On Friday night, Beth and Ruth sat together around their little kitchen table, heaps of Chinese takeaway in front of them and the as yet unnamed cat winding himself around Beth's ankles, mewling pitifully as he demanded a second supper. It had been a rough week for both of them; Beth had spent the last five days undercover at an investment bank, trying to trace the flow of funds into an account linked to a suspected AQ cell, and Ruth had been up to her eyeballs in translations, working the same op from the other side. They'd caught their man, filed their reports, and made it home, if not at a decent hour, at least before they both completely collapsed.
There was something weighing heavily on Beth's mind, a doubt that had been festering for weeks now, and she was wondering if this was the moment to bring her fears to light. Ruth had been so happy, recently; it seemed their conversation last week had done the trick, and Ruth had decided to move in with Harry. The how and the when of it had not yet been decided, but it seemed that Ruth was at peace, now that she had chosen her path, and Beth was convinced that it was the right choice. Harry had a spring in his step, Ruth was smiling again, and the peanut would have both of her parents on hand; surely this was the best situation for everyone involved. It didn't seem right, to intrude on that kind of happiness with the darkness that was growing in the back of Beth's mind, but Ruth knew Harry, knew how he thought, and she was in the best position to offer Beth advice about how to proceed. And besides, Beth's suspicions concerned them all rather directly.
Just say it, she told herself firmly.
"I'm worried about Lucas."
Ruth sighed heavily and ran a hand over her face, all traces of her prior contentment gone in a flash.
"As am I," she replied.
Oh, good, Beth thought glumly.
"He hasn't been himself lately," she continued. "He doesn't answer his phone, he's off at all hours doing God knows what, and when he comes back, he's evasive and angry. Well, angrier than normal."
Ruth nodded. "I've noticed the same. There are discrepancies between his reports and the GPS tracking system."
Beth jerked her head up sharply, alarmed. It was one thing for Lucas to go somewhere without telling them, and something else entirely to submit falsified reports. He was their Section Chief; he was supposed to be Harry's right hand, the one person they could all count on. What would they do, if he'd gone rogue? Beth knew more now about what he'd been through, knew the truth of what Ruth had so nonchalantly referred to as a hiatus, and she couldn't help but wonder if his experiences in Russia had damaged him, had left something dark and terrible brooding beneath his surface. Harry trusted him implicitly, she knew, and likely would not hear a word against him, but something had to be done, and quickly, before Lucas spiraled completely out of control.
"What do we do?" she asked in a small voice.
"We tell Harry," Ruth answered firmly. "I had been waiting, until I had more evidence. Harry has a soft spot for Lucas; I think he still feels responsible, for everything that happened to him."
If that was true, Beth couldn't imagine that Harry would react too kindly to their casting aspersions on Lucas's loyalty. Lucas was in a position to do untold harm, however, and they could not let this lie.
"I think it might be better, if you were the one to talk to Harry," Ruth continued, and Beth nearly choked on her wine.
"You're joking," she said once she'd got herself back under control.
"Harry's judgment where I'm concerned is a bit clouded, just now. He'll think I'm paranoid, or worse, he'll accuse me of doubting him, and he'll be so distracted by that he won't take in the full picture. There's too much between us, and he knows I've never really trusted Lucas. If you bring this to his attention, it will make the situation clear. You work more directly with Lucas than I do, and if it appears that Lucas's behavior is erratic enough to draw your attention, it might make Harry sit up and take notice."
"You've never trusted Lucas?" Beth was surprised by that, to say the least. Since joining their team, she'd always felt as if they were divided into two camps, with Harry and Lucas and Ruth and Tariq forming the old guard, and Beth and Dimitri left out in the cold. Over time they had pulled together, but she had always felt there was a certain understanding that existed between their Section Chief and those members of the team who had worked with him for years.
"He saved my life, when we first met," Ruth said quietly, "but at that time, I was still grieving for those we lost in my absence. He wasn't particularly warm, and I always felt as if he were looking at me strangely. These last few weeks, he's been behaving as if he suspects that I know something, and that scares me. If he feels guilty about something, we need to know what it is. It could be an easy fix, or it could be a disaster, and either way we need to be prepared."
"And you want me to talk to Harry?" Beth still couldn't quite believe that this was the right course of action. Harry adored Ruth; surely he would take any accusations about Lucas better, if they came from the woman he loved. Then again, she had chosen to bring this matter to Ruth's attention specifically because she trusted Ruth's judgment where Harry was concerned, and if Ruth thought this was the best way to handle it, she felt she had to agree.
"I do. He may still question your motives, but hearing it from you will force his hand."
