Ruth wasn't entirely sure how this had happened, how she had gone from resigned to leaving Harry, never to see him again, to walking with him beside her. She hadn't intended for this to happen, and yet Harry, passionate, stubborn, inexorable Harry had swept her up in a wave of activity, had bundled her into his heavy cream jumper and out the door before she could lodge a word of protest. Perhaps if she had really struggled, if she had voiced a stern objection, he would have conceded to her wishes, but she had been mostly silent, for much as her heart was aching she was desperately curious to hear what he had to say. There are so many things I need to tell you, those were his words, and Ruth, to her shame, had been unable to turn away.
There wasn't much to hear, at present. They were strolling along at a leisurely pace, the lights of the city sparkling up at them from the swirling surface of the river, the spring air cool enough to make Ruth grateful for the warmth of the jumper, regardless of her feelings towards the man who had given it to her. It was, of course, several sizes too big, hanging down well below her hips, the sleeves rolled back and yet still tumbling down around her fingertips. It made her feel strangely vulnerable, this physical reminder of the difference between herself in Harry, the strange flutter in her belly as she walked cocooned in a softness, a warmth, that smelled so faintly of his cologne. She felt small, and exposed, somehow, as if he could tell just by looking at her that she took comfort in clinging to this piece of him, as if by dressing her in his own clothing he had somehow laid claim to her whole being. It was foolish, Ruth knew; she'd given her heart to him years before. Wearing his jumper hardly changed the state of affairs between them.
He wasn't speaking, though, just walking along with his hands tucked in his pockets, his chin held high, eyes gazing straight ahead, though as he walked he drifted towards her and away, again and again, as if he were fighting the pull of gravity, drawing him ever closer to her. Ruth knew rather how that felt, for the back of her hand kept brushing against his, quite without her permission, and she seemed utterly unable to stop it.
"Do you remember what you said to me that day?" he asked her finally. Still he would not look at her, but that wouldn't do; if Harry really wanted to do this, to have it out with her, once and for all, she wanted him to look in her eyes when he broke her heart afresh.
"What day?" she replied, a little bit of the weariness she could not hide coloring her tone. She reached out to stop him with one hand gentle on his arm; he froze at once, turning to her sharply, and she could not help but take a step back, startled by the depth of emotion in his eyes. Absently she reached up to brush a wayward lock of hair back from her brow, and Harry's eyes followed the progress of her hand, hungry and uncertain.
"The day you left me," he answered.
Three years earlier…
They were walking, as they so often did, by the river. It was a beautiful day, warm for early spring, and the paper cup of tea Ruth clutched in her hands warded off what little chill remained in the air. Somehow, miraculously, they had both been free to steal a few minutes for themselves at the lunch hour, and their steps had led them to Southbank, to the crush of people, the sound of music filtering out from somewhere, the rush of the Thames. Though no words had been spoken they slowed to a halt as one, and Harry turned, leaning against the low stone wall with his back to the river and his eyes on her face, her own watching him closely. His face; oh, but she loved that face, loved the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle with affection when he looked at her, the way his full lips would pout so adorably when he was trying to get his way, the story told by every line and imperfection, a story of life hard lived, a soul that endured. His soul, bound to hers, inextricably, forever.
"Do you remember that day?" he asked her softly, watching her carefully.
She stood just in front of him, her back towards the people milling about on the pavement, her eyes fixed on his. There was no need for her to ask for clarification; she knew what day he meant, the only day he could be thinking of as they walked along the riverside. The day she left him, the day he came to her with desperation in his eyes, the day she kissed him with everything she had and turned away, though her heart was aching. The day everything changed.
"Some days I can't remember anything else," she answered.
Though she berated herself for it she could not help but drop her chin and look down at her toes; it was too much, sometimes, the depth of his gaze, the way he could with a single look read her every thought, the way he revealed his own feelings to her so plainly, when to everyone else he presented the facade of a closed door. She wanted to face him, to let him see how she was feeling, how she would always feel, about him, about leaving him, about coming back, and yet in the moment her courage had fled, and she had looked away. It did not seem to matter to Harry, for he reached for her then, his hands on her hips, drew her in close to him, pressed his forehead against her own. For a moment or two they stood like that, unspeaking, noses brushing, the same air passing back and forth between them.
"It broke my heart, to watch you go," he whispered.
