Oh, don't you dare look back
Just keep your eyes on me
I said you're holding back
She said shut up and dance with me
Shut Up and Dance With Me/Walk the Moon
So far, Ruth's first day on the job had gone remarkably smoothly. Her PA, Margot - and how strange that was, to think that Ruth had achieved a position that required a PA - was a bright, enthusiastic girl, eager to help, eager to please, and her presence throughout the day had tempered some of Ruth's nerves. In a way Margot reminded Ruth of herself at that age, bright-eyed and desperate to make a difference; how much things change, she thought as she settled herself behind her desk and took a deep breath for the first time in eight hours.
Moving to the Home Office had been the right choice, Ruth was sure. She was proud of the work she'd done with Five, proud of the lives she'd helped to save, proud of the choices she'd made in the name of defending the realm, but the losses had become too grievous to bear. It was Harry's suspension that opened her eyes, that made her realize that her heart was no longer in her work. Without him there to distract her, to comfort her, to show her the way, she had come to the stunning, heart-wrenching realization that she was only staying at Five for him. For so long she had continued on fighting in the darkness for no other reason than that Harry was still there. Years before, when she was young and more naive than she would ever have willingly admitted, she had sacrificed her very life to keep Harry on the wall. Last year, after his damnable, ill-timed proposal she had berated him into staying in his post, all but begging him not to leave her behind. And because of that, because of the blood and tears she had shed, because of the sacrifices she had made, they had made together, Ruth had remained firmly rooted in Thames House, thinking that if she were to demand so much from him, it was only fair that she return the gesture.
Those weeks she'd spent without him had made her see, however, that Harry would not remain on the wall forever. A time would come when Harry would leave, whether as a result of violence or political calamity or his disastrous love of her she could not say, but whatever the cause, the result would be the same. And she had asked herself, what would I have to show for it, for all these years I've spent toiling away in this job? Her friends were dead, her family gone, her home no more than an empty flat, made all the more unwelcoming by Beth's hasty departure. She had no hobbies to speak of, no one to call in the middle of the night when she was feeling scared and hopeless - no one save for Harry himself, and even he had been lost to her.
Lost by her own choice, she knew. She could have had Harry, at any moment, if only she had asked it of him, and that knowledge hurt more than almost anything about the whole sorry business. She wanted him with a fierceness that almost blinded her, but she had not asked, had not gone to him in the still of the night and whispered please, no matter how she longed to; it seemed to Ruth that whatever they might have been, whatever joy they might have brought one another, had been ruined, tainted and discolored by their myriad sins. She did not give in to the frantic clamoring of her heart in her chest, did not heed the quiet voice that whispered to her when she lay in awake in her bed in the darkness, weeping from sheer loneliness, sheer desperation, that voice that told her she was not beyond redemption, that there was a man in an empty house on the other side of the city with arms made to hold her. We've forfeited the chance for that sort of life, she'd told him, bitterly wishing that it were not so, wishing that there was some way for them to forge ahead without drowning beneath the weight of their guilt and their pain. Those weeks she'd spent without him only served to remind her that her life was an empty thing without him in it. If she were to truly deny him, truly deny them, then it seemed the time had come for her to walk away. To forge a new life for herself, one in which Harry did not feature.
It had surprised her, at first, when the Home Secretary rang her at home to offer her a position on his staff. Before that night, Ruth had assumed that she had become like political dynamite, having been used three times now as a weapon against Harry. Who would want to have such a woman in their employ, a woman whose personal life so greatly outweighed her professional triumphs? The truth had come out, eventually; the Home Secretary admitted that Harry had presented a report to the tribunal on her effectiveness as an analyst and her numerous contributions to key Five operations, and the H.S. had apparently been impressed by her qualifications. That stung, just a little, to know that while she had been presented with an opportunity to further her career, to distance herself from Harry and try to rebuild her life, it had only come about as a direct result of Harry's machinations, Harry's admiration for her, Harry's love of her. That soured the deal, but not enough to cause her to reject the offer.
