Harry drove her home after the amnio, insisting there was no point in her going back to work. She accepted rather grudgingly; it was getting on towards five, and if she had gone back to Thames House, she'd only be able to work for an hour or so before it was time for her to leave again anyway. So she sat beside him the car, wringing her hands and contemplating the myriad emotions running through her. She ticked them off, one by one; relief, that the procedure had gone well and the peanut was doing fine; joy, at the look on Harry's face when he heard their child's heartbeat for the first time; desire, from the touch of his hand and the warmth of him sat beside her in the car; fear, for what was to come; doubt, at the longing of her heart.

But why am I afraid? She asked herself. She'd been asking herself that question for a month now, ever since Harry had kissed her and she'd all but run away from him. What was there to fear, when she knew that Harry cared for her, that he wanted her in his life, that he didn't want her to go through this alone? The answer to that question lurked in the dark recesses of her heart, and for weeks she had avoided it, perhaps subconsciously, perhaps not. In the close confines of his car, her most recent brush with death still so fresh in her mind, Ruth finally admitted the source of her fears to herself. She feared that she might lose him; might lose him when he grew bored of her and the quiet domesticity of life with a baby, might lose him to a bullet, might lose him to another woman, younger and prettier and less broken, might lose him to her own sharp tongue and her own doubts. After all, she had lost him before. She had lost him, when her concerns over gossip had caused her to step away, and he had not pursued her. She had lost him again, when the dark forces they were sworn to defeat identified her as his weakness, and tore her from his grasp. She had lost him, the day George died and she blamed Harry and herself in equal measure. She had lost him, when he proposed, and she could not find the courage to say yes.

Then again, he was still here beside her, still cautiously offering his support, still showing his concern and his care for her in a thousand different ways.

Be brave, she told herself as his car lumbered to a stop on the street outside her flat.

"Would you like to come in? Have a cup of tea?" she asked, the words tumbling out of her quickly, before she had a chance to think better of them.

Harry studied her for a moment, his hazel eyes guarded, his expression unreadable. "What about Beth?" he asked.

Oh, Harry. Even now, after all this time had passed, after they had come right out and told the team that Ruth was pregnant with his child, Harry had not forgotten the way her fear of other people's perceptions had come between them in the past. Even now, he was worried that, like a small, frightened animal, she might spook and run at the first sign of trouble.

"Beth is still on the Grid," Ruth told him. "She texted me a little while ago, and told me she would be working late tonight. And if she wasn't, Harry, I wouldn't mind if she did see us, having a cup of tea together. It's not as if she doesn't know."

Harry smiled softly at that. "I suppose you're right. In that case, I'd love to come in."

She nodded, and ducked her head as she let herself out of the car, trying to hide the smile that lit up her face at his words.

They walked up the steps and into her flat together, Harry just behind her, and Ruth could almost feel his hand hovering at her back, not quite touching her, but reaching out for her all the same. No doubt he was motivated by some deep seated desire to guide her, to steady her, to offer her his support, and that simple gesture which would have felt patronizing coming from anyone else inspired a warm sort of affection in her instead. The cat came barreling round the corner, as soon as they entered the flat, mewling for his supper, and behind her Ruth heard Harry chuckle.

"What's this one's name, then?" he asked.

Perhaps one of the kindest things Harry had ever done for her was adopting her two cats, when Cotterdam and Oliver Mace stole her life away. He had brought them into his home, and cared for them for two long years. Moppet had died, while Ruth was away, and Fidget not long after her return. They were both ancient, when she left, and though Ruth missed the pair of them, their losses were distant enough now that she could look back on them and feel only fondness, for her two furry little friends and for the dear, sweet man who had given them a home when she could not.

"He doesn't actually have a name yet," Ruth confessed as she shed her coat and her boots in the front hall. "I've only had him a few months. I bought him not long after…" she trailed off, as she realized what she was about to say. She'd gone to a shelter and adopted the little cat not long after Harry's botched proposal, when she was convinced that there was no future for them, that she would spend the rest of her days alone. Rut had keenly felt the need for companionship of any sort at that time in her life, and though the cat wasn't Harry, he was better than coming home to an empty flat. "I bought him not long after Fidget died," she lied.

