Lucas didn't even try to stop her leaving. He took the mic, and the button cam, and the earpiece, and insisted that she let CO-19 give her a lift. Ruth argued against it; in that moment, when she could still feel her heart pounding in her chest, could still hear the rush of blood in her ears, could still see Hannah McCallister's face every time she closed her eyes, she very much wanted to take the bus. Forget the pool car she'd driven to the clinic; Ruth wanted to be among people, ordinary people with ordinary hopes and ordinary troubles. She wanted to be as far away from the madness of her own life as possible.
I like the bus… the memory came back to her unbidden, and she almost laughed aloud. How young she had been, then. How naïve. Hysteria bubbled at the back of her throat, sharp and painful, and she realized with a start that her hands were shaking.
Shock, you're in shock, just breathe, she told herself, knowing full well that if Lucas realized just how bad off she was he would insist on having her checked over by paramedics. She didn't want that, didn't want to be poked and prodded by strangers. She wanted to go home.
In the end, Lucas won, telling her that if she didn't accept the lift, he'd be calling Harry. Ruth couldn't face him, just now, so she gave in, and allowed a nice junior field officer named Paul to drive her home in the pool car. He didn't speak as they rode along and Ruth found herself mildly concerned by his silence. Dimitri, Lucas, Tariq, Beth, and Harry all had access to the com system; she could only assume that they had all heard her conversation with Medea, and now knew the truth. Who else had been listening? She asked herself, panic rising deep inside her. Had she just announced to the entire bloody world that she was carrying Harry Pearce's child?
Oh God, Harry.
What must he be thinking now? How furious must he be, knowing that she'd kept this secret from him, knowing that she had willfully placed herself and the peanut in harm's way?
Paul dropped her off, and she thanked him in a weak little voice, moving slowly as she made her way into her flat. Once inside she shed her coat, and walked on leaden feet down the hall to run a bath. She didn't trouble herself with turning on the lights; she wanted darkness, now, didn't want to have to face herself in the mirror. Piece by piece she peeled away her clothing, and sank into the water, leaning back against the edge of the tub and closing her eyes.
I'm so sorry, little one, she thought, running a gentle hand over the soft swell of her stomach. If she'd been a larger woman, she likely wouldn't be showing at all, at this stage, but there was a noticeable roundness there, just big enough to convince Medea of the truth, and save her life and the lives of everyone in that clinic. A very small part of Ruth was grateful she had been the one to face their suspect; who else could have talked Medea down? Ruth knew she carried the only possible weapon against such a woman inside her, but she hated herself for using the peanut in this way. He was her child, not her asset.
I will resign, she promised him, there in the dark and silence of her bathroom. I will resign, and I will keep you safe. She could see no other choice.
"Ruth."
Harry's voice was soft and low, and she smiled to herself, lost in the haze of dreams as she almost slept, there in the rapidly cooling water of her bath. She had always loved the way he said her name, and it was a pleasant dream, Harry there with her, Harry kissing her cheek, Harry holding her hand and stroking her hair so gently. For a moment she allowed her mind to wander, allowed her heart to open, just a bit, allowed her feelings for Harry to come to the surface for once. For months now she had forced those feelings away, had told herself that they could never be, that those two weeks she'd spent in his bed were all she would ever have of him, and that she must be content. She wanted more, though, wanted to find her way back to him, if she could, if he would let her, if he would trust her, if he would only understand that she needed time to face him in her own way. That had always been their problem, she believed; Harry had never quite understood that she needed time, and space, needed to wrap her mind around what was happening between them, before she could follow her heart. He was so passionate, so impulsive, so overwhelming in his affections that he made her feel as if she were drowning, and Ruth had always run from him, desperate to breathe. If only he would-
"Ruth," he said again, a little louder this time, and she almost screamed when she opened her eyes and found him sitting there on the floor beside her tub.