So Ruth had accepted, and tendered her resignation forthwith. The timing had been fortuitous; her first day at the Home Office coincided with Harry's first day back on the Grid, and so she had been spared the inevitable, unbearable conversation in which she would have to admit that she was leaving him behind. Oh, they would have to have that little chat eventually, but this way it would be too late for the heat of his eyes and the softness of his voice to sway her, for the siren song of his proximity to lull her into thinking she could bear to stay put for another week, another month, another year, while chaos and fire rained down all around her. This way, she could defend herself from the onslaught of emotions that Harry always inspired in her.
They would have to work together, she knew. They would pass in the halls, sit in on the same meetings, attend the same functions. But it would be different, seeing one another in passing, rather than spending every day in each other's pockets, holding each other up through horror and heartbreak. What would it be like, she asked herself, to be reduced to nothing more than civility, to pretend that this man who had so shaped the course of her life was no more than an acquaintance? With the exception of the H.S., no one else on staff knew where Ruth had come from, what position she had served in prior to being exalted to the lofty title of Security Adviser to the Home Office. They knew that Towers trusted her, that he respected her, and that she would be tasked with liaising with the Security Services and sorting through intelligence, but they knew nothing of her history. They did not know the sorry tale of Ruth and Harry and everything that had come between the beginning and the end of it, and though this should have pleased Ruth, in truth it only made her feel weary, and old, and more like a spy than she ever had done while working at Thames House.
In the midst of her ponderings about Harry, and her new job, and her lovely new office, Margot came bustling into view, carrying with her a cup of tea, made just the way Ruth liked it.
"Settling in all right?" Margot asked her.
Ruth nodded, smiling. It had been a busy day, between meeting with Towers and various key members of staff and enduring the inevitable, unnecessary sermons from the IT department. All in all, though, it had been quite nice, and for the first time since she'd left GCHQ she was preparing to leave the office at 5:00 pm. What she would do with her newfound free time remained a mystery, but she was rather looking forward to finding out.
"I've just had a call from Lillian," Margot continued, folding herself neatly into the chair across from Ruth's desk. That was something else Ruth was going to have to get used to; she had an office, with a proper door, and a chair for visitors. Just like Harry, she thought, trying to banish the memories of the hundreds of times she had sat with him in his office in the quiet of the evening, after the rest of their team had left, dancing circles round one another but never speaking the truth of their hearts aloud.
By Lillian Margot had been referring to Towers's PA, another bright, remarkably pretty, remarkably bubbly young lady. Though Ruth had only just met them, she had already discovered that they were good friends, and had already begun to wonder if she might be able to use that to her advantage. Ruth had been too long a spy; though she hated it, she knew that she evaluated each new acquaintance, judging their worthiness as an asset, as a confidante. Perhaps in time that would fade, she thought. Perhaps one day she would wake up and be Ruth Evershed again, just plain, slightly bonkers Ruth, and not the drab creature of shadows she had become.
"The HS is stuck in a meeting, but he wanted to ask you to attend the reception tonight," Margot continued, her eyes shining eagerly at the prospect.
Ruth very nearly groaned aloud.
There was to be a reception at the Russian embassy that evening, she knew, a gala thrown for the benefit of a contingent of Russian diplomats who had come to London to broker a new intelligence sharing deal. Once the meetings began Ruth knew her presence would be required, to evaluate the risks and benefits of each piece of the bargain, but she had hoped to avoid the night's festivities, given that she had only just started her new position. The fact that Harry would be present did nothing to improve her disposition towards attending the function. If anything, knowing that she would have to face him - and while he was wearing a tuxedo, no less - was nearly enough to make her quit her job on the spot, and consider taking up teaching instead.
She couldn't though, and she knew it. Her new position was the sort of opportunity she'd been dreaming about for years, and she could not allow her feelings for Harry - or his for her - to ruin what had so far proven to be the best decision she'd made in years.
"I don't have anything to wear," Ruth protested feebly.
Margot grinned at her, the enigmatic, vaguely maniacal grin of a girl who had a plan.
"Not to worry. The HS sent over your requirements-" at this Margot paused, as if waiting for Ruth to explain how exactly it was that William Towers knew her dress size. The answer, of course, was that he had likely called over to Thames House and requested the information from HR, where such things were kept on file so that each agent could be properly outfitted for any given operation. This was not something Ruth was keen to share with Margot, however; the girl was an inquisitive sort, and Ruth did not want to be roped into a discussion of her previous posting. Seeing that Ruth was not about to shed light on the situation, Margot continued on. "So I called in a favor, and I've just had three dresses delivered for you. You can take them home and try them on, and pick which one you like best. Be careful with them, though, I will need them back tomorrow," she added with a cheeky wink. "We've arranged for a car to pick you up at eight. Do you need anything else?"
