May 2013, Corsica

Harry stands under the tree facing the sea in the early morning light and takes deep lungfuls of air. This is exactly what he needs, he thinks and makes a mental note to find some way of thanking Malcolm for bringing him here. Even he didn't realised how close to breaking point he'd been just over a month ago.

It had all started when Ruth had left. He hadn't realised it at the time, but when she'd got on that tugboat, on that cold, spring morning, part of him had shut down. He'd lost his balance, his ability to carry on the good fight without losing himself in the process. He still isn't sure why this is the case, how one person had suddenly become so important for his well being, his sanity. Perhaps it's because she made him care in a more immediate, concrete way than he had before. She'd been the one who had taken his abstract, intellectual morality and made it all real and applied in their day to day operations and his daily decisions. Once she'd left, however, there had been no one to fill that role, no one to keep him on the straight and narrow. And so he'd made some terrible decisions that had resulted in loss of innocent lives, but he was no longer able to justify these to himself as he had done in the past because, every night, he would picture Ruth frowning in disapproval at him for the mess he'd made.

And then suddenly she'd been dragged back into his life because of Baghdad and the Uranium, and every day since, he'd berated himself for his decision to bring her in on that operation. It was a decision that had cost them both so dearly in the end. She'd lost her husband and her peace of mind, her simple, elegant life away from MI-5, from the danger, the death, and the destruction... and from him... and he'd lost her all over again, this time for good. And most devastatingly of all, when she'd left to take the boy back home, there was no tender kiss, no kind words, no lingering looks full of unspoken love. There was just an angry glare and a curt, sarcastic, "Yes, well, you know, thanks for that; thanks for trying."

After that, continuing had been almost impossible for him, and had he known what else to do with himself, he would have seriously considered resigning. But there was nothing else for him. He was and is the man on the wall, and he believes that he always will be. He has already decided that he will probably die doing this job. It is his calling, his destiny. He has never wanted to do anything else, though many times he's wished that he did.

Still, he needs this break. Without it he knows that he most likely would have been kicked out already. He'd been sleeping and eating less and less frequently over the last few years and drinking more than is healthy, and lately, his self neglect had caught up with him and his performance at work had finally began to suffer. He's been lucky that both the DG and Home Secretary value him highly, and they don't want to see him go. Erin had been the one to press him to take time off, and he's sure now that he managed to ask for it just in time, before the DG resorted to giving him compulsory leave of absence, or worse, sending him to TRING or forcing him to take early retirement.

Here at least he's been sleeping, though admittedly very badly. He's been having that dream again; the dream that is half real, half fiction, based on his last encounter with Ruth.

He sighs heavily and sits down with his back to the tree, looking out over the open water. Malcolm said something about going out fishing this morning, he thinks absently, but his mind will not be distracted, and closing his eyes with another heavy sigh, he leans back against the trunk and remembers.

She's angry, really angry, and he can't blame her. She came here for protection, and instead, she's been thrown back into a world she'd thought she'd left behind forever and lost her husband. And to make matters worse, he's the instrument through which she's been hurt yet again, and it pains him more than he will admit or ever be able to express.

He loves her still - totally and completely - and in that moment when they'd brought her before him in the warehouse, when he'd looked into her eyes again, he'd known that he will never stop loving her. Even when he'd learned that she's moved on, that she belongs to another, has a family with him, he'd known that he's powerless to stop. He'd felt a jealousy so strong then that it had left him momentarily unable to breathe. "Do you love him?" he'd asked, needing to know if what they'd had and all that he's every wished and hoped for is over for sure. "He doesn't deserve to be in danger, and I'm not going to start discussing my feelings about him... not with you," she'd answered, twisting the knife and tearing his heart to shreds.

He glances down at her as they walk side by side now through London. Once she'd looked at him with love, now she looks at him with anger and sometimes, he thinks, with hate. He'd give almost anything to change that. If only he hadn't taken her to Baghdad, if only his feelings for her had not been so strong, if only he could have protected her, if only he could forget...

"The boy, your..." he tails off, unable to bring himself to say it.

"Nico," she responds angrily.

"Yes," he replies in a low voice.

"I'm taking him home tomorrow," she answers.

"Right," he murmurs.

"You would have let him die," she accuses, suddenly turning her angry, blue eyes to glare at him.

He looks away to hide the pain before replying, "I'm not asking for forgiveness, Ruth."

"What are you asking for then?" she demands.

"I came to tell you that I will sort something out for you," he murmurs.

"Sort something out," she replies sarcastically, almost rolling her eyes at him in disgust.

Disgust, he thinks and feels another stab of pain. He'd hoped to never see her look at him like that. He can bear it from everyone else, but from her? Never from her, not from Ruth.

"Financially. Some form of compensation," he murmurs quietly.

"Compensation!" she exclaims, her eyes looking daggers at him. "God, Harry. Do you listen to yourself?"

"Ruth, I'm trying," he pleads. "I'm trying... with all my limitations, which you know better than anyone."

"Yes, well, you know," she says in a sarcastic voice, "thanks for that. Thanks for trying."

And then she's gone, turning her back on him and walking away, and he knows that he'll never see her again. And he also knows that these last few hours will haunt him for the rest of his days.

His eyelids fly open and he scrambles to his feet, breathing hard and wiping swiftly at his eyes with his thumb and fingers, knowing from experience that he will find tears spilling from them. No matter how many years pass, her words and the look in her eyes are still fresh in his mind. He takes a couple of deep breaths and reaches into his pocket, bringing out a plastic envelope sealed around a piece of card. It's a postcard that he always carries with him for moments such as this, when the memories overwhelm him. He holds it gently in his hands and looks at the picture, a donkey wearing a straw hat and almost nuzzling the camera as it stands on a sandy beach. He smiles softly and slowly turns it over, looking at the familiar handwriting with a mixture of pain and pleasure. "Dear, H," he reads though he has memorised it long ago. "Please forgive me. Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea. I was wrong to blame you. I know what it must have cost you to do what you did, and I admire you for it. Thinking of you fondly, always. Stubborn Mule x"

His finger traces over the single kiss and he murmurs softly, "Oh, Ruth," her name a gentle caress, a quiet plea falling from his lips.