A/N - Hello lovely people still left out there. This is somewhat of a companion piece to Devotion, but you don't necessarily need to have read it to understand this story.

Chapter 1 - The Semblance of a Normal Life

In the darkness, time had no meaning. Past, present, future, each sat beside him, fellow prisoners in the airless cell. Silent, offering up no words in his defence. The walls taunted him, whispering words of judgment, retribution, fear. In the ragged space, unstructured by hours, he had come to the conclusion that time was not a linear progression of days and hours but a succession of events folding in upon one another, circles widening and decreasing, experiences repeated until the lesson was learned, or fate, in an act of sublime abdication, abandoned the traveller and left him none the wiser. It was with a heavy heart that he concluded he now numbered among those abandoned.

He was no stranger to confinement, he had known different cells of varying strength and dimensions, but this one was different, it held the aura of the finite. There would be no more cells after this one, no more life as he knew it, no more her. In a previous circle of time, his actions had landed him in a cell, honour rising as he prepared to sacrifice his freedom so that she could live. This time there had been no honour, no sacrifice, only overpowering hubris.

As he lay on the cot, he folded his arms across his chest, contemplating his various misdeeds and wondering what circles of hell lay before him. Try as he might, their names remained elusive. What good was a classical education if not for this very sort of trivia. She would know - she knew everything. He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth searching his mind for the specific purgatories described by the Italian poet. There was a circle for those guilty of lust. It was a given that he would do penance in that one. Without warning, the weight of memory squeezed the breath from his chest, his heart stilling at the remembrance of soft moans and supple flesh, fingers trailing over delicate skin. The unfettered bliss of complete release. A crooked smile broke across his face; oh yes, he would do penance in the circle of lust.

There was a circle for liars; he would serve at least an eternity in that one. His life was built on deception. There was not a day where he had not tangled with the truth. Deceit was the fibre of his being. He had lied to his team, to her, to himself.

Was there one for anger? If so, his bouts of temper and lack of patience would certainly land him there. He blew a huff of resignation through his lips. He took small consolation in the fact that he would not serve time in the last circle, the one reserved for politicians and lawyers. He would at least avoid that particular hell. As he tallied up his sins, he wondered what lesson there was to be learned.

The past is a foreign country.

For that matter, the future looked to be a foreign country as well.

He ran a hand over his face, hoping to dispel the image of an orange jumpsuit and the nerve bending twang of country music. He dared not think what other delights awaited him in the penal system stateside. God, help him.

The taste of metal filled his mouth and he drew in the side of his cheek. He massaged the underside of his jaw, carefully pressing his tongue against a lower molar, unable to discern if it was loose or cracked. Saliva pooled and he turned his head to spit it out on the floor, his accommodations had no doubt been subjected to worse. He was unwilling to swallow his blood or the truth. The irrefutable fact lay before him - he was responsible for the death of Jim Coaver.

What lesson had he learned?

She would tell him none, though she would not say it with words. There would only be a look, her eyes speaking volumes beneath hooded lids. She had called him a stupid man and he could not refute her words, for his actions had carried everything but wisdom. A deep sigh rose from his chest. He could not bring himself to say her name, to utter it in a room that would not recognise her worth. He had lived on the memory of her once before, he would store it up again and parse it out as a starving man staves off hunger. He took slight solace in the fact that his absence would allow her to live a normal life. She would have a house, a family again. After all, he had been the one holding her back.

Rarely did fate ever offer up a second chance. He had been given such a gift but had not used it wisely. He had squandered it, giving in to pride and impulse and rash decisions. He was a gambler by nature, who could blame him for rolling the dice and wanting more. He should have walked away from the Service years ago, he might have had a chance with her. Instead, they danced around each other, pushing, pulling, demanding. Both, at one time or the other, walking away only to return. He squeezed his eyes shut. Where had it all gone wrong? There must have been a point, one decision in a host of many that would have set everything off in a different direction.

There had never been time for reflection, but in the darkness, his thoughts floated on memory, lulling him into a semi-trance, sailing on waters almost forgotten, charting a course to that foreign land.

