A/N: Apologies for the delay, I have been quite ill and am still not entirely recovered. I'm finally back to writing and am determined to keep up with it, and I thank you for your patience.
The moment the door closed behind them Harry made straight for the settee, settling himself upon it and running a weary hand over his face. Ruth needed space, and he knew he needed to give it to her, that having led her through the streets of Paris to this nondescript hotel room he had already pushed her almost to the limits of her resolve, and to stand too close, to reach for her hand, to brush the pad of his thumb against her full bottom lip, to gather her into his arms and kiss her as he so dearly longed to do would only send her running. So he sat, and took several deep breaths, and watched her out of the corner of his eye, wary, uncertain as to what she might do next.
Of course I love you, she'd told him, so matter-of-factly, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of her declaration. It was the first time she'd ever told him outright of the truth of her feelings, and the timing of it couldn't possibly have been worse, but still to know, for a fact, that she loved him, even after all this time, filled him with a certain sense of hopefulness, a surge of wild, desperate joy.
I don't think I'll ever stop.
That was enough, for Harry, enough to make up his mind, to decide for him which path he ought to take. She loved him, and he loved her, and she didn't think she'd ever stop, and he knew for a fact he never would, and so it seemed to him that the best course of action would be for them both to throw aside their pride and their lovers and embrace one another with open arms and willing hearts. Convincing his beloved of this, however, would be a nearly impossible task. He knew this, knew her doubtful heart, knew the number of her fears and the depth of her grief, each point that had so far kept them apart from one another forming a familiar constellation to hang in the air just above their heads, sparkling star-bright and sharp as a guillotine. It was Ruth he wanted, Ruth he needed, Ruth he would gladly follow into hell - or Bradford, should that be her preference - but whether Harry and his love would be enough for her remained to be seen.
She paced by the door, his beautiful love, fingernail caught between her teeth and a worried expression on her face, swaddled in his much too big jumper, looking small and frightened and young and more lovely than he had ever seen her before.
Come here, he wanted to say. Come and sit and let us unpick it, together. Yet he bit his tongue, for he did not know what it was she wanted of him, and he was so frightened of losing her that he did not dare reach out his hand, lest at his touch she should vanish like smoke upon the wind.
"This doesn't change anything," she told him, her voice soft and agonized.
"That's the second time you've said that," he pointed out, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, "and I have no idea what makes you think it's true."
She shot him a helpless, quivering lip sort of look.
"You're still you, Harry."
"Yes, and you love that about me."
His quip earned him a reproachful glance from his beloved, but Harry was growing rather tired of circling round and round this same old point, neither of them ever gaining a single inch of ground.
"What does that mean, Ruth? I'm still me? What does that matter to you?"
She picked at the hem of his jumper, stared at the worn carpet beneath her boots, closing in on herself while Harry watched from the settee, paralyzed with want of her and yet utterly confused by her, as ever.
"Your job-"
"Bugger my job," he interrupted her, and she looked up at him sharply, and the diamond bright radiance of her eyes lanced through him hot as fire. "I'll ring the Home Secretary and resign this instant, if you like. I am not my job, Ruth."
"I would never ask you to do that," she said softly. And of course she wouldn't, he knew she wouldn't, knew that Ruth, more than anyone else, understood exactly what he did and why he did it, why he had lingered so long in a world full of pain and loss and betrayal. He had done it so that other people might be safe, happy, well and whole, but he was nearly sixty years old, and he was beginning to suspect that the time had come for him to look to his own happiness for a change. The game of spies was a young man's sport, and Harry Pearce had grown weary of it.
"I know you wouldn't," he sighed. "But the job is not everything I am. And it will never, ever, be more important than you." He would have thought that the Albany fiasco was proof enough of that fact, the way he'd cast aside his own career and reputation for the sake of her life. She hadn't seemed very grateful for the gesture, then or now, but the thing was done, and Harry would not change it, not for anything. Perhaps his choice had angered her, had cost him any chance of sharing his life with her once more, but it was because of that choice that she was still alive to hate him, and he was grateful for it.
"What about the lies?"
He could hear in her voice the way her resolve was weakening, the foundations of her anger and her bitterness towards him slowly crumbling beneath the weight of their affection, their regard, their hunger for one another. The room was small and fairly bare; there was an en suite just behind Ruth's position near the door, and a low coffee table in front of the uncomfortable settee where Harry was perched, and against the far wall there stood a bed, big and grand, a swirling vortex of innuendo and possibility, should they choose to fall into it. He wanted that, wanted her, wanted a lifetime stretching out before him where Ruth rested her head upon his chest and they neither of them had a care in the world, wanted it so badly that he ached with it, but first this, this conversation so many years overdue, this confrontation of every obstacle that had until now kept them apart.
"Ask me, Ruth," he answered her at once. "Ask me anything, and I will tell you the truth. I won't keep secrets from you."
Not anymore, he added silently. Not now that we know it serves no purpose.