"Christ, Harry!" she cried, scrambling to the far edge of the tub, drawing her knees up against her chest and wrapping her arms around them in a futile attempt to hide her nakedness from him. Not that there was much point to that, any more; Harry had already seen her, had kissed and caressed and loved every inch of her skin, and had been sitting beside her just now for God only knew how long, but the instinct to hide was too strong to be denied.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, wishing he hadn't startled her so. She didn't want to be cross with him, didn't want to speak to him so harshly, but he had frightened her, and that fear clouded her mind, made it hard to breathe, to think, to speak at all.
"I think we need to talk," he answered in a deceptively calm sort of voice. Ruth recognized that voice; it was the tone Harry used when he was absolutely bloody furious, but trying to remain in control of the situation. This was his boss spook voice, usually reserved for terrorists and unctuous politicians, and the realization that he was using it with her made her miserable and angry in almost equal measure.
"So you thought you'd just break in?" she snapped back. Oh, don't do this Ruth, she thought, calm down, you have to calm down.
"In my defense I did ring the bell, and I did try to reach you on your mobile. I was worried about you, so yes, I broke in."
Ruth sighed, and scrubbed her face with her hands. They were really going to do this now, she knew, really going to have this conversation, and she needed to be careful. She didn't want to push him away, didn't want to hurt him any more than she already had done.
"Will you go into the kitchen, and put the kettle on? I'll get dressed, and then we can talk."
She raised her eyes to his face, her heart aching for him. It hadn't been a dream; Harry had been beside her, holding her hand, touching her face, whispering her name, and she missed the feeling of his hands on her skin. She wanted that warmth again, wanted the comfort his touch brought her, but they had to talk first, and she was dreading it.
Harry gave her a funny sort of look. "Should you be having tea, just now?" he asked. She bristled at the comment, but before she snapped at him she took a moment to register his expression; he wasn't admonishing her, he was genuinely asking.
Ruth gave him a tired little smile in return. "Don't worry, I'll be having herbal tea. No caffeine."
Satisfied, he nodded, and rose slowly to his feet, trying and failing to hide the grimace of pain that crossed his face as he did so. It was his knee, she knew; he was much too old and much to broken to go around sitting on the floor like that, and she was cross with herself for forcing him into this position. Harry left her there in the bath, and as soon as she was sure she was alone, she scrambled out of the tub and into her bathrobe.
It hadn't been so very long, since she'd left the clinic; Harry must have come straight here from Thames House, must have said bugger the paperwork and bugger the cleanup, must have for once allowed the personal to outweigh the professional. She felt a surge of affection for him, that he should come to her so quickly, that she should mean so much to him, but that affection was rapidly overcome by guilt. How rattled must he be, to make such a rash decision? How deeply must he have been wounded, to simply abandon the Grid and come to her like this?
What have you done to him? She asked herself as she slipped into a soft, casual grey dress and attempted to restore some order to her hair. Be kind to him, she decided. He's been through enough.
When she finally entered the kitchen, she found Harry leaned up against the counter, staring out the window above the sink, his shoulders hunched and his knuckles white where he gripped the countertop. He was such an imposing man; not particularly tall, but broad and strong and intimidating, he had always carried himself rather like a boxer, a walking threat to any who dared oppose him. The very first time they met, when he interviewed Ruth for a position on his team, she had been momentarily frightened of him. Harry had spoken kindly to her, though, had laughed when she made a weak little joke, and his warmth had eased her anxiety. After that day, Ruth's confidence around him had only grown. Of course there had been moments, over the years, when he had scared her again, when the terrible truth of who he was and what he had done shone through, and she worried what he would do. Not that she was frightened for her own safety – Harry had always treated her well, had always been more of a protector to her than a menace – but frightened for him, for other people, frightened of the consequences of his rage.
There was so much between them now, so much more than she ever could have imagined, when she was young and sitting in that interview room with him. She had visited him in hospital, and kissed him by the riverside, had held him when he cried and felt him moving deep inside her. She had sat beside him at more funerals than she cared to count, had held his hand and listened to him share his dreams, had fought for him, died for him, lived for him, breathed for him. This man meant everything to her, and without him, she wasn't sure what she would be. If she were ever to tell the story of her life, he would be the beginning and the end, the impetus for her maturation, the dearest longing of her heart, the dagger twisting in her back. How strange it was, that before this moment, she had never realized how completely he owned her, and how desperately she needed him.