.

The bullets ripped through the air with an eardrum splitting crack. Silence hung in the dusty murk of the room, suspended between the sound and the realisation of its source. Two clean shots.

For a split second, Harry's eyes latched onto Mani's. Acrimony and accusation surged from the man, followed by a glaze of emptiness as his black soul drained away from his body. With an unceremonious thud, Mani's lifeless form hit the floor. The knife fell from his hand, skidding across the floor and landing at Harry's feet. Harry studied it with unseeing eyes, his mind unable to process the turn of events. Death had seemed imminent. The thud of his heart echoed in his ears, his breath rasping in his throat. A small voice broke through the deep haze of his shock.

"Oh, Harry."

The words were a plea, a regret, an accusation. Harry lifted his eyes to the woman sitting across from him. Face buried in her hands, Ruth rocked with silent grief. The synapses of Harry's brain stuttered, fighting against inertia, goading his limbs to action. Go to her. He took a deep breath, searching for the energy to stand, but before he could move, a wave of officers crashed into the room. Swooping in like carrion crows, they circled the scene, removing evidence, erasing their presence from that room. The henchman who had held Harry down was quickly restrained and roughly marshalled away. Even though his captor was removed, Harry still could not stand. The fuel of adrenaline had evaporated. Muscles, held together by the tension of the past few hours, grew slack, leaving behind shaking limbs and a line of cold sweat running down his spine. Lucas knelt before him, gun tucked back in his belt, concern on his face. The man's voice floated to Harry, muffled as though travelling through a wool blanket.

"You alright, Harry?"

Harry's mouth slackened with incredulity at the question. He had been kidnapped, shoved in the boot of a car, subjected to a mock assassination, denied food and drink, and psychologically tormented. He was far from alright. Leaving the question unanswered, Harry looked over his officer's shoulder, searching for the woman whose preservation of life had been his sole objective. Black coats blocked his view. Had she been nothing more than a mirage brought on by thirst? Harry moved his foot, his shoe hitting the knife that had been destined for her throat. Lucas retrieved it and made short work of the zip ties around Harry's hands. Free from the plastic restraints, Harry stood up, rubbing the chafed skin at his wrists.

"Water," he croaked.

Lucas motioned to an officer. Harry craned his neck, searching through the crowd. He did not wait for the water but shouldered his way through the contained chaos, one mission in mind. The chair where she had sat, stood empty and he swung his head in panic, looking about the room. The white-blonde head of Ros rose above the black coats as she approached him.

"We've got McCaul downstairs."

He didn't give a tinker's damn about that man. "Where is she?"

Ros motioned with her head toward the window. Ruth stood silhouetted against the grimy windowpane. Beside her stood a young officer, his head bowed in intent conversation.

"And the boy?" Harry asked.

"Malcolm has him."

Harry did not stop to ask how the boy had ended up with Malcolm, at that moment details were immaterial. His feet moved by their own accord, vapours of confinement trailing in his wake. He grimaced, the scent of sweat and desperation still clinging to him. Blood on his shirt, grease on his skin, the broken shards of his authority laying at his feet, she had seen him at his lowest point, powerless to do anything except play with their captor's mind. It was not supposed to happen like this. In all his dreams of her return, she had always appeared in familiar settings. The railing by the side of a river, the heat of a dimly lit corridor, or an intimate table in an elegant restaurant. But not like this. Never like this.

The young officer continued to talk to Ruth, his hand upon her arm in a coaxing manner. Ruth shook her head, not listening, eyes directed at the door, her body making ready to leave. At Harry's arrival, the young man gave a nod and removed himself from the conversation.

Throat like paper, words spent from the effort to talk down Mani, Harry looked down at the woman before him. The tracks of tears streaked her face, her hair dishevelled, the same film of confinement covering her skin. What could he possibly say to console her? He grappled with thoughts, searching for words to salvage their fractured reunion. Ruth did not acknowledge him. Eyes wild, her gaze darted back and forth.

