So, this story is a way post-Cotterdam AU which does not take any of the show canon after series 5 as gospel. You have been duly warned. There will be shenanigans and malarkey. And things will happen. So, M rated to be safe. You have been warned for pr0n.

Hope
by ScintillatingTart

Hope is the most powerful emotion, even greater than love. Faith is hope's sister, fickle and changeable, but always tied to Hope by the hip. If one was to take away all hope…

Harry Pearce shook himself a little in his painfully small plane seat. He could have upgraded to first class – he even preferred it – but he thought that his misery was well-deserved company for the trip home to New York. He briefly wondered at the change; how had New York had become home rather than London? How had he not known that the cities had changed places in his affections so easily?

He smiled a little in spite of his bad temper. Lucy, of course, had made all the difference. Catherine, his daughter, had extended an olive branch when she'd been pregnant, and he'd made the trip to the dingy little fifth-floor walk-up flat in Five Points that she and Brad had been living in at the time, only to find her due to give birth any day. That had been a surprise, and not necessarily a pleasant one.

Two weeks had turned into a month – but he'd had hundreds of hours of paid leave to burn through, so he'd been present at the birth, being the first person in the world to hold Lucy when she'd had her eyes open. Everything had gone swiftly downhill for a time after that; Brad had gone to Afghanistan to report on the withdrawal of US and UK troops and had been killed by a sniper. In her darkest days, post partum depression coupled with grief over her husband had led Catherine to nearly commit suicide.

Harry had been forced to sort his priorities, and in a bloody hurry.

Five had been rather gracious, all things considered. He took retirement and full pension, got a permanent resident visa for the United States, and left England behind in order to be the father and grandfather he had never allowed himself to be. Every so often, they recalled him to London for an operation, but he was usually back within a couple of weeks.

This operation had been nearly six months, and his temper was frayed at the edges. All he'd wanted for the last four months was to go home and scoop Lucy onto his lap and tell her a story. Instead, he'd gotten a bullet in his other knee and a fucking titanium joint on top of it. And now he limped around on a cane, so gone was the dashing spy of yore.

He was just an old so-and-so, put out to pasture.

The descent into JFK was bumpy, due to weather-related turbulence. It had been snow and ice on the ground for days, and he was not looking forward to the possibility of wiping out with his new cane, like an uncomical old man, on the front steps of their brownstone.

He wondered briefly if Catherine had gotten the message that he was coming home. She could be so flighty some days, and others, so very solemn; it was very disconcerting that he never knew until after the first cup of tea whether or not it was a good day or a bad day. On the bad days, he just kept Lucy busy and let Catherine wallow.

Harry wished that he had time to wallow, but Lucy kept him too busy for that.

Only when he was in London, away from them, did he allow himself the luxury of dwelling on the past. Only when he was on the Grid, and Ruth's absence was keenest felt.

To be fairly honest to himself, she was part of the reason he'd left: too many memories, good and bad, in Thames House. Part of the reason he'd stayed so long after being released from hospital and rehabilitation was because they were trying to undo the wrong they'd done so many years before. But he'd taught her too well, and Ruth was nowhere readily to be found.

She could be dead. She could be long dead, buried god only knows where. She could be just fine, living her best life, having forgotten all that had come before. He could only hope that, if she was still alive, that she was happy; mostly because, after everything, Harry was honest in admitting that he was happy. All right, maybe not over-the-bloody-moon-blissful, but he wasn't unhappy. He had a five-year-old granddaughter and a daughter who had forgiven him a multitude of sins, and… he was happy.

Catherine was waiting for him at the baggage claim, a smile on her lips; obviously, it was a good day. She bear hugged him and said, "I'm so glad you're home, dad. Your sidekick has been very sad that you haven't been able to come home."

"Well, I'm home now," he said softly, hugging her back, holding onto his balance very carefully. "I can't tell you much about the trip, except that there was a bit of a balls-up and I had to have a knee replacement done."

She pulled back and inspected him with concern, her eyes finally settling on the cane. "Will you be okay to manage the stairs at the house?" Catherine asked.

He nodded and smiled a little. "I'll be fine. Where's the little scamp?"

"School's off today, so I got the daughter of the French teacher to watch her so I could come pick you up," Catherine said dismissively. "Lucy loves Hope, and Hope might only be fifteen, but she's fully-certified and I trust her. She's been helping a lot since you left."

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. "I'm sure her mum is a glorified hippie, naming her damn kid Hope."

They gathered his bags and Catherine said, "She's really not that bad, Mary – actually, she's really rather brilliant. She's just had some shit happen in her life, same as the rest of us, and she decided to do something positive about it. Hope's a sweet kid and I hope you don't do that 'Harry Pearce, grumpy bear' thing and chase her off."

He grumbled; he was basically Lucy's father figure and, though he was a shit father figure, he was doing his damned best to make sure she was prepared for life after he was gone. Maybe he was slightly overprotective, but, damn it…

"I will behave like a perfect gentleman, but if I see her doing one thing wrong…"

"Dad, relax. God knows, it's hard to keep Lucy in line: she's too much like you."

Coming home was such a joy; the air smelled familiar (Catherine always had a warmer going with some kind of scented wax in it), the feel of the building that was his house was comfortable like his worn in loafers, and it really was a home, rather than just… some place that had no personality. Lucy's muddy snowboots were drying out, her pink coat on a hook, and he placed his coat next to hers, adding his hat for good measure. Catherine added her coat and scarf to another hook, next to an unfamiliar coat and – what he considered to be – a very ugly scarf, made up of garish colors. It was obviously hand-made, which ruffled his sense of order very much, but he kept his mouth shut.