Ruth sighed, and discarded her largely untouched tea cup on the desk. "No, I think that will cover it. Show me these dresses."
Together she and Margot rose from their chairs, and Margot led her the way out of the office, chatting about the designer and the dresses and the friend she had wheedled to get her hands on them, and all the while Ruth remained utterly oblivious, her stomach twisting round and round itself as she considered the forthcoming calamity. Maybe it won't be so bad, she tried to tell herself, not believing a word of it. You'll drink some champagne, you'll speak to Towers, and then you'll leave, at the first possible opportunity. Maybe you won't even see Harry.
That was a problem in itself; deep inside her heart, a small voice whispered that there was nothing she wanted more than to see him again.
At precisely 8:00 pm a discreet Home Office driver appeared on Ruth's doorstep, and ushered her into a sleek black sedan. The dresses that Margot had procured for her were all absolutely lovely, tasteful and appropriate for the venue as well as the black tie dress code, but they all showed off rather more of her décolletage than she would have liked. This was a work function, after all, and Ruth knew that her new colleagues were still forming their opinions of her. She did not want to appear vain or vampish; she wanted, very much, to wear one of her own soft, dark dresses, but she knew that nothing she owned was sophisticated enough for a gala at the Russian embassy. In the end she chose the least sensational of the dresses on offer, a floor-length number in a shimmering shade of blue somewhere between royal and navy, fitted through the waist but featuring a soft, floaty skirt that seemed to have been made for dancing. She had no intentions of indulging in that particular activity this evening, given her own somewhat clumsy nature and her fervent desire to fade into the wallpaper, but she liked the look of it, and she liked the way she felt when she wore it.
At the embassy her driver gave her his mobile number, and told her to text it when she was prepared to leave so that he could come and collect her, assuring her that it was no trouble. For a moment she thought she saw something rather like pity flash across his face; though she wore a beautiful dress, though she had taken the time to wash and style her hair and even apply a bit of makeup, Ruth was arriving to the party alone. All around her the other guests were making their way into the embassy arm-in-arm with one another, and yet she stood small and alone. As ever.
"Have a good time, then," the driver told her gently, and then he departed, leaving Ruth rather despondent on the pavement.
It doesn't matter, she told herself. Plenty of people go to parties alone. It's fine.
And so, chin held high, she turned and braved her way through security, flashing her shiny new Home Office credentials and following the stream of humanity through the doors, up the stairs, and into the ballroom.
The party had only just begun; though the music was playing and the champagne was flowing no one was dancing as yet, and it appeared that only perhaps half the intended guests had arrived. Ruth paused for a moment near the entryway, scanning the room, clocking the exits and searching for a familiar face. Everywhere she looked she saw a sea of well-dressed people, sparkling and laughing and full of life, but this did nothing to bolster her confidence. If anything, it only made her feel tired, to be surrounded by this who's-who of political insiders and their rivals. These people were the decision makers, she knew, the people whose messes she'd spent years cleaning up while she worked for Five, the people whose lives she had protected, though they seemed not to care about her own, or indeed anyone else's. They knew nothing of the reality of the world, she thought as she watched them glittering away; they did not know the harshness of it, the pain of it, did not know the human cost of the laws they passed, the deals they made.
"Nice night out?" a voice asked somewhere near her shoulder.
Ruth nearly jumped out of her skin; she spun on her heel, and found herself face-to-face with Harry for the first time in more than two months.
He looked good, she had to admit; he had finally trimmed his hair, and though for a moment she felt a pang of regret to see that his soft blonde curls were no longer in evidence, she also appreciated his neater appearance. He seemed slimmer, too, his face less lined, as if he'd actually woken well-rested for once. The tuxedo he wore suited him, she thought; it fit him well, showing off his broad shoulders to their best effect. The stilettos she wore brought their faces almost to the same level, and she found herself staring into his warm hazel eyes, wondering, not for the first time, what it might have been like if only she had been brave enough to accept his proposal, to take his hand, to follow where he led. There was no gentle smile on his face tonight as he gazed at her, however; he seemed wary, almost, and angry, too, all the recrimination he longed to throw at her bubbling away just beneath the surface. It seemed as if he couldn't quite decide what to say to her, and so had chosen instead to bite his tongue, and wait for her to determine the course of their conversation.
