Not telling Harry was harder than she thought it would be, in the beginning.
He was slowly returning to his old self, regaining some of the fight he'd lost, but he was still so reserved with her, so careful not to ever stray into the personal when they spoke, a sorrowful look haunting his eyes when he thought her attention was focused elsewhere. A part of her longed to reach out for him, to cling to his hand and unburden herself to him, to the only person who would truly understand the awfulness of it, that she should be carrying his child. Who else could share her grief, who else could know her pain, but the man who had stood by her side through it all, the man who'd rained this destruction down on her? Yes, a part of her wanted him beside her through this madness, wanted to whisper to him in the dark of the night when she was terrified of losing the baby and terrified of keeping it in equal measure.
A larger, far more vocal part of her wanted him as far away from her and her slowly changing body as possible. It never should have happened, that fortnight of bliss and horror, and she shuddered to think of the way he might react, should he know the truth. Pity, certainly, and desperate hope perhaps, would come flooding out of him; no doubt he'd shuffle around, talk about wanting to do the right thing, talk about how maybe now they could be together, properly, for the baby's sake.
And God but that was the last thing she wanted. For years she had waited for him, yearned to hear him speak the truth she hoped (she knew) he harbored in his heart, but this was not the way. She did not want his pity, did not want his obligation; she wanted his love, all of it, every bit he had to give. If he could not love her before, could not say the words, could not open his heart to her when she had laid herself bare before him, then she suspected any declaration of feelings he might offer once he knew about her condition would be false, driven by a sense of duty, rather than passion. And that thought was intolerable to her.
So still she kept her peace, though every now and again he would look at her, and her heart would break anew, and her hand would drift down to her stomach, cradling her little peanut as she struggled to keep the words in check. Some days she wanted to scream look what you've done to me, and some days she wanted to weep look what we've done together, and some days she simply wanted to fold herself into his arms and whisper never let me go.
More and more often she found herself entertaining thoughts of how things might be between them, once the baby was born. The peanut deserved a father, deserved to know this man, however terrible, however glorious, however broken he might be, but how could they fit the pieces of their lives together? Would Harry come round to hers in the evenings, and cradle their sleeping child in his arms while she cooked them supper? Would he take the baby away to his, every other weekend, national emergencies not withstanding? Or would he simply fade from her life, push her off into another section, claiming it was a safer post for a single mother while quietly breathing a sigh of relief that he no longer had to face her?
She didn't know, couldn't know until she told him, but once spoken those words could never be taken back, and the thought of crossing that particular line scared her more than all the other possibilities put together.
The mess with the Paroxocybin dragged on and on, and Ruth's doubts about Harry, about herself, about how well she knew him grew with each passing moment.
Doubting my judgment?
No, she'd answered, when she wanted to scream yes. She understood his frustration, understood his desire to cause no more harm than he had already, understood the compassion that drove him to letting the man they would later identify as Azis Aibek escape, but she couldn't support his decision. They were spooks to the core, they weren't meant to be driven by emotions; ours not to question why, and all that. They were meant to do the unthinkable in the name of service to their country, and fade quietly from sight. She'd known, the moment Harry let Aibek go, that trouble would come of it, and yes she doubted him. He'd lost his nerve, after Ros, lost that cool calculation that made him such an effective leader, and she'd lost her confidence in him.
She had been startled by the vehemence in his tone, when he questioned her, questioning him. For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder how he must feel about their…indiscretion; she'd been so lost in her own tangle of emotions, she'd hardly taken the time to consider how this all must look to him. She'd finally capitulated to the heat between them, had finally given him what he'd been so gently, so patiently asking for; had he thought she'd taken up residence in his bed for good? He'd believed their relationship solid enough to merit his ill-timed proposal; what else had he believed about her, about them, about what they could be together? And he didn't even know the worst of it; as she left his office she hung her head in shame, thinking only I will break him, I will be the end of him.
The tension between them grew, his resentment for her causing him to lash out in unexpected ways. After the rather tense briefing on Aibek, Ruth lingered behind, wanting a moment to talk to him, to orchestrate a strategy with him, to stand beside him as was her right, her duty, to face whatever fallout would come, together. She'd been met only with derision; I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Ruth, he'd said.
She'd wanted to shake him, then. He knew that wasn't what she was asking, and yet like a petulant child he had chosen to deliberately ignore her offer of help, her quiet plea that he let her back into his confidence.
And after he left, the Home Secretary had called, and for the first time since her days as a GCHQ mole, Ruth broke rank.
It was an untenable position, being forced to choose between protecting Harry, and doing her duty. If she had lied to the HS, if she had obfuscated, if she had responded with all the ill grace Harry had been carrying over the last few days, it would have been no shock to her to find herself carted back off to Cheltenham in shame. All these years later, that threat still lingered, unspoken in the HS's cool demand for information. Yes, she doubted Harry, yes she knew more than he was saying, and yes, it was her obligation to tell the HS whatever he wanted to know. Angry at Harry and fearful for the future, she had told Towers exactly what he needed to know, and the moment she hung up the phone she'd rushed off to the Ladies', emptying the contents of her stomach and trying desperately not to weep. She'd felt ill all morning, but had managed to contain herself until that moment, and not for the first time she wondered how long she could continue to hide the truth from those around her.
