Harry could not spare a moment to be ashamed of the way he had pressed her about her new lover, not now when he was sitting with her at the little table in the corner of his hotel suite, when he could with his own eyes look upon her face and see that she was well, that she was whole, that she was more beautiful than even his recollections of her. The last time he'd seen her, Ruth's eyes had been dark, stormy, full of doubts, of fears, of anger, a rage he knew he'd earned by not trusting her, not confiding in her as he should have done. Over the last two years he had berated himself time and time again for not obliging Ruth's suspicions as regarded Lucas; at the time he had thought it was only a matter of smarting egos, his own heart wounded and not willing to listen, her heart hardened and eager to prove him wrong. He had willfully ignored her warnings, and nearly paid the ultimate price for his pride.

Now, though, she was somewhat calmer, somewhat steadier; she had almost run out the door when he first approached her, but now she had found her feet, had brought them to light at this table so that they could talk more plainly to one another. He watched her for a moment, took note of the set of her shoulders, the lift of her chin, the way she still dressed in dark colors, albeit now she wore jeans in place of her usual long skirt. Rather suddenly he was struck with the memory of the day they'd been reunited in the warehouse, how the sight of her had taken him like a punch to the gut, how despite the horror of their circumstances all he wanted in that moment was to take her in his arms, to hold her tight, to never let her go. He wanted to hold her now, again, when there were no cameras, no goons with guns, the fate of the nation not hanging in the balance, his hands free to reach out and touch her, if he wished. The only obstacles separating them now were their lovers and their wounded pride. He feared those obstacles might well be insurmountable.

"Will you tell me about Rebecca, if I tell you about Paul?" Ruth asked, and Harry very nearly laughed. It was such a Ruth thing to say, to turn the tables on him, to defy his attempts to control the conversation. She had always been clever, his Ruth, so adept at manipulating the pieces on the board, even if she didn't want to acknowledge just how skilled she was at that manipulation. How many times had she placed a phone call, murmured the right words in the right ears, saved a favor from a more powerful player for the moment when she knew she'd need it most? No institution in the country was safe from Ruth, least of all the veritable institution that was Harry Pearce himself.

"Not much to tell," Harry said honestly.

"Do you love her?"

Ruth looked almost as shocked by her question as Harry was himself. Do you love him? He'd asked her that once, in a moment when he had no right to make such demands of her, to push her so hard, and her anguished response had told him that regardless of whether or not she was willing to say it out loud, the answer was no.

"I should think you know me better than that, Ruth."

It was the truth. Perhaps it was foolish to lay all of his cards on the table so soon into this conversation, to tell her so plainly that there was only one woman he loved, and she was not sitting in the restaurant downstairs alone and waiting for him. The words hit their intended mark, for Ruth drew in a sharp breath and dropped her gaze to where her hands lay clasped together in her lap, knowing exactly what he'd meant.

"And Paul?" he pressed, for having given his own answer he very much wanted one from her. "Do you love him?"

For a moment Ruth was silent, staring at her hands, weighing her words, and Harry held his breath, knowing that his every hope and dream hung in the balance. She could end this thing between them here and now, put a stop to his questions, tell him for once and for all that there was nothing more between them than bitter memories, that he was free to spend his nights wrapped Rebecca without worrying that he was in some strange way being unfaithful to a woman who had rejected his marriage proposal and left him cold and lonely.

"I should think you know me better than that, Harry," she said softly.

Three years earlier…

"I don't want to leave," she whispered, her lips brushing against the line of his jaw. Reflexively Harry tightened his grip upon her, his hand trailing up and down the smooth skin of her back.

"Then don't," he murmured. "Stay with me, Ruth. Have a shower, and some breakfast. Let me drive you in to work."

It was a lot to ask of her, he knew. She had broken things off with him once before because she feared what people might say, because she feared what would become of them if they carried on together. He did not know if she had changed her tune in the interim, if experience and the many nights she'd spent in his bed had given her reason to trust that their connection to one another could survive such petty gossip, and he had just gone and put his foot right in it. Ruth didn't respond well to pressure, he knew, and this moment might spell the end of them, but he had never been particularly good at holding himself back from her.

"What do you think they'll say, if we come in together?"

It wasn't a no, and so Harry tried to take courage from her answer. Still his fingertips trailed up and down the length of her spine, his thoughts awash with her, how soft, how delicate, how beautiful she was, how completely she owned him.

"I don't expect they'll say anything at all," he said. "It's hardly remarkable, that we should arrive at work at the same time. We'll still be on the Grid before the rest of the team, anyway."

"Except Tariq. I'm beginning to suspect he sleeps in the technical suite."

Harry laughed, and pressed a kiss against her forehead. "Yes, I believe you may be right."

In his arms he heard her sigh, and then felt her snuggle closer to him, soaking in the warmth they generated between them; Ruth was making no real effort to leave, and he took comfort from that fact.

