5:

Catherine was enjoying five minutes of quiet with a cup of coffee when Mary sat down beside her on the battered old sofa in the teachers' lounge. "We need to talk," Mary said.

"Are you and my dad going to be able to get along? I know he's… difficult, but it comes from his line of work and –"

Mary shushed her with a gesture. "I know. We'll be fine."

"What's the problem?"

Mary glanced around quickly, then decided they weren't going to be overheard by the other teachers in the room. "The problem is that… well, to be fair, it isn't so much lying to you as obscuring the truth a little bit in order to – shit, I'm bollocksing this whole thing up," she mumbled, shaking her head and putting it in her hands.

"I really don't have a clue what's happening right now," Catherine said, "but whatever it is, it sounds pretty bad."

"I don't want you to explode or make a scene."

"Okaaay… wait, don't tell me you've slept with my dad. He was practically the Shagmaster General in the 90's…."

Mary's lips were set into a grim, tight line. "I worked for MI-5, in your father's section," she said.

Catherine had just taken a sip of coffee and it was all she could do not to choke on it. "Bloody hell, warn a girl, won't you?" she gasped. "You were a spook? You worked with dad?"

Mary's face was pale, grey around the edges. "I did things that I'm not proud of, Catherine, and when we became friends, you have to believe me when I say that I had no idea who your father was and I had no idea that –" She shook her head. "There was an operation that went pear-shaped. It was a set-up, and it came down to your father and I as to who would take the blame and leave. Obviously, an analyst cannot save Britain, but your father could – so I… confessed to a crime I didn't commit, faked my own suicide, and went into exile."

Catherine blinked. "Ruth. You're Ruth," she whispered. "You're dad's Ruth –"

"He's told you, then?"

"Only because I got him drunk when he was really down," Catherine said quietly. "Oh my god, does he know –"

"I'm the one he met the other night," Mary murmured. "Of course he knows."

Catherine's mind was racing, turning facts over and over again. "No, I mean – does he know – Hope –"

Mary sighed and crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "He knows that he fathered my child, yes. I could hardly not tell him that." She glanced over at Catherine. "Are you going to make a scene?"

Catherine shook her head. "Not here."

"But you're going to make one eventually."

"Wouldn't you?"

Mary exhaled and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I am. I couldn't tell you anything –"

"What's changed now?"

"They're bringing me back to life. I'll be free to be Ruth Evershed again and… I can stop lying to the people I care about. My friends, my daughter… your father."

"Are you going to pick up where you left off? You know, he intended to marry you –"

"We aren't the same people we were," Mary said. "There was a time I would've done anything your father asked me to – and now… now, I have to think long and hard about what's best for Hope."

"My sister," Catherine said very quietly, the words foreign in her mouth. "Did he know that you were pregnant when you left?"

Mary shook her head. "He never would have let me leave if either of us had known." There was something infinitely sad in her eyes, and Catherine couldn't help but feel compassion toward her. This woman had lost everything and couldn't fathom that she'd just been given it all back – with interest.

"He's never stopped caring for you," Catherine said. "And I know part of him is thrilled beyond measure to have you coming to live with us – and there's an equal part of him that's terrified of you being there and seeing it all day in and day out. He's not the same man he was when he came to live with us after my husband died. Dad has… well, I'd like to think he's changed for the better."

"He has," Mary agreed. "Which is why I won't rush into anything with him. He deserves better than me. Always has done." She smiled wanly. "We're bringing some things over tonight, and the rest tomorrow. I guess we'll need house keys and… I don't know."

"Dad's sorting everything," Catherine sighed. "He's always so… bossy. Forceful. How did you learn to like that?"

Mary smiled a little. "Oh, I don't know… he was always very demanding with me. Unless we were alone, and then he backed off, took it slowly, like he was afraid of me."

"He doesn't know how to show love for other people – or, rather, he didn't," Catherine sighed. "It took Lucy to sort him out."

"We shouldn't confuse Lucy any more than we have to," Mary finally said after a long silence. "She doesn't need to know anything more than that we're staying."

"Then Hope can't call him anything other than Harry," Catherine warned. "Lucy isn't stupid – she's very perceptive."

"I'm sorry, Catherine, I really am – that this is going to be so… so… awkward."

"Yeah, well, it only became awkward when you stopped lying to me," Catherine said with a sardonic smile. "I've got to get back. So do you. I'll see you tonight."

"The other new bed won't be delivered until Saturday," Harry said, "but I can sleep on the sofa in the living room."

"No, I'm not going to turn you out of your room –"

He smiled and leaned in to give Ruth a kiss. "Don't you fret. I fall asleep on the sofa most nights anyway. The stairs are a bit of a bear, to be honest, and if we had a bedroom on one of the lower levels, I'd prefer it. It won't be anything new, Ruth. And when the new bed is delivered, we can shift things."

"I told Catherine the truth about us," Ruth said softly.

His smile faded. "Yes, I know. We had… words."

"I asked her not to make a scene at work."

