section D.
There is a moment where the silence between them holds as they gaze at each other, taking in the sight of each other.
"I - I thought I'd never see you again," he says, his voice uncharacteristically full of emotion. A single bird cries out, the sound coming to them with the wind. "Have you- have you been alright, Ruth?"
She laughs, sounding slightly hysterical. "I... I don't know how to answer that."
"It's strange, isn't it," he says, quietly. "But I'm glad... I'm glad you're safe."
"What can we do, now?" Her voice wavers. Harry always seemed to have an answer, a solution for every problem - but this seemed too big, too impossible to even begin to deal with. She had no idea what had happened, no idea what could be done - the impossible had finally come true. Armageddon.
But Harry, too.
Across the river, somewhere, she can hear the ringing of bells. The eleventh hour, she thinks, and remembers a cold morning on a dock, a boat, the feeling of his lips on hers, warm and sweet. When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.
She takes Harry's hand and gazes into the sunlight.