"I suppose you're right," she said after a time. "They all think we're shagging anyway, and I don't think it's changed much of anything. I hate feeling like I'm sneaking about all the time."

"You are a spook, Ruth," he teased her. She shifted in his arms, propped her chin up against his chest so she could look into his eyes.

"I mean it, Harry," she said seriously. "I don't think there's any point trying to hide it, any more. I...care about you, very much, and I think at this point anyone who doesn't know that has no business being in the service."

Though he wanted very much to seem cool and calm Harry could not help but smile, just a little, to hear her say so plainly how she cared for him. It was not a confession of love, but then he hardly expected such from her, when it had only been a few months since George's death, when his Ruth had always been so reticent when it came to matters of the heart. It was instead an acknowledgment of the state of affairs between them, and one he would accept gladly. After the incident with Mani it was plain to everyone involved that Ruth was dear to him, that she was his most exploitable vulnerability, but likewise since her return it had also become apparent to anyone with eyes that he trusted her, completely, that they were a pair, always presenting a united front. Ruth was the only person who Harry allowed to enter his office without knocking, and she had a habit of finishing his sentences in the briefing room, and she was always the person he turned to first for counsel. As he saw it she was right; their coming in together would not be cause for new gossip, if it was remarked on at all, would only seem to their colleagues to be the natural end result of the connection they displayed so openly every day they worked together.

"You know I care for you, too," he said softly, choosing his words delicately. Oh, he knew already that he loved her, had known it since the very first time he took her out to dinner, but she had not been ready to hear it from him then, and he knew she was not ready to hear it from him now. She leaned forward until she could capture his lips with hers, kissing him softly, gently, a kiss without heat, and yet carrying within it a world of meaning.

"One day, Harry," she whispered, "there are some wonderful words I would like to hear you say. But not yet. Not now."

"I know," he answered, and kissed her again.

She had loved him once, this woman who sat before him now hardened by the harsh experiences of her life. Though the words had never passed her lips she had loved him, and he had felt it in the touch of her hand, the way she held him, spoke to him, trusted him with her whole heart. And his love of her likewise had always been a foregone conclusion; it was unfair of you to love me, she'd told him, acknowledging outright the feelings they both knew he harbored for her. Yet here they sat, still dancing around that truth, unwilling to admit to their own failings, their own feelings.

"Rebecca works for the Home Office," he said slowly. "She's in the process of getting divorced. She wasn't looking for anything serious, and I thought perhaps we might be a good fit for each other."

Across the table from him Ruth nodded, soaking in the little information he'd given her, analyzing it, and turning her inestimable talents to picking apart his meaning.

"She's changed her mind though, hasn't she? About not wanting anything serious."

Harry raised an incredulous eyebrow at her, but Ruth just shrugged, calm and unapologetic. "She seemed upset about you working on this trip, not spending enough time with her," she explained.

I've always said she was smarter than me, Harry thought, feeling somehow both proud and chastised. Over the years he had watched Ruth grow from a strange, somewhat insecure girl into a woman who knew her own worth, who was unconcerned with other people's opinions of her. She had learned to stand tall beneath the weight of the burdens she carried, not to shy away from those qualities of hers that seemed to disquiet other people. And she had learned how to read him, had come to know him better than anyone else could ever hope to do.

"Paul said we could just have fun," she told him after a moment. "Just get to know one another, keep things casual." She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "I should have known better."

"I didn't think you knew how to do anything casually, Ruth."

He hadn't meant it as a criticism, but he could see at once that she took it as such.

"I don't think you get to comment," she started to say, but he bristled at her sharp tone, feeling confined by the walls that seemed to close in around them, the ticking of the clock, the way they seemed destined to carry out all their conversations through riddles and innuendo.

"Didn't you just say I should know you better than that, Ruth?"

She was on her feet in a moment, her face like a thundercloud, her feet already turning toward the door. Harry couldn't help it; he leapt up as well, crossed around the table as she started to speak.

"This was a bad idea," she said, still making for the door, but Harry caught up to her, reached out to stop her. He'd only meant to catch hold of her wrist, but they were both moving, and somehow he wound up holding her hand.

The warmth of her skin sent an electric shock through him, a thousand memories far more pleasant than the ones they were making on this night flooding through his mind at once. For her part Ruth froze midstep, her gaze flickering down to where his palm pressed against hers.

"Please," he said. "There are so many things I have to tell you."

"What if she comes back, Harry? What happens when she finds us here? We don't have the time-"

"Walk with me," he interrupted her, the words spilling out of him on impulse. "Walk with me, down by the river, the way we used to do. I don't want to talk about Rebecca and Paul. I don't think they matter, and I don't think you do either."

Her expression was pained, but she did not try to pull away from him.

"It's cold," she murmurred, but he knew her heart wasn't really in it, that she was protesting more out of habit than anything else.

"I have a jumper you can wear. Please, Ruth. Please don't leave. Not yet."