A/N: I hadn't intended to do a Harry chapter, and I'm not sure that I will do very many of these over the course of this story, but I felt some insight into Harry's thoughts and motivations was necessary, at this point.
Upon his return from Whitehall, Harry went straight into his office, looking neither right nor left. He was in no mood for a chat, just now, his thoughts too chaotic and too loud as they tumbled through his mind. Inside his office he slid the door closed, drew the blinds, and poured himself a healthy measure of whiskey before taking a seat at his desk. For long moments he simply sat, staring at nothing, replaying the events of the last few hours on a loop in his mind.
I'm pregnant…my Harry…I miscarried last year…our baby…I've decided to resign…our baby…
He wanted so badly to be angry with her. Ruth had known, for how long Harry still wasn't sure, and she had refused to tell him, had deliberately lied to him on at least two occasions, had cut him out of her life when he most wanted to be there. Ruth had rejected his proposal, had shattered his dreams for them, and had very nearly gotten herself – and the baby – killed today. The tally of her misdeeds made his blood boil, but when the moment came to confront her, he had been overcome by the desire to protect her, to hold her in his arms and whisper his love for her. How could he shout at her? What good could possibly come, from such a tirade? It might relieve some of his stress, temporarily, but it would only compound his troubles in the long run.
Those harsh words had been just on the tip of his tongue, all his hurt and all his fears carefully planned out in his mind in a speech that might have ripped the very heart from her, and might have ended any chance of something more between them. When she walked into the kitchen he had been preparing himself to launch into that diatribe, but then she had handed him the copy of the scan, had shown him his child for the first time, and the fight left him all at once. What was the point of shouting, when he was holding a picture of their baby between his trembling fingers?
This was not a possibility he had ever considered for them, not in once in all the years that he had known her, all the years that he had loved her. He was too old – much too old – to be starting a new family, and Ruth had seen too much heartbreak in her life already. They had both devoted themselves to this job, to this life of shadows, and there was no room for children in their world.
How could this happen? He asked himself, though he knew the answer already. This had happened because he had been careless, because he had been too lost in the wonder of her touch, the rapture of her trembling heat around him, because he had never once stopped to consider that she was not nearly as old or as broken as he. Harry had treasured the memory of the nights he had spent wrapped in the warmth of her embrace, had believed that those two weeks he'd spent lost inside her were the closest he would ever come to having her. He believed her, when she said we've forfeited the chance for that sort of life, had accepted her declaration that they couldn't be more together. He thought that it was a case of wouldn't, rather than couldn't, thought that Ruth had decided there was no room for him in her life, off the Grid, and though he hated the thought, he had been loath to lose her completely. Surely having Ruth by his side at work, building their team and saving the world from behind the walls of Thames House was better than not having her at all, and so he gave in to her request that they remain simply colleagues, no matter how it rankled.
Now, though, he wasn't sure what they were, or what they would be.
Ruth wanted to leave him, wanted to leave the service, and he was terrified of losing her. If she did go, he would not be able to see her, to speak to her, would be banned from the hospital the day their child was born, would spend the rest of his life mourning the estrangement from yet another of his offspring. It didn't bear thinking about.
And yet, he understood all too well her desire to go. Once or twice a month Harry took Wes Carter to see the dogs, and spoke gently to the boy, encouraging him and offering stories about his parents whenever he asked. The stories were abridged, certainly; Wes was nowhere near old enough to learn the truth of who his parents had been, but he deserved to spend some time with a man who knew them well, and remembered them fondly. Harry carried the guilt for Adam and Fiona's loss like an anchor round his neck, and that guilt only increased with every moment he spent in the company of their sweet, orphaned son. Their deaths weighed heavy on his conscience, and he had spent many a sleepless night, berating himself as he pondered all the things he could have done differently, all the ways he could have saved them.
Ruth would never be truly safe, so long as she worked at Thames House, and Harry knew it. She was right, about Colin; Harry had assured the man, when he'd first brought him onto the team, that he would not be called upon for field work. And what had Harry done? Sent him into the field, and to his doom. Even the building itself was not safe; this most recent disaster with the Seva Gola had brought back memories of Angela Wells, and the day she very nearly blew them all to hell. True, Angela had not brought a working bomb with her, but she could have, they believed she had, and the threat had been very real. Harry could not guarantee that such a thing would never happen again.