Wonderful. The last thing she wanted was to bring Harry's wrath down upon herself, but if it got him to sit up and take notice of Lucas's worrying behavior, she supposed it would be worth it.
"I'll speak to him on Monday, then," Beth reluctantly agreed.
Ruth knocked on Harry's front door, feeling unduly nervous. Saturday night had arrived, and she had dutifully carted herself off to his, armed with a pen, a small notebook, and a thousand questions.
He opened the door with a smile, stepping aside to let her pass, and as she entered his home, she sighed; whatever Harry was cooking smelled heavenly, and she felt that little bit more at ease.
"What's on the menu, then?" she asked as they walked back into the kitchen together.
"Shepherd's pie," he answered, motioning for her to sit down. The food was already plated and ready, and she took her seat, smiling just a little.
This was one of those delightful things she'd only recently learned about Harry. She had it in her mind to be embarrassed; she recalled with painful clarity the time during his suspension all those years before when she'd arranged to have food parcels delivered to his home, certain he'd survive on nothing but tuna and crisps and Scotch without her intervention. Harry, of course, had never corrected her, and only thanked her sincerely for thinking of him. There had been times, over the last few months, when she'd thought about bringing it up, but she had chosen instead to let it lie, not wanting to dwell on those days when she'd been so consumed with worry for him, and the depth of feeling between them had yet to be acted upon.
They'd certainly acted on it now, she thought, blushing just a little and ducking her head, hoping he wouldn't notice and ask her what was on her mind. They seemed like a dream, those nights she'd spent in Harry's bed. The memories overwhelmed her for a moment, memories of his hands ghosting over her skin, of his breath hot and needy by her ear, of the way her body sang for him, when he buried himself inside her. Was that really me? she wondered. Was I ever really that brave?
She had the peanut, as proof that she wasn't just imagining it, that the time they'd spent together was every bit as real as her memories, but still some days it felt like something that had happened to someone else. For two weeks she had been overcome by grief, utterly exhausted, and completely consumed by him, but by the time of Harry's botched proposal, she'd been slowly coming back to her senses, her natural anxiety coming back to the fore, pushing her away from him.
And now she was about to move in with him, about to have a baby with him, and she'd done no more than kiss him for six bloody months. Part of her wanted that passion back, wanted him to take her in his arms and never let her go, and still a part of her wanted to flee from the burden of everything that had happened between them. It would take time, she knew, to reconcile the warring halves of her heart, but she had faith that she could. She had to have faith; the peanut would be with them in just three months' time, and she very much wanted her child to have a family.
"You're thinking awfully loud over there," Harry said softly as he took his seat across from her, and Ruth drew herself back into the present with a start, realizing she'd barely spoken to him since coming into his home.
"Sorry," she apologized quickly, not wanting to go into the details. Harry seemed to understand her reticence to discuss what was going through her mind, and took charge of their conversation himself.
"There's something I need to tell you, before we get started on the nursery," he said. Ruth's heart plummeted; nothing good ever came from a conversation that began in such a way. She took a long sip from the glass of water he'd poured for her, and waited for him to continue.
"Towers knows. About the peanut."
Christ.
"I suppose it was only a matter of time," she sighed.
Harry seemed relieved by her reaction to the news; no doubt he'd been expecting her to panic. The truth was, the team had known for three months now, and as the word slowly began to spread throughout their Section Ruth had gradually become accustomed to the fact that people knew about her and Harry. At first she had been mortified, but the whispers had died down, and no one treated her differently, not really. Oh, her junior analysts were forever volunteering to go down to Registry so she wouldn't have to, and female agents she'd never spoken to before were stopping by to ask her how she was feeling, and just yesterday she's had a rather strange conversation with the DG's PA in which the woman had shared her own stories of being hugely pregnant and miserable in the summer time, but overall, none of the horrible things she'd expected had come to pass.
With each passing day her stomach had grown, and she had resigned herself to the fact that everyone would know, eventually. She wasn't particularly bothered that Towers knew, but she was curious as to how he'd reacted. The Home Secretary's response to their little situation would have a direct impact on Harry, and she hoped that that impact would not be a negative one.
"How did he take the news?" she asked.
"He was a bit cross, to be honest, but I think that was mostly just surprise. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was just offended that I didn't tell him myself."
Ruth smiled a little, at that. Harry's hatred of politicians was legendary, but he spoke about Towers with a grudging sort of respect, and they had come to be, if not friends, at least allies after a fashion. As far as Ruth was concerned, Harry needed all the allies he could get.
"He didn't shout or anything, then?"
