What would it take, Ruth? What would make you stop running?
She stared at him, aghast and lost for words. Her hands were trembling, her heart pounding, her feet shifting uneasily beneath her. Torn between fight or flight she remained as ever more inclined to flight; too much had happened, much too quickly, and she was struggling beneath the weight of burdens grown too immense for her to carry. The question Harry had just lobbed at her was more hand grenade than peace offering, a question that had plagued her for most of her life. What would it take, to slow her down, to convince her to make a choice, to commit, one way or the other?
There was Paul to consider, out to dinner somewhere in the city, completely oblivious to the fact that his lover was at that very moment standing in a discreet hotel room with another man. He was a nice man, Paul, and he cared for her, had of late been slowly insinuating himself more firmly into her life, had made his feelings for her quite plain. It would wound him, should she throw him over for Harry, and they worked together, an added complication that could make her life most unpleasant. Surely he deserved better from her, surely she could not so callously disregard him, even if she knew in her heart that she did not care for him half so deeply as he cared for her.
There was the past to consider, as well. A past fraught with pain, when she and Harry had done unspeakable things with one another, for one another. She had thrown her whole life away, once, to keep him safe at his post, and he had in turn demolished his own career for the sake of her life. HEr sacrifice she had made in good faith, and he had thrown that sacrifice back in her face, had willfully stepped down from the position she had secured for him at so great a price. People had died, because of choices they had made, because Harry loved her, and she felt the weight of that guilt, that grief, each time she looked at him. Harry had made it clear that given the option he would gladly turn his back on Five and settle down somewhere with her, but the question she had asked him so many years before when he had first proposed to join his life to hers still niggled at the back of her mind. What would they talk about, without work to bind them? What sort of life could they make for themselves when they had only ever known one another in the context of chaos? How could they ever explain their relationship to casual acquaintances?
But then, of course, there came the most pressing question of all. Did it matter?
Did it matter, really, how badly Ruth would hurt Paul should she choose Harry instead? Did it matter what they might say to their hypothetical neighbors, what they might discuss over dinner, when the truth was that Harry loved her, and she loved him, and they had a chance now to make things right? Did it matter, really, about her job, her students, her carefully laid plans, when the one man who had so irreversibly changed the course of her life, the one who had brought her more joy than any other, the one she had longed for, for years now, was sitting in front of her with a soft expression on his face, offering her all of himself?
The memories came back to her, as she stood worrying the hem of his jumper between her fingertips. Memories of nights spent wrapped in Harry's embrace, the tenderness of his hands ghosting along the length of her spine. Memories of cups of tea and bowls of pasta, meals eaten at the kitchen table or curled together on the sofa, conversations that touched on political theater and religious extremism but on music and Harry's childhood and Ruth's favorite books, too. She had rested her head on his chest, just above his beating heart, traced her fingertips against his skin and whispered to him softly, taught him lines of Arabic poetry while he told her sad stories of the death of kings. She knew what it might look like, a life lived with Harry. What she did not know was how long such a dream could be expected to last, and she was terrified of the moment when she must inevitably wake, and find her dream in ruins.
"I asked you once," she said slowly, haltingly, "if you could picture it. Us, together, in a little house in Sussex."
Harry's expression grew rather pained, and Ruth's heart grieved to think how she had wounded him, how even now, years later, the memory of that conversation was still bitter and hard. It had been a terrible night, at the end of a terrible day, at the end of a terrible month, and the words had come spilling out of her so quickly, too quickly for her to stop them, destroying her relationship with Harry before she had a chance to explain herself properly. With those words she had dug a hole for herself, a cell in which her heart had languished ever since. What she was trying to do, in bringing it up now, was to finally free herself from the prison her own fears had built.
"Ruth-"
"I tried to picture it, Harry," she said. "I tried to imagine us retired, and happy, and...normal. Living a simple life. I went to Sussex. You remember, after...the explosion, they made us take compassionate leave?"
Sorrow had given way to bewilderment on Harry's face, but he nodded once in understanding, and Ruth drew in a very deep breath, and barreled on.
"I went to Sussex, to a little town on the coast, for the weekend. I stayed in a little house by the water, and I...I just sat, and looked at the sea, and for two days I wished you were there with me. I wished that you were there to hold me, to talk to me. I wanted that, Harry. I wanted you and me, together, away from it all. But no matter how hard I tried to imagine it, I couldn't imagine that you would be happy there."