And then there was the Cotterdam incident and everything that came after it; Ruth hadn't needed to be on the Grid, to be targeted, exposed as his weakness, her life ripped apart as Mace and his cronies sought to bring Harry to heel. Ruth had sacrificed her life for him, and when she finally thought she was safe, when she had finally built a new life for her far away from him and the horror he draped around himself like a cape, still she had been in danger. George's death cast a long shadow, and he couldn't help but wonder if she still blamed him for it, in some way. Oh, she would assure him that she understood the decision he had made, his refusal to give away the uranium, but there was no denying that the only reason George had been in that situation at all was Harry, Harry and his love for Ruth, Harry and his absolute reliance on her.
And George wasn't the only one she'd lost that horrible day, he realized. Oh, he didn't know the details, but he could add one and one to make two. If Ruth had miscarried last year, it stood to reason the child she'd lost had been George's. He grieved for her, for the loss of her family, understood now what she'd meant when he'd begged her to think of the children who would die, if he handed over the uranium, and she'd responded I can only see mine in front of me. He'd always found it odd, that she should claim the boy Nico in such a way, when she'd only known him for a little over a year, and had not even properly married George. Now, though, knowing that she'd been pregnant as she sat across from him in that room that had become their own private hell, he had to wonder if she hadn't been talking about Nico at all, but rather the child she carried. She'd known it wasn't just George and Nico in danger, she had to have understood that her life might well be forfeit too, in Mani's twisted plans; Christ, how terrified must she have been?
Even when she'd run from him, even when she'd been living under a false name two thousand miles away, she had not been safe from harm. If she left him now, left the service and Thames House and even London, he feared she would be no safer. At least when she was by his side he felt he was in a position to protect her, to shield her from harm; if she was out of his sight, how could he possibly stop those who wished her ill because of him?
He gave his head a little shake as he downed the rest of his whiskey. There was no use, fighting those battles in his head before they'd even begun. Ruth had agreed to take some time to consider her options before she made a decision, and for now he must be content with that.
And, he reminded himself, she had asked him to come with her to her next appointment. The thought of watching a doctor stick a needle into the soft protrusion of her stomach, so close to their child, made him sick with worry, but Ruth seemed confident that the procedure would go well, and he had to trust her. No doubt she'd spent hours researching it already; knowing Ruth, she'd likely already consumed every piece of literature available on the subject, and made her decision carefully. In this, and likely many more matters still to come, he would have to defer to her judgment, no matter how it pained him.
Jane had complained about his absence, his inattention during her pregnancies, and if he were being honest, he had to admit that he had not been as supportive as he could have been at the time. He'd been too young, too frightened of the responsibility of fatherhood, too focused on his own ambitions to give her the sort of care she deserved. With Ruth, though, he was finding it hard to keep his distance. He didn't want to let her out of his sight, wanted to be by her side every moment, from now until…well, forever, he supposed. Was she getting enough to eat? He wondered. Ruth had always been bad about skipping meals. And sleeping, was she sleeping enough? Should he start sending someone else down to Registry to fetch her files, rather than making her slog there herself? Once the baby came, would she let him help her? Would she want his help?
Probably not, he thought, feeling rueful and affectionate towards her in almost equal measure. Ruth was not the sort of woman who accepted help easily, particularly not from him, particularly not now, after everything they'd gone through together. She bristled when he offered to drive her home; how cross would she be, if he offered to help with the baby?
This line of thought, of course, brought to mind images of Ruth with their child in her arms, and he smiled despite his anxiety. She would be a wonderful mother, he knew; in a way she already was, taking the junior officers and analysts under her wing, listening to their problems and offering them her sweet, steady guidance. Everyone on the Grid trusted her, revered her, would do anything to protect her; he'd received a dozen messages over the last few hours from people wanting to know if Ruth was all right, if he was all right, if they needed anything. He'd never tell her that, knew she'd hate it, but their concern warmed his heart. Their concern for him as well as for her also seemed to imply that their section understood how important she was to him, personally, and Ruth would hate that as well.
What would she do, now that they knew? Only their team had been on coms, there having not been time to kit up every officer they'd dispersed on the operation, but eventually the news would get out; she was already starting to show, and time would reveal their secret whether they chose to acknowledge it openly or not. Laughter over a single dinner date had sent her running from him before; how would she react to the gossip this time around?
