One week later…

"It isn't much," Harry said apologetically as he began unpacking the various takeaway containers from the bag he'd carried to her doorstep. Ruth smiled at him wanly, too exhausted to protest. For each of the last seven days he'd contacted her somehow, had rung her mobile or sent Jo round to see her or done as he was doing now, showed up on her doorstep late in the evening with a pile of food, somehow knowing that she hadn't eaten despite the fact that he'd offered her no warning. It was as if he simply couldn't stay away, and Ruth suspected she knew the reason why. He felt guilty, for ruining her life, for George's death, for all the heartbreak she'd endured. And though rationally she understood that it was not Harry's doing, that he had tried his best to play for time and save them both, there was a piece of her heart that she feared would never forgive him. So much had been lost, for Harry's sake, and she couldn't reconcile it, the blame she longed to place at his feet and the affection she still carried for him.

It was that affection more than anything else that kept her up at night, that kept her from eating, kept her listlessly turning the pages of the books Jo had brought to her without reading a single word. Yes, she grieved for George, yes, she felt guilty for his loss, but she knew she could not have stopped it, knew that it was Mani's work and no one else's that ended his life. And she knew, deep in the darkest corner of her heart where she feared to tread, that she had never loved him. Oh, he had been kind, gentle, generous, even, but he had never truly won her over, had never truly buried himself beneath her skin the way a lover should. The way Harry had done. That she should care for Harry still, after two long years of separation, after seeing first hand just how dangerous it was to be in his proximity, left her troubled and distressed. Yet she could not deny the way her spirits lifted each time she heard his voice, could not deny that each day as the sun began to sink she found herself looking towards the door, hoping he would come to her again. Their situation was precarious, new and terrifying, but her reckless heart longed to see what would happen next.

A strange sort of shift had taken place between them over the last few days, she knew. Before her exile their every interaction had been colored by intrigue and doubt; she had keenly felt the difference in their stations, the importance of preserving her professional integrity, whatever the longing of her heart. And though she had told him she wanted to go back to work, though she had made the decision to willingly step once more into those old familiar roles, she no longer saw him as superior to her in any way. He had all but confessed his love to her on a foggy morning by the riverside, and she had taken his face in her hands and kissed him with everything she had, and then in that warehouse, that terrible day, they had faced hell together. They were equals, now, in a way they never had been before, grief and calamity having leveled the playing field between them for once and for all. There was no need for her to worry, when she returned to work, if people might suspect there was something between she and Harry; Ros and Jo both knew what she had done for his sake so many years before, and Lucas had been there, when Mani died, had cut the bonds from her hands and borne silent witness as Harry took her in his arms, as she buried her face against his chest and wept. The team knew, now, and there would be no denying it, no need to hide how much he relied upon her. Everything had changed.

"Ruth?" Harry said softly, and she gave her head a little shake, drawing herself back into the present and reaching out to accept the plate he'd offered her.

"You didn't have to do this, Harry," she answered, wanting to thank him and yet finding that the words died on her lips. Though she was grateful to him, for his concern, his time, his company - for the food - the look of pity in his eyes turned her stomach. Was that all he felt for her now? she wondered as she looked at him, as he settled himself in the rickety chair on the opposite side of the table, pulling a face as it groaned beneath his bulk. Ruth's own emotions were too jumbled, too raw, for her to analyze them properly, but one thing she knew for certain was that she still cared for him. Harry's motivations in seeking her out were less clear. Perhaps it was only duty, a sense of responsibility for her dismal circumstances that sent him to her side; sometimes when he looked at her, she saw only sadness, and in those moments she could believe it was so. Other times, though, he came to her lost, his eyes wide and pleading, searching for some reassurance only she could give, and her certainty faltered. For whatever reason he could not stay away, and she lacked the strength to dismiss him.

"I wanted to," he answered, smiling a sad little smile before tucking into his meal.

For several long minutes they ate in silence, sipping wine and drowning in memories. It was close on 9:00 p.m., when Harry turned up at her door with food in hand, and yet she had not for a moment even considered turning him away, had not even balked at the notion of sharing a meal with him while she was dressed in only a pair of soft black leggings and an oversized grey t-shirt Jo had given her, her feet bare upon the floor and her hair an untidy mess. Let him see her as she was, she told herself, and decide for himself if he was willing to stay.

"I've spoken to the Home Secretary again," Harry told her once he'd had his fill of silence. "Everything is on track for you to start in two weeks' time."

Ruth wanted to smile at him, to tell him that she was glad of it, that she was looking forward to her return to work, but somehow she couldn't quite form the words. Over the last week she'd had more than enough time to consider her somewhat rash decision to return to the Grid, to ask herself why she'd done such a thing, why she would willingly step back into that place. What sort of woman, she'd asked herself, when faced with the opportunity to rebuild her life from scratch, would step back into a world of shadows, would willingly subject herself to grief and danger and loss? In the time she'd been away Adam and Zaf had both perished horribly, and Malcolm had retired, and the sparkle had departed from Jo's brilliant eyes. Even Ros was changed, had become somehow more sympathetic, more understanding, as if pain had smoothed her jagged edges. Why, then, would she choose to go back?

