Mani left them alone, and for a time they simply sat in silence, staring at one another. There was a tortured expression in Ruth's glorious eyes, a sorrow and a fear and a desperate longing that Harry understood all too well. He did not even dare to blink, caught in that moment with her, did not dare to close his eyes for even a second, lest he open them to find her gone, and himself alone once more. Had her hair always been that rich shade of mahogany? He wondered. Had the lines around her mouth always been so pronounced? Had her soft, luminous skin always been so tan? The image before him clashed with the vision of her he'd conjured over the last two years, his memories fading as he struggled to fill in the gaps. Her eyes, though, her eyes were as incandescent, as captivating as he remembered, and it was in those eyes he found the missing piece of his soul, the part of himself he thought he'd lost forever.

She took a single, ragged breath, and the stillness of the moment shattered, and Harry's heart with it. What have you done with my husband? The words echoed louder than gunfire in that cavernous room. Where was he, this husband of hers? Who was he? Though he could read in her gaze, in the continual twisting of her hands in her lap, in the turn of her mouth how much she felt for him, the question still remained: did she love her husband more? Was this man, this stranger, this fool who had known her so briefly, and almost certainly by a false name, worth more to her than him? Was her life with him worth more than the heartache and uncertainty that were all Harry could offer her?

"You got married out there," he said softly. In his heart, Harry knew it was cruel to give voice to such a thought. They were held hostage, bound together in some godforsaken warehouse, on the verge of an unspeakable, unpredictable horror, and now was not the time to press her for details, to demand that she speak the truth of her heart to him. Still, though, he found he could not hold his tongue. He had to know, needed to know, needed to hear the words falling from her lips more than he needed his next breath.

She took a moment to respond; it seemed to him that speaking of the man she loved ought to give her some sort of hope, some sort of goodness to cling to in this sea of madness, but he saw no joy in her when she spoke of him. He saw only doubt, and fear; fear of what, he couldn't be sure.

"George is a doctor at the local hospital where I worked for a while." As she spoke she dropped her gaze from his face. Why? He wondered. Why look away now? Why sever that connection, when before they had shared so freely with one another? Why did she appear almost ashamed to speak of this man, this George? On paper, she had not betrayed Harry; she'd been living in another country, under another name, and they were nothing to one another. They'd shared one dinner, and two painfully brief kisses; hardly the stuff of a committed, monogamous relationship. She had been free to give her heart as she chose. Why then did Harry feel as if she were admitting to having an affair? Why did she look as if she felt the same?

"Worked?" he asked her. It was the past tense that caught his attention; had she left the hospital? If so, why? And what the hell had she been doing there? Harry knew Ruth had no medical training, beyond the basic first aid required of all MI-5 employees, but he imagined that, given everything he knew about her, she could do just about anything she set her mind to. She had a gentle heart, a compassionate heart, and he thought she would have made a fine nurse.

"Clerical work," she said, and he knew by the self-deprecating tone of her voice that she had read his very thoughts, and understood that he believed such an occupation to be beneath her. In truth, Ruth possessed one of the single most brilliant, fascinating minds he had ever encountered. She had overcome hardship and poverty, worked her way through university, and become one of the most esteemed analysts in MI-5 history. She spoke a half a dozen languages, possessed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of ancient history, and she utilized all of her boundless intelligence as an artist would use paint, piecing together the most intricate mysteries with verve and humility. What possible satisfaction could clerical work offer a mind like that?

"You were made for more than that, Ruth," he told her softly, hoping that she would hear in those words the truth his heart longed to shout. That she would hear him telling her softly, gently, that she was made of steel and dreams, that she was meant for more than the drudgery of record keeping, that she was born to be a legend.

She did not hear him, though.

"I loved it," she said with a stubborn tilt of her jaw, her eyes boring into his defensively, almost accusingly. He realized his mistake too late; he had meant to encourage her, not to demean the choices she had made. But Ruth was a woman who had spent her entire life defending herself, fighting back against those who had cast dispersions upon her and her abilities, and she was continuing that fight now.

"I did my job correctly," she continued in that same fierce tone of voice. "And when it was finished I went to the market, or swimming. It was simple. Everything about my life was simple and…elegant, for once."

As she spoke his mind conjured the image of her walking through a market, laughing with her friends, conversing with the locals in a tongue he could not understand. The vision of her in a bathing suit, skin tanned, muscles toned, diving beneath the waves of some impossibly blue sea was nearly enough to make him weep with longing; he wished, very much, that he had been given the chance to see her thus. To see her unencumbered, free from worry, free from pain, joyous and soft and brilliantly, beautifully alive. The woman who sat before him now seemed so incongruous with the one she was describing; the Ruth trapped in this room with him was hard, and resolute, and standing firm beneath the endless weight of grief and fear that was her life in London. He heard in her words an accusation of sorts; everything about my life was simple, and elegant, for once, as if it hadn't been before. She spoke those words in a cutting tone of voice, as if her grief, her pain, the sheer complexity of her life were his fault. Which, in a way, he supposed it was. He was the one who had complicated matters, who had drawn her into his web of secrets, who had given the orders that killed her friends, who had pushed her farther than she ever dared go on her own.

"And George?" he asked. Damn you, Harry Pearce, he thought as he watched the emotion swirling in her eyes. Once again, he had pushed too hard, had been unable to stop himself from demanding more of her than she was willing to give. He had to know, though. She told him she had loved her life; did she love this man, this George, as well? Do you love him more than me?

For a long moment she simply gazed at him, blinking back tears that sparkled in her eyes, causing them to shine like diamonds in the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows beside them.