"She made quite the scene here," he said wryly. "Not that I can blame her. I am a bit of a shit, a philandering cad, and everything else that she said I was. Except a coward. I refute cowardice." His frown increased and he leaned against the bedpost wearily.

"Harry Pearce could never be a coward," Ruth murmured, setting her bag on the bed. They'd already put the books and things in the room that was to be Hope's, and set Hope about getting a shower and getting ready for bed. He was exhausted just from going up and down the stairs so much, but he was attempting to put a brave face on it. "But he might have to think about getting a chair lift installed so he doesn't hurt himself going up and down the stairs."

"That's a special kind of cowardice," he grunted. "Right up there with not pursuing everything I've ever wanted in my life." He leveled his gaze at her, and she blushed and looked away. There she was, hiding behind all those walls… and he was madly, hopelessly in love with the dream of holding her in his arms again.

She didn't meet his gaze, and kind of shuffled her feet, shifting her weight. "It's going to be so weird for us for a while – Hope and I have never been apart in different rooms before," Ruth said softly. "Let alone separate beds. I've always tried to keep her close, in case something happened."

He knew exactly what she meant, had not so unsubtly watched her as she'd slid a pistol into the nightstand. It was going to take a while for her to understand that they were as safe as they could possibly be. "Of course," Harry said. "Look, I should probably go downstairs and get ready for bed. Just yell if you need anything – I'll be right by the kitchen."

"I'll be fine," she said softly. "You shouldn't worry about me."

"But I do – every day, I worry about you," he whispered, gently lifting her chin so she would just look at him for a bloody moment. "Ruth, please, don't just… don't push me away."

She pulled away from him and whispered, "Things aren't that simple, Harry. None of this is simple."

"I didn't say it was. But I need you to understand that there are people in this world who care about you and I am one of them. Don't push me away – I'm only trying to help." His frustration was rising, but he was doing his best to keep it clamped down. No need to scare her off with a badly timed fit of pique.

"I know you are," she muttered. "I'm just tired. Thank you for your help, Harry. Sleep well."

He smiled a little, taking her dismissal seriously. He spent the next few minutes going from room to room, checking on his little flock. Lucy was sound asleep, clutching a stuffed giraffe. Catherine was sitting up in bed, marking papers. And Hope's light was off, the door closed.

Harry knocked lightly. "Everything okay in there?"

A stifled sob was his only response.

"Hope, may I come in?"

There was no answer, only a miserable moan. He tried the handle, pleased to find she hadn't locked the door, and opened the door. She was lying on the carpeted floor in a little ball, crying and shaking like a small child.

Harry immediately knelt beside her on the floor and began stroking her back. "Hush, now," he said softly, "it's not that bad, is it?"

"I want my mama," Hope choked out miserably. "But she doesn't want me anymore – she told me I have to have my own room now and my own bed and – and – it's not okay and it's not fair. It's not fair."

"Shh, it's a big adjustment," Harry soothed. "I know, and I'm sorry –"

"She wants to sleep with you now." The bitterness in the girl's tone was unmistakable. "She doesn't want me anymore because she has you."

"That isn't true," Harry said firmly.

"Yes, it is – she told me so."

"What did your mum tell you?" Harry asked softly.

"That she's always loved you and she wants to be with you – and for that to happen, I need to grow up and sleep by myself." Hope's voice was angry and full of seething hatred. "It's not fair."

"No, it isn't," he agreed. "Life isn't fair. But it isn't right for your mum to push you away because of me, either. She can love us both equally, Hope. I'm sorry: I didn't mean to come between you and your mum."

"Didn't you?" she challenged.

"No, never. I would never want to hurt you – or your mother."

"You didn't know about me – how could you possibly care?" Hope shot back.

"You're my daughter," he said simply. "You are a part of me and a part of your mother – hopefully, the best parts of both of us – and what we did to create you was love, plain and simple. I love you because of that, Hope. Because you are you."

"I want my mama," she whimpered again.

"Then go to her, sweetheart – she's right down the corridor, the last door on the left."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry –"

"No, no, don't apologize," Harry murmured. "It's a tall order, sleeping in a new place for the first time. I'm sorry I pushed you." They helped each other up off the floor and he gently patted her hair down from it's spikiness. "Why pink?" he asked.

"Why not?" Hope said. "It's my favorite color. It makes me happy."

"But in your hair? Doesn't it make it so you stand out more?"

"It's just my hair," she said defensively. "You don't like it."

"It isn't that I don't like it, I just don't think it's very appropriate."

There was a beat of quiet, then she said, "Okay. I'll let it wash out and I won't let mom dye it again."

He paused. "Really?"

"You're my dad. I have to do what you want."

She walked away, leaving Harry to feel like he'd just stepped into a bear trap.

Ruth held Hope until she'd cried herself to sleep. It was hard, and getting harder, to comfort her night after night, losing sleep and trying to hold herself back from destroying the boy that had wanted to destroy her daughter. But still, she did it. Night after night, she held Hope.

They hadn't been apart since Hope was born, and it showed.

