When the paperwork was finally complete and the investigation into Medea and A Better Choice could finally be laid to rest, Beth did not feel relieved. She took the tube home, numbly going through the motions of her evening commute, her mind a million miles away. Harry had been much more understanding of her mistakes than she'd anticipated; for that matter, so had Lucas. No one seemed to blame Beth for almost getting Ruth killed, except for Beth herself. She kept replaying the moment Ruth had revealed her pregnancy over and over in her mind; the look on Ruth's face, the way Harry had taken the news, losing control of himself for just an instant, for just long enough for Beth to understand how deeply Ruth's confession had shaken him, to see just how much she had risked today.

It wasn't wise to make friends in this profession, Beth knew. She was the youngest member of the team, but she had already lost her fair share of comrades in arms. Most of them had been private contractors, mercenaries like her, but she had seen men and women die, some she'd cared about, some she'd barely known, and it had left its mark on her. She had thought she was jaded enough now, thought she had reached the point in her career when she was beyond the need for friends. Allies were one thing. If you lost an ally, you could find another. The loss of a friend left a hole that could never truly be filled. That hole might shrink over time, as the passing of the years dulled the pain of grief, but it would never fully close, and that pain was a liability she couldn't afford. Beth hadn't counted on meeting Ruth, though, hadn't counted on sharing her life with this brilliant, broken woman, and she found herself terrified that she'd made a mistake, in befriending her. It was too late now, she knew; Beth was officially invested. If anything ever happened to Ruth, or to the peanut, she'd never forgive herself, and she'd never forget it.

Inside the flat, all was quiet, until Beth made her way down the hall and knocked on the door of Ruth's bedroom.

"Ruth?" she called, weary and uncertain.

"Come in!" Ruth answered.

Beth did just that, and what she saw brought her up short. Ruth was standing in front of her closet, wrapped in a bathrobe, with the entire contents of her wardrobe strewn across the room. This room was never particularly tidy; ordinarily books and papers and dirty laundry were scattered about in quiet testament to Ruth's general lack of fastidiousness. Beth had never seen it quite this disheveled before, though.

"It looks like a bomb went off in here," Beth said, and immediately began to kick herself for being so bloody callous. Ruth had very nearly been killed today, and bombs were no joking matter. Her flatmate didn't seem bothered by the statement, however. Ruth just turned around and gave her a sheepish sort of look.

"I can't find anything to wear," she explained.

Beth raised an incredulous eyebrow. There had to be dozens of skirts and dresses and blouses piled on the floor at Ruth's feet; surely somewhere in there was an article of clothing with a nice elastic waist, she thought.

"Well….I mean…" Ruth was actually blushing, now. "This fits," she kicked a grey dress near her feet, "but it makes my stomach look massive. And this," she nudged a long brown skirt, "fits, but I can't find a single shirt to wear with it that doesn't make me look like a nun."

"Are you going somewhere?" Beth asked, amused. Ruth had never given any indication that she minded looking like a nun, in the past. Dark colors, long skirts, tall boots, tights, sweaters, scarves; if they had only seen each other at work, Beth was fairly certain she never would have seen an inch of Ruth's skin beyond her face and hands.

Ruth was actually blushing harder now, if such a thing were possible.

"I have plans, for dinner," she said in a little voice, refusing to meet Beth's gaze, and instead staring intently at the floor while her hands fiddled with the tie of her robe.

That could only mean one thing as far as Beth was concerned: Harry. It was actually kind of sweet, the way Ruth was fretting about what to wear, as if she didn't see him every day, as if he hadn't already seen her naked – oh God, Bailey, don't go there, abort, abort – and Beth wished them all the best, she really did. From where she was standing, it was plain that they cared about one another, and perhaps the disaster they'd only barely avoided this morning was the kick in the rear they both needed, to get their act together and finally do something about it.

"What about this?" she suggested, crossing the room to pull a dark navy skirt out of the pile. Ruth liked navy, she'd found; half her clothes were navy or black.

"But-" Ruth started to protest, but Beth was on a roll.

"And this," she scooped up a white vest, tossed it to Ruth, and kept digging, "and this." She emerged from the clothes pile clutching a soft lavender wrap-style blouse. The wrap around her waist would hide her stomach, and the low cut of the blouse would show some skin, but the vest would keep her from falling out of it entirely. Beth was rather proud of her efforts, actually.