Harry shook his head, and that was that.
It was surprising, really; Ruth had imagined that revealing their secret to the powers that be might drive a wedge between them, but now that it had happened, she couldn't bring herself to be bothered about it. Towers's irritation would pass in time, and Harry's job was safe. They would carry on, just as they had been doing, and no harm done.
"I've been thinking about paint colors," Harry said after they had eaten in silence for several minutes. "For the nursery."
"Did you reach a decision?" Ruth asked, faintly amused at the image of Harry standing in one of his spare bedrooms with a pile of paint swatches.
"Unfortunately, no. I'm absolutely lost. I was hoping you'd have an idea."
Ruth leaned back in her chair, feeling rather full and rather relaxed after a generous helping of Harry's shepherd's pie.
"Well, I don't want anything too girly. When she's older, if she wants to paint the room pink or purple then I'd be happy to do it, but I hate the idea of forcing her into it that kind of rigid femininity before she's old enough to make that decision."
Harry actually laughed out loud at that. "It's only paint, Ruth."
"No, Harry this is important. I don't want to be the sort of mother who's always making my daughter play with dolls and never lets her have the little trucks, even if she wants them. I don't want her to feel like she has to live up to some kind of bizarre patriarchal expectation-"
Harry raised his hands in surrender. "No pink, then."
For a moment they were quiet. Ruth meant what she'd said; she didn't want to deny the peanut any opportunities just because of her gender. If their little girl wanted dolls she would have them, and if she wanted to play in the dirt, then by God she would play in the dirt, and Ruth would not be swayed on this point.
"How about this then? The walls in there are already white. We can leave them be, and just hang some pictures, for color. Then when she's older, we can paint it any color she likes."
It was a lovely suggestion, not least of all because Harry was assuming that the room in his house would remain the peanut's room, permanently. When he'd asked Ruth to stay with him he'd insisted that it could be on a short-term basis, but he clearly had long-term plans for them, and Ruth rather liked the thought of them in the long-term. Oh, it was terrifying in its own way, thinking about still being with Harry years down the road, but it was comforting, too, to know that he had made a place for their daughter in his life and in his plans for the future.
"I'd like that," Ruth agreed quietly, hoping he understood she was talking about more than just the paint.
"Would like to see the room?" he asked.
As they'd both finished their meals, it seemed now was a good a time as any to proceed with their intended agenda for the evening, so Ruth rose to her feet, and followed Harry up the stairs.
She'd made this trip several times before, but it was different somehow, walking up the stairs with him, not tripping in their haste to remove their clothes but with a rather more domestic sense of purpose. She hadn't explored much, up here; just his bedroom and the en suite. The rest of the house was a mystery to her, and she was looking forward to seeing the room where their child would sleep.
At the top of the landing there were two rooms on the left, and a bathroom on the right, with Harry's room at the end of the short hallway. Harry opened the door to the second room on the left, and ushered Ruth inside.
"This used to be the box room," he said, managing to sound faintly embarrassed by that admission. The room was completely bare now, with pristine white walls and the same dark hardwood floors that could be found throughout the rest of the house. Ruth rather liked this room; situated as it was in a corner of the house, it had two windows to let in the light, and a large closet.
This is where our daughter will sleep, Ruth thought with a little smile.
"I've made a list," she said, fumbling with the little notebook she'd brought. "Of what I think we'll need."
"Let's hear it then," Harry said, leaning back against the far wall.
"Right. Um, furniture first, then. We'll need a crib, and a changing table, and a little chest of drawers, for her clothes. And I was thinking, it might be nice to get a bassinet. I'd like to keep her in the room with me, just for a few weeks, until we get a feel for how she'll sleep."
Harry nodded. "If she's anything like Catherine was, she'll be up every two hours like clockwork all night long."
Ruth had noticed that whenever Harry spoke about his experiences with his children it was always Catherine he mentioned, and never Graham. It broke her heart, to see him so estranged from his son, and not for the first time she wondered where their relationship had gone so wrong.
"All the more reason to keep her with me, then. I'd rather not have to go too far, when she wakes up in the middle of the night."
"That makes sense. Do you want it all to match? The furniture, I mean."
"I do. And Harry, I want proper, wooden furniture. Nothing that comes in a flat-pack."
Harry chuckled. "I think we can manage that. Oak, or walnut?"
"I quite like cherry, actually."
This is the most bizarre conversation, Ruth thought, feeling slightly dazed. She was standing in the upstairs of Harry's house, fully clothed for once, talking about furniture. It was just so bloody normal and so shockingly easy, to have this conversation with him. Ruth had been so frightened of this, of the reality of sharing the details of her life with him, but so far, they were doing rather well.
