"That went well," Harry said drily as the door slammed behind Paul, but then he turned to Ruth and saw the sheen of tears in her eyes, and regretted his flippant remark at once.

"Oh Ruth," he sighed, reaching out to take her in his arms, but she pulled away, shaking her head, a mortified expression on her face.

"What have we done, Harry?"

There was a world of sorrow in her tone and it chilled him to the core. Though the last few minutes had hardly filled him with joy he had experienced a certain relief, knowing that he and Ruth were both free, now, to do as they pleased, to live the life he'd so longed for. That Ruth did not seem to share in that relief did not bode well for their future, a future he could almost feel slipping through his fingers.

"We did exactly what we set out to do," he told her as gently as he could. "It was wrong of me to start something with Rebecca in the first place, when I knew I would never care for her the way she wanted me to. It would have been worse to drag it out, to give her cause to hope. She's not the woman I want, Ruth, and it's better for her to be free to go and find someone else than to keep her trapped in a lie."

It was the truth, without question. Discovering Ruth again, seeing her, holding her, hearing her voice, had shown him just how foolish it was, that he should ever try to move on from her. She was the one for him, without question, for all of time. Should she turn from him now he knew he would never find another to love as he loved her. Nor would he want to, for to settle for anything less than Ruth, in his arms, in his life, in his bed, would be to settle for second best, and that had never been his way.

Ruth, though, he could not fathom her feelings on the matter. Before this moment he had been certain that Ruth had made her choice, had chosen him, that she harbored no deep feelings for Paul. Seeing the man in person had only bolstered Harry's confidence, as Paul had been waspish and snide, traits Harry knew Ruth abhorred. Why then should she seem so lost, so sad now?

"Look at what we did to them, Harry," she said, reaching up to run her fingers through her hair. "Paul was devastated."

Perhaps it was only guilt then, that furrowed her brow and left her wringing her hands. Harry was rather accustomed to that response from her, and he tried to be understanding when he spoke.

"Of course I don't like the way things unraveled, either, but the end result is the same. I want you, Ruth. I want us, together. We knew that it might hurt them both, but in the end, this is what's best for everyone. They can live their lives, and we can, too."

He held out his hand, waited for a moment with bated breath to see what she might do. Everything he had ever wanted, everything he'd ever dreamed of, seemed to hang in the balance. It had all seemed so easy, in that hotel room across the city, holding a naked Ruth in his arms; they had spoken softly of a life beyond Five, a life without the grief and chaos that had forged them, a life of quiet hope. They had spoken of love, a love deep, and lasting, and true, and in that little room he had begun to believe, once more, in that love that seemed to mean more to him now than anything else in the world. They had left that room behind, however, and standing here in this place with Ruth he felt his confidence weaken, just a little, felt the sudden eddy of disappointment swirling round his feet. It might well break him, to come so close to having her only to lose her once more. He had lost her twice already; he wasn't certain he would survive a third.

And yet he need not have worried, for with a soft sound of distress Ruth reached out and took his hand, clinging to him fiercely.

"I want this, Harry," she whispered into the stillness that surrounded them. "I meant what I said. I don't want to spend another night apart from you."

There were no words he could say that would adequately capture the immensity of his joy, in that moment, and so he only drew her to him, wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to his chest while she in turn melted into him, the tension leaving her body all at once.

"Will Rebecca make things difficult for you, do you think?" Ruth asked, her voice muffled somewhat as she seemed intent on burrowing herself beneath his skin, her lips brushing the column of his throat as she spoke.

"No," he answered honestly. "She's more likely to pretend we've never met. And besides, I don't intend on being in London much longer."

Ruth drew in a ragged breath at that, but she did not protest, and for that Harry gave thanks. No, he didn't expect any trouble from Rebecca; she was a dignified sort of woman, and had always been happy to keep their connection quiet, preferred not to share the details of her private life with her colleagues. It would not be in her nature to share the mortification she had experienced in this room with another living soul.

"What about Paul?" he asked, wishing he didn't have to, wishing they could both simply pretend the man didn't exist, and yet desperately needing some reassurance that Ruth's last few weeks in Bradford would not be unbearable.