"Nico?" Her only thoughts were of the boy. "Is he alright?"

Harry nodded, unable to offer up the particulars of the boy's condition.

"He could be alive, couldn't he?" she asked frantically. " I mean George. It's possible, isn't it?"

She was a child seeking reassurance but he could give her none. A gunshot to the head at such close range; there was no hope. The only answer he could give was a look. Nodding, she signalled her understanding. She had born witness to similar deaths, she knew there could only be one outcome.

"Oh, God, what am I going to tell Nico?" Shaking fingers raked through the unruly strands of her hair. "And George's sister. I'll have to call her. I'll have to take the body back home."

Harry's throat closed, unwilling to swallow the meaning of her words. Home? This was her home. He remained immobile, his mind screaming for him to reach out and touch her. But his arms were leaden, bound to his sides by a force far stronger than the plastic zip ties. The woman who stood before him was not his Ruth. Though she had looked at him with the same blue eyes, spoken with the same quality in her voice, a subtle shift had occurred beneath the surface. An absence of over two years, a life created on foreign soil, experiences adding pieces to her that he did not recognise. It unsettled him, this dissonance in her manner that he could not articulate. Like a peasant from a tale of old, he had asked for the return of his beloved from the dead, only to have her reappear missing a piece of her soul. The price extracted by the devil from such a bargain always outweighed any joy of the reunion.

The noise of the room grew louder, voices talking over each other. Harry closed his eyes, willing them away, unable to concentrate in the din. He would find a place where they could sit in peace. He would talk to her and they could slowly work their way through the tangled knot of their lives. He would bring her back to where she belonged. Opening his eyes, he took a step forward. She flinched, recoiling from his proximity.

"I have to go." The words were directed at his chest, her eyes unable to meet his.

Harry's shoulders sank at her rejection, and he cleared his throat.

"We'll find a safe house for you."

"Yes, well, a lot of good that did."

Her observation was bookended with a huff of derision. He could not argue with her point.

"We'll get you whatever you need."

Her mouth contorted in pain. "I need to go to him."

Resignation drew Harry's lips into a grim line. Her loyalty had found a new home, residing with another family. He could not fault her. She had not returned to him of her own volition. Instead, she had been ripped away from her life and thrown at him. Hands tied, he had been unable to catch her. She had begged him for help and he had refused.

If you ever had any feelings for me.

Harry ran a weary hand over his brow. If he had acted on her words, given up the uranium to prove the depth of feeling he once had, still possessed for her, would they be standing in the situation they were in right now. Or would she look at him with different eyes? It was a question too late to ask.

He was not the man she had left. Cowed and powerless, far removed from the Section Head who commanded every situation. She had seen him as a husk. He needed to pull himself together. He motioned for the officer to return.

"Get Miss Evershed a car and see that she is looked after."

Did she go by Evershed now? Harry had no idea.

The young man took Ruth by the elbow; solicitous, caring, easily demonstrating what Harry could not. The pair walked to the door and left the room.

He would give her some space, allow her time to grieve. Hold a conversation under less trying circumstances. Harry squinted at the grey sky barely visible through a pane of greasy glass. What day was it? He needed a shower, food, clean clothes. He needed a plan. His gaze fell to the street below. Black cars abandoned in haste by his officers sat parked at haphazard angles. Two dark forms approached a car, the officer and Ruth. Shoulders hunched, she looked about, lost. The young officer ushered Ruth into the back seat of the vehicle and then joined her. The car slowly manoeuvred its way through the melee of vehicles, pulling out of the courtyard and away from him. Harry leaned against the window, overcome by the sensation of an opportunity lost, perhaps never to be regained. She should be in his car. He should be the one to take her home.

A presence stirred at his elbow. Ros handed him a bottle of water, a casual eye following the direction of his gaze out the window. He twisted off the cap and greedily gulped down the liquid, the refreshment serving to revive him. Arms crossed, Ros gave him a moment to collect himself as she waited for his assessment of the situation. He wiped a dribble of water from his chin.

"We stopped them from getting the uranium," he observed. "A success in that regard."

