Beth and Dimitri had drawn the short straw, and would be spending the night on the Grid, watching the most boring surveillance feed in the history of man. Their would-be bombers had spent most of the last three days ensconced in a dingy little flat, playing card games and eating a truly astronomical amount of Chinese takeaway. Rationally, she knew that their enforced, protracted isolation was most likely a sign that these men planned to strike soon, but there was a small, irrational part of her that believed they were being deliberately dull, just to torture her.

Still, Dimitri was good company. At the moment, he was teasing her gently about living with Ruth.

"Is it not weird for you, though, living in her flat? I mean, what do you do when he comes round?" Dimitri asked, leaning against Beth's desk.

Beth looked up at him sharply. In the two months since the Medea disaster and the revelation of Ruth's pregnancy, she had not heard a single member of their team, with the exception of Harry, breathe a word about it. Even Harry had been circumspect in his approach to the topic; he would stop by Ruth's desk, at least once a day, and ask her how she was feeling, and nothing more. Though there had been one Tuesday afternoon when Ruth and Harry had had a terrible row, the details of which were muffled by the glass walls of his office but which Ruth later confessed to Beth had been centered around her plans to wait to take leave until the last possible moment, and Harry's vehement disagreement. Other than that, none of the boys had said a thing.

Dimitri wasn't remarking on it directly, but his question indicated that he assumed that Ruth and Harry were seeing each other, properly. Beth knew better, but it wasn't her place to speculate.

"Honestly, Ruth is the best flatmate I could ask for. She bakes muffins. She's quiet. Harry doesn't come around much."

"Really?" Dimitri raised an eyebrow.

"Really," Beth confirmed. She wasn't about to get into specifics; whatever Ruth and Harry did on their own time was their own business, and God knew they had little enough to smile about. The truth was, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Harry had come round to the flat, and one of those times had been because she'd called him herself, terrified that Ruth had come completely unraveled. That was something else Dimitri didn't need to know about.

Dimitri shrugged, but before he could say anything else, Beth told him firmly, "I don't think it's something we should be talking about."

"It really isn't," Tariq piped up from somewhere behind her.

Beth nearly jumped out of her chair at the sound of his voice. She hadn't realized he was still on the Grid, and so she was simultaneously kicking herself, for not being more observant, and patting herself on the back, for not saying anything incriminating.

"Tariq, I've been wondering; were you around, when Ruth came back?" Dimitri asked curiously, turning to the young man and offering one of his easy smiles. Though the question seemed a bit incongruous with their previous conversation, Beth understood where he was coming from. Like her, Dimitri was new to the team, and like her he was just trying to figure out how things stood. He'd been quick enough to realize that whatever existed between Harry and Ruth had started long before the peanut's arrival on the scene, and he was clearly just as curious as Beth to learn more about their history. She wished he hadn't been so obvious in his attempts to ferret out information; he still had a lot to learn.

Tariq did not appear to be charmed by Dimitri's little grin. He crossed his arms over his chest, and gave Dimitri a long, steady look.

Beth rather liked Tariq. He was young, and a bit shaggy-haired, but he had been with 5 longer than Beth or Dimitri, and there were moments when his general aura of congeniality shattered, just a bit, and Beth caught a glimpse of the same darkness that haunted the more senior members of the team. He had seen some things, she knew, and though for the most part she thought of him as a loveable younger brother, there were moments like this when the weight of his experience made him seem so much older than his years.

"Not yet," Tariq said, in answer to Dimitri's question. "I came along a few weeks later."

And that was that. Tariq offered no more information, and Dimitri appeared to have given up his little digging expedition for the moment.

Beth turned back to the monitors, thinking hard. There were times when she felt like she was part of a team, a cohesive unit working towards a goal, and then there were times when she realized just how little time they'd actually spent together, and just how little they really knew about each other. What would it take, she wondered, to bind them together, the way Harry and Ruth were? Was grief the glue that held Harry and Ruth so inextricably? Perhaps the rest of them simply hadn't had been through enough together, yet, to build the trust and respect that was needed to stabilize their connections. They would continue to work together, and perhaps one day they would have proven themselves, beyond the point of testing little mind games like the one she'd just been a part of.