There's something I have to tell you. I should have told you years ago.

Harry, please, don't.

Those words would always lie between them, that something wonderful that was never said, and in the silence that followed his question, those words were the only sound that he could hear. I love you. I loved you then, I love you still. I love you.

"He's a good and kind man, Harry." As she spoke she dropped her gaze down to her fidgeting hands, her cheeks coloring with some emotion he could not name. But she had not said those words, had not answered his question, not truly. Her response was an evasion, no more, no less, and Harry wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't sure that now was the time to question her, now, when they were trapped in this room, with death lingering just outside the door. They were almost certainly being observed, and she knew it as well as he; perhaps it was that knowledge, coupled with her almost obsessive need for privacy, that stayed her tongue.

"Do you love him?" Harry hated himself for asking. He hated himself for his utter lack of self-restraint where she was concerned. He hated the vulnerability she inspired in him, but he could not die today without knowing the truth. If this was to be his last day on earth, he did not want to die wondering. For her part, Ruth looked as if she were about to weep, as if she wanted to be anywhere in the world but there in that room with him. Tell me, please, for the love of God, tell me I have not given my heart, my very soul, to a woman who loves another.

"I feel…very guilty." Her voice was strained, her posture tense, her brow furrowed, her gaze darting here and there about the room. He knew she felt guilty; he could read that much in her expression. But for what? Guilty for sleeping with George, and never with him? Guilty for dragging George into the chaos that was her life?

"That wasn't my question," Harry said, a sense of urgency rising within him, causing his heart to beat faster and faster inside his chest. "Ruth-"

"He doesn't deserve to be in danger and I'm not going to start discussing my feelings about him."

Behind the door opened, and dread rose like bile in the back of Harry's throat.

"With you," she added softly.

"Erm, would you like a cup of tea, then?" Will asked, scratching the toes of his socks anxiously against the floorboards.

George stared at him as if he were an alien, confusion and anger written in every line of his too-handsome face.

So this man married my mum, Will thought in a daze, his feet carrying him back to the kitchen as if on autopilot. For the last two years, Will had gotten to know a man his mother cared for, a man who cared for her, and he'd done a lot of thinking about who his mum was as a person, rather than just his parent. Harry had been a shock to him at first, with his receding hairline and his boxer's hands and his impossibly demanding job, but Will had come to terms with it. He had seen what sort of a man Harry was, had experienced firsthand the strength, the tenderness that lay beneath his surface, and in his mind Harry and Ruth had become inextricably linked. To be so suddenly faced with another man – oh Christ, this bloke is my bloody step-father, he realized – left him feeling rather uncomfortable, to say the least.

"She never told me she had a son," George admitted from the kitchen doorway. He'd come to a stop there, still clutching his holdall, still staring at Will in utter disbelief. Join the bloody club, mate, Will thought, but he held his tongue.

"She never told me about any of this," George continued. He was staring around the room in disbelief, his eyes continually seeking out Will's face. What do you see, George? He wondered. Do you see the truth? Do you see that you never really knew her? Not as I do? Not as Harry does? This man might have been her husband, but Will couldn't help but feel resentment towards him. He had harbored a dream for two long years now, a dream of seeing his mother returned to him, of seeing Harry smile, of finally feeling as if he were part of a family, and this man had not part to play in that dream.

"She didn't have a choice," Will said defensively. That was something else he'd learned, over the last two years. He'd learned just what her job had demanded from her, just what sort of sacrifices she and her compatriots at Five had been called upon to make, and he felt a fierce sort of pride for her, for what she'd done, what she'd been able to accomplish. George might be her husband, but Will was her son, and he was damned if he was going to let this man stand in this kitchen and pass judgment on her.

"So I've been told," George said softly.

Will continued to make the tea, casting surreptitious glances over his shoulder at George all the while. The time was coming, he was certain, when George would press for more. Would demand to know how old he was, add it all up, and express his disbelief. It had happened often enough, over the course of Will's young life; he knew how their situation appeared to outsiders, and he had no desire to explain himself, or his mother, or his father, or any of it, to this man.

"Do you know where she is?" George asked after a time.

Will shrugged his shoulders, but then he nearly dropped the mug of tea he was holding as a sudden realization struck him square in the chest. He spun on his heel, his heart hammering, and spoke.

"Why are you here? What's happened?" He'd been so taken aback by George's sudden appearance that he hadn't given himself a moment to consider the implications of it. If her husband were here, in England, surely that meant that Ruth was, too. Will I see her? he wondered as a desperate hope took root deep in his heart. Is it over? Will she finally come home? Christ, what will Harry say when he finds out about this?

"I don't know!" George burst out angrily. "Men with guns, they came to our house, she said we had to leave, we came here, she tells me nothing, they took her away, and now I'm here." It was apparent, from his tone, from his expression, from the sheer fury radiating from his dark eyes that George had passed beyond mere frustration into the realm of outrage. Will felt no particular sympathy for him, though he supposed he ought to have done; they were both caught up in events beyond their control, and they were both worried for Ruth's safety.

"Let's sit in the garden," Will said in an even tone of voice. He was quite proud of that, actually; he wanted nothing more than to answer this George with derision but his mother, and indeed Harry, had taught him better than that. "It's a beautiful day. I'll tell you what I know." And you're going to answer my bloody questions, he added to himself.

George's shoulders slumped in a defeated sort of way, but he nodded his assent, and together they trooped out into the garden, and took their tea sitting on little wooden chairs, staring out at the trees. Unnoticed by the pair of them, John and two of his men slipped through the kitchen door, and stood there watchfully, blocking any means of escape for either of them.