Harry was giving her a soft, gentle sort of look. "I was sorry to hear about Fidget," he said as he removed his jacket, and hung it on a peg by the door where it rested beside Ruth's coat. "He was a good cat."

Ruth did not trust herself to speak, so instead she just nodded, and shuffled off towards the kitchen.

"Are you hungry?" she asked as she started the kettle.

"Please, don't go to any trouble," he answered. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and found him leaning against the wall just inside the entryway to the kitchen, picking at the knot on his tie as he struggled to undo it.

The nights that Ruth had gone home with Harry, back before everything imploded, she had taken an almost childlike delight in removing his tie herself. She would press herself against his chest, his hands rubbing gentle circles on her back, and pull the tie free, and when she was done, he would lean down to kiss her, and she would let the tie slide to the floor, smiling against his lips. It became a little ritual for them, the first step towards shedding their troubles, and wrapping themselves up in each other, and in this moment the urge to go to him was too strong to be ignored.

"Harry," she said softly, tentatively crossing the kitchen to stand before him. He stared down at her, his whole body frozen, as if he could quite believe this was happening. "Let me." He gave her a little nod, and she reached up to loosen his tie herself.

Back when Ruth had first joined the team, Harry almost never came into work without a waistcoat and braces, always impeccably dressed and pressed and ready for battle. As the years wore on and grief and failure took their toll, he had slowly shed them, layer after layer, until all that remained of his once-impenetrable armor was his tie and jacket. Though she would never tell him this, Ruth missed the waistcoats and the braces sometimes. She smiled a little to herself, at the thought of Harry's broad chest in waistcoat, at the thought of running her hand beneath his braces, sliding them off his shoulders at the end of a long day. For now she would have to content herself with removing his tie, and she set to it with a will.

Perhaps Harry was recalling the days of their short lived affair just as she had done a moment before, because as she stood before him he caught her hips in his hands, his fingers pressing against her through the layers of her clothing, drawing her flush against him. She did not look up at him until she was finished, knowing all too well what she would find, should she turn her gaze to his face. Desire, certainly, and perhaps affection as well, making his soft hazel eyes turn dark with want. If she looked into those eyes she would be lost; long ago, when he had looked at her that way in the corridor of the Havensworth hotel she had found the strength to run, but the was before she knew the truth of him, knew the way he could make her feel, with his hands on her bare skin. Resisting him was harder now, now that she knew just how electric they could be together. Her heart cried out for him, and her body echoed the demand for his touch. She wasn't sure she could reject him now, and she wasn't sure she wanted to.

With trembling hands she dragged his tie free, letting it slide from her grip to pool on the floor as she laid her palms against his chest and finally gave in. She raised her head to face him, and could not stop the little gasp that escaped her, the moment before his lips crashed down on hers. His tongue brushed against the tight seam of her lips, and her own rushed out to meet him as she fisted her hands in his shirt and he lifted one hand away from her body to cradle her face instead. Everything fell away, as he kissed her hungrily, his tongue brushing against her own, his body warm and safe and solid, wrapped around her. He tasted the same, he smelled the same, he felt the same; this was Harry, Harry who had given her everything he had, Harry who had stood beside her when everyone else fell away, Harry who loved her, even if he couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud, and she wanted Harry.

He distracted her, with wandering hands and his hungry kiss, and so she did not immediately realize that they had moved, until she felt her back connect with the wall, and a little whimper escaped her. She wanted him, wanted him now, and she could feel he wanted her, too, could feel one of his hands wandering down her back and over her bum to knead the back of her thigh, could feel him slowly growing harder where he pressed against her stomach. She lifted her leg slightly, to give him better access, ground her hips forward against him, and caught his plump bottom lip between her teeth for a moment before he let loose a sound that was very nearly a growl, and kissed her even more fervently.

It was only when he reached to slide his hand beneath the hem of her blouse and his warm fingertips connected with the soft swell of her stomach that Ruth came back to her senses. She tore her mouth from his regretfully, but she did it all the same. This wasn't why she had invited him here, and as nice as it might be, to fall back into his arms, to drag him down the hall and into her bedroom and drown in his love, she still wasn't quite ready to make the leap. Her body was ready, more than ready, but her mind needed some reassurance, needed to know that this time it was real, this time it would last.