Of course, Towers hadn't kept quiet about how he'd come by his information, when he rang Harry to give him a dressing down, and the anger, the betrayal he'd felt upon discovering what Ruth had done shone out of his eyes, his body tight and tense with hurt and rage. His tone had been so derisive, so cutting, she'd fought the urge to reach out and pull him toward her, to dig her nails into his arm and hiss into his ear as she explained exactly what she thought of him and his behavior recently.
Harry, we have to work together, she'd said instead, frustration and sorrow mingled in her voice.
We are working together, Ruth. This is what it looks like.
Such simple words, but strung together like that they took her like a slap to the face. This is what it looks like. Oh God, please don't let that be true, she prayed. She could not bear this future for them, bickering and sniping and never, ever trusting one another again. If this was what it looked like, if this was how things were to stand between them, deep in her heart she feared she would have to leave. If Harry was so angry with her now, how much more angry would he be when he learned the truth she'd kept hidden from him? She could not continue to work alongside him; already she found herself drowning beneath the broken pieces of who they had been, and who they had become.
Still, there was a job to do, and they did it, allowing an FSB officer onto the Grid no matter how begrudgingly.
Beth and the others rushed off to try to detain Aibek, and Ruth remained behind, horror-struck as the realization of the danger Beth was in dawned on her. This girl had been her friend, her confidante, a sure and steady presence in the chaos that her life had become, and yet Ruth was forced to stand there and encourage her to open that bag, to risk her very life for the sake of the operation. I can't do this any more, Ruth thought, even as she sagged with relief at Beth's declaration that the bag was empty. I can't stand to see Harry like this, I can't stand to lose another friend, I have to go, I have to.
Just once more, she told herself, just stand by Harry one more time, see this operation through and tender your resignation and be done with it.
So she did. She sat with Harry and Doctor Kirby, listening to this man defend so strongly his belief in his research. Harry used to have that kind of faith in their work, his belief so fierce that it sustained everyone in their Section; now, though, she wasn't so sure. Doctor Kirby was infuriating, refusing to agree to having his research destroyed, refusing to let it be expanded, refusing to offer any explanation of the obvious safeguards he'd put in place. It was getting to Harry, Ruth knew, this old man's quiet obstinance, but she had to admire him for the strength of his convictions. Harry would not agree, she knew, his judgment clouded by his need for answers.
And then came the call from Doctor Kirby's daughter.
Pactum serva.
Keep the faith, Ruth had translated quietly. The words struck a chord, somewhere deep inside her. Doctor Kirby and his daughter were willing to die, to lose one another, for the sake of their convictions. She had felt that way once, her belief in Harry so steadfast that she was willing to give her life for him, willing to walk away from the something wonderful between them in order to save him. Could she ever feel that way again? In that cold interrogation room she studied him out of the corner of her eye, the set of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow, the way he clenched and unclenched his hands. Could she ever believe in him again, as she had done when she was young and naïve and unbroken?
Maybe, a small tired voice whispered in the back of her mind. Maybe. She thought about their child, envisioned Harry cradling the little peanut in his arms, imagined how fiercely he would protect that precious bundle from the horrors of the world. Perhaps they were doomed, professionally, perhaps she could not lean on him as she had in the past, but she needed more from him than leadership. She needed a hand to hold, and as she gazed at this tired, dejected man, she fought the urge to reach out, and clasp his hand in hers.
Her mind was still swirling with thoughts of Harry and the baby – their baby – when she went to him, and offered him what little comfort she could.
A mistake of judgment, maybe, she'd allowed, but not of decency. Wanting him to know that she understood, wanting him to know that she was still here, that somewhere underneath the mistrust and the darkness that separated them from one another she was still the same person she had always been, his Ruth, his tether to the world, his conscience. Sometimes you have to do what's necessary, Harry, she said, telling him obliquely that she knew what came next, and no matter how distasteful it was, she knew it was the only option left to him.
So they went to Doctor Kirby, and they lied. Told him his daughter had not kept the faith, that her death had been in vain, that everything he'd built had been ruined. Vaguely, she remembered asking Harry once is there any line we don't cross, desperately wanting to know if nothing was sacred to them, any more. The answer then, as now, seemed to be simply no. Regnum Defende. Whatever the cost.
In the end, though, Harry had surprised her, protecting the Paroxocybin, and revealing the truth to Doctor Kirby. Perhaps Harry could no more stomach the lie they told than she could. If nothing else, it proved to her that he was still her Harry, playing both sides against the middle, always one step ahead, always doing his best to do good, as well as right.
Sometimes you have to give a man a chance, Ruth. To show you who he really is.
She'd watched him go, his words echoing in her ears, her stomach roiling as the peanut made its presence known. Three months ago, she thought she knew him. Thought she knew him better than she knew herself, thought she knew his hopes and his dreams and his convictions. Three days ago, she'd thought he was a stranger to her, a bitter, jaded man who held no affection for her, after everything she'd done. Now, standing here, watching him walk away from her, she didn't know what to think. Harry was adrift, bouncing from dejection to rage so quickly it left her spinning and uncertain. Always in the past, it had been her job to bring him back, when he ventured too far afield, her job to center him and remind him why they did what they did. Could she not do that for him now? She knew who he was, deep in her heart; he was Harry, her Harry, and somehow they would have to find a way to forge ahead, together.
Her earlier decision to resign her post faded quietly from her mind as her hand drifted down to rest on her stomach, a gesture of self-comfort that she was turning to more and more. Your daddy is lost, peanut, she thought, but he'll find his way back. He has to.