Because I have nowhere else to go.

Deep in her heart, Ruth knew that the Grid was her home. Anywhere else she went, any other task she undertook, she would be forced to live a lie. The details of her life, both the mundane and the catastrophic, would have to be hidden away. She would not be able to explain why her hands began to shake when a dark SUV passed her on the road, would not be able to give a reason for her racing heart and wild eyes when some calamity was reported on the news and she would recoil knowing that the truth was much, much worse, wondering if another of her friends had perished. She would be able to offer no explanation for the tears that struck her in the still of the night, for her wary heart. Faced with the prospect of hiding so much of herself Ruth knew she would remain alone, untethered, without comfort or joy, and she could not face such a future. At least on the Grid she would be surrounded by people who understood her, people who did not ask questions, people who would support her; they were a family of sorts, buried deep in the bowels of Thames House, and that family was the only thing she had left. And so, though she be damned for it, she had chosen to return.

And when Harry looked at her now, his eyes soft and troubled and knowing, she knew that he understood.

"I do want to come back, Harry," she told him, needing to give voice to the unspoken thoughts that arced through the air between them.

"I know," he said, and his voice was so very low and so very sad that she decided to change the topic at once, lest they both fall so deep into melancholy that they could not be recovered.

"As soon as I have my papers, I'll look into getting a place of my own," she said, trying to sound more cheerful.

"About that," Harry said, the faintest hint of a smile playing around the corners of his lips. "I've arranged a new position for you. How does Senior Intelligence Analyst sound?"

"Pretentious," she answered, trying to ignore the flush of pleasure that washed over her as he barked out a laugh.

"It comes with a healthy pay rise, if that sweetens the deal," Harry told her. "You'll be able to live somewhere much nicer than this."

They'll have found us somewhere much nicer.

The memories struck her like whiplash, every now and then, left her gasping and aching and utterly overwhelmed, but she pressed on, trying with all her might not to drown beneath the weight of her sorrow.

"Well that's something, at least. I understand my mother sold my house."

Another misstep, she realized, as Harry's face fell right along with her heart. She had not spoken to her mother yet, not knowing how exactly she should go about breaking the news that she was not dead after all. How did one even start such a conversation? She asked herself. Her mother and David had buried both their children, and she had no idea how to explain to them that of the pair of them she was the one who had returned, while Peter remained just as dead. Would it break David's heart, she wondered, to watch as she hugged her mother while he still missed his son? Or would her step-father be relieved that at least she was not gone, at least there was still hope for grandchildren, for a future that looked brighter than it had the day before? She didn't know, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to find out.

"I did try to salvage a few of your things," Harry told her softly. "A few books, some momentos. And the cats, of course."

Despite herself Ruth smiled. They had discussed her cats shortly after her return, and knowing that Harry had taken them in, that he had cared for them as he said he would and that they were waiting for her, safe and well, a living reminder of the life she'd lost, the girl she'd been before, had buoyed her spirits immensely.

"I'd like to see them," she confessed shyly. They had never been particularly good at discussing emotions, she and Harry, had only ever briefly touched on the longings of their hearts, and then only in moments of great distress, and so even that small admission felt vast and full of potential. Would he offer to bring them round, to let her keep them in this flat? Or would he extend a different sort of invitation entirely? For a single instant she waited, her breath frozen in her lungs, wondering how Harry would have interpreted her simple statement, wondering where they would go from here.

"I think they'd like to see you," he said, smiling at her warmly. "I know they don't travel well-" and how on earth do you know that? She wondered, suddenly full of questions; had he taken them to the vet? Had he tried to foist them off on someone else? "- and this flat is not ideal for pets. I have a rostered day off on Saturday, if you'd like to come round in the afternoon and spend some time with them."

He looked positively bashful, almost shocked by his own forwardness, and Ruth's heart went out to him. No doubt he'd suggested she come round in the afternoon because he intended to spend the morning on the Grid, day off or not, and she could not stop the secret little smile that tugged at her lips at the thought of how well she still knew him, even after all this time, at the way he had remained so perfectly, undeniably himself despite everything that had happened.

"I would like that very much," she told him, only just resisting the urge to reach out and touch his hand across the table top. It was too soon for such gestures, too soon for the warmth that infused her chest as he smiled at her, too soon for want and hope, when all her dreams lay dead and buried with George, but the possibility for all of those things lingered, just the same. In the dark hours of the night, after he'd gone, when she lay awake with nothing but the sound of the mortorway for company Ruth would curse herself for her unchangeable heart, for the way the memory of George's voice faded that little bit more with each passing day, for the role she'd played in his demise and Nico's orphaning, but in that moment, sitting there with Harry, she felt perilously close to happy.