Yes, it was cruel, trying to break the tie between them and attempting to get the teenager to sleep in her own bed, and yes, she had said things she knew would come back to bite her on the ass. But it was necessary – it was needed.

Once she was certain Hope was asleep, Ruth got up and put on her slippers, retreating downstairs quietly. The TV was on, the last few minutes of the news merging into one of the late night talk shows, and Harry's light snoring adding to the soundtrack.

She went into the kitchen and rooted around until she'd found the glasses, and got water from the fridge. She took a sip and looked around, wondering for the first time how and why Harry had come to be here, had come to find himself in New York. There had never been a burgeoning sense of Atlanticism on his part, so it made no sense.

The snoring stopped and the recliner snapped closed with the twang of springs being compressed. It was only a couple of minutes before he shuffled into the kitchen. "Do you need anything?" Harry asked sleepily. "I need my pain pills."

"Your knee?"

He nodded and dug around in a cupboard, finally retrieving pills that he threw back dry. She offered him her water, and he took a grateful sip, then returned it. "Sorry, that was – that was rude."

"She's asleep, finally," Ruth said softly. "She cried and cried and kept saying she screwed everything up with you, and I told her to stop talking bollocks."

He sighed and leaned against the counter. "I'd almost forgotten about the minefield of raising teenagers," Harry muttered. "They always think you mean to attack them when you're only trying to –"

"She told me you hate her hair and don't want it to be pink."

"I don't hate her hair, but does it have to be pink?"

"It looks lovely when it's blue," she countered. "What color Hope's hair is doesn't matter: what matters is that she's happy, Harry. I hope you'll apologize to her in the morning about the hair nonsense."

He huffed a little, and she scowled at him. He'd always accused her of being stubborn like a mule, but he was just as intractable. "Fine," he said. "But I don't care for it."

"She's scared you won't love her if she doesn't do exactly as you ask," Ruth warned. "Please don't play that card. I couldn't bear it, Harry."

"Don't be ridiculous – I would never…" He huffed again, clenched his fist, then released it. "Damn it, have I already tried to manipulate her? I didn't mean to."

"You do have a habit of being quite forceful," she reminded him gently. "I'm immune to it now, but she isn't. She doesn't know that you're scared."

"I'm terrified I'll lose you both."

"Then stop acting so heavy-handed," she warned. She finished her glass of water and set the empty glass in the sink. "Good night, Harry."

He looked tired, lost, more than slightly frightened, and she took the moment to kiss him gently on the lips. He stared at her, dazed, then he grabbed her and kissed her back with all that he was worth – and then some. The cabinet was hard against her back and she knew that it would get very quickly out of control if he lifted her onto the countertop.

"Harry, no," she whispered, breaking the kisses. "Not here – not now –"

Her refusal sank into his brain and he broke away, staggering a few steps back. "Oh, god, did I – please, forgive me for manhandling you –"

"I want you to," she murmured. "But not right this moment. When we're both ready and we don't have to get up in the morning and go to school."

Those few steps between them didn't matter much; he crossed the divide and began the onslaught again, kissing her with such reckless abandon that it made her toes curl in her slippers and made her heart thunder in her chest. And then they were stumbling back into the living room, his hands beneath her pajama top, her fingers fumbling with the tie on his lounge pants, the sofa a welcome haven for them both.

It had been far too long since they'd had such intimate contact with another person; together, alone, each standing alone atop a wall of their own devising. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he slid his hand into her knickers, fingers brushing the soft flesh of her most intimate folds. The kisses grew stronger, deeper, headier, his fingers more insistent. Her fingers squeezed as hard as they could and she cried out, the noise swallowed by the hunger of his kiss. She was light-headed with bliss, with the knowledge that he still… he still loved her enough to do this for her.

He broke the kiss, placing small, sweet kisses around her mouth until she captured his lips again with her own. His hand was still down her knickers, but he removed it hastily when he knew she had come. "I'm sorry, that wasn't very… sportsmanlike of me. You said no and I just –"

"You didn't force me, Harry," Ruth murmured, her voice sluggish and warm. "I was a very willing participant. I owe you –"

"Nothing. You owe me nothing."

She bit her lip. "Come to bed with me," Ruth whispered. "We don't have to do anything – just hold each other."

"Sleeping Beauty is in my bed," he pointed out.

"Then we'll sleep in hers," Ruth murmured. "Come on, Harry."

"Marry me, Ruth." His words were soft, insistent, insidious, full of want and need and promises that could never hope to be and ripe with the lust for hope.

"Don't be daft," she said, chuckling.

"Marry me," he repeated.

"Your timing –"

"Fuck my timing, Ruth." He was forceful now, the Harry-of-the-Grid that she'd once lived in fear of, but now was immune to. "I should have asked you all those years ago – I very nearly did. I was a coward and I will not be that man again. Marry me."

"You can't even ask me," she scoffed. "You're ordering me to marry you."

"I'm not giving you an option to run, Ruth."

She kissed his pouty lips and whispered, "I'm not running."