A/N: I'm going away for a few days; I will try to write, but I can't make any promises.

When Harry woke, groggy and disoriented and slumped into a corner of Connie's battered old sofa, he didn't immediately know where he was. The room was dark, and he couldn't recall how he'd come to be there. As he struggled to pull himself upright, images from the day before flashed in his mind, and he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face as if to banish the demons from view. There was a part of him, however small, that feared he had crossed a line, in killing Davie King. The man was a monster, a murderer, a violent psychopath, but still, Harry believed strongly in the rule of law. He fought for it, fought for justice, every day of his life. How could he devote himself to the cause of freedom, knowing he had deemed himself Davie King's judge, jury, and executioner?

There will be no trial for Davie King, he thought. I have seen to that.

"Oh good, you're awake."

Harry jumped, at the sound of Connie's voice from the doorway. She was leaning there, a mug of tea cradled in her hands and, as ever, an inscrutable expression on her face.

"What time is it?" he croaked in a voice hoarse from sleep.

"Nearly five," she answered. He must have looked as incredulous as he felt, to discover that Connie was up and dressed and impatient at nearly five in the morning. "I don't sleep like I used to," she continued.

"Nor do I," Harry said sadly.

"Coffee? Or tea?"

Harry rose unsteadily to his feet, tugging at his wrinkled, bloodstained shirt. "Coffee, please," he said. He wasn't quite ready to leave yet; he felt as if his mind was still half asleep, and he didn't quite trust himself to drive.

Connie turned and silently led the way through her cluttered hall, and into the kitchen. The jumble of objects that littered her house, most seemingly worthless but all certainly significant to her in some way, reminded him forcefully of Ruth. The controlled chaos of her desk, the warm, eclectic atmosphere of her home; he hadn't realized how much he had grown accustomed to her charming brand of disorder, until it disappeared from his life entirely.

Apparently Connie, like Ruth, possessed an uncanny knack for reading his mind; when he joined her in the kitchen, he found that she had already made him a cup of coffee, and it was steaming cheerily on the counter. She passed it over, her eyes boring into his.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

Harry took a sip of his coffee, wincing slightly as it burned his tongue. For a long moment he considered the wisdom of answering that question. A man in his position couldn't afford to go unburdening himself to his subordinates; any

"I can't help thinking, she wouldn't thank me for what I've done."

"Ruth?"

"Yes," he sighed. Christ, but he missed hearing her name.

"Why not? She's only human. Deep down we're very simple creatures, appeased by simple things. Good food, good drink, a good revenge."

It didn't go unnoticed by Harry that Connie referred to Ruth in the present tense. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering just what Connie knew, and how she knew it. Ruth could ferret out any piece of information, any time, anywhere, but her methods were plain. She used a network of acquaintances, a disarming smile, a boundless wealth of intelligence, and just enough technical know-how to break into almost organization she chose. Connie, though; until a few months ago Connie had been retired, entirely cut off from the resources of the Grid, forgotten by most everyone, except for those who despised her. How had she managed to learn about Ruth, without friends and without a security clearance to help her?

"Ruth was different," Harry said, deciding that now was not the time to ask such questions. "She was good, and kind, and she was…principled." Not foolish, or naïve.

"Christ, Harry, she's a woman. She's flesh and blood, like the rest of us, and you'd do well to remember it. Don't go putting her up on a pedestal."

Harry merely grunted at that. Connie hadn't known Ruth as he had, hadn't lived through the many ups and downs that had been the last few years on the Grid. What made Ruth different, what made her, well, Ruth, was her heart. She was compassionate, but brave, and she knew what it cost, to stand up in defense of her principles. She had sacrificed her very life for those principles, for the belief that the government could not, should not be allowed to engage in torture, no matter how vile the suspects in question might be. How could such a woman ever care for a man like him?

"You did the right thing, Harry," Connie said firmly.

"Did I?" Even to his own ears he sounded defeated, weak, almost.

"Yes. How many people did Davie King murder? How many little girls did he attack? That man was a stain on this planet, and you and I understand what so many people out there don't – sometimes, the only thing standing between this world and utter ruin is a good man and the strength of his convictions. This is the business we're in, Harry. Sometimes it's dirty, but it serves a purpose."

"The greater good," Harry mused.

"Precisely. Now go home, put on some clean clothes, and pull yourself together."

Harry wasn't capable of smiling, at that moment, but he came very close. He gave her a little nod, and then did as he was told.

Harry spent much of the next forty-eight hours on the Grid, furiously trying to undo the damage that had been done during his team's suspension. There were phone calls to be returned, reports to be edited, politicians to be appeased, and, as always, never enough time. The opportunity to bury himself in work was a godsend for Harry, though, and he relished every moment, enthroned behind his desk in his office where he belonged. It would be quite a while, before he found a way to work with Nicholas Blake again, before he regained some semblance of normalcy after learning that his own government had tried to kill him, but Harry was an adaptable creature. He knew that this was the way the game was played; enemies and friends changed sides with alarming frequency, and the spook who couldn't keep up was living on borrowed time.

His feet were dragging, when he finally made his way home that Friday night. He had given his driver the day off, choosing instead to clamber behind the wheel of the Range Rover himself. Sometimes, a man just wanted to be alone with his thoughts. With thoughts of a beautiful woman, and a life that could have been. The Grand Tour, sleepy Saturdays spent wrapped up in one another's arms, more dinner dates, more quiet chats; there were so many things Harry wanted, so many things he'd been denied, and as he drove he thought of them all, choking on his own regrets.