The truth was he had no idea. The Ruth who had returned to him from Cyprus was not the same Ruth who had left him by the docks. She was more confident, now, more self-assured, and bold enough to ask him outright to join her for a drink. Maybe she wouldn't be so bloody frightened, this time. Maybe she would, for once, allow herself and her own selfish desires to take priority over the whisperings of people who did not, could not, understand what she and Harry had been through together, what they truly meant to one another.
It was in the midst of these ponderings about Ruth that Beth came to him, announcing her presence with a timid knock on his door. He ordered her to enter, and turned his gaze and attentions upon her. Beth was welcome addition to the team, he thought; she lacked Ros's utter ruthlessness, but she was cool and calculating, and had a keen sense of humor. He wasn't sure how well she would do, in the long run, but he knew that Ruth trusted her, and if Ruth trusted her, that was good enough for him.
"Harry," the girl said, meeting his gaze with pleading eyes, "I just wanted to say how sorry I am, about what happened today."
She looked rather small and rather sad, he thought, and it sounded to him as if she were apologizing for more than missing the link between Medea and the Whitfield clinic.
"Did you know, about Ruth?" he asked, using his best quiet-interrogator voice. He suspected he already knew the answer to that question; Beth and Ruth had lived together for two months now, and he couldn't imagine that Ruth had been able to keep her secret from the girl. He recalled Jane being mercilessly, rather noisily ill nearly every single day for the entirety of the first trimester, both times she was pregnant. He'd felt helpless then, as he did now, unable to fix it, unsure of what was expected of him. Had Beth felt the same? Had she knelt beside Ruth there in the confines of their bathroom, held her hair back and offered her comfort, the way Harry would have done, had he been there? If so, he was grateful to her.
To her credit, Beth did not try to lie to him. "I did," she answered.
"How long?"
She sighed. "You remember the night I called you round, when she couldn't stop crying?"
Christ.
That had been over a month ago. Ruth had refused to acknowledge what had passed between them that night as he held her, sitting on the floor of her bathroom, and Harry had pushed all thoughts of it from his mind. She had been completely incoherent, when he arrived, and by the time he left she was comatose, and she'd never offered any explanation. Harry had just been so grateful to be with her, so awed by the trust she placed him and so encouraged by her positive reaction to his presence that he had not pushed for details. At the time he had assumed it was just grief, all their losses hitting her all at once the way heartaches will do, waiting for a quiet night to steal up and drown her. To know that she had been weeping because she had discovered her pregnancy, because she was no doubt remembering the baby she'd lost, filled him with a profound sense of sorrow. She never should have had to endure that alone, never should have been forced to carry this burden without his help. In the future, he swore, he would be there for her, in whatever capacity she needed him.
"It wasn't my place to tell you, Harry," Beth said, defending herself in a soft voice.
"No, it wasn't," he agreed. "But you lied to me, didn't you? Richard Brewer."
She looked a bit sheepish, at the mention of the name. Harry had never believed for a moment that Beth and Ruth were really off to see an asset, those days they had disappeared. They'd filed all the right paperwork and submitted the correct reports, but Harry knew Ruth too well, and he had gotten the sense that she was not telling him everything, web she spoke about their asset.
"Ruth needed to go to the doctor, and she didn't want to answer any uncomfortable questions."
Harry grunted a bit, at that.
"And you? Where did you go, while she was at the doctor?"
"The first time, I went with her. She needed someone to be there. It should have been you, Harry, but she wasn't ready to tell you, and I…couldn't let her go alone."
Harry looked up sharply. It should have been you...clever girl, he thought. So Beth had put it together. How long ago did she figure it out? He wondered. How long had she known that her flatmate had shagged the boss, and kept her silence? He was surprised, really; in an office full of spooks, people who spent their day ferreting out information, he supposed it couldn't have been easy keeping such a juicy tidbit to herself. And yet, she had.
"I appreciate your willingness to help her, and your discretion," he told her earnestly, and he watched her visibly sigh in relief. "However," he continued, "you must not get into the habit of lying to me, Miss Bailey. Ruth is a vital member of this team, but you must not forget who sits in this chair."
She nodded, looking suitably abashed, and Harry dismissed her, trying not to smile.
A quick glance at the clock made his heart sink in his chest; the day was running away with him, and there was still so very much for him to do. He would have to be quick about it; Ruth was coming round to his for dinner tonight, and he was determined not to keep her waiting. They still had so much to discuss.
