A/N: I'm back! This is just a quick chapter to get us back in the swing of things. Regular updates should resume now.
Cotterdam.
Throughout the long working day, that word had echoed in the vaults of Harry's mind like some ghastly tolling bell, badgering him incessantly at every turn, denying him even a single moment's peace.
Cotterdam.
He had answered Erin's question, spoken in a soft voice of the fire and the treacherous plot, and though he acknowledged the role that Ruth had played, in bringing down Mace and his cronies, he had likewise rather delicately glossed over the sacrifice that she had made to ensure his freedom. It was enough for them to know that she was involved in the operation; he did not feel they were entitled to the details of the personal tragedy that had accompanied it. His Ruth was a private person, and all mention of her death and subsequent resurrection had been carefully wiped from her record; with Lucas's death, there was no one who remained to tell the tale of her exile and bloody return save for Ruth and Harry, and he felt they deserved to keep this one secret for themselves.
Erin had known he was holding back, though. He could see it in her eyes, flashing at him across the meeting table, the subtle frown hovering at the corners of her lips. No doubt she thought it suspicious, was even now asking herself if perhaps there was something in the sordid mess of the Cotterdam affair that could bring Harry down and elevate Erin to the lofty position she had so clearly set her eyes on. Nothing could be further from the truth; the record they had uncovered of the meeting, that damning microfilm containing information about every agent who had been present and involved in the scandal, had proved useful indeed, and Harry had worked his way down the list, deftly removing every single one of those powerful men from their positions.
With the exception of one. Try though he might. Harry had never been able to identify the representative from Special Branch. Somewhere out there was one final loose end, one last person who might conceivably hold a grudge against Ruth for what she'd done all those many years before, but in truth the identity of that final perpetrator had ceased to matter to Harry long ago. The world spun on, new dangers surfaced, and he had truly believed that the matter of the Cotterdam affair had been laid to rest.
Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Erin hadn't just pulled that word out of a hat; she had pointed out, rightly so, that of all the incidents discussed in the transcripts of the tribunal, Cotterdam was the only one that involved Ruth as well as Harry, and that the status of those men involved seemed to indicate that they would all be capable both of holding a grudge, and orchestrating revenge. While Harry saw the sense in this theory, he could not fathom why it should matter now; Ruth had been back in the land of the living for more than two years, and there had been a million opportunities, in all the years since the prison fire, for someone to exact their revenge. What had changed, that this ghost should come to haunt them now?
He reminded himself firmly to remain open to other possibilities. Cotterdam was not the only bit of dirty laundry aired during the tribunal, and Harry felt himself beset by foes on every side. It had been a long and torturous process, delving into his long and sometimes shady career, and he had faced each day with a heavy sense of dread, wondering what secrets would be unearthed next. To his great relief, he had been spared from the worst of it; no word had reached his inquisitors, it would seem, of the bullet that had killed Kachimov or the poison that had ended Nicholas Blake. The tribunal detested him enough as it was; he had counted himself lucky, that they had not learned the truth of him, that he was a man who had killed, more than once.
As the hours passed with guilt and fear nipping at him like ravaging dogs, Harry struggled to focus on his work, struggled to ignore the little voice in the back of his mind, asking, not what would the tribunal think, but what would Ruth think of him, should she ever learn just how low he had stooped in his quest for revenge. She was so good, his Ruth, so kind, so gentle, and she had always stood firm with a strength of conviction that he envied, this man who was so often capable of putting aside his own morality in the name of doing his job. Would she understand why he had done it, would she be proud, to know that he had vindicated the deaths of Adam and Ros, two people she had counted friends? Or would she run from him in horror, reminding him that she had sacrificed her very life for the principles of civilization to which she clung, and that he had fallen short of the mark she had set for him? It was an unsettling question, particularly in light of the glorious evening they had spent together the night before. He finally had everything he longed for just within his grasp, but he could not shake the sense that all of it - that Ruth - was about to snatched from him forever.
To say that Ruth's conversation with the HS had been an uncomfortable one would be to make a gross understatement. She had explained to him in a quiet voice how Oliver Mace had set into motion the events that led to the Cotterdam fire and the extradition of the seven terrorists, and explained too her own role in uncovering the plot, the run-in with Mick Maudsley and everything that came after. She had not spoken of Harry, watching her with gentle eyes in her kitchen, holding her hand as he drove her home from Thames House, kissing her so passionately on a cold morning by the riverside as their whole world came crumbling down around them. Those details, so near and dear to her heart, belonged to no one else save she and Harry, and she would not share them with the HS now.
Towers had been suitably impressed, to learn that she was a proper spy, after all, that she had done the snooping and the running and the sacrificing for queen and country bit just as well as any field agent. He had been rather obviously intrigued by her veiled references to her return, and when her tale was through, he expressed some surprise, at the way Paul Hadley, the representative from Special Branch, had so casually referenced her death and resurrection. Ruth had demurred, had tried to act as if she were completely untroubled by that encounter, but the truth was she could not stop the feverish twistings and turnings of her mind that Hadley had set into motion. It had been years, since anyone had made mention of her exile; even Harry himself had not so much as alluded to it in the interim, and she could not fathom why Hadley had brought it up now.