"Harry," she said softly, watching him turn away from his rumination by the sink to face her once more.
"Tea's ready," he answered, giving himself a little shake as he went back to the kettle. In the few minutes since he'd left her, Harry had apparently gone rummaging through the cupboards, and found Beth's supply of PG Tips, as well as her own stockpile of herbal teas, and had fixed them each a cup. He handed her a mug, and by unspoken agreement they sat together at the table, Ruth staring at her tea, Harry staring at her face. The weight of his gaze was so familiar to her, the act of gazing at one another so ingrained in the both of them that without looking she could feel his eyes on her, could imagine his exact expression. What she could not imagine, what she could not even comprehend, was how on earth they were going to get through this conversation without breaking each other in half.
"Ruth," he started, apparently having more of a plan than she did, but an idea struck her, and she stopped him before he could truly begin.
"Wait," she said, jumping up from her chair, "just wait. I want to show you something."
Without another word she hurried from the kitchen, and went rummaging through her coat pockets. The scan was still there, slightly crumpled now, and she smoothed it with shaking hands as she brought it back to him.
"I had my three month appointment a few days ago, and I've had my first scan." Ruth handed over the picture and took her seat across from him, watching him carefully as he stared at the little photograph of the peanut. It was hard, at this stage, to make out any distinct features, but there was no denying that what Harry held in his hands was a picture of a child; their child. She studied his eyes, the turn of his mouth, the furrowing of his brow; was he feeling the same elation, the same terror, the same hope that she had felt, the first time she looked at that image?
Silence reigned between them for long minutes as Harry devoured the photo with his gaze, and Ruth sipped her tea, waiting for him to speak. His own tea sat beside him, untouched.
Eventually, though, Harry regained control of himself, and lifted his eyes to her face. She could not fathom what she saw there; was it astonishment, was it anger, was it fear?
"Is it-"
"Jesus, Harry," she cut him off, resentment flooding her, making her bold. "How dare you ask me that? Of course it's yours, I can't believe-"
"That wasn't what I was asking, Ruth." It was his turn to interrupt. If she hadn't been so angry, she might have noticed the way his mouth turned up slightly in an expression that was almost – not quite, but almost – amused.
"I wasn't asking if it were mine. I know very well whose bed you were in three months ago." She blushed scarlet at his words, dropping her gaze to her tea as warmth flooded her, at the recollection of his bed, and what they had done there. "I was only asking, is it healthy? Is everything all right?"
Ruth nodded, still deeply embarrassed by her outburst, still refusing to look at him. "The doctor says everything is fine. He's a good size, his heartbeat is steady."
"His?" Harry asked. Was that hope she heard in his voice? This can't be happening, Ruth thought, dazed. She and Harry were sat at her table drinking tea and talking about their baby. The very idea was so foreign to her, so strange, that she simply couldn't wrap her mind around it.
"No, it's too early to say for sure. I just don't like calling him 'it'. In a few weeks I have to go back for an amniocentesis-"
"Is that the one with the bloody big needle?" Harry interrupted her again, and Ruth laughed aloud. Beth had asked the same thing, in the same horrified-but-slightly-curious tone of voice.
"Yes," she said, as her laughter faded. "They test the amniotic fluid to make sure there are no genetic anomalies, and they'll be able to tell us the gender then."
Harry nodded, steepling his fingers together on the tabletop the way he so often did when he was sat behind his desk on the Grid. The gesture was heartrendingly familiar to her, and she wondered if he was applying the same approach to this conversation that he would to an operation at work.
"Is that dangerous?" he asked carefully.
Ruth sighed, and took another sip of her tea. "It can be," she allowed finally, "but they use ultrasound to make sure that they don't hit the baby, with the needle, and the doctor thinks it's necessary. Apparently, given my age and my history, this pregnancy is deemed 'high-risk'."
Oh, shit.
