Thick fog hangs over the banks of the Thames like an early morning cloud, shrouding the river's visitors in a damp coolness. He waits, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers and weight leant against the wall at his back, the very image of a lion poised to strike. It's easy, he thinks, to pretend you're somewhere else. With an act as simple as closing his eyes, John can almost believe it. Most of London is still asleep, a slowly wakening world hidden by the ethereal mist that has welcomed him more warmly than the shadows ever have, and if it weren't for the woman awaiting his return, he'd almost contemplate staying.
After all, if life has taught him anything, it's that it's easy for a man to simply stop existing.
A shape begins to emerge, heralded by the sound of boots against concrete that almost seems to echo around them - ethereal, indeed - and as the outline of his companion comes into view, John grins - a small, quick thing that's over even before it begins .. but there all the same. He straightens, hands leaving the refuge of woolen pockets and shoulders squaring almost as if expecting a fight .. but as the distance between them lessens with no accompanying show of force, stormy blue eyes seem to soften slightly.
She's standing before him then, all steel and teeth that barely reaches his chin, and John tries for a camaraderie that he's no longer sure exists. "No taser this time?" The words are a huff of breath, a forced laugh that falls flat in the heavy air and the ex-agent gives a slight shake of his head in attempt to chase unruly bangs from where they rest against his forehead. Ros is an immovable statue, and for a single moment he feels the quickening of his heart against the walls of a hollowed chest, lungs suddenly far too right where they sit caged beneath sharp ribs ... body tense like a snarling dog as fingers find their way into her own coat pockets. But then she's pressing papers into his hands and there's a twitch at the corner of her lips, an emotion that almost seems foreign across features that are usually so immovable... and for a second John remembers Jo, wonders if maybe Ros also dreams of vanishing into a damp cloud, chased by memories but never reminded of them again.
@spygrid: “ i just need you to know that you’ve never been ‘nobody’ to me. you’ve never been nothing. ” (ROS)
That ghost of a smile is wiped clean off, features spasming in a flash of emotion that this particular ghost has long since thought himself incapable of. There's a million things he wants to say - apologies, perhaps, or the reassurance that their friendship had meant something, despite what she might now think. She knows .. he sees it in her eyes, sees that recognition of another lost soul hiding beneath layers of lies and John's thoughts flash back to a time when she had been just as much a mystery to him as he was to her.
What are you best at? Real thing or faking it?
The twitch in the corner of Ros' mouth matches the one in the corner of his own and John gives a nod of his head, tucking her gift of escape safely away. He shifts as if readying to leave, half turning but looking back in a moment of hesitation, ocean blues meeting ones dark in color. It would be easy to keep walking, to blame his silence on the way his tongue has suddenly found itself stuck to the roof of his mouth - but he owes her more than that. The words, when they come, are a soft eulogy to the woman who had first made him feel like he belonged. "Thank you. And Ros? Wolves always have hope, I think. Even the maladjusted, emotionally stunted ones."
Shoulders curl into the heavy fog and he can almost hear the sound of her own leaving, each step of boots into the cloud accompanied by a memory that echo around them both.
Colleagues are okay.
Yeah. Colleagues are okay.