"There's one rather important piece of furniture that's not on your list," Harry mused. Ruth turned her attention back to her notes, skimming over them to see what she could possibly have forgotten. "Luckily," Harry continued, "I've already taken the liberty of purchasing it. Close your eyes."
Ruth stared at him in bewilderment for a moment, but then did as he ordered. She could hear him messing about in the closet, could hear him grunt as though lifting something heavy, could hear the sound of that something heavy dragging against the hardwood floor. What could it be? She wondered, feeling rather excited about the whole thing. Harry had taken the time to clean out his box room and he had already purchased something for the peanut; it seemed every time she turned around he was giving her more evidence of his commitment to her and to their child, and she loved him for it.
"Open your eyes," he said, and she could hear his smile before she saw it.
She turned to look, and saw him standing in the corner beside a beautiful wooden rocking chair. A cherry-wood rocking chair, ornately carved, with soft white cushions and a little matching footstool.
"Oh, Harry," she breathed, tears filling her eyes unbidden. "It's lovely."
"Come on, try it out," he urged, looking as eager as a schoolboy at Christmas, and Ruth happily obliged him, easing herself down onto the chair with a sigh. It was soft, and rocked smoothly with little encouragement. What do you think, peanut? She thought. Do you like it? Ruth didn't like it; she loved it, and as she raised her slightly swollen feet to rest on the little stool, she decided that she was in no mood to get up any time soon.
"This is perfect, Harry," she said, leaning back against the chair and closing her eyes happily.
"I'm glad you like it," he answered. He leaned down, and brushed a gentle kiss against her forehead. "Now, what else is on your list?"
Ruth did not open her eyes; instead she raised the notebook she held in her hands, and passed it off to Harry. He took it, and began to read aloud.
"Pram, nappies, clothes, blankets, car seat…" his voice trailed off as he read the rest of the list in silence. Ruth didn't need to hear it all again; she was the one who'd written it down in the first place, after all.
"What about bottles?" Harry asked when he reached the end of the list. "I mean are you planning to…"
Ruth still had her eyes closed, enjoying the comforts of the new rocking chair, but she reached up and handed him the pen she still clutched in her fingers. "I am planning to breastfeed, if I can, but we'll still need bottles."
She could hear the sound of the pen scratching as Harry dutifully added bottles to the list.
"And one of those…erm…pump, things?"
How typically Harry, she thought, struggling not to laugh. He was always so proper with her; even now, he couldn't quite bring himself to say the word breast in her presence.
"And a breast pump, yes. Oh, and a rug. We'll definitely want a rug in here."
"This is rather a long list," he mused as he wrote rug on the page.
"We haven't left it too late, have we?" Ruth asked, opening her eyes as her anxiety reared its ugly head again.
"No, of course not. We'll find the time, Ruth. We'll make the time." His tone was firm and reassuring, and Ruth drew comfort from his confidence. "I've got to work next weekend, but I'll set aside the next Saturday, and we can get a start on the furniture, at least."
Ruth dragged herself to her feet, pressing her knuckles into the small of her back, trying to relive some of the tension there. For a moment she surveyed the room, trying to imagine all the things on their list in this space, and a baby there besides. So far they had avoided the question of where Ruth would be sleeping, and she was somewhat relieved by that. She could only imagine how uncomfortable that conversation would be, and the evening had been going so well. Now that she was thinking about it, though, she couldn't stop thinking about. Did she want to sleep in the spare bedroom? Did Harry want that? Should she ask him, or should they just let it all crinkle out?
"This can work, can't it? You and me and the peanut, here, together?" she asked him in a small voice.
Harry wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and Ruth folded herself into his embrace, burying her face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the familiar scent of him, a pleasure she'd long denied herself.
"Of course this can work," he said reassuringly, his hands warm and soft as they rubbed comforting circles across her back. "You'll see."
His proximity was making her dizzy; for once they were completely alone, not stealing a moment on the Grid or looking over their shoulders for Ruth's well-meaning flatmate, and the reality of the situation was not lost on her. If he kissed her now, she'd have no reason to stop them from going any farther, and she found she wouldn't want to. In fact, the idea of going farther than a kiss was starting to sound rather appealing the longer he held her body so close to his own.
Something seemed to shift in the air between them, as if they'd both realized the possibility of where this embrace might take them at the same moment, and Ruth leaned back in his arms, her eyes searching his face. What she found there was a desire that mirrored her own, and she smiled, the moment before his lips touched hers.