His musings were interrupted as he shuffled up the steps and into his house; there was a light on inside, and he was certain he hadn't left it that way. Christ, not now, he thought; he was too tired to deal with more spook nonsense. He wanted a drink, and then he wanted to fall into bed, and he found he simply didn't possess the energy to face any more surprises. His suspense was short lived, however; as he opened the door, he heard a voice call out from the sitting room, "Harry? Mate, there's some pizza in here if you want it."

Will.

What the bloody hell was he doing here? Harry couldn't recall their having discussed his coming to stay, and yet, as he walked into his sitting room, there sat Will, feet up on the coffee table, pizza balanced precariously on his stomach, beer in hand, watching the telly.

"Make yourself at home," Harry said with a sardonic sort of turn to his mouth. Inwardly, he was quite pleased to see how comfortable Will was in this house.

Will gave him a cheeky smile. "You look like hell, mate."

Harry took a piece of pizza from the box at Will's feet, and then slumped into his armchair. "Long day at the office," he said shortly.

Will snorted a bit at that, but he didn't push the issue. That was one of the things Harry quite liked about Will; this young man possessed a certain respect for privacy, no doubt drilled into him by his mother, and he knew when not to pry.

"Not that I'm not pleased to see you, but what brought this on?" Harry asked before taking a bite of his dinner. The pizza was cold and greasy, but it was a meal he didn't have to cook, and he was grateful for it.

"I'm leaving for Paris in a few days, and I needed to get my passport from mum's. Thought I'd stop in and say hello before I left."

Even now, almost a full year later, it was still strange to hear Will refer to Ruth as his mum. Harry supposed he'd get used to it eventually, but it was still somewhat jarring to be reminded of just how much she'd hidden from him. Of course, this thought led Harry's mind back to Davie King, and his mood darkened considerably. Surely Will had a right to know who his father had been, Harry thought; but did he need to know what had become of him? Would it do him any good, or would it only cause him misery? The lad had been through so much already, and Harry was loath to lay any more pain at his feet.

"You've got a weird look on your face," Will said from the other side of the room. He dropped his feet to the floor, turned off the telly, and sat up a bit straighter. "What is it? Is it mum?"

This young man is entirely too observant for his own good, Harry thought ruefully.

For a time he chewed his pizza in silence, feeling the tension mounting between them. This was a long story, and an old one, and there were parts of it Harry knew he could not share with Will. The difficulty would be in finding a balance, between what Will needed to know, and what he didn't. Finally, though, Harry could put him off no longer.

"I know we haven't talked much, about your father," he said carefully.

Will crossed his arms and leaned back against the couch cushions, his normally cheerful countenance suddenly grown dark and suspicious. "There's not much to talk about," he said shortly.

"No," Harry agreed in a placating sort of voice. "I don't know if…if you even want to know this, Will. But I found him."

"You found him," Will repeated incredulously. "And how did you manage that? The police-"

"The police didn't know what they were looking for. They had too many suspects, and not enough information. We found him, because we were following him, and one of our analysts put it together."

Will rose to his feet, and began to pace, clutching his beer tightly in both hands. In that moment, Harry's heart broke for the young man in front of him. He deserves better, Harry thought. I never should have said anything, I should have let him live his life in peace…

"What's his name?" Will demanded from across the room.

On your head be it, Pearce. "His name was Davie King."

"Was?" Will stopped pacing, staring at him with those eyes, so wide and blue and terrified.

Harry nodded. "I'm sorry, Will, but he's dead."

At this, Will flopped back onto the sofa, and buried his head in his hands. "Are you sure?" Will asked from behind his fingers.

Harry nearly laughed aloud, but there was no levity in him. As sure as I can be, considering I'm the one who shot him, I'm the one who buried him.

"Yes."

Silence reigned between them for a long time. Harry wondered how Will must have felt; he couldn't begin to imagine it. Harry's own father had been a good man, if somewhat distant, but Harry had known him. He knew his story, knew his faults and his strengths and the sound of his voice. What must it be like, to have nothing but secondhand accounts, and all of them unspeakable?

"Davie King," Will said finally, raising his head to stare across at Harry. "Who was he?"

Christ, don't make me answer that question. "He was Irish. He was… he was not a good man, Will." The lad made a scornful, derisive sound at that, but Harry continued undaunted. "And who he was has no bearing on who you are."

"Doesn't it?" Will asked bitterly. "He was my father. Whatever he was, whatever he did, that man is a part of me."

"You are your mother's son," Harry told him gently. "Every good, decent thing about her, she gave to you. That is what matters, Will."

With a ragged sigh, Will buried his face in his hands once more, and began to weep.

With much protesting from his weary limbs, Harry heaved himself out of his chair, and crossed the room to sit beside Will on the sofa. He draped his arm around the lad's shoulders, and Will crumpled against his chest, sobbing like a child. For quite some time Harry held him, and let his grief run its course. This was not why Will had come to him tonight, and the weight of his guilt settled heavy on Harry's heart. He had wounded the boy, in more ways than Will even knew, and he felt he owed it to him, to offer him what comfort he could.

"I miss her," Will said quietly as he pulled himself away from Harry's arms, sniffling a little as he scrubbed the tears from his cheeks.

"So do I," Harry admitted. And never more than now.