A/N: All right, here we go again! This one looks to be another epic tale, though it will be updated at a much more reasonable pace than my last offering. My thanks go out to Marty Swale, whose dedicated detective work and boundless enthusiasm made this fic possible.
Ruth sat with her hands folded in her lap, her head resting against the cold unyielding stone of the barrier behind her, thinking hard. The sun was rising, its first rays breaking through the swirling fog, wan and pale. The morning moved inexorably on, minutes ticking, ticking, ticking slowly away, forcing her ever forward, away from her life, away from her home, away from everything she'd ever known.
Why had she done it? That was the question that would haunt her, all the rest of her days. Though not quite as empty as her colleagues believed it to be her life was not particularly impressive, and as much as it might mean to her personally her sacrifice wouldn't be worth all that much, in the grand scheme of things. It would keep Harry safe, keep him standing on the wall, keep him from going to prison or worse, from joining forces with the sort of men who believed that torture was a justifiable means to a justifiable end. That was the why; she'd done it for Harry, to keep him safe, to keep him behind his desk, where he belonged. Mace had been trying for years to oust him, and the very thought of what might become of Section D without Harry chilled Ruth to the core. So no, she wasn't saving any lives, wasn't falling on her sword to stop a bomb going off or a pestilential plague being released on the tube. She was falling on her sword for the sake of one man, on the off-chance that he might manage to keep himself alive long enough to do the world some good.
It was a rather slim chance, she thought grimly. Harry had a nasty habit of getting himself into trouble. She worried about him constantly, always had done, really. Was he eating properly, was he drinking too much, was he getting enough rest, was he about to do something stupid and get himself shot again; the worry never ceased. It wasn't the first time in her life Ruth had worried herself senseless over someone she loved; she had rather a lot of practice at this.
There was another person she worried for, had worried for since she was fifteen years old. A person who needed her, a person she was leaving, all alone, forever, for Harry's sake. That was the real sacrifice, here; if it weren't for Will, her decision to go would have been so much simpler. Will needed her, always had done, but perhaps, in this moment, what Will needed more than her physical presence was to be kept safe, and it was only by her leaving she could protect him. If she stayed, even if she had found some way to keep Harry out of prison, they would never stop coming after her. They knew, now, the lengths Harry would go to for her sake, and if nothing else Cotterdam had painted a target on her chest. How much of a reprieve could she and Harry hope to enjoy, she wondered, before Mace and his ilk came gunning for her again? If she left, though, no one would ever find Will, no one would ever hurt him, and with Harry sat behind his desk, the country – and Will – would remain safe.
It had to be done, she told herself sternly, for the thousandth time.
Beside her, Zaf began to stir. Idly Ruth wondered if he had slept at all; she certainly hadn't. She was much too cold, inside and out, and much too scared.
Zaf would be leaving her soon, the boat would come, and that would be that. No going back. Harry would ring her family, and tell them that she'd died, and her mother would be, as ever, cruel and cold and hard. Her things would be carted off, back to Exeter to languish in her mother's attic or to be sold off, piece by piece at auction. Her home would be sold, too, the beautiful house with the stained glass door she'd bought in a fit of glee after Harry agreed to keep her on permanently. God, she loved that house.
And Harry, too, damn him. She loved him, loved his pouty lips and his strong arms and his soft voice and his shockingly tender heart. Beneath the bluster and pomposity he had shown himself to be a truly gentle man. A gentle man, and a killer; what a combination, she mused. She knew he had it in him, that latent propensity for violence; he had been a soldier, and she had read the reports of his early career. She had heard, too, how he had stabbed Mace in the club, slicing through flesh and tendon, cutting straight to the bone, never hesitating. He had ruined his marriage, carried on an affair with Juliet bloody Shaw, alienated his children and silenced dissenters with well-placed, quiet bullets. And still, for all that, she loved him.
It was for this man, and the hope he gave her, that Ruth Evershed was throwing her life away. Don't let me down, Harry, she prayed. Please, don't let me down.
Zaf was speaking to her, she realized, and she hastened to respond, their voices hushed and quiet in the preternatural stillness of the riverside in the early morning.
This was it, she knew. If she were going to make this request, make arrangements for Will and his safety, it had to be now. She had to speak, unburden herself to someone, now, before the opportunity was lost to her forever. Still, though, she hesitated.
Secrets, by nature, are meant to be kept, close to the chest, protected from those who might use them for ill. It was the nature of her job, keeping secrets, but it was also an instinct deeply ingrained in her very DNA. There was no chicken-or-egg philosophizing to be done here; her success in her job had not made her secretive, but rather it was her secretive nature that had made her successful in her job. For the last twenty-one years Ruth had kept her secret, had held her tongue, had woven a tapestry of lies, a soft, suffocating blanket in which she wrapped herself, cordoning her heart off from all those who dared try to draw too near. Harry had come too close, and had been burned for his efforts. How could the habit of a lifetime be shattered in a single moment? How could she even contemplate entrusting this piece of herself to Zaf, and not to Harry, Harry whom she loved, Harry whom she trusted above all others?