I'm so sorry, she thought dejectedly. I'm sorry for everything, really.
"Hello, Harry," she said aloud, trying and failing to smile through the feeling of sorrow that overwhelmed her at his presence.
"Good first day?" he asked in a deceptively casual tone of voice. They were standing side-by-side now, just inside the doors, and as he spoke Harry turned away from her slightly, surveying the room in much the same way as she had done moments before. The gesture gave Ruth the opportunity to check whether or not he was wearing an earpiece; he was mercifully without one this evening, and she all but sighed in relief, thinking that however uncomfortable this conversation might be, at least she would not have to endure it with the whole of Section D listening in.
"It was, thank you," she told him. Ruth regretted the words the moment they passed her lips; Harry turned to her sharply, his dark eyes flashing, but before he could lash out at her Towers spotted them, and made his approach.
"Harry!" he said in a booming voice, clapping Harry on the shoulder in an irritatingly familiar sort of way. "You aren't thinking of stealing away my new Security Advisor, are you?" The jovial grin on Towers's face slipped somewhat when he took in the grim countenances of his companions. Aren't we a pair, Ruth thought glumly. They were two shadows lurking on the edge of the party, observing but not participating, present but not engaged, standing guard along the periphery as they had done for years now.
"Not at all," Harry said smoothly. Though he did not take a single step away from Ruth he somehow managed to distance himself from her just the same, his body language changing, shifting from the aggressive, desperate intimacy of a moment before into something much more professional and aloof. "Just old friends, catching up. We've not seen one another for quite some time, as you well know."
Harry possessed the uncanny ability to couch a reproach in the most innocuous turn of phrase, to say one thing while rather menacingly implying another. Not even Towers could miss the distaste simmering beneath the civil veneer of his words, but the man was a consummate politician, and very nearly as adept at verbal gymnastics as Harry was himself.
"I'm sorry to have stolen your best analyst, Harry, but I have to admit she's made a marvelous addition to my staff," Towers replied. Ruth's cheeks colored with anger; she couldn't stand this, listening to them speak about her as if she weren't even there, standing toe to toe like two dogs fighting over a mate. It made her skin crawl, and the urge to run was overpowering.
"I think I'll have some champagne," she announced to no one in particular, and before either her current or previous employer could protest, she left them to their pissing contest and went in search of alcohol.
As she made her way across the room Ruth smiled and nodded to various notables she recognized, some of whom worked in the Home Office with her, and some of whom she recalled from the many days she'd spent shadowing Harry to meetings and conferences and the like. It occurred to her that she wasn't entirely sure why she had been invited this evening; if the goal was to introduce her to the Russian delegation prior to sitting down and haggling over intelligence Towers had thus far done a fairly poor job of playing host. It was still early in the evening, she knew, but she was bone-tired, emotionally as well as physically, and the thought of playing nice for the next few hours galled her. She briefly entertained the notion of texting her driver and making a quiet escape, but she refrained, once again recalling the importance of perception. It would not do, to have Towers think her weak, and besides, she and Harry would have to find a way to work together sooner or later.
"I apologize for that," Towers's voice rang out behind her, and once again she jumped, very nearly splashing champagne all down the front of her borrowed dress. Why is that they both insist on sneaking up on me? She wondered morosely.
"It's quite all right," she assured him, trying to assume a somewhat more dignified posture.
"I hadn't realized Harry would be quite so tetchy." There was something in his tone; clearly Towers was fishing for something, but he would find no answers from Ruth.
"He doesn't adapt to change well," Ruth said slowly, her eyes seeking Harry out across the room against her own wishes. He had melted into the crowd, shaking hands and speaking quietly with various sober-faced, forgettable men as he meandered around the room. No doubt those he stopped to chat with were representatives of the Security Services as well; Ruth had seen the DG skulking about on her own journey across the ballroom.
"Well, he's going to have to learn," Towers said darkly. "Russia is a major player on the world stage, and we have to play nicely."