Ruth was quiet, for much of the drive back to her flat, mulling over Harry's words in her mind. She tried to picture it, living with Harry; she imagined them putting the baby's nursery together, imagined holding their child close while he cooked them supper, imagined handing the baby off to him when she needed a moment to herself. She imagined awkward, early morning confrontations in the hallway outside the bathroom, wondered what the chances were of her accidentally discovering him in a state of undress, or vice versa. The question that bothered her most, though, was this: was that all he wanted for them? Had he given up on her completely? Was this little dinner, and all the little moments they shared over the last few weeks, an expression of simple affection, and not love at all? Earlier tonight she'd put on the sexiest article of clothing she owned (the dress still fit firmly in the "frump" category but still, for Ruth, it was rather daring) and slid into the passenger's seat of his car, wondering if he might try to take her to bed, after dinner; now, she was beset with worry, that he might never again want her in that way.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. Stop. She forced herself to remember the kiss they'd shared, pressed up against the wall in her kitchen. How could he kiss her that way, just a few weeks ago, and not want her now?

Maybe it wasn't that Harry had given up on them, she mused. Maybe it was simply that he had decided to try a new tactic. Since the day she'd rejected his proposal, she had pulled back from him each time he made a physical overture; maybe he'd decided to move her into his house so that she'd have nowhere to run, should things turn passionate between them, and she would be forced to fall into his arms again.

Carefully she turned her gaze to his face, studying the curve of his lips and his soft, dark eyes. Or maybe, she thought, he just wants what's best for the peanut.

Whatever his motivations, this was a huge decision, and she knew it would take some time to work out just how she felt about it. Harry knew she needed time to think – he'd said so himself – and she hoped that he wouldn't mind a long delay, between his offer and her acceptance or rejection.

"Home again," Harry said softly as he pulled up in front of her flat.

Ruth offered him a falsely bright smile. "Do I get my present now?" she asked.

Harry bought her a present each year on her birthday, and each year, the gifts grew more and more personal. That first time he'd bought her a book about cats, among other things, but the book had stuck in her mind. It was such a sweet, slightly bumbling thing to do, giving her that book; yes, she loved books, and yes, she loved cats, but she'd never had the slightest interest in reading such a thing. Still, Harry had learned enough about her interests to put two and two together, and thus, her gift. It made perfect sense, coming from the sort of man who also thought that chocolates made a fine birthday present. He could be so very…inept, for lack of a better word, when it came to the practical stuff of personal relationships. In truth, though, Ruth found his attempts at this side of romance to be nothing short of adorable.

And he had learned, over time; he'd given her an absolutely lovely edition of Ovid, one year, having discovered both her love for the mythology and the absence of that particular volume in her collection. For her birthday last year, when she was still only recently returned from Cyprus and still a bit morose, he'd arranged for a massive bouquet of flowers to be delivered to her flat, and then presented her with a delicate silver necklace, tucked away neatly in a little box inside one of her desk drawers. It wasn't a particularly expensive piece of jewelry; likely he'd understood that diamonds or something equally ostentatious would only terrify her with their extravagance. Instead it was simple, and understated, matching the more muted style of dress she'd adopted these days, and she couldn't help but wonder if he'd picked it for her thinking of the charm necklace she always used to wear, and hoping she would choose this one as its replacement. She was rather fond of it, and wore it often, thinking of him every time she did.

They were just little gifts, never accompanied by any sort of big declaration, but she couldn't help thinking that it was the growing intimacy between them that resulted in the improvement of the presents. He understood her now as he had not all those years before, and his gifts were symbolic of that understanding, and of his affection for her.

"Of course," he told her, opening his door and sliding out of the car. Ruth followed him quickly, curiosity gnawing at her.

Harry reached under the backseat, and pulled out a rectangular package, neatly wrapped in crisp white paper.