For a moment Ruth looked as if she were going to protest, but then she seemed to think better of it.

"I'm being a bit silly, aren't I?" she asked wryly.

"No, not all," Beth lied with a smile. "Now go on, get dressed."


At a quarter to seven, Harry knocked on the door to their little flat. Ruth had finally located her sense of calm, with a great deal of assistance from an oddly enthusiastic Beth. She'd managed to dress herself, fix her hair, and even took the time to apply a little make up. This isn't a date, she told herself firmly. The very idea of going on a date with Harry seemed a little ridiculous, at this point. After everything they'd been through together, everything they'd done for one another, with one another, "dating" seemed too frivolous an activity for them to engage in. Besides, Ruth wasn't sure she was ready to solidify their relationship in that way; it had only been a few hours, since she'd told Harry about the baby in the most horrible way imaginable, and it had only been a few months since she'd told him they had forfeited the chance to make a life together. This wasn't a date, this was an operational briefing.

So why did she feel so bloody nervous?

"I'll be back later," she called to Beth. The girl hadn't come right out and said it, but once Ruth told her Harry was on his way, her flatmate had rather suddenly found something very interesting to do in her bedroom, and was currently refusing to come out. It must have been slightly awkward for her, Ruth supposed, knowing that their boss was coming round to pick her up for dinner, but things were only going to get stranger from here.

"Hi," Ruth said a bit breathlessly as she swung the door open to find Harry stood on the other side with his hands in his pockets. He'd come straight from the Grid, his suit a bit rumpled from the stress of the day and his dear face lined with exhaustion. Harry had not had the benefit of a nice warm bath and a nap after the Medea incident, like Ruth had, and her heart went out to him.

"Hi," he answered, giving her a little smile. "Ready to go?"

She nodded, and he stepped aside to let her pass. Once she was through the door she turned around to lock it, and found herself sudden very close to him, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to let her mind wander to places it really shouldn't be going, this early in the night. She fumbled with the keys, muttering quietly to herself, and beside her Harry only barely managed to suppress a chuckle. With the door locked, they turned to walk towards his car together, and Harry placed a broad, strong hand on the small of her back to guide her as they went. Part of her bristled, at this sudden display of chivalry; she was still capable of walking on her own unaided, thank you very much. There was a larger part of her that warmed at his touch, not that it took much these days to get her overheated. It seemed she was always hot, always on the verge of rushing to the loo, and always bloody exhausted. She hadn't really been prepared for just how much this was going to affect her; morning sickness, she expected. Everything else had just been adding insult to injury.

Harry walked her around to the passenger's side of the car, keeping his hand on her back and leaning around to open the door for her. His movements brought him so close to her that she suddenly found it hard to breathe; part of her wanted to kiss him, and part of her wanted to run away screaming. I can't do this, I can't, what does he want from me, what does he expect?

The drive from her flat to his home was not quite as awkward as she expected it to be. Sure, she wrung her hands together in her lap and he stole furtive glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking, but they also chatted quietly, mostly about work. How the clean up from the Medea debacle was going, how Dimitri and Beth were getting on, whether they needed to hire another analyst. By the time they reached Harry's, Ruth was almost feeling at ease with him.

Almost, but not quite, because there were still so many questions left unanswered. What did Harry want for them, for their relationship, now that they were going to have a baby? Was he going to insist on their trying for something more, for the peanut's sake? From the moment she'd first discovered she was pregnant, Ruth had been dreading that more anything, dreading the thought of their becoming one of those horrible, passionless couples who only stayed together for the sake of their child. Pity and guilt were not substitutes for love.

Besides, she and Harry had already tried their hand at being a proper couple, and they had failed spectacularly. He had been so typically Harry, rushing headlong into a proposal before they'd even decided what they were to each other, before Ruth had even had a chance to catch her breath and adjust herself to their circumstances. And, to be fair, she had responded in a typically Ruth fashion, bolting at the first sign of commitment. George was her longest relationship to date, topping out at just over a year, and that had ended in a torrent of blood and horror. Relying on people had never really worked out for Ruth, in the past; all her deepest, most formative relationships, with friends, with lovers, with her father, they had all ended in grief and pain, and she wasn't prepared to open herself up to that kind of heartache again. She couldn't bear it, if she and Harry should truly fall out with one another, if she truly lost him, for good and all.