"Are the Russian delegates here?" Ruth asked, eager to latch on to something work-related, and put aside the swirling maelstrom of her personal life.
"They are. Ilya Gavrick was supposed to lead them, but he was detained in Moscow; evidently his wife was in some sort of accident, and he chose to stay behind while she recuperates."
It was clear from his tone that Towers thought this was not sufficient reason to miss such an import summit, but Ruth was grateful for Gavrick's absence. He and Harry had been stationed in Berlin together during the Cold War, spying for their opposing countries, and she did not doubt that, regardless of Harry's protests, bad blood lingered between them. The negotiations would go much more smoothly if the key actors involved did not already hate one another.
"Would you like to meet our Russian friends?" Towers asked her.
Ruth downed the last of her champagne, and then nodded in silent acquiescence. She was here to do a job, and it was high time she got on with it, Harry be damned.
"Ah, here he is now," Towers said, holding out his arm in a gesture of welcome as Harry approached their gathering on the edges of the dancefloor. For the last two hours Ruth had successfully avoided him, glancing his way no more than once every five minutes or so, always averting her gaze quickly, never catching his eye. She had been introduced to all the key members of the Russian delegation and chatted with them amiably, as was expected of her. Towers seemed delighted by her performance; once or twice she had elicited a genuine laugh from him, and the Russians too seemed to be comfortable with her. Towers had just announced that Harry would be sitting in on the first round of negotiations, set to begin the next morning, and then Harry himself had appeared as if summoned by the sound of his name.
"Sir Harry Pearce," Towers led the introductions, pointing to each Russian and ingenuously butchering the pronunciation of each of their names in turn.
"We are looking forward to a...productive meeting tomorrow, Sir Harry," one of the Russians said, and just like that Ruth felt herself being shunted to the side, foisted once more into the role of the right-hand girl, available to produce some shatteringly insightful piece of intelligence at the drop of a hat, but otherwise largely superfluous to the proceedings.
The men gathered around her continued to chatter to one another, none of them saying anything of consequence, and Ruth tried not to let her own feelings of chagrin show on her face. The evening was very nearly over, and she had survived it, without falling down, without embarrassing herself, and without having a blazing row with Harry. As far as she was concerned, that made this particular operation a roaring success.
The Russians made their excuses and slipped away, and Towers turned to Harry and Ruth with a prematurely triumphant look upon his face. The Russians had told him everything he wanted to hear, and it was clear he had eaten it up with a soup ladle. Ruth had been listening rather more carefully, however, and it was clear to her that getting the Russians to cooperate would be like getting blood from a stone. As ever, she and Harry seemed to be of one mind, as evidenced by Harry's next pronouncement.
"I wish I shared your confidence," he told Towers, casting a glance at the retreating form of the Russian delegation. "They have their own agenda here, as do we, and I'm not convinced that those two agendas are conducive to one another."
"Harry," Towers rumbled disapprovingly. "The Cold War is over. These people are our allies, now."
Harry chuckled darkly, but before he could respond a Cabinet Minister whose name Ruth could not recall appeared and whisked Towers away, leaving Harry and Ruth alone together once again.
And once again she was overcome by thinking just how handsome he was this evening, confident and smooth and exuding the sort of power that had drawn her to him in the first place, all those many years before. Harry was a man apart, a man who had risen to prominence through hard work and bloodshed, rather than political favors, and as such he remained largely untouchable, his position never wavering despite the many upheavals in the Cabinet he had endured during his tenure. At least, he had been untouchable before Ruth came along; his connection to her had sullied him, she knew, had painted him as vulnerable. A man in his position could not be allowed the luxury of having weaknesses, or at least not having weaknesses that were so easily exploitable.
"It's going to be a long month," Harry grumbled, and against her better judgment, Ruth smiled at him softly. How very Harry, she thought fondly; he really did have the best interests of the nation at heart, but he could be such a grumpy bugger, so stodgy and set in his ways. She knew she shouldn't like that about him, but she did just the same; he was a gentleman of the old school, was Harry. When they had gone to dinner, all those years before, he had held her chair out for her, had waited for her to eat before digging in himself, had walked her to the door after, had kissed her gently on the cheek…
Stop it, she told herself firmly. That was long ago, and they had both of them changed so very much since then. Well, Ruth had changed. She had grown up, had lost her naivety, had grown harder and stronger in the face of terror. Harry was still Harry, at heart. A bit battered, a bit more wary, but in his heart the same.