Ruth hadn't meant to say that. Ruth never, ever wanted to talk to Harry about the child she'd lost, about just how much she had suffered, when she came back from Cyprus. She didn't want him to know, didn't want to him ask, but with those two little words – my history – she'd given herself away. Up until this moment, she could have pretended that what she'd told Medea, about miscarrying the year before, had been no more than a lie to earn the woman's trust. Now though, she had rather casually, carelessly revealed the truth to him, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw that he recognized that truth.
"Were you ever going to tell me?" Harry asked.
Tell you what? She wondered. Tell you about this baby, or the one I lost? She decided to gloss over the subject of George's baby. That was not a conversation she was prepared to have; she was only just barely coping with the topic at hand.
"I decided to wait until after the scan, to tell you." Harry pursed his lips, and she knew then that he hadn't been asking about this baby at all. He had been wondering if she would ever had told him about the miscarriage, had been wondering about what she'd gone through, about her pain, and he was clearly disappointed that she was avoiding the subject. He wouldn't press her now, she knew, but eventually, he would, and she dreaded that moment. Right now, though, she was determined to focus on the present.
"Before I told you I wanted to be sure that he was all right, that there really was a need for you to know. I tried to tell you this morning but then-"
"Tariq," Harry finished for her, with a sardonic turn to his mouth. "That young man has no sense of timing."
Ruth looked up at him sharply. You're one to talk, she thought bitterly. She didn't say it aloud, and the expression on Harry's face told her that she didn't need to, that he was recalling his botched proposal, just as she was.
"I would have liked, very much, to have been at that scan with you," Harry said quietly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them and momentarily lifting the weight of their past from their shoulders.
"I know," Ruth answered. She regretted that choice so deeply; it had not been done out of malice, but she knew now that excluding him from the scan had been wrong, and unkind, and she was determined not to do it again. "I'd like it if you were to come with me, next time," she continued.
Harry nodded, obviously trying not to let her know how he pleased he was by the offer. "I'd like that. Just tell me when, and I'll be there."
"I will. Oh," she added, when Harry rather reluctantly started to hand the scan back to her. "That's yours. I had the doctor make me two copies. That one is for you to keep."
"Thank you," he said earnestly, tucking the scan away in a little pocket inside his jacket where it came to rest next to his heart.
For a time they were quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Ruth had made a promise to the peanut, while she had been soaking in the bath, a promise to herself, and Harry needed to know what she'd decided. So far this conversation had gone so much better than she could have hoped, and she dreaded telling him about her plans to leave him. Now seemed as good a time as any, though, and the sooner she told him, the sooner they could both move forward.
"I've decided to resign, Harry."
He looked up at her sharply, shock and pain written across his weathered face.
"Ruth-"
"I can't risk something like this happening again, Harry. I can't. I need to take care of him, I need to keep him safe."
Harry leaned towards her in his chair, his eyes beseeching. "Ruth, if you leave, I can't speak to you. I can't see you. You know the rules."
"Surely there must be an exception, for a situation like this?" She couldn't imagine that the service would keep a father away from his child, but Harry was shaking his head.
"There isn't. If we were married, things would be different, but as we are now, I would not be permitted to see you. And you can be certain, they would be watching me closely."
"You speak to Malcolm," she pointed out, her tone faintly accusing. Why did he always have to be so bloody stubborn?
"I speak to Malcolm using a burner phone, no more than once a month. Is that what you want for us?"
Please, God, no, she thought. For weeks now, she had entertained herself in quiet moments by imagining Harry and their child, together. She could not fathom a world in which Harry was not allowed to see her or the peanut, but likewise she could not stomach the thought of continuing on with 5, of risking her life when she had a child to care for. She loved her job, loved it desperately, but she truly believed that if she were going to be a good mother, her child's needs had to come before her own selfish desires. And what the peanut needed most was his parents, preferably both of them, preferably alive and well.
"Stay on, at least for a little while," Harry suggested. "You can take maternity leave, when the time comes, and you've got more holiday time saved up than anyone else in the section. Give us some time to come up with a plan. Don't leave yet." Don't leave me, she heard his unspoken plea.
