Three in the morning, and I'm still awake, so I picked up a pen and a page. And I started writing just what I'd say if we were face to face. I'd tell you, just what you mean to me, tell you these simple truths.
Its nights like this, as he sits alone, that he allows himself to think of her. And to wonder.
Does she think of him?
Or has he been resigned to a distant memory?
It is hard for him to decide what he wishes.
For if, she thinks of him as he of her, a great emptiness must fill her heart, and her life. That is not something he wants for her, and yet…
The alternative is that she truly has moved on, found happiness, and settled into her 'new' life. This pains him greatly; the irrational side that he tries so hard to control and hide saying that he never meant as much to her as she did to him; and yet, it also assures him. That she has found what she deserves; a happiness and a freedom away from the darkness that is their life in the services.
He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes staring into the burning flames of the fire, a letter in his hands.
It is a letter that will never be sent, and yet, on days like this, when he finds himself alive against all expectations, he finds himself writing to her. Of telling her things, things he cannot share with anyone; everything that happened, the deaths, his fears, and those silly little fantasies that he keeps to himself.
Today had been no different.
Except he had fully expected to die at the hands of Viktor Sarkisiian, perhaps even had been prepared to.
Would have died at the hands of Amish Mani had it not been for the quick thinking and actions of his team.
He is also wise enough to know that had the situation progressed any further than it had, Ruth would have been in jeopardy. Had heard her name uttered as he had waited for whatever his fate would be.
Another sip of whiskey has the glass drained.
Setting it onto the side table he stands, letter in his hand. For a moment, he considers burning it. Gathering the forty or so others that are sitting in his safe, and destroying them.
Yet he cannot.
And never give up hope. You're gonna do great things. I already know. So don't live life in fear. Forgive and forget. But don't forget why you're here.
She stands on the barge, wind whipping through her hair, watching as the evening skyline of London comes into view. It has been three years, one hundred and twenty-seven days, thirteen hours, and forty-three minutes since she last saw this city.
Yet, in a way, it feels like no time had passed.
She had never expected to come here again; had resolved that it would not bother her; and yet, something had happened. Something with Harry. For weeks she had scoured the news services, looking for any mention of the death or disappearance of a middle-aged government man. Or something that would hint at his loss. She had found nothing, and yet the feeling never faded.
It pulled at her until it consumed her, all thoughts on him.
Until she had used skills so long ago abandoned, yet not forgotten, and looked.
Had found him alive and well.
And realized that as hard as she had tried to move on, she could not.
Her life in Cypress, while carefree and fulfilling, did not suppress the fleeting memories of Harry, did not stop the questions of what their life could have been like had she not given into her fear. She found herself wondering if he had moved on as she had, found a partner to dull the aching loneliness with his heart.
Yet, somehow, she knew he had not.
The pull of what could have been still consumed her, burned within her soul until there was no other option.
It gave proof to the fact that her life with George, with Nico, was only superficial; that while nice would never have lasted.
She wraps her arms around her middle, pulling the long coat tight around her body, and gazes up at the sky as the barge docks. Bringing her once again to London and to a past she had thought buried.
To him and to possibilities yet to come.
She only hopes she has made the right decision.
Last time we spoke, you said you were hurting. And I felt your pain in my heart. I want to tell you that I keep on praying, that love will find you where you are. I know cause I've already been there.
It has been a year and he no longer has to wonder.
He knows where she is – curled into his side, feet tucked under her, as she fiddles with the edge of the throw haphazardly draped over them. Her hair tickles his chin as she curls closer still, sighing as his hand caresses her side, and he has to gaze down upon her. His eyes meet hers and he smiles at the happiness he finds within them.
Had you asked him a year ago if they would find themselves in this place, together and happy, he would have said no. Fate just was not that kind to a worn old soul as himself.
The knock on his door so late at night had left him weary, and for a few tender moments, he had wondered if his time was at an end, that he had cheated death long enough. He had not known what to expect as he had unlocked the heavy wooden door, and yet, a sixth sense had told him that whoever was behind it, would change his life forever.
And they had.
As he unconsciously pulls her closer, his smile grows, the happiness that had sparked to life that cold winters eve has overcome him. No longer does he have to wonder what might have been, or feel as though he is only half-alive. She came back to him – his Ruth had returned.
Because for once, fate had been kind.
AN: I hope that you enjoyed this small little one shot I've put together in honor of Peter Firth's birthday. The idea has been floating around in my head for weeks, since I first heard the song that is italicized between the various parts, and while it ended a bit more fluffy then I had planned, I'm quite happy with the results. I do hope you are as well, and that you will leave a review to let me know what you think.
The song used in this piece is 'The Words I Would Say' by Sidewalk Prophets.