"I think the kettle's ready," she whispered.

Harry just nodded, and placed one last, almost-chaste kiss against her lips before letting his hands fall down to his sides. Ruth slipped away from him, trying to calm the frantic stuttering of her heart. She thought she heard him sigh, but when she turned to look at him, he was smiling at her softly, and taking a seat at her table. She smiled back, and fixed him a cup of tea, just the way she knew he liked it. When she handed him the mug, his fingers brushed against hers, and she did not flinch or turn away.

"Let me make you something to eat, Harry," she said.

"Ruth-" he started to protest.

She shook her head at him, and stepped away to dig around in her refrigerator for a moment. "I've some leftover lasagna, if that sounds all right."

"Lasagna would be lovely, thank you."

So Ruth set about warming them up some supper, fixing herself a cup of herbal tea while she was at it, and while she worked Harry simply sat, drinking his own tea and watching her over the rim of his mug. They did not speak, but they did not always need to. After so many years, Ruth had discovered that sometimes words just got in the way of what she and Harry were really trying to say to one another, and a comfortable silence was infinitely preferable to an uncomfortable conversation.

Eventually, though, dinner was ready, and Ruth found herself sat once again across the table from him. They set to with a will; though it was still a bit early for supper they were both bad about skipping lunch, choosing more often than not to work straight through, and the sustenance was welcome.

"Have you thought about names, at all?" Harry asked, and Ruth nearly choked on a bite of pasta.

Why, have you? She wondered. She quite liked the thought of Harry, sitting in his armchair of a night, nursing a tumbler of whiskey and wondering what they might name their child. It was…sweet, and normal, and everything she wanted for them.

"Don't you think it's a bit early for that?" she asked. If he did have any ideas, she was desperately curious to hear them.

Harry gave her a look that said quiet plainly no.

"I have given it a bit of thought. I'd like to pick a…special name. Something unique."

"How did I know you were going to say that?" Harry said, and his smile told her that his comment was meant in good fun.

"Nothing too outlandish," she continued. "Whatever name we choose, he'll have to live with it for the rest of his life."

"So something special, but not too special."

Was he teasing her? Was Harry Pearce really sitting at her kitchen table and teasing her? This whole evening felt like a dream, and if it was, she never wanted to wake.

"I quite like the idea of naming him after someone important to me…to us," she amended quickly. "We could call him James, after my father."

"And mine," Harry said. After a moment he shook his head. "I've never much cared for the name. I'm not sure why."

Duly noted, she thought. "Or we could name him after you. Little Henry." Harry raised his eyebrows at her, but she just smiled winsomely at him in response. If he could tease, then so could she.

"What, Henry James Pearce, Junior?" he asked incredulously.

"No, he'd been Henry James Evershed Pearce, thank you very much." She gave a little toss of her head for emphasis.

Harry chuckled. "I suppose you're right."

"I have thought about calling him Adam," Ruth continued, in a slightly softer, more serious tone of voice, "but I thought that maybe Wes might one day like to…" she lost her voice, as sorrow threatened to overwhelm her, but Harry understood, just the same. He reached out, and gave her hand a little squeeze. He withdrew quickly, but that momentary contact left her yearning for more. She cleared her throat and continued, "I don't think Zafar would really work, for us, but there's always Daniel."

"Danny," Harry echoed, his eyes soft and distant as they sat together, remembering. The mood in Ruth's kitchen was becoming distinctly somber, and she desperately wanted them to laugh again, so she tried a new tactic.

"Or something else entirely. I quite like Benjamin."

Harry's eyes were still far away. "My brother's name was Benjamin."

Oh shit, that's right, she thought. Aloud she said, "I didn't know you had a brother." It was a lie, but Harry didn't know she'd read his confidential file, and she wasn't about to tell him that now.

Harry took a sip of his tea, cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably in his chair for a moment. "He's been gone a long time now," he said quietly.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Ruth told him earnestly. Harry just gave her a sad little smile.

"What about Samuel?"

