A/N: The end of this chapter is M rated.


21 June 1985

"What do you mean they've found him?" Harry hissed, stepping closer into the shadow of the phone booth. It was late, and no one was about, but still he felt the need to keep his voice low as he spoke to Clive. With just four words - they've found Patrick Magee - Clive had shattered Harry completely, had crippled his heart, disappointed all his hopes. Any chance of vindication, any thoughts of remaining with Ruth just a little while longer vanished in a moment as the harsh truth began to sink in. All of Harry's efforts, all of his pain - physical as well as emotional - all of the deaths and the violence and the constant, never ending struggle, had been for naught. Someone else had found Patrick Magee, and in so doing had stolen Harry's glory, and with it his pride and what little happiness remained to him.

"I mean they've bloody found the man," Clive said impatiently, "and you're due in Dublin first thing tomorrow for your debrief. You'll meet with John Walsh at doughouse two, and when he's done with you it's straight back to London with you. The PM isn't pleased, Harry. Oh, she's pleased someone caught the bastard, but she's disappointed in the results of your operations. Gross misuse of funds, I believe were her exact words."

Harry grumbled about that under his breath, but he knew better than to openly disparage the PM to Clive. Nevermind that it was her idea he go off half-cocked to do a job better suited to MI-6, nevermind that he had never asked for this, nevermind that he had tried his damnedest to deliver results; the politicians were looking for someone to blame. No doubt egos in Whitehall were smarting over the fact that Magee had managed to evade them for almost a year, and Harry would be left to bear the blame for the delay.

Is this what it's come to? He wondered as he rang off and began to make his way back to the pub, hands shoved deep in his pockets. With one phone call, his entire world had been pulled apart. For so long now he had been James Harrison, chatting to guests at the pub and wandering round the city and drawing ever closer to a beautiful local girl, and with just a few short words from Clive, James Harrison had ceased to be completely. Harry Pearce took his place, sullen and mistrustful, his mind full of details, thinking about the arrangements that would need to be made for his travel back to London, the disbursement of his agents in Galway, the conversation he would have to have with his wife when he returned home.

Abruptly Harry came to a stop on the pavement, Jane's face swimming before his eyes. He reached up and rubbed his hands over his weary face, silently berating himself for all his many misdeeds. How could he have done this to her, again? How could he have thought, even for a moment, that he could risk his marriage, his family, for the sake of a slip of a girl he knew he'd eventually have to abandon?

You love her, his heart whispered, but Harry Pearce as a rule did not listen to his heart. He forced himself to move again, his feet carrying him along without any direction from his overwrought mind. Yes, he loved Ruth, loved her with everything he had, but he had said his vows to Jane, and it was Jane who bore his children, Jane who raised them, Jane who kept him together when he felt as if everything else in his world were falling apart. She had been the one constant in his life, by his side since their days at university, helping him through when his mother died, while he was at Sandurst, while he was in the army. Jane had traveled Europe with him, as he bounced from one post to another, and the quiet moments they had shared, her gentle teasing, the softness of her hands had kept him grounded, had reminded him who he was. Oh, she had been cold and distant in the days before he departed for Galway, and no doubt his six month absence would not have endeared him to her, but she was still his wife. And he had gone and given his heart to another.

You're going home, he told himself firmly as he reached the pub, making his way up the stairs and down the corridor to his room. You're going to be her husband, again, and you're going to take this chance to be a better father to your children. They'll hardly recognize you, you've been gone so long. You must do better, for them.

His mind was spinning, as he stepped into his room, James Harrison and Harry Pearce having a fierce, silent struggle as the warring halves of his heart battled for supremacy, measuring his love for Ruth, this girl who seemed to understand him, against his feelings for Jane, this woman who had been by his side for so many years, who had seen him at his best and at his worst and stayed with him regardless. How could a six month affair possibly matter more to him than his eight year marriage?

Jane's never looked at you the way Ruth does, you've never trusted her the way you trust Ruth.