"You can't promise me I won't have to go into the field again, Harry," she pointed out. Harry started to protest, but she cut him off. "Colin was never supposed to go into the field, remember? Colin was supposed to be safe behind his desk. Look what happened to him." She shuddered, wrapping her arms tightly around her middle as she remembered.
"Colin didn't have a child at home," Harry responded patiently. "I could make an exception for you-"
"Christ, Harry, if you did that everyone would say it was preferential treatment! They'd say you were protecting me because we were shagging on the side-"
"I don't give a damn what anyone says!" He didn't shout, exactly, but his tone was harsh, and brooked no argument. "Ruth," he started again, softer this time. "Everyone would understand, if I chose to keep you at Thames House. It would make sense, to protect you, for the sake of your child." Your child, he'd said, not ours, and she wondered how much it had hurt him, to make that distinction.
"Adam had a child," Ruth said dully. "Adam was a single parent, and he received no special dispensation. Look where it got him. Wes is all alone, now, forever. I don't want that to happen to my baby – our baby." Our baby. She needed him to hear that, need him to know that she had no intention of keeping the peanut away from him. It was the first time she'd said the words aloud, and she noticed the look of recognition, the look of pride that washed over Harry's features for a moment before he got himself in check.
"Give it some time," he said finally. "Traditionally, we do keep pregnant employees behind a desk. No one would think it odd, if you didn't go out until the field just now. Once the baby's born, we can revisit this discussion."
"Traditionally, Harry, we ship pregnant employees off to other Sections."
It was the truth, much as it pained her to say it. Counterterrorism was no place for people with children, and when Section D recruited, they specifically sought agents with little to no family ties. Most of their agents were unmarried, and of the few who did have children, most were like Harry, estranged from their loved ones, and unlikely to ever ask for time off for school events or sick days. When that changed, it usually fell to Harry to rather callously suggest that they might prefer a more stable working environment. He knew that, as well as she. He was scrambling for some way to keep her in his life, and the sting of it left her raw and unbalanced.
"Ruth, please-"
"I'll stay," she said dejectedly. "I'll stay, and work until it's time to take leave. I can't promise you more than that, Harry."
He nodded, satisfied. "That's all right, Ruth. We just need some time, to work out how we're going to proceed."
We just need some time, she thought. We. They were in this together, now, facing their new reality as a unit, if not a couple. She wasn't alone, any more. That thought was as terrifying as it was comforting.
Harry's mobile buzzed, breaking the stillness they had drawn around themselves like a shroud. He gave her an apologetic look before fishing it out of his pocket, and checking the message.
"I have to go back," he said, and she could hear the regret in his voice. "The Home Secretary has requested a meeting."
Why? Oh God, does he know, too? Has word travelled that quickly?
Harry seemed to read the fear in her face; he gave a little shake of his head, as if to say no, it's not that, don't worry.
"I think we still have a lot of ground to cover, Ruth," he said, rising from his chair and crossing the kitchen to empty his mug in the sink. "Would you mind coming round to mine, sometime this week, so we can make plans? I'll cook."
She nodded dumbly. It wasn't an invitation for a date, she knew, but the idea of spending an evening alone in Harry's home filled her with the same sort of anticipation, the same sort of apprehension. He was right, though; they hadn't even touched on the subject of telling their coworkers, or Beth's complicity in Ruth's deception, or how they wanted their relationship to progress, once the baby came. A lot of ground to cover; it felt more like an ocean stretching between them, fraught with heartache and possibilities.
"Could we do it tonight?" she asked before she could stop herself. "I'd quite like to have a plan in place, before I go back to work tomorrow."
Harry was looking at her strangely, as if he couldn't quite believe his ears, but he nodded in agreement. "I'll ring you, when I leave the office."
Ruth rose as well, and she noted the way Harry's eyes drifted to her stomach, as if searching for some confirmation that the peanut really was there. She smiled at him when his gaze snapped back up to her face.
"I'll see you tonight, then," he said gruffly before making his way out of the kitchen; there was a moment, no longer than the length of a heartbeat, when he drew level with her and she thought he might lean in to kiss her goodbye, but before she could register what was happening he was gone, and she was alone again.
That went rather well, didn't it, peanut? She thought.