"Samuel is good, I like Samuel. But we've just come up with a list of good Christian names, Harry. What about something more-"

"Special?" his eyes were twinkling at her now, affection replacing the sorrow of a moment before.

"We could call him Max, or Caleb, or Finn, or Declan-"

"Nothing Irish, please, Ruth," Harry interjected. She gave a wry little smile at that. Of course not, not for Harry's son. "Besides, these are all boy names. Have you given any thought to what you might like to call the peanut, if it's a girl?"

"Well," she leaned back in her chair, cradling her rapidly cooling cup of tea in her hands. "There's Sophia, or Emma, or Eleanor. Though, if we named her Eleanor, I'd want to call her Ella. People hear Eleanor and they start looking around for someone's grandmother, not a baby."

"We could name her after you," he suggested playfully. "Little Ruth…" his voice trailed off and he looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish for him, but she just shook her head.

"My second name is Catherine, Harry. I'm not sure how your daughter would feel about that."

He hummed, his plump lips turning down into a shadow of a frown. "You're probably right about that."

"I know you'd rather not choose an Irish name, but what about Fiona?" For a moment Fiona Carter's face swam before her eyes, and she took a deep breath, valiantly trying to keep the ghosts at bay.

"Fiona was my mother's name," Harry told her in a quiet voice. Again, Ruth already knew this, but Harry thought he was sharing these pieces of his life with her for the first time, and she was immensely grateful to him, for placing such trust in her. "Though I think you were right before, when you were talking about Adam. Let's leave those names for Wes."

Christ, they couldn't even talk about baby names without getting maudlin. Ruth hoped that the peanut would be a happy child; his parents desperately needed something to smile about.

"Anyway, it's a boy. I'm certain of it."

"Are you?" Harry countered.

She gave him her best mule expression. "I am."

"Would you care to make a wager on that?" he leaned towards her, his hazel eyes drawing her in as a moth to a flame.

"What sort of terms do you propose?" This could get interesting…

"We'll find out in a few days' time, when the doctor calls with the test results. If it's a girl, I win, and you let me take you out to dinner. And if it's a boy, you win, and I'll let you pick his name."

Silence stretched between them as Ruth pondered his offer. She'd like to go to dinner with him, and she wished he hadn't felt the need to resort to gambling on their child's gender to get her to agree to it. From the look on his face, though, she could tell his little wager was meant in good fun, and so she extended her hand to him across the table. As he shook her hand, she smiled and said, "It's a deal."

Harry did not release his grip, once their bargain was struck, and Ruth felt a familiar tension coiling deep inside her chest, but before either of them could say another word, they heard the sound of Beth unlocking the front door, and sprang apart like startled rabbits.

"Ruth?" Beth called from the foyer. "Are you here?"

"In the kitchen," Ruth called back. She had it in her mind to be embarrassed at Beth finding them like this, sharing a meal like it was the most natural thing in the world, but she sternly reminded herself that Beth already knew how things stood between them, and as far as she could see, her relationship with Harry had not changed the girl's opinion of her in the slightest.

"I've had the most bloody awful day," Beth whined as she made her way into the kitchen, but she stopped short when she saw Harry sitting at the table. Ruth did her very best not to laugh.

"Harry!" Beth said in a surprised little voice.

"Good evening, Miss Bailey," Harry answered, rising from his chair. He turned to Ruth. "I'd best be on my way. Thank you for a lovely meal."

Oh no, don't go, not yet, she thought, but she could tell he'd made up his mind, and so she rushed to her feet, her chair making a clatter as she pushed it back from the table.

"Let me see you out," she said. She could feel Beth's curious stare on her back as she and Harry made their retreat, stopping for a moment in the doorway to retrieve his tie from where it lay puddled on the floor, blushing and smiling at one another like teenagers.

They lingered for a moment in the foyer, neither of them quite ready for their lovely evening to end. Ruth wanted to say something, anything to let him know how much she appreciated his efforts, how glad she was he'd been with her today, how much she'd enjoyed their dinner, but before she had a chance he leaned in, and dropped a gentle kiss against her cheek.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ruth," he said in a low voice, and just like that he was gone, and Ruth was left standing alone in her front hall, a soft smile on her face and her fingertips pressed against her cheek where his lips had brushed her skin.