It was no use, each way he turned he was met with confusion and obfuscation, and he could see no way out. Not that it mattered. He had his orders, and he would follow them, and damn his divided heart.

"James?" a sleepy voice called out in the darkness, shaking him at once from his musings. He'd been stood in the doorway, toeing off his shoes and muttering to himself, completely oblivious to the lump in the middle of his bed, but now that she had spoken the shadows resolved themselves, and there she was, his Ruth, lovely and soft from sleep, her head resting against his pillows, her eyes sparkling at him in the dim glow of the street lamps streaming in through blinds.

God forgive me, Harry thought as he looked at her, his heart sinking in his chest like a stone. Somehow he had forgotten that she was meant to meet him tonight, but in a way her presence was a mercy; he would be spared now the agony of trying to find her before daylight, the indignity of leaving her with no more than a note. This way he could tell her, face to face, that he was leaving, could break it to her gently, courteously, rather than cutting and running like a coward.

"It's all right, Ruth," he told her softly, the brilliant smile she gave him cutting him like a thousand tiny knives.

Knives.

Knives made him think of Connor Kelly, the bastard, and the tender wound Harry still bore on his belly. Thanks to Ruth, Connor had been snatched up immediately in the aftermath of the stabbing, and word had just come through that after his arrest he had been shipped back to Belfast, where he was wanted on charges of murder. Most likely the bastard would spend the rest of his days in prison, and his sons had been subdued in the days following his extradition; Harry had not seen hide nor hair of Ryan Kelly for over a week now. At least that one matter was settled, Harry thought as he unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor; if he had to leave Ruth, at least he could rest easy knowing that the Kellys no longer posed a threat to her. With the paterfamilias out of action, surely the rest of their machinations would grind to a halt; at the very least, they'd be looking over their shoulders, knowing that that garda were suspicious of them now. He might not have captured Patrick Magee, but he had ensured Ruth's safety, and he knew which victory mattered more to him.

By the time he reached the bed he was naked save for his trunks, and he slid beneath the duvet, his arms wrapping around Ruth reflexively, drawing her close to him, her head resting on his chest, the warm, earthy scent of her hair filling his nostrils and calming him even as it saddened him. She was mindful of his wound, careful not to touch it or put pressure on his stomach in any way, even as she nestled closer to him. This was to be his last night with her; he knew that once he left, he'd never see her again. Never see her, never hold her, never hear her sweet voice singing as she bustled around the room, never feel the warmth of her kiss or the joy she brought him ever again. Ruth had lit a fire in his heart, had awakened a piece of his soul he'd long since forgotten, and now she was to be taken from him, relegated to no more than a memory, that merry blaze extinguished by the inexorable progress of time and duty.

"I have to tell you," he murmured, the words feeling like so much gravel in his mouth, his resolve wavering as Ruth turned in his arms and pressed soft kisses against his neck, her skin warm and soft against his own. He realized as he held her that she was naked, as well, had no doubt meant to surprise him, and he could not stop his body reacting to the heat of her even as the guilt washed over him in waves. How could he have done this to her, strung her along, allowed her to care so much for him when he knew that this was the inevitable end?

Because you love her.

"Tell me what?" she prompted when his voice failed him.

He took a deep breath, and spoke those damning words. "Patrick Magee was found in Glasgow today. I'm due back in London tomorrow."

The effect of his pronouncement on Ruth was immediate. She sat bolt upright, nearly cracking her head against his chin in the process, tugging the duvet up to cover her nakedness as she slid away from him and stared at him, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Tomorrow?" She breathed incredulously. Harry's heart was breaking in half, as he watched her, as the emotions danced across her face, her hands trembling where they worried with the edge of the duvet. He could practically feel the feverish twistings and turnings of her mind; no doubt she was reminding herself, even in the midst of her shock, that this was their inevitable fate, that this was the reason she had never told him that she loved him.