As soon as Towers dismissed her Ruth rushed back to her office, compiling her report on Syria as quickly as she could before tidying up her desk for the evening and bidding Margot a fond - if very brief - farewell. Ruth was anxious to get home, to pour herself a glass of wine and perhaps even draw a bath, to relax and try to soothe the ache that worry had caused in her stomach. More than anything, she was anxious to see Harry again, but she knew that he would come to her in his own time, when he could, when he was ready. He was a busy man, this love of hers, and she knew that she would have to be patient. Always before his long working hours had been no cause of concern for her, for as long as he was on the Grid she would be as well, in proximity to one another even when they were working on separate tasks. She had always drawn comfort from knowing that he was close to hand, and for the first time she was confronted by just how much their circumstances had changed. Over the course of their eight year acquaintance - with the exception of the sun-drenched days she'd spent in Cyprus - Ruth had always known where he was, what he was doing, what occupied his thoughts. Now, though, she had no notion of how he'd spent his day, if there was danger afoot, if he would be able to join her for supper, and that not knowing troubled her a great deal. She did not reach for her mobile, did not ring him, for she was determined not to nag him, no matter how much she longed to reassure herself that he was well. He would come to her, her Harry, as soon as he could, and she had no choice but to trust in his love for her.
If Will noticed her melancholy mood as he deftly drove her through the streets of London he made no mention of it; the young man was quiet and serious, as he had been throughout the day, and Ruth was grateful for his courteous silence. Her own thoughts were loud enough.
As soon as Will ushered her into her home Ruth made her way into the kitchen; she heard the quiet sound of the front door closing and locking as Will departed, and sighed, shuffling from one foot to the other to remove her boots while Felicity wound herself round and round Ruth's ankles, mewling up at her pitifully. As soon as Ruth was standing in her stocking feet she gathered the little cat into her arms, feeling the tension draining from her as the cool stillness of her home and the gentle sound of Felicity's purring calmed her, soothed her battered heart. Cotterdam was in the past, that grief, that pain, that fear behind her now, though she still had nightmares, sometimes, about the terrible way George had died.
Don't think about that now, she chided herself.
Giving Felicity one last little cuddle Ruth set her on the floor, and poured herself a glass of wine, thinking about her past, about love, about loss, about grief, about the sound of Harry's harsh breaths in her ear as he had sheltered her beneath him while bullets rained down all around them. He had not hesitated to protect her; he never had. Almost from the moment they first met, Harry had been there to guide her, to hold her up when she was flagging, to place himself between her and whatever danger they faced at any given moment. That was just the sort of man he was, though Ruth was finally able to admit, after eight long years and one beautiful night together, that he had always treated her differently, reverently, as if she were precious to him. The very thought flooded her with warmth, with the expectation of seeing him again, of folding herself once more into his arms, and so Ruth carried her glass of wine up the stairs, intent on a bath to clear her head and pass the time until Harry arrived.
When Harry finally arrived at Ruth's home he was dog-tired and irritable and itching to see her again. He dismissed his minder curtly and all but slammed the door in the poor lad's face before taking one deep, cleansing breath, inhaling the soft, subtle scent of Ruth that permeated every inch of this space and immediately set his heart at ease. He carefully removed his shoes in her foyer, and after a moment's consideration divested himself of jacket and tie as well, hanging them both on a little hook by the door before unfastening the buttons at his collar and rolling back his sleeves. In just a few short moments, he felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. The day had been a trying one, ghosts and past mistakes taunting him at every turn as his team fought through the noise to try ascertain who had attacked him, but he was here, now, home with Ruth, and given how well things had gone between them the night before, he was elated at the prospect of spending more time in her presence.
Silently he made his way down the hall, pausing in the kitchen doorway as his eyes came to rest on Ruth, watching her in silent joyous appreciation.
Ruth had - rather prudently - drawn the curtains on her kitchen windows, and she was humming softly to herself as she worked at making supper. Her back was turned to him, for which he was grateful, as it allowed him the opportunity to study her without making her uncomfortable. She wore only her pale pink dressing gown, her hair piled up on the back of her head, the ends damp and curling, her skin softly glowing in the light of the candle burning merrily on the table; he supposed she must have indulged herself in a soak in the bath upon arriving home, and he felt a surge of heat course through him, as his mind was assaulted by images of Ruth, naked and luxurious beneath the water.
It would not do, he knew, to stand there indefinitely fantasizing about running his hands over the pale skin of her thighs, not when he suspected that she would be rather ameniable to bringing such fantasies to life, should he ask. With that in mind, he cleared his throat, and when she spun on her heel, wooden spun clutched in her hands like a cudgel, he smiled at her softly.
"Hello," he said, taking a single step towards her. Though he wanted nothing more than to cross the space between them and wrap her in his arms he hesitated, uncertain as to what liberties he would be allowed to take, just now. Ruth had been receptive to him when they woke in the still hours of the morning, and again, when they dawdled on her doorstep, unwilling to part from one another, but she had always been skittish as a deer, and he feared that he would have to start this dance afresh with her each time, to set her at her ease before they were allowed the intimacy they had only so recently enjoyed.
He needn't have worried, however; as soon as Ruth realized who had come barging into her kitchen she smiled, disposed of her spoon, and made her way across the room to him.
"Hello," she murmured in response, coming to a stop only an arm's length away from him. Her eyes roved over him, taking in his disheveled appearance, and the smallest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lips, though her eyes, those brilliant, glorious eyes, remained somehow sad. "I'm so glad you're home," she said, taking one last tentative step towards him. It was all the permission he needed; Harry reached out and took her into his arms, her head nestling just beneath his chin as she buried her face in his neck, her arms wrapping tightly around his middle, clinging to him for dear life.