"Will you stay, just for a few minutes?" Ruth asked him, swaying slowly back and forth in front of him as they lingered on her back porch, little Emma nearly asleep in her mother's arms. On she rocked, back and forth, as if by instinct, as if she didn't even realize what she was doing, and the sight of her, so natural, so content, soothing their child, warmed his heart.

"I need to put her down, but then there's something I want to talk to you about," Ruth continued.

"Of course," Harry agreed, unable to stop the soft smile that bloomed across his face as he watched her. Ruth had always been kind, soft-spoken - except in the face of injustice, when her hackles would rise and she would defend her values as tenaciously as a bulldog - had always been gentle, the very soul of compassion, but to see her like this, to watch her nurturing a child of her own, was a revelation to him. He had spent seven years longing for her, and now that he had found her, it seemed as if her every positive quality had been enhanced a hundredfold, and she had added to their number, as her confidence had grown; the sorrow in her eyes had grown deeper, but she seemed to him stronger for it, and he remained caught firmly beneath her spell.

At his agreement she ducked her head, hiding a strange, hesitant sort of expression as she turned away from him and made her way into the house. He followed her on silent feet, though he did not dare venture beyond the kitchen. She left him to his own devices, carrying Emma away, making for the child's bed, and though his curious heart wanted to follow her, to see the rest of this house for himself, to inspect the pieces of the life Ruth had built and see with his own eyes the room where his daughter slept he remained behind, feeling very much an intruder in this house that was home to two of his favorite girls. He had not seen more than the kitchen, but with the scent of Ruth's perfume and fresh-baked bread floating in the air, the brightly colored dishtowels and mishmash of decorations and utensils, the strange, faintly tribal rug on the floor by the sink, the whole place was redolent with a sense of femininity that was completely foreign to him. How long it had been, since last he'd shared his private space with a woman, the pragmatism of his own interior design scheme standing in stark contrast to the barely-controlled chaos of delight with which Ruth approached home decor. It was like stepping into another world, in many ways, a world which he longed to inhabit, and yet to which he did not belong.

She did not leave him alone for long; Emma was nearly asleep already, and likely had drifted off into the land of dreams the moment her head touched the pillow. Emma herself was a revelation, as well, a bright, curious child who seemed to possess all the best parts of her mother, her delight in the world around her, her hopeful sense of wonder, without the decades of loss and disappointment that had so moderated Ruth's passions. They had spent a wonderful day together, their whole, strange little family, and Harry had nearly burst with pride, watching the little ones play together, listening to Emma recite to him a bevy of facts she'd learned on a dozen different topics, seeing Ruth and Catherine dancing around one another, kind and polite if a bit dazed by their newfound connection.

Family, he thought. How about that. He had not had a family, a real family, for decades. His wife had left him, and taken the children, and he had been a shit excuse for a father, missing his custody weekends more often than not, alienating himself from his son and his daughter, throwing himself into work. He had formed a family of sorts, deep within the bowels of Thames House, but death and deception had torn it apart, time and time again, and each time it was made new the cracks in his heart seemed to grow ever deeper. This, though, Emma and Ruth and Catherine and Louis and Gabe, this was his family, the people dearest to his heart gathered in one place, smiling and laughing and eating and together, as they ought to be. It was a gift he had not dared hope for, and a beautiful one.

Some of his pensive mood must have shown on his face for as Ruth re-entered the kitchen she looked at him strangely.

"What?" she asked him, this woman who despite their many long years of separation still knew him better than anyone else in the world. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking about the children," he confessed, the words not entirely truth but not entirely a lie, either. "They get on so well. It was nice, to see them all together today."

Ruth gave a relieved sort of smile, her shoulders relaxing as whatever threat she'd sensed dissipated in a moment. "Yes," she agreed. "They do. They have so much in common; they all like trains and dinosaurs and splashing about in the pool."

"I think all children like those things, Ruth."

She turned away from him, her steps carrying towards the counter and the kettle. Harry would gladly have taken a glass of something stronger, but he had slept a bare few hours the night before and exhaustion and jetlag were taking their toll. Much as he might have enjoyed a scotch, he might also have wound up asleep at Ruth's kitchen table, and that was not a risk he was willing to take.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" he asked curiously, watching her and thinking how strange it was that she could make something as simple as preparing a cup of tea seem graceful and alluring. That was his fondness for her talking, he was sure, for he had seen her stumble over her own two feet on more than one occasion, had watched dismayed as papers and pens and whole cups of tea spilled from her over-eager hands. No, Ruth was too clumsy to be called graceful, and yet, to him, she was enchanting as a goddess.

"Cate and I were talking, earlier," she began, still not looking at him. "We both have to go in to work tomorrow, just for a little while. Ordinarily we'd leave the children with one of the other mothers in the neighborhood, but since you're here, we thought perhaps you might like to-"

"Look after the children?" he asked, somewhat taken aback by the request. He could not recall the last time he had been left in charge of a single child, let alone three of them.

Ruth took pity on him and finally turned around, a cup of tea in each hand.