But surely, if he meant so much to her, that was an indication that they ought to be together?

She was just so bloody confused, so damned uncertain, and it seemed like no matter what she chose, she would only end up hurt and alone. Again.

After a blissfully short drive, they arrived at his home, and he ushered her inside. It had been months, since the last time she'd entered Harry's house, but she found it largely unchanged. There was his ancient little dog Scarlet, limping over on arthritic hips to wag her tail enthusiastically at them in greeting. There was his sitting room, and the sofa on which they had engaged in more than one very serious snog. There were the photos of Graham and Catherine as children, in matching silver frames, given pride of place on the mantel above his fireplace. Would a third photo join them one day? she wondered. A photo of a third blonde child, with his father's pouty lips and his mother's blue eyes? The very thought brought a slight sheen of tears to her eyes, and she rubbed them furiously, chiding herself all the while and hoping Harry couldn't see. Everything made her cry these days, it seemed.

"Would you like something to drink?" Harry asked her as they made their way into the kitchen. "Not wine, obviously," he added quickly, throwing her a sheepish little grin.

"Water would be fine, thank you," Ruth answered. Her voice didn't waver even a little bit, and she was absurdly proud of herself for managing to disguise the welter of emotions currently coursing through her.

He dutifully poured her a glass of water, and when he handed it over, she was careful not to let her fingertips touch his. It wouldn't do, to push herself too close to him tonight. He'd said we still have a lot of ground to cover, and she wanted to get through this conversation, get through this meal, with her mind clear and her thoughts unclouded by the memory of his hands ghosting over her skin. She wanted to get through this without confusing him, without making him think she was offering more than she was prepared to give.

"Can I help?" she asked, watching him pull various items from his pantry and refrigerator, shuffling around the kitchen still dressed in his jacket and tie.

"You can help by telling me what you're thinking, about how we're going to handle this," he said, not looking at her as he set a pot of water to boil.

Ruth sighed, and lowered herself into a chair at his kitchen table. She sat quietly for a time, running her fingertips along the smooth grain of the wooden tabletop, trying not to remember the first time she had eaten a meal in this room.

"You really don't have to cook me breakfast, Ruth," he said, trying and failing miserably to hide the smile that danced around the corners of his eyes.

"I want to," she insisted, catching her lip between her teeth as she fretted about whether or not she was being too pushy. It was their first day off since the bombing, and the sixth morning she'd woken up in Harry's bed. For the first time, they had the leisure to eat breakfast together, to spend a whole, blessed morning in one another's company, and she very much wanted to do something nice for him. She just prayed she wouldn't burn the bacon.

He was sitting at the table in nothing but his trunks and a bathrobe, casting curious little glances at her over his newspaper while she fumbled around, wearing nothing but the white shirt she'd peeled off him the night before, incredibly wrinkled and smelling delightfully of him. For the first time in a long time, Ruth was happy.

"Ruth?" he asked, turning and shooting her a worried glance over his shoulder. She realized then that he'd spoken, and she hadn't heard a word of it.

"I'm sorry, I was miles away."

"I was asking, are you comfortable with telling the team? About the baby, I mean."

Am I comfortable? No. Do I have a choice? Also no.

"I don't think there's another option, Harry. They were all listening today. They're not stupid, they'll know I didn't just pull your name out at random. And besides, even if I didn't tell them, they're bound to figure it out eventually. In a few months I'll be big as a house, and they all think we've been sleeping together for years anyway."

Her forthrightness had surprised him, she saw. Even from this angle, with his back turned towards her as he messed about with the pasta, she could see the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hands paused for a moment in their work while he considered her words, and his possible response. Harry knew how she felt, about exposing her personal life to public scrutiny. He knew very well indeed, even if he didn't entirely understand it.

She'd never been able to abide gossip, ever since she was small and her mother had shipped her off to boarding school. She'd always been a strange child, never quite fitting in with her peers, and when you lived in close quarters with your classmates, there was no escaping their ridicule. She had so badly wanted to make friends, wanted to have someone to share her thoughts and her hopes with, but the other girls had never really accepted her. As she grew up, she found that people always underestimated her, because of her size, because of her odd clothes and her tendency to ramble on when she got excited, and she'd had to fight twice as hard to gain the same amount of respect her colleagues received as a matter of course. She treasured that respect, was proud of her accomplishments, and she never wanted her personal life to overshadow her professional capabilities.