"No," Ruth said, shaking her head, and Harry smiled as he felt her soft hair brush against his chin. "No one would believe him if he told them what happened here, and I'm sure he knows that."

Harry shifted slightly, and Ruth lifted her chin so that at once they were looking one another in the eye. "No," he agreed with a smile, reaching out to cradle her cheek in his palm, to trace his thumb along the rise of her pale cheek. "They wouldn't believe it, would they?"

Harry wouldn't have believed it, had he not experienced it for himself. A quiet, some reclusive, bookish Bradford professor encountering a former lover in Paris, declaring that she was a spy living under a false name and that she intended to throw over her whole life in favor of running off into the sunset with a portly, balding man approaching his sixtieth birthday? No, such things did not happen in the steady, ordered world that Paul and his colleagues inhabited, and likely anyone hearing the story from his lips would declare him mad, or simply bitter. He seemed a man too proud to make such a foolish mistake.

"Besides," Ruth added softly, "I don't intend on being in Bradford much longer."

"Where would you go, Ruth?" he asked her, suddenly realizing that they had not answered that question. He had sworn to her that he would leave the service, and he meant to make good on that promise. They had discussed taking a month or two to settle their affairs, but they had reached no conclusion as to where they would go, what they would do, how they would go about creating a life for themselves.

"I will go where you go, Harry," she answered him with such conviction that he felt his heart leap in his chest. He could not stop himself, and so he bowed his head and brushed a kiss against her lips.

"I need to gather my things," he said. "Will you stay with me? And then we can go and get your things as well."

Ruth nodded, and so they began, together, to pack up the bits and pieces of Harry's life that had found their way into various corners of the room. Though it might have been more expedient to send Ruth off to her own room he was grateful that she had agreed to stay with him; her company was a balm to his weary soul, and though Paul had said he was going downstairs for a drink the man remained unpredictable, and Harry shuddered to think what might happen should he return to the room and find Ruth alone there.

Their task took hardly any time at all; Harry gathered his bag, left his room key on the bedside table for Rebecca to find later, and then took Ruth's hand, leading her out in the corridor. Gathering her things took decidedly longer, but he chose not to tease her for her delightful insistence on clutter; the moment was delicate, their nerves frayed, and he wanted, more than anything, to make her comfortable, to make her happy.

When at last her bag was packed she took her own room key and laid it on the entry table. She stood for a moment, staring at it, and so Harry stepped up and took hold of her hand once more.

"All right?" he asked her softly, hesitantly.

"I was just thinking," she said slowly. "About Paul. About why I ever agreed to see him in the first place. He's a nice enough man, I suppose, but he has a quick temper." Harry frowned, for he knew that same descriptor could be applied to himself, and Ruth had pronounced the words distastefully. "And he can be so childish, sometimes. He was always...he isn't the sort of man I'd like to spend my time with."

I should hope not, Harry thought grimly, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

"And I realized, just now, who it is that he reminds me of. He's nothing like you, Harry. But he reminds me so much of...of George."

Harry's heart went cold at the sound of the name, but when Ruth lifted her head to face him, he saw a soft smile at the corner of her lips and a firm resolution in her eyes. "He was comfortable. I knew what he wanted from me, and I knew how to live that life. I don't quite know how to do this," she waved her free hand vaguely through the air between them, "but this is what I want. You, and me. We can work it out together, can't we?"

"Of course we can," he said, lifting her hands to his lips. "We will work it out, Ruth. You, and me, together. As we always should have been."

"Then let's go, Harry," she told him. And without another word they stepped from the room, both of them smiling rather foolishly as they made their way out to the lifts.

Given the hour and the fact that they were both carrying bags Harry asked the desk clerk to ring for a taxi, and they opted to wait outside on the pavement rather than risk running into Paul or Rebecca in the lobby. They stood unspeaking, fingers still intertwined, as if neither of them intended to ever let go. Harry certainly didn't; they had done it, somehow, had broken free from the guilt and the lies and the trappings of the life that had for so long kept them apart, and now, on this beautiful night, they were starting afresh. It might not have been perfect, but then things between them so rarely were. It simply was, them, together, finding their way, and Harry could think of nothing better.