"Would you like to dance?"
The question caught Ruth unawares; no doubt her confusion showed on her face, as Harry hastened to explain himself.
"There are some matters we need to discuss, and we're less likely to be interrupted out there," he gestured vaguely towards the dancefloor. Ruth didn't entirely believe him, and her doubts were cemented when he continued, "and besides, if I recall correctly, today is a rather special day, and we ought to celebrate it."
It was in fact Ruth's birthday, though she had not shared this with anyone in her new office. Birthdays had become rather onerous to Ruth; marking the inevitable passage of time, the inevitable self-recrimination for having reached the end of yet another year with nothing to show for it. It was her fortieth birthday, and she was single, without children, without so much as a cat, starting a new job, and to cap it all she had spent the evening sparring with colleagues rather than spending time with her precious few friends.
Harry never forgot her birthday; from her first year on the Grid he had always given her some small gift, ferreted away in her desk or, on one memorable occasion, hidden at the end of a rather intricate scavenger hunt. Upon her return from Cyprus she discovered that in her absence he had marked the occasion of her birthday by making a rather large donation in her honor to the choir of which she had once been a member. This evening she was not surprised that he had remembered the date, but she was touched that he had made of point of mentioning it to her, of offering to dance with her, offering to celebrate, however muted and restrained that celebration might have been, however cross he might have been with her for leaving. It was a truly kind gesture, and so she swallowed her pride, and took the hand he offered her, allowing him to lead her to the floor in full view of all and sundry.
Her heart rate doubled, as she slipped into Harry's embrace; they flowed together like water, moved together as naturally as breathing. Though she knew that likely no one had taken notice of them twirling slowly on the edge of the dancefloor, she couldn't help but feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, couldn't help but feel as if every eye in the room was trained on her. Harry had only just resumed his post after committing an act of treason to save her life; he could ill afford to be seen mooning over her in public.
"No one's watching," he murmured, his lips very close to her ear, demonstrating once more his knack for reading her thoughts. Ruth could think of no reply, and so she offered none, focusing instead on the steps of their dance, trying to keep from trodding on Harry's toes, trying to ignore the warm insistence of his hand pressed against the small of her back, cradling her to him.
"Why did you do it, Ruth?" he asked her, his voice low but full of heat. "Why did you leave without telling me?"
"I wasn't allowed to speak to you," she whispered in response, her mouth suddenly dry. She couldn't believe this was really happening, that they were really having this conversation here, now, entwined together on the dancefloor, his body moving seductively alongside her own, setting her ablaze with want of him. The scent of him, the heat of him, the solidness of him beneath her fingertips was almost more than she could bear; for years she had longed for this, longed to be close to him, to be held by him, and that it should happen now, after she had left him, after she had betrayed him, was a blow too grievous to bear. "Towers rang me, the day after you were suspended. He said if I spoke to you, if I saw you, that you would be thrown to the lions. He said the only way to save you was to distance myself from you."
"Is that the only reason?"
How does he do that? She wondered. While every word she had spoken was the truth, Harry had, as usual, seen straight through her obfuscation. Towers's ultimatum was most certainly not the only reason she had left without so much as a good bye for Harry. But how could she tell him the truth? How could she possibly tell him how scared she was, how sad she was, how convinced she was of their own damnation? Sharing herself with another had never come easily for Ruth, and besides he was her boss.
He's not any more, though, she told herself.
"You know it isn't," she said, delicately hedging around the question even as Harry delicately moved them across the floor, pulling her ever closer. At this distance his gaze was too confronting for her to meet head on, and so she kept her eyes downcast, though she could feel him staring at her, almost willing her to look at him, to consign herself to the flames that lapped between them.
There will always be something else, Ruth.
"And you thought this was the best way to handle it? You thought you'd just leave-"
"What would you have me do, Harry?" Ruth hissed. Her nerves were frayed, and the cracks in her heart splintered open, the emotions she tried so hard to keep at bay seeping through, leaving her bare and raw in their wake. "I didn't know until yesterday if you were ever coming back. How was I supposed to stay there, walk onto the Grid every day knowing you weren't there, and knowing I was the cause? I had no choice."