As things stood now, though, she didn't really have another choice. People would talk, whether Ruth came clean about the pregnancy or not; she might as well get the truth out there, now, before the gossip took on a life of its own.

"I know that you're uncomfortable with the idea of people finding out about us, Ruth," Harry said carefully, "and I don't think we need to run an announcement in the paper, but I would like to have a very short conversation with our team. I would like to impress upon them that this is a private matter, and I would like to ask for their discretion, should anyone else try to bring it up round the water cooler."

Ruth nodded. "I think that's a good idea."

"Well, that's that settled," he said.

Silence fell between them, as Ruth wondered how that conversation was going to go. It seemed to her that Harry wanted to say something else, but was biding his time, uncertain of how she would respond. He was being cautious with her, and she hated herself for making him feel as if he couldn't speak freely around her. And that was her fault, she knew; Ruth had run from him so many times, in the past, that he must surely be counting the seconds, waiting for her to do it again. There was nowhere for her to go now, though. If she did run, it would not make the slightest bit of difference, because wherever Ruth went, the peanut would follow. She would have to face this, have to face him, no matter how frightened she was.

"Beth already knows," Harry had said carefully. "I think she's known from the beginning."

"What makes you say that?" Ruth asked sharply, her heart rate doubling as she tried to recall whether she'd ever discussed the matter of the baby's father with Beth. As she scrolled through her memories in her mind, she realized that Beth had never once asked, and wasn't that odd? She was such a curious girl, always nosing about, trying to get to the bottom of whatever question held her attention at any given moment; surely she must have wondered. Unless Harry was right, and she'd known from the start.

"Well, she did call me to come round that night," Harry said.

Ruth dropped her glass, swearing as water flooded the tabletop. It wasn't a dream, she thought, mortified. It wasn't a dream, it was real, Harry was there, oh, God, what did I say?

In an instant Harry was by her side, dishtowel in hand as he mopped up the water and assured her everything was all right while her heart pounded frantically in her chest and she stood by unable to help him as her hands had started to shake uncontrollably. Why the bloody hell did she call him? What did she tell him? Oh, God, Beth, what did you do?

Harry seemed to read the shock on her face. He stood beside her, clutching the sopping dishtowel in his hands, looking rather lost. "She didn't tell me, Ruth," he assured her quietly. "That is, she told me today, when I asked her how long she'd known, but she didn't tell me that night. She rang me, because she was worried about you, and she thought you needed a friend."

"I did," Ruth replied in a quiet voice.

"I'm glad she rang me," he told her. His voice had taken on that low, soft tone it sometimes did when his guard was down and his emotion was high. It was a tone she knew well, as familiar to her as the look in his eyes, that warm, gentle look that spoke of love and longing and all the pain they'd inflicted on one another, over the years.

At the time, Ruth had thought it no more than a dream, a desperate little pining for the touch of his hand, but even that fantasy of him had been enough to comfort her. Now that she knew the truth, knew that he really had come to her, despite the harsh words she had spoken, despite the pain they'd caused one another, now that she knew he had cradled her in his arms and carried her to bed, her heart cried out for him in a way it had not done since the day of Ros's funeral. She wanted, so badly, to seek shelter in his arms, to feel as safe and warm and happy and loved as she'd felt that morning when he had rested beside her with his head in her lap and her heart in his hands.

"I thought it was a dream," she said, and her voice cracked on the word dream. The tears were coming now, and there was no stopping them.

Harry did not hesitate. He dropped the dishtowel on the table, and wrapped his arms around her, sturdy and strong and safe. She buried her face in his chest, and wept. Fear and hope and longing and love poured out of her as she cried; God, but she had missed him, these last three months. She'd been so scared, so terribly lonely, so bereft, without him by her side. But he was here, now, holding her close, not shouting at her or blaming her, not cross with her for lying and very nearly getting herself blown up. He was holding her, letting her know without words that whatever happened next, they would face it, together.

For a time she simply stood, clinging to him fiercely, until her tears finally abated and she was left feeling vaguely embarrassed. Harry seemed to sense the change in her mood; he loosened his grip on her, just a bit, and leaned down to drop a gentle kiss on the top of her hair.

"It's going to be all right," he told her quietly. Ruth just nodded against his chest, took a deep breath, and stepped away from him.


More to come soon!