"And a failure in others."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Ros, smarting at he pointed observation. As always, her comment was the counterbalance to his, underlying the nature of their work. Over the years, Ros had managed to slide into one of the niches that Ruth had left vacant, the sounding board to his errant thoughts. Harry took another swig and studied Ros. How much did she know about him and Ruth? She had not been at the Section long before Ruth's departure. There was no one on the current team who knew of Ruth's value to him. Except for Malcolm.

"I need to shower and change. We'll convene back at the Grid."

Ros dropped her eyes to the blood on his shirt."Shouldn't you see a doctor?"

He shook his head. "I've been away for days. I need to get back up to speed."

He could not reveal to Ros his desperate need to return to the Grid and reclaim the parts of him that had been lost in that room. He would find himself first and then seek out Ruth.

.

A large drop spattered on his windshield, followed by two more, teasing with the prospect of a greater shower. The resulting mist blurred the world outside his car. Harry sat in the vehicle, unaware of the rain. He concentrated on the address written on a slip of paper in his hand. He squinted through the passenger side window. A light shone from a first-floor window. Was she there, crying, cursing, railing against him. Or more dishearteningly, did she give him no thought at all, dismissing him as a shadow of his former self.

Washed and shaved, wearing a freshly pressed suit, he wanted to show her that once again he was a man of authority, though try as he might, he could not shake the lingering scent of defeat. He had scrubbed off the blood of Victor Sarcasin, and the grip of Mani's henchmen, whittling down layers of skin. He had even resorted to wearing cologne, a habit he usually despised. It was only for that reason, he told himself, that he had ferreted out an ancient bottle of the stuff. He had received it as a gift from Catherine for at long-forgotten Birthday. It was by no means to impress the woman housed in the unknown flat. He flicked the piece of paper with his thumb., marshalling his resolve.

The patter of the rain picked up, the sky opening up with a decisive downpour. It tapped against the windshield, urging him to make a decision. Enough; inaction had cost him before. He released the latch on his seat belt and placed his hand on the door handle, ready to brave the elements. His fingers paused on the metal. An overlooked detail arose. She would be in there with the boy. Harry closed his eyes, seeing the small figure on a video screen playing soccer, unaware of the tragedy that unfolded around him. It had fallen to Ruth to break the news. Alone, she would bear the brunt of the boy's grief and anger. It would take far more courage than Harry possessed to look that child in the eye. The responsibility for the father's death lay squarely at his feet.

They would not welcome him. He had no reason to expect anything from her.

Captivity erases barriers. Alone with her in that room, Harry had forsaken the guardrails of propriety, digging into her life. It was out of pride and possessiveness that he had asked the question. His ego battered, he had been desperate to hear that she did not love that other man. Her response had been neither an affirmation nor denial, and he was left none the wiser. It would come as no surprise to hear that she loved the man and had no feelings for Harry. She had already characterised Harry in that room.

Heartless bastard.

She had called him a bastard once before when he had manipulated her, all in the name of a training exercise. If only he had known the value of those hours. He would give a king's ransom to turn back the clock and revisit those days of barely suppressed desire and unspoken want. Give up even more to erase the events of the past day.

He should leave her be and let her return with the boy to reclaim her life in the sun. His fist fell on the steering wheel. Impossible situation. He had found and lost her in a day. Stubborn conceit swirled within his belly, he hated conceding defeat. She had forgiven him before, could she again? It was as he had told the team; in time she would realise what they had done for her. Besides, they shared a past. There had once been something between them, something wonderful. But was that enough if it had never been said?

He made a bargain with time; he would let events unfold of their own accord. In the past, his efforts at manipulation, especially where Ruth was concerned, had not always worked in his favour. He had learned his lesson.

Harry drew the seat belt back down and snapped it into place. The engine stuttered as he turned the ignition. The light from the first-floor window went dark. It had been hers, he was certain. Had she been watching him watching her? No, there was no way she could know that he was outside. He shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the kerb.

He would not dwell on the fact that time had not always been on his side.