"Well, yes," she said, offering him his cup.

To buy himself some time to think Harry took a long drink, and felt a strange sort of nostalgia wash over him as he realized that Ruth had recalled exactly how he took his tea. They were standing rather close together, there in the semi-darkness of her kitchen, and she was watching him over the rim of her chipped mug. Her eyes were huge and blue and filled with doubt, with hesitation, a pale blush blooming across the rise of her high, sharp cheeks. Her hair was dark and curling softly, and he longed, more than anything, to reach out and run his fingers through it, to throw down his tea and draw her close, to kiss away any hesitation, any uncertainty she might be feeling. He had won her over, once, with kindness, with self-effacing confidence - not arrogance, never that, for she detested such pride - and what he had learned, all those years before, was that Ruth need words, needed that reassurance, but more than anything, she needed actions. She needed him to tell her, often, how he cared for her, but then she also needed him to show it. It would not be enough, now, for him to tell her how fond he was of Emma; he would have to demonstrate it.

"I think that would be lovely," he said.

In the darkness she smiled, still swaying gently, as if she had quite forgotten that it was a mug of tea and not a baby she held cradled in her hands. "There's a children's museum in town I think they'd quite like to visit, if you're feeling adventurous."

It was a welcome suggestion, and one he would take under advisement. He was feeling adventurous, as it happened, but not in the way she thought; his heart was beginning to race, at her proximity, and his mind was rapidly kicking into overdrive, trying to imagine how she might respond if he looped his arm around her waist, if he drew her near, if he kissed her gently on the cheek, if he told her how radiant she was, how dearly he missed her. Pros and cons, he weighed each possible outcome quickly, hoping to find some way forward.

"I'd like for Emma to get a little more comfortable with you, before we tell her," Ruth said softly. She shot him strange look, and then added in a tentative sort of voice, "you know, I wouldn't let just anyone take my child for the afternoon."

"I know," he answered, for he did. Harry did not need to know all the details of her life and her childcare arrangements to know that Ruth would defend their girl fiercely, with everything she had. And he knew, too, what she was trying to convey to him, that she still trusted him absolutely, that she recognized he was her daughter's father, that he deserved a chance to get to know her. It was a chance he was grateful for.

"I know she wasn't planned," she told him, not daring to look at him now. "I know the timing couldn't have been worse. But she's...Harry, she's miraculous. And I'm so happy you've had the chance to meet her."

It was a heavy confession, one he knew that Ruth must have found terribly difficult to make, and yet she had spoken, just the same, had found the courage to share this piece of her heart with him. Over the last twenty-four hours he had imagined, over and over, how hard it must have been for her, alone, pregnant, scared, without a friend to turn to, had wondered how on earth she had managed it, had been reminded, time and time again, of how bloody brilliant she really was. It was not in her nature to ask for help, or admit to the wounds that scored her heart, but she had opened herself up to him now, and he wanted to return such trust with an equal openness. Much as it might pain him.

"She's a wonderful child," he said slowly, "and that's down to you, Ruth. And as happy as you may be, I have to tell you, I am...I don't think I have the words for it. I never expected to find you, and I certainly never expected to find her, and now that I have…"

His voice trailed off, for Ruth was looking up at him with those eyes he loved so well, luminous, brighter than the midday sun, her every thought, emotion, hope, on grand display for him. How could he speak, in the face of such sincere beauty? He had told her that he did not have the words, and he didn't, he truly didn't, and so he did what he had been dreaming about since he saw her the night before. He placed his cup upon the table and reached out to her, his palm cradling her cheek, his fingertips brushing through her soft hair. Ruth gasped, once, a quiet, unconscious sort of sound, and as he watched her he could see her warring with herself. They had been so long apart, and emotions were running high, given all that had been revealed since they had stumbled across one another. Likely she was asking herself if this was wise, if it was fair to Emma, to Ruth's own shattered heart, to allow him to draw close to her again when he must inevitably leave. It would fall to him, to prove to her his dedication to her and to their daughter, to their whole family, to show her just how much she meant to him, how willing he was to do anything, everything she asked of him.

"Some things do not change, Ruth," he told her. It would not do, to push her too hard, to be brash and demanding, to take advantage of her vulnerability. Their future depended on his behavior in this moment, and so he made no grand declarations, did not crash into her with all the force of his desire, did not fall to her feet to beg for her. Simple words he offered her, conveying a world of meaning; my love you has not changed, his heart whispered, and he could only hope she understood. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, once, tenderly, and then withdrew from her entirely.

To his great delight, she reached up and pressed the tips of her fingers to the very spot he'd kissed, her eyes round and rather shocked, but not displeased.

Enough. He told himself. Enough for now.

They had time, yet, to unpick their troubles. Time to make a plan, time for more confessions, time for whispered hopes. He would not overwhelm her now, much as he might long to, would content himself to waiting for some sign from her that she was as ready, as wanting, as willing as he to see what sort of future they might make, together.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ruth," he said, and before she could reply he turned away and slipped off into the night.