"The service doesn't believe in dawdling," Harry said wryly, but before he could speak again she covered her mouth with her hand and all but vaulted from the bed, racing across to the en suite where she was suddenly, violently, rather noisily ill. He did not hesitate; he had seen things more gruesome than this over the course of his life as a spy, and Ruth needed him. As quickly as he could he rose from the bed, stopping just long enough to wet a handtowel before joining her on the floor. With gentle hands he reached out and brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and when she was done he carefully washed her face, one of his hands resting reassuringly on her back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered brokenly when she'd got herself back under control. She'd drawn her knees up to her chest, and Harry was suddenly struck by how small she was, how young, how obviously frightened, her face drained and pale, her radiant eyes dimmed by sorrow. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's a shock," he said, trying to sound comforting, though in truth he knew there was nothing he could say to ease the pain of the moment. "I was surprised, myself. It's me who should be sorry, Ruth. I never should have taken you to bed. I never should have let you-"

Ruth reached out and stilled the flood of words from his lips with the gentle brush of her fingertips. "You've nothing to be sorry for," she told him firmly. "I knew what I signed on for, James. You were always going to leave me. You don't belong here."

With all the trust, all the sincerity of a child she turned in his embrace, worming her way into the circle of his arms, his legs rising up to cradle her close as her arms wound round his neck and she buried her face in his chest, breathing deeply as their hearts slowed and began to beat in time to one another. For long moments he simply held her, treasuring her nearness, the understanding she gave him so freely, that compassion he felt he had no right to claim. What had he done, that such a woman might love him, might forgive him his sins and bless him with her touch?

"I want to stay, Ruth," he whispered in the darkness. "You've no idea how much."

She made a soft, disgruntled sound, pressing a kiss against his chest before leaning back to look him in the eye. "You can't, though," she told him. "Don't torture yourself. You'll leave in the morning. You have no other choice."

I have every choice, he thought sadly. And I choose my duty. To my family, and to the realm. God help me, but I have chosen.

He just smiled at her, a weak, pitiful smile, before he rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. She stepped away, rinsing her mouth at the sink before reaching out to take his hand in her own. Those hands, so small, so delicate; they cradled his heart, and he knew he must surely leave it with her when he departed.

"Come on, then, Mr. Harrison," Ruth told him softly. "Let's go to bed."

He stared at her for a moment in wonder, in awe, struck dumb by her strength, her grace, her beauty. She understood that his choice had been made, that he was abandoning her, and even still, she was offering herself to him. One last time.

Harry nodded, and followed her to bed.


22 June 1985

Before the sun rose, Ruth was woken by the fluttering touch of James's fingers, forging a path from her collarbone down over the rise of her breasts, along the valley between her ribs, teasing round her navel before brushing through the raspy curls at her center. It was the most delightful wake up call she could have imagined, her body arching reflexively as his fingers played over her soft folds, drawing a gasp from her throat. In her half-waking state every touch was electric, the moment magnified a thousand-fold, her every sense slowly reviving, realizing how completely he surrounded her. His arms were wrapped around her, his breath hot on the back of her neck, his hardness pressing insistently against the rise of her buttocks. He'd had her three times this night already, but it would appear that his yearning for her had been not been sated, nor hers for him. In moments she was wet and panting his name, the fingers of his right hand kneading her breast even as the fingers of his left delved deep into the cleft between her legs.

"Oh, fuck," she whimpered as he thrust against her, hard, fast, unrelenting, filling her up, his thumb rubbing insistently against her clit. It had never quite been like this before, this overwhelming, this desperate; there was a dreamlike quality to the moment that left her reeling. She knew what he was doing, imprinting himself upon her, as if the marks he'd left on her breast, on her neck, on the inside of her thigh weren't enough. And though a part of her was devastated to think that this was it, that this was the final time she would hold him, she was determined to enjoy every second of it.