"Happy birthday, Ruth," he said as he handed it to her.

She wanted to say no, come inside, I'll open it there, but she didn't. He had an expectant sort of air about him, as if he wanted to open it right then, and she was still so thrown by his earlier propositions that she couldn't quite bring herself to drag him into her flat. Another time, she thought, when things are more settled.

With a show of some excitement, Ruth tore off the paper, and opened the box.

It was filled with paper shreds, to offer some cushion for its contents. In the center of the box there lay a small book; an early edition of Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Ruth gasped; she couldn't imagine what such a thing might have cost him. Her own copy had been lost, after Cotterdam, and Harry knew it. Harry had gone round to her house, immediately after her departure, scooping up her cats and quickly packing away a few of her treasures before Internal Affairs (and her mother) descended on the place and tore it to shreds. He'd rescued her copy of Ovid and a few other volumes as well, but this particular book had not been among the ones he'd taken, and her mother had sold the rest to a second-hand bookshop. When she'd returned, she had struggled to hide her disappointment, that Seven Pillars had not been salvaged; it had been one of her favorites since she was very small and had stolen her father's copy, staying up late to read it under cover of darkness. She'd even mentioned her interest in T.E. Lawrence in her application to MI-5, and credited that early exposure to Middle Eastern culture as her primary motivation for learning Arabic in the first place.

And Harry, knowing all of this, had not only bought her a copy, but an extremely rare one, at that.

"It's not quite an original edition, I'm afraid," Harry said, trying not to smile.

For her part, Ruth was trying not to cry.

"I should think not," she said, "since there are only about six still in existence."

Through a haze of unshed tears, she noticed that the book was not the only object inside the box. All around it were small baubles, bath bombs and the like, and from the look of them, they were all her favorites.

"Beth helped me out with the rest," Harry explained sheepishly.

Somehow, it wasn't surprising, that Harry would have required help in that department. Ruth had to bite back a laugh at the image of Harry walking into Lush and asking questions about bath products in his best angry-interrogator voice.

"Thank you, Harry," she said earnestly. "It's…wonderful."

As ever, Harry appeared a bit awkward in the face of such obvious emotion, and so she only kissed him on the cheek, and drew away from him quickly. They lingered for a moment there by the car, neither of them knowing quite what to say. So much had happened, in the last hour, and Ruth couldn't even begin to determine exactly what it was she was feeling, just now. She didn't want to send the wrong signals, and so she did nothing at all, wondering what on earth was going through his mind.

It was Harry who broke the tension, offering her a quiet good night. Ruth returned his farewell, and they turned at the same moment, walking away from one another, each of them smiling, just a little.

The very instant she closed the door behind her Ruth deposited the box on a side table, and drew out the book. She opened it up, knowing exactly what she'd find, and wanting to read it, anyway.

Seven Pillars contained a dedication, in neat black type on a weathered yellow page, and for the hundredth time, Ruth's eyes hungrily devoured the familiar words.

I loved you, so I drew these tides of

Men into my hands

And wrote my will across the

Sky and stars

To earn you freedom, the seven

Pillared worthy house,

That your eyes might be

Shining for me

When I came

And as she read them, in her mind all she could see was Harry's face, the day that Mani dragged her into that warehouse, and the little twitch of his lip that was the only outward sign of the turmoil that gripped him, upon seeing her again. She remembered staring into his eyes, those eyes she had longed to see for two long years, those eyes shining bright with longing and with fear. She knew, now, what he had done, in her absence, the risks he had taken, the sacrifices he had made, knew that he had used every ounce of political currency he had to give her back her life, and she found herself bowled over, once again, by the truth of this man. This man who fought ceaselessly, tirelessly, for good, who commanded a veritable army of field agents, their safety a heavy burden on his shoulders. This man who had done so many terrible things, in the name of a greater cause. And she thought, too, about how many of those great and terrible things he had done for her, and somewhere deep inside, she forgave him, forgave herself, and allowed a small seed of hope to begin to grow.