And that was what she'd meant to tell him, all those years before. That was the truth that had scared her most, sent her running. Ruth had lived a simple and elegant life, once, and she wanted it again so badly that she ached with it. Harry, though, he was a different sort altogether; he had devoted so much of himself to his work, had sacrificed so much, thrived on the chaos, the adrenaline, the life-or-death stakes of the world to which he had committed himself, and though she loved him dearly, though she had never in her life felt as safe as she did when he held her, Ruth had always suspected, somewhere deep in her heart, that Harry would never be happy away from Five. Thames House was his home, the people there his family, the work he did the only thing in his life that gave him purpose, and Ruth could not bear the thought of taking him away from that, of having him wake up one day to resent her and the quiet pastoral life to which she had relegated him. Sir Harry Pearce was made to march with purpose through the corridors of power, not to stroll along the shoreline with Ruth's hand in his own.
But a very strange thing happened as she spoke. She expected him to sigh, to protest most vehemently, to point out yet again how very wrong she was, but as she watched him, Harry only smiled. Smiled, softly, warmly, with his whole face, as if she had just told him once more that she loved him, and not confessed that she feared she would never be enough for him. While Ruth stood caught in a maelstrom of indecision and sorrow Harry rose slowly to his feet and walked towards her, his hands held ever so slightly in front of him, as if she were a startled horse he needed to calm.
"You did ask me, Ruth," he said in a gentle tone of voice. "But you never let me answer."
And what could she do then but stare at him, open-mouthed and confused? The way she recalled that conversation he had never tried to correct her, but then she supposed he must have been right, for she had spoken her piece as if the answer to her question was already decided. Now, it would seem that Harry disagreed, and intended to set her straight. It was a prospect that terrified her.
"You asked if I could picture us in a little house in Sussex. You asked me what we would do, what would say when the neighbors came round. I've been thinking about this for three years, Ruth. Are you ready to hear the answer?"
A single tear escaped her, slid down her cheek while Harry drew nearer still, until at last he could reach out and take her hand in his own. Smiling that same tender smile he laced their fingers together, and began to speak.
"Of course I can picture it, Ruth. I know what it looks like, when I wake up in the morning and see your face. I've watched you make tea more times than I can count. And I want that. You want to know what we would do?"
He reached out with his free hand, brushed the tears from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "We would walk by the water, and in the summer we would sit and watch the tourists. Do some people-watching without a backup team and a surveillance van. They have universities in Sussex, too, you know."
At that Ruth laughed, a bit wetly, and Harry just kept on smiling. "You could teach, if that's what you want to do. And I have a list of books I'd like to read, and, well...I have a confession to make."
He had been slowly smothering her fears beneath the weight of his soft, confident words, but as he said I have a confession to make those fears came roaring back with a vengeance. No confession from Harry had ever, in Ruth's experience, been a good thing, but then he explained himself, and all her doubts were turned to quiet joy in a moment.
"I actually quite like gardening."
What a picture he painted, how easy he made it sound; for a moment she closed her eyes, pictured them in a little house, Harry puttering around the garden on a sunny afternoon while Ruth sat at a little table in the shade with a pile of papers in front of her. Subconsciously she swayed towards him, the longing of her heart slowly winning the battle against her natural circumspection.
"When the neighbors come round we'll talk about the weather, or their children, or the book I'm reading, or the play you dragged me to see. We can build a life, Ruth, the life you want. It's not too late."
"Harry." His name left her lips on a quiet gasp, a desperate plea. When he said it, it sounded almost possible, this beautiful, simple life, this life she had dreamed of, this life she had for so long believed to be beyond her reach. Always before Ruth had worried that her own rather pedestrian desires for safety, for comfort, for a hand to hold would not be enough to keep his attention, but to know now that he longed for the same things, that he had imagined their life together and found it as appealing as did she, shattered the last remaining bulwarks of her restraint. All hesitation, all uncertainty left her in that moment, and Harry must have sensed it for he drew her into the circle of his arms, held her close, leaned in so that his forehead was resting against hers, tenderly, gently. He was waiting for her to come to him, the way he had done so many years before at Havensworth, had laid his heart at her feet and now fell silent while she warred with herself, while she drew ever closer to joining him there on the limb.
"I can picture it, Ruth," he whispered. "Can you?"
"Yes," she breathed, and with that word she turned her head, and captured his lips with her own. Yes, she could picture it and yes, she wanted him, and yes, she loved him. None of the rest of it mattered. Not now. Not any more.