And James seemed equally determined; with one final thrust of his hand he brought her to trembling, soul-stealing release, her cries muffled as she turned her head and pressed her mouth hard against the straining muscles of his arm. I love you, she thought, tears welling up in her eyes, unable to bear the sheer magnitude of her emotions, but she did not speak, would not speak; even in her orgasm-induced delirium, she knew no good would come of those words. Instead she focused on trying to breathe, and the very instant she regained feeling in her extremities she turned in his arms, her mouth fastening hard against his own, his lips soft and warm where they met, his taste filling her senses as she plunged her tongue into his mouth.

Perhaps he understood what she could not say, perhaps he had correctly interpreted the passion of her kiss; he rolled her beneath him in an instant, and her hands gravitated to his hardness, feeling the heat of him pulsing against her palm.

There were so many things she wanted to do, so much more she wanted to experience with this man; as she had fallen asleep, only a few hours before, she had promised herself she would wake him with her lips wrapped around his cock, would take him in her mouth and hear him moan, but he had beaten her to the punch, and she could not bring herself to stop now. She wanted him with a ferocity that frightened her, and she felt herself completely swept away by the furious waves of her desire.

With her hands wrapped firmly around him she guided him into her, felt his body shudder above her, swallowed the deep, nearly animal sound of his moans as he plunged into her wet heat. He sheathed himself inside her in one long thrust, filling her completely, stretching her deliciously until she could do no more than mewl her pleasure. He was magnificent, her James, in every way, not just by virtue of his lean muscle or his thick cock but by the resilience of his spirit, the certainty of his conscious, the beauty of his mind that she had grown to love so well. He was everything to her, and he was leaving.

"Ruth," he breathed, his face so close to her that she could feel the wash of his words across her cheek. "Look at me."

She wrenched her eyes open, whimpering slightly as he withdrew until only the tip of his hardness remained inside her. His eyes held her, claimed her, branded her for his own; they were warm and honey-dark, pupils wide with lust and longing, and in them she saw reflected her own grief, her own joy, her own need.

"I love you," he breathed, but before she could speak he thrust back into her, hard, and her eyes flew shut, her fingernails breaking his skin as she clung to him. He did not pound into her, did not fuck her quickly; he moved firm, and slow, and strong, stoking the fires of desire that threatened to engulf her, the feverish workings of her mind grinding to a halt beneath the onslaught. She clung to him, her hips rising to meet him with each long, languorous thrust. Try though she might she could not keep her eyes open, could not focus on the blistering intensity of his face, but this did not seem to bother him; he ducked his head and caught her nipple with his mouth, worrying it between his lips even as he continued to thrust within her to the rhythm of a song only he could hear.

They had never moved together quite like this, without desperation, without laughter, without clumsy fumbling or the scrape of teeth against skin. This was not fucking, this was a benediction, and Ruth knew she had never felt its like before. This was love, their bodies working together, building it up, constructing it piece by piece. He covered her like a blanket, and she cradled him between her legs, her thighs locked tight around his waist, her inner walls clutching him, drawing him in deeper and deeper with every thrust.

"Don't stop," she breathed as with each move of his body he brought her nearer and nearer to the peak of bliss. He followed her orders, neither stopping nor slowing, but continuing on, smooth and steady and exquisite. With every second that passed he filled her, shaped her to fit him so that no other would ever usurp the place he'd claimed in her heart. When at last she came the sensation nearly tore her apart, so great was it, stealing the breath from her lungs, her heart stuttering and almost stopping altogether before euphoria broke over her in waves. A whimper escaped her lips, and then she began to weep, unable to keep the tears at bay a moment longer, but James continued to move, pushing her through her release and elevating her still further, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his lips.

"I love you," he whispered again.

She could make no sound, but simply clung to him, feeling his pace begin to increase as he answered the undeniable call of his own body. Ruth locked her ankles together at the small of his back, tightening her inner muscles around him that much further, and a strangled groan escaped his lips.

"Let go," she breathed, running her fingers through his sweat-slicked curls, reaching up to catch the lobe of his ear between his teeth.

He gave into her insistence, thrusting harder, and faster, the tempo of their dance shifting, the desperation, the hunger, the fear they had so far managed to keep at bay spurring him on. Though she knew it was foolish, knew it was rash, she did not want him to part from her, wanted to feel the rush of his release inside her, though he had so far been careful, and only made that mistake a time or two before. She held him fast, and he made no effort to disentangle himself from her.