The music was building around them and despite the gravity of their conversation the moment called for a twirl; Harry spun her out and back into his arms so deftly that she didn't realize what he had done until she crashed into him once more, her chest heaving, pressed hard against his own, her chin tilted back so that she was looking straight into that weather-beaten face she loved so well.
"You had every choice," Harry said in a fervent whisper, his face so close to hers that she could feel the wash of his breath upon her cheek. "Do you think my job is more important to me than you? I would have given anything, anything to speak to you even once over these last few months, Ruth. And then when I'm finally free, when I finally have the chance to go where I please and do as I please, I find that you've left me."
Left me, he'd said, not left the service. Perhaps she didn't need to explain herself after all; it was clear Harry knew precisely what she'd done, and why. It was too much for her to bear; being so close to Harry, wanting him so desperately, wanting to believe, even for a moment, as he did, that they were meant for more than this, that they could be so much more than the sorry shells of themselves she had relegated them to was breaking her in half.
Carefully Ruth extracted herself from his embrace.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered in a broken little voice. Before he could reply, she all but fled from his side, making her way across the room as quickly as she dared. Her feet moved on autopilot, finding the quickest path out of the ballroom; she took refuge on a small balcony, mercifully deserted at the moment. The crisp, cool air of a spring evening washed over her, stilling the rapid fluttering of her heart and causing the blush on her cheeks to recede.
It never got any easier, walking away from Harry. Her heart cried out for him, but her analytical mind would not let her forget, even for a moment, the things they'd done together, the things they'd seen. They were both of them marked by the sins of their past, both of them carried blood on their hands. Not just George's, though his loss seemed to be by far the most damning. Ruth had as good as killed him the moment she fell into his bed, and though she had long ago stopped blaming Harry for what had befallen him she had yet to forgive herself that moment of weakness, that moment of need. That moment when she had followed her heart and not the counsel of her mind, and a good man had lost his life as a result. She had been determined not to make the same mistake again, but then Harry had touched her, had held her, and she had very nearly given in.
The view from the balcony was lovely, the lights of London sparkling below her, but it reminded her so strongly of nights spent on the roof of Thames House, of long, quiet chats with Harry, of an adorable dinner invitation, and a gut-wrenching rejection. She had come out here for solace, but she found none; though she was calmer, she felt no relief from her sorrow, her guilt, her grief. It was clear to her what Harry wanted, what he believed they could be together, but still she held herself back from him, unable to share in his vision of their future together.
Will it always hurt this much? She wondered.
No answer was forthcoming, and from behind her there came the sound of gentle footfalls. She did not turn; she did not need to. She would recognize the cadence of Harry's steps anywhere.
"Ruth?" he said softly.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she breathed. Though she dearly longed to see his face she did not turn, choosing instead to stare out at the lights of the city below her, her hands wrapped tightly around the railing. Behind her she heard him sigh and then make his way over towards her. He came to a stop beside her, not touching her, but standing close enough that she could lean over and rest her head on his shoulder if she chose. She wanted to, wanted to give into the call of his body, beckoning her onward, promising her rest and comfort in the shelter of his arms. At that very moment, she was closer than she had ever been to throwing caution to the wind, and giving into him at last.
For a long time they simply stood together, as they had so often done in the past, not speaking, but drawing strength from their proximity. It was warm, and familiar, and Ruth felt her resolve weakening with each passing second. She did not speak, did not dare to open her mouth lest she throw herself at his feet and beg his forgiveness for all the times she'd hurt him, all the times she'd pushed him away. Though she knew why she'd done it, all her sound reasoning was deserting her, leaving her with nothing but regret.
Finally, Harry broke the silence. "Can I ask you something?"
Ruth nodded, her mouth too dry to speak.
"Do you think there might ever come a time when you can forgive me?"
Once again, his question took her by surprise. She turned to look at him sharply, shocked by the honesty of the question, and mortified that Harry blamed himself for her reticence. Though in a way she could understand how he had drawn that conclusion she hated herself for placing him in this position, for giving him reason to think, even for a moment, that he was the one at fault. Yes, she had blamed him when George died, and yes at the time she had been angry with him for proposing the way he had, but she had forgiven him long ago. It was herself she could not forgive, herself she could not trust, her fault that she had only kissed him once, despite having loved him for eight long years.