No point insulting someone who didn't know the difference a good scarf could make. After all, she was only an American, this… this… Hope girl.

"Lucy, I'm home," Catherine shouted up the stairwell. "I found something you might want to see, love. Or rather, someone."

That did it: it sounded like a herd of elephants had been released. Lucy fell over three or four times in her excitement, so he could hear, and then her tiny body was hurtling into him at top speed as she shrieked, "Granpa! I missed you so much! So so much!"

"I missed you, too, little madam," Harry said, ignoring the pain in his legs as he did something he definitely wasn't supposed to do anymore – he lifted Lucy up into a huge hug and held her close. "You smell like crayons – have you been coloring?"

Lucy nodded. "Hope and me been drawing pictures for you and mommy," she said solemnly. "I've got lots of them 'cause you were gone really long, Granpa."

"I didn't want to be gone so long, monkey," he sighed, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"I was heating up some chili," said a soft voice on the stairs. "I figured you guys would be hungry when you got back. I should probably go – mom will wonder where I am and you've got a lot to catch up on."

Harry looked the girl up and down, sizing her up quickly with his secondary spook-sense. She seemed harmless enough – shorter than the average, very compact if not actually slightly chubby, a little bit of curve about her that suggested if she lost a few pounds, she might be a little too attractive to boys her own age, her hair short and pale pink, her eyes bright, clear blue. "You must be Hope – Catherine has told me a lot about you," he lied smoothly, extending his hand. The girl shook it, then pushed past him and grabbed her coat and scarf. Without so much as an actual word to him, she was gone.

"She's very shy," Catherine tried to explain. "She gets bullied a lot at school, so she doesn't really… people very well." She paused, then sighed. "I guess that's part of why Mary pushed so hard to get her to watch Lucy – they get along really well."

"I love her lots," Lucy said with a big smile, showing off three holes where teeth used to be. "She's really nice, Granpa."

Hope walked home in the biting cold, her scarf up over her nose and mouth, her knitted hat folded down low over her ears. She was only a couple blocks away, so it wasn't that bad, but she hated that everything made a wind tunnel and it was just so freaking cold. She didn't want to think about what a twit she'd just made of herself, freaking out about Catherine's dad shaking her hand – but he was an unfamiliar man, and just that was enough to make her clam up and run.

She knew it was irrational and rude, but she couldn't help it. After being picked on and humiliated day after day, week after week, by boys her own age, the last thing she wanted was some strange old dude thinking it was okay to be in her space when she was obviously not okay with pedos and pervs.

Her mom was waiting for her when she got home. "You're back early," was all Mary said gently from the kitchen of their studio apartment. "Are you cold? I've just made some cocoa and soup."

"Mama, you'll have to apologize to Catherine for me, please," Hope said very quietly, shedding her winter gear and running straight into her mother's arms, curling into her and breathing in her familiar scent. "I didn't mean to just run out of there, but her dad came home and I just…"

"Shh, I'm sure Catherine knows you didn't mean any harm," Mary said, rubbing her daughter's back soothingly. "She knows you're…"

"Stupid," Hope whispered. "I'm stupid."

"Not stupid," Mary murmured. "You've got PTSD and anxiety. It's okay, sweetheart. I promise. And if it makes you feel better, I'll go with you to Catherine's and meet her dad and make sure he's not some handsy old fart. God knows you don't need that after…"

"You can say it, mom," Hope said. "After I was raped by the captain of the football team."

Mary flinched and her hand stilled. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry that I couldn't protect you from him…"

"No, but you're protecting me now," Hope whispered.

Hope was love in the darkest places, a soft breath of gentle affection that bolstered the spirit and rallied it for fighting. Hope lived in both hope and blind fear.

Ruth held her daughter close and tried not to cry; it was all so much, still. It had only been a few weeks since Hope had finally admitted what had happened during fall break when she'd gone to a party, a few weeks since she'd insisted her daughter get tested for STDs, HIV, and pregnancy. Everything had been negative, thank god, but her once-bubbly little girl was now almost silent – except when she was horribly blunt and forthright.

She had named her Hope because she was the last beacon of her former life, a life before her exile, when her fragile relationship with Harry Pearce might have yielded something so much more. Instead, she had been thrown out with the rubbish and lived the life of someone on the run. Hope had been a breath of fresh air, a delight and a joy for so long. It was difficult to put into words just how much of a treasure Hope was to her mother, but if she had to put a finger on it, Hope was the last reminder of just how good Harry's seductive skills really were.

"I love you," Ruth whispered. "And it's just you and me against the world, sweetheart." She rubbed Hope's back one more time and added, "Now, let's get you some of that cocoa before it gets cold."

Hope was a luxury feeling, not a necessity. Hope could be packed up and compartmentalized and done away with until it was time to remind one's self about how much had already been lost and just how little there was left to gain.

And Hope was her daughter, so fresh and fair, desperate to do good in the world but so frightened of her own shadow.

It was difficult to have any hope left, the world was so full of disaster and dismay.

Ruth wondered, briefly, if she ever saw Harry again, would he like what he saw? She wasn't the same woman who had left him alone on the docks – she was older, harder, colder. She had gone completely grey already and her face was lined heavily with worry and stress. Being on the lam did that to a person.

Hope flared to life in her heart, a tiny, flickering flame.

If he ever came to find her, she would be ready for him, ready to leave the nomadic existence behind. Ready to start over again.