Again he plunged inside her, her whole body trembling with want, having never come down from her previous high but with his help chasing a second, even greater peak. He shifted slightly, reaching between them to stroke the little nub at her center and lights exploded behind her eyes, a single, shattering cry escaping her as the last vestiges of her restraint detonated into nothingness. The siren song of her release was too much for him, this time, and with one last stupendous thrust he capitulated, filling her even as he groaned her name.

They collapsed against the pillows in a sweaty heap, gasping and spent, and she held him close, thinking only how much she loved him, and how much she could not bear to let him go. Let him go she must, however, and she was determined to be strong for him. He was brave and good and kind, and Ruth would have to be those things, too, would let him go in peace, as she always knew she must. His place was in London, and she knew she could not keep him to herself a moment longer.


Harry berated himself silently for his total lack of control as he puttered around the room, packing up his things. Over the course of their affair he had been careful, and had only slipped up and come inside her perhaps three or four times. It was a dangerous thing to be doing, but in the moment he could no more have withdrawn from her than he could have ripped the beating heart from his chest. And Ruth did not seem to mind; if anything, he felt she had encouraged him. Still, though, it was a foolish thing to be doing.

We've been lucky so far, he reminded himself half-heartedly, stealing a glance at her.

She was reclining on the bed, gloriously naked, watching him with sorrow in her eyes. Before this moment he had expected tears, and pleading, and accusations, but Ruth had surprised him. She had been gentle, playful, almost, in the aftermath of their rather earth-shattering love making. She had made no attempt at deterring him from his chosen path, and had from her position reclining against the duvet even directed him towards a wayward sock, and reminded him to fetch his toothbrush from the en suite.

"Is that everything?" she asked him as he closed his holdall.

Six months he had spent in this city; he'd been beaten and stabbed, had seen one man murdered and killed another, had run for his life and shagged this girl until he couldn't feel his toes, and he had naught to show for it. There were no knickknacks in his bag, no photographs, nothing to take with him save for a notebook full of musings and a lifetime worth of memories. There should have been more, he thought; surely, having experienced something as momentous as the love he bore for Ruth he ought to have some tangible piece of her to cling to, but he had nothing.

"I think so," he answered, his voice forlorn and weary even to his own ears.

With her hand outstretched she beckoned him to her, and he came unresisting, taking her hand in his own.

"You have to leave, James," she told him softly.

"I know," he answered, his eyes devouring her face, pleading with a god he did not believe in, begging for just one more night with her.

"It's for the best," she told him. Artfully she rose up onto her knees, pressing a kiss against his chest before looking up at him. She was so close, her face inches from his own, and yet he could feel her slipping away.

"Ruth-" he breathed, his heart constricting at the sight of her.

"Go back to your wife, Englishman," she told him gently. She reached up and kissed him once, a soft, lingering kiss, and then ran her fingers through his hair, a melancholy little smile dancing across her lips. "Forget you ever knew my name."

"I never will," he answered.

She was an angel, a temptress, a vixen, a goddess, naked and resplendent before him, and the pain of leaving her manifested itself as a physical ache in his chest. He could not bear it; he caught her face in his hands and kissed her, hard, drinking her in, one last time.

"Go," she breathed against his lips, and with that one word she withdrew, folding herself back in amongst the tangled ruins of the bedsheets.

"Good-bye, Ruth," he said, squaring his shoulders. This was his moment; she had given him her blessing to depart, and if he lingered a second longer he would never be able to leave her side. And she knew it as well as he, knew that he must simply rip the plaster from the wound, quickly; drawing it out would only make things worse.

"Good-bye, James," she answered him, the slight hitch in her voice the only indication of the turmoil he knew she was feeling.

With one last lingering glance he steeled himself, and departed into the stillness of the early morning, leaving the tattered remnants of his heart behind him.