"I forgave you long ago," she confessed.
"Then why, Ruth? Why does everything have to be such a bloody battle with you?" There was no accusation in his tone, only exhaustion, and that weariness spoke to her, echoed the same frustration, the same resignation that weighed so heavy on her own heart. Something deep inside her chest snapped; Ruth took a deep breath, and without a second thought, she spilled her heart to him.
"I love you, Harry. I have loved you for years, and all I've ever done is hurt you, and I'm so scared that one day it will be too much, and I'll lose you, or you'll realize that I'm not what you wanted, after all, and I'll lose you, and I don't know what I'd do-"
The words spilled out of her, tumbling faster and faster as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and threatened to fall; her heart was pounding in her chest, she could hardly breathe, and the world around her seemed to spin violently out of control as panic and relief crashed over her in waves. It was terrifying, to speak the truth aloud, but it was cathartic, too, to finally say all the words she'd never allowed herself to face. She never got the chance to finish her tirade, however, for Harry had turned to her, caught her face in his hands, and still the violent outpouring of her words with his kiss.
The moment she felt his lips brush against her own she knew that she was lost, and for once, she could not bring herself to feel regret. Ruth sighed, sagging against his chest as the fight deserted her all at once and she gave herself up utterly, completely, irrevocably to her love for him. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with everything she had, lust and love and hope and fear churning through her, burning hotter and hotter until it all turned to ash, fading away until all that remained was Harry, Harry's soft lips pressed against her own, Harry's tongue thrusting insistently against her own, Harry's hands, sure and strong and holding her like she was precious, Harry's heat warming her through, bringing her peace the likes of which she had not known in a very, very long time.
Everything had changed, she knew. Harry was no longer her boss, and she no longer had to fear that idle gossip might diminish her professional reputation; she had earned her new post, and everyone who mattered knew it. He did not possess the ability to fire her or shunt her off to another section if their personal relationship fell to pieces, and she would not have to mince her words for fear of upsetting him; they were not quite equals, but her position meant that she could not be railroaded. It was more than that, though; Harry had quite magnificently demonstrated the depth of his regard for her during the Albany fiasco, and she no longer had cause to worry about what it was he wanted from her. He wanted everything she had to give, and she wanted much the same from him, and she was tired of pretending otherwise. They had grown so much, over the last eight years, and Ruth felt the time had finally come for them to face that something wonderful that was never said.
Eventually, mindful of the fact that they were standing on a balcony in the Russian embassy where they could quite easily be observed, Ruth was forced to retreat somewhat. She kissed him one last time, gently, and then rested her head against his shoulder, feeling content and blissfully free in the wake of her declaration. She had finally told Harry that she loved him, and the world had not come to an end. It was marvelous, really. He was marvelous; warm and solid and gentle, he was more than she had ever dreamed.
"I love you, too, you know," Harry murmured, his breath stirring her hair.
"I do know," she answered, speaking to his chest.
The way ahead would be paved with difficulties, she knew. It would be complicated, balancing a home life with Harry along with her new responsibilities, knowing that she would no longer share in the day-to-day business of his work. In a way she was looking forward to that, however; it might do them some good, she thought, to separate out their personal and professional lives, to carve out a home beyond the walls of Thames House. She wanted it with a fierceness that alarmed her; she wanted a home, with him. If he had asked her to marry him in that moment, she almost certainly would have agreed; there was nothing she wanted more.
"I know it may be...complicated," Harry began. It was clear he was trying to be understanding, trying to offer her reassurance, but Ruth needed no further cajoling. The heat of his kiss had been sufficient; she was his, utterly and completely. "But-"
"Harry?" Ruth interrupted him.
He hummed in response and looked down at her with an expression on his face that could best be described as adoring.
"Dance with me," she told him. Harry smiled, and brushed a kiss against her lips before pulling her even closer. The music from the ballroom wafted gently in from the open doorway behind them, and they began to sway together in time to that beguiling rhythm, both of them feeling, for once, utterly at peace. They did not know what their future might bring, but they knew that they would face it, together. Ruth thought it was quite the best birthday present she had ever received.