There was no sense, after all, in keeping secrets from Ruth, his brilliant, beautiful Ruth; she would still be a target for his enemies, whether she knew his secrets or not, and telling her the truth of himself, his life, would be to lift a great burden from his shoulders. He wanted to share himself with her, wanted her to feel free to do the same, wanted to begin here, on this night, in this room, to build a new life for them, together.
She was staring at him, aghast and on the back foot now. Every objection she had raised he had so far met with a parry of his own, their feet slowing as this sparring match drew closer and closer to its resolution, though Harry was no more certain of who the winner might be. The way he saw it the only thing keeping them apart was Ruth, Ruth and her stubborn insistence that they must keep their distance, and as he watched her he fancied he could see her resistance crumbling.
"What would it take, Ruth?" he asked her gently. "What would make you stop running?"
Six years earlier…
The sound of a knock upon the door startled Harry; there had been no warning, despite his having left Malcolm and the other techies strict orders to alert him should anyone draw near his door. Given the lateness of the hour and the thorough rejection Ruth had dealt him Harry could not fathom who this visitor might be, so on his way to the door he paused long enough to collect a small handgun from his belongings. A quick glance through the spyhole revealed his visitor at once, and all bemused he opened the door, forgetting about the fact that he was barefoot and barechested, forgetting that he still held the gun in his hand, forgetting everything about the operation and Malcolm and his mobile and everything, except for her.
"Ruth?"
He couldn't quite believe that she was real, somehow. It had been nearly an hour since last he'd seen her, since she had looked at him with eyes full of hopeless yearning and yet still somehow found the strength to turn her back on him, on them, on everything they could have been together. And yet still, here she stood, wringing her hands, still wearing that same soft, floating blouse, that blouse that opened against her collarbone in a way that made him want to lean in and press his lips against her skin. Here she stood, eyes huge and bright and impossibly blue, in the doorway of his hotel room very late at night when everyone else was sleeping.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she said, as if she hoped that somehow confessing such a thing might be sufficient to make sense of it. Harry had no answers for her, but the fact that she had come to him at all seemed to be a victory in itself, and he was not about to turn her away.
"Well, whatever it is, let's not do it in the corridor, yes?" Harry answered, turning slightly so that she could brush past him and into the room, away from the prying eyes of the cameras in the hall beyond his door. The latch made a satisfying sound as it caught, as he turned the lock, as he slowly shifted his weight and his eyes fell upon her, this beautiful, beguiling, infuriating, brilliant girl he wanted with every piece of his heart. The hour was late, and they were alone, and Harry placed the gun upon the sidetable, his hands itching to hold her.
She was staring up at him, lips parted, breathing shallow, beautiful and yet somehow lost in a way that made him want to protect her, shelter her, comfort her, more than anything else. Yes he wanted her, had prowled towards her with a hungry heart earlier in the evening, but something else was brewing here, something far more desperate, something momentous, something that felt somehow life-changing. It was Ruth who had told him they could never be, Ruth who had put her foot down and ended their would-be love affair before they'd ever even really begun, but it was Ruth who had come to him now, and that simple fact gave Harry cause to hope.
"I meant what I said, Harry," she breathed, but he doubted her resolve for her gaze was fixed firmly on the broad expanse of his bare chest. "I can't bear the gossip and I can't bear to be the reason your team loses respect for you."
"Have they?" he asked, taking a slow, careful step towards her.
"They were laughing…" her protest was half-hearted at best, and she did not withdraw from him, so he took another step.
"They aren't here now, Ruth," he answered. "And they don't matter."
He was close now, close enough to touch her, and so he did, caught her hip in his hand and drew her in towards him. She went with him, stepping up close, her hands rising up, palms pressing against the heat of his chest while he bowed his head, desperate to be close to her. Gently he rested his forehead against hers, his nose slotting into place against her cheek, his lips only millimeters from hers, her breath washing warm and sweet across his skin when she gasped.
"Tell me what you want, Ruth," he whispered, his voice low and full of want. Perhaps it was cruel, to push her so, to offer such temptation, but she was beautiful and he adored her and so far she had not given him one single reason to think they ought not be together. As far as Harry could see she belonged here, within the circle of his arms, and he was doing his very best to convince her of that simple truth.
He had made his request and now he waited, let his lips brush tantalizingly against the corner of her mouth while that labyrinthine brain of hers tried to muddle through the problem. Beneath her gentle hands his heart was racing, everything he wanted, everything he needed hanging in the balance while he waited for her decision, but then at last it seemed that she had reached the end of her tether, for she shifted closer to him, and tilted her head back. They were close, so close he could not focus on the shine of her eyes or the curve of her cheek, so close that when she murmured, you, Harry, I want you, he felt it more than heard it. Those simple words were all that was needed to shatter what remained of their restraint and his lips claimed hers in a moment, searing hot and hungry, exulting in the realization that for once they were on the very same page.