You'll do it because you have to, and that's that, she told herself.
"Zaf?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling. She hoped he'd blame that tremor on the cold, hoped he couldn't sense the fear rolling off of her in waves.
"Ruth?" he answered, turning his head to gaze at her with sorrow in his soft, dark eyes.
"I need a favor. I know what it is I'm about to ask, and I know it's…a lot, maybe too much, but I need your help, and I need you to please, please keep Harry out of it."
It was unkind, she knew, to ask that Harry be kept in blissful ignorance, but how badly would it wound him, if he learned of her lies secondhand? If Harry was ever to learn the truth, she wanted him to hear it from her lips, and not from Zaf, however kind the young man might be.
"Ruth, I can't promise-" he started to protest.
"I'm not talking about a state secret, Zaf. This is personal, and Harry really doesn't need to know," she told him firmly.
There was a long moment of silence, while Zaf considered his answer and her heart thundered wildly in her chest. Even if Zaf agreed to keep his peace, there was no telling how genuine such a promise of confidence could be. He could well agree to it now, and rush straight to Harry with the truth the moment he left her side. It was a risk she was willing to take, however. It had to be done.
She took a deep breath.
"I need you to look after my son."
Zaf was a spy, and a damned fine one at that, and he kept his surprise well-hidden. Ruth saw it, though, saw the flicker of shock in the infinitesimal shifting of the muscles in his dear, sweet face. Of course he was surprised; Ruth had spent years honing her lies, practicing her deceit, using every one of her formidable talents to carefully shield Will from view. She felt a grim sort of pride, at Zaf's shock; it meant she'd done her job well.
"His name is William. He'll be at my house, just now, I don't think he knows I'm…dead, yet, but he will, and soon, and I…" Tears had started to gather at the corners of her eyes, but she scrubbed them away fiercely. Now was not the time for drowning in self-pity and recrimination. She had to make sure Will was taken care of; for the last twenty-one years, his wellbeing had been her only concern.
"I know you can't tell him the truth, but my mother will be horrible, and he'll need someone to help him through it."
Zaf sighed and ran his hands over his face. "I can't look after a child, Ruth-"
She laughed a bit, at that. It was a bitter sort of laugh, utterly devoid of joy or mirth. It wasn't Zaf's fault, that he'd misunderstood her request. Of course he'd assumed that Will was a child, in need of a guardian; he knew precisely how old she was, and she knew, too, that the moment she revealed the truth to him he would be feverishly counting backwards in his head until he reached the shocking conclusion. Ruth was used to that, that moment when whoever she was speaking to finally added it all up and gave her that slightly surprised, slightly appraising, slightly judgmental look. It was that look that had driven her to keep Will a secret from her colleagues; she was just so bloody tired of being misunderstood and misrepresented.
And yet she would gladly bear whatever judgment Zaf chose to pass on her, if it meant that her son would be safe and well.
"Will is twenty-one years old, Zaf, he hardly needs a nanny. He's about to start his last year at Oxford," she smiled a bit as she said that, pride suffusing her through and through. He was so bright, her Will, was well on his way to making a proper life for himself, despite the dubious way in which he'd entered this world. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every skipped meal and overdue bill and sneering, snide comment she had borne for his sake was worth it, in the end, as she watched her son spread his wings, and make his way in the world.
Zaf had added it all up, and quickly, too, if the questioning look he gave her was any indication. Ruth shook her head, cutting off his inquiries before he even made them. "I know what you want to ask me, and please don't take this the wrong way, but it really isn't any of your business. I only told you because I need to know that he won't be alone, once I'm gone. Can you promise me that, Zaf? Can you be…a friend to him, when he needs one?"
The request wasn't born solely out of convenience; yes, Zaf was the one sat beside her just now, but of every member of her team, he was also the one she most wanted looking after her Will. He was young and clever and kind and funny, and he and Will would get on well, she imagined. Jo was much too earnest and would smother him with her concern, and Adam would try too hard to be a father to the boy, and Malcolm wouldn't have any idea what to say, and Ros was a laughable suggestion, and Harry…
Oh, Harry.
"I will, Ruth. Whatever he needs, I'll make sure he's taken care of, I promise."
"Thank you, Zaf," she sighed, her heart feeling just a tiny bit lighter for his reassurances. "And you won't tell Harry?" she added.
There was a moment, just a moment, when the weight of a thousand questions never asked and never answered hung between them. Zaf knew what Harry meant to her, what she meant to him; they all bloody knew. Zaf knew what she was asking, and why. Zaf knew that she didn't want Harry's memories of her tainted by this, her darkest secret, didn't want Harry sitting at up at night, wondering how on earth her son had come into this world, how she'd wound up pregnant before her fifteenth birthday. Zaf might not have known the details of her relationship with Harry, but he knew enough.
"I promise, Ruth. I won't tell him."
She nodded gratefully. Well, that's that, then, she thought.
A/N: Moving forward we'll be switching back and forth between "present day", and flashbacks, and hopefully all of your questions will be answered in good time.