"It broke my heart to leave," she answered in a voice as low and sad as his own had been.
"Perhaps there could have been another way-"
"There was no other way," Ruth cut across him firmly. She could not make space in her heart for such lament, could not entertain the thoughts of what if, could not bear it, for she feared she would not survive such grief. Two years lost, George's life lost, pain and blood and chaos, the chasm that had grown up between her heart and Harry's, a chasm they were slowly crossing, though sorrow slowed their steps; she could not dwell on it too long, what might have been, if only. There was no future, in what ifs and maybe thens, and Ruth was tired of living in the past.
"I had to save you," she said. "You were in jail. We were running out of time. I couldn't leave you in there, Harry. We needed you, on the Grid. We always will. I'm expendable, but you aren't."
"You aren't expendable," he told her, his voice dripping with heat, with passion, "not then, and not now. Not to me. You never were."
He meant those words, she knew. He had missed her, pined for her, as she had for him, had been more than willing to trade his freedom for hers. Somehow she had always known that, almost from the very start, from the moment Tom came to her with words she knew had been handed down to him from Harry, told her that they knew she had been spying on them and yet still they had need of her services. He would do anything for her, and this was perhaps his greatest flaw, that he could so willfully, so foolishly place one woman above all his other concerns. In her heart Ruth believed she was not worth such sacrifice, and she prayed, most fervently, that he would never again be placed in the position to make such a choice. Try though she might, however, she could not shake the feeling that somewhere above her head a clock was ticking, counting down the minutes until they once more faced their own ruination.
"I know," she said, because she did know, because she did not know what else to say.
And then, despite the fact they stood embracing in the broad light of day on a busy stretch of pavement, Harry leaned in, and kissed her soundly, and she let him, even though it was foolish, even though it was dangerous. She let him, because she loved him. God help me.
He was trying, very hard, to control his urge to shout at her, to kiss her, to stomp his feet in frustration. There were so many emotions swirling inside his chest he could hardly name them all, and yet he knew that what he felt foremost when he looked at her now was desire. Not just the desire to lead her back to his hotel room, strip them both bare and banish their regrets and their sorrows with the slow winding of their bodies together, but a stronger, altogether fiercer sort of need. Standing there before him with her back straight and her chin lifted proudly and her eyes so full of grief she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. The heavy jumper she wore - his jumper, and there was no denying what that did to him, seeing her in his clothes - only emphasized her diminutive stature, the fine curve of her legs in her tight jeans beneath its hem, her delicate hands swimming beneath the rolled back sleeves, the flash of her neck above the collar. She was small, and delicate, he knew; oh, she had faced challenges that would have broken strong men in half and come out the other side intact, but her heart was an altogether different sort of beast. Her spirit endured, but her heart was fragile as a bird in a cage, longing for freedom and sunlight and yet so easily frightened, so hard to approach. She was beautiful, and here, and now he had done it, had reminded her of the day they fell apart, the way they fell apart. Whatever this was, whatever they were doing, it might well come tumbling down around his ears this very moment, and yet he had pressed his cause, for he could not bear to have her near and not tell her the truth.
"I said it was unfair of you to love me."
And wasn't it strange, that she could face him now, look him in the eye while with a few simple words she ripped open once more the wounds that had laid festering for a year and more while they languished so far from one another. She had been a shy girl, before, uncertain as to her place, her role in the hierarchy, feigning deference when the moment called for it, but there was no hesitation in her now. Ruth had come into her own, and he was left stunned by awe and desperation need.
"It was, Harry," she added before he could speak. "You weighed my life against the future of the whole world, and you chose me. That was unfair."
He sighed, lifted one hand from his pocket to rub at his weary eyes. Of course this was the direction he had chosen for their conversation, the path he wanted to take, and of course it had come back to this. Somehow Ruth had never quite understood her own worth, had always lacked the faith in herself that Harry carried in abundance. And added to that was the bitter truth that she did not know, truly, the choice Harry had made that day. He had been forced to lie to his team, to protect them all, to protect the secret he had sworn to safeguard for all the rest of his days, and though it had grieved him at the time, Ruth had been included in the lie. What he had not foreseen was her sudden disappearance, the way she vanished without a trace before he could tell her the truth.
Well, he told himself, she's here now.
"Albany doesn't work."