A/N: Forgive me, I can't recall which hospital Maya Lahan worked for, and I'm not in the mood to look it up at present. If anyone remembers, and wishes to point it out, I will make the necessary adjustments. Also, please let me take this opportunity to offer my sincerest thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing. This story has grown to be much longer than I was initially anticipating, and I'm deeply grateful for each of you choosing to continue on this journey with me.
The next Friday night Beth and Ruth were ensconced in their sitting room, Beth camped out on the floor with a glass of wine in her hand, Ruth directing her movements like a drill sergeant from her favorite armchair. A pile of papers made a ring around Beth, a solar system of maps and GPS printouts orbiting her while she followed each of Ruth's commands.
"Ok, where's Thursday's log?" Ruth asked, her nose buried in a file.
Beth peered around herself, eventually leaning round to gather up a map that had somehow wound up under her bum.
"Got it," she said, waving the paper triumphantly and trying not to spill her wine in the process.
Ruth smiled at her, the tiniest flash of good humor, gone in an instant. Though Beth knew she presented a rather ludicrous image at present, the task at hand was actually rather serious, and she did not fault Ruth for her lack of joviality.
"Put a white flag on… Sutton Court Road, near Chiswick House."
It took her a moment but Beth did as she was bid, dutifully placing a small white sticker on the road once she'd found it. "Time?" she asked.
"4:30 p.m.," Ruth answered.
Beth marked the time on her sticker, then studied the map for a long moment. "According to the logs, Lucas arrived at St Thomas's Hospital just after four, and stayed there for approximately a quarter of an hour before leaving again. After that he went…." Her voice trailed off as she searched for the next marker. "To his flat. He did not leave again on Thursday."
At this news Ruth's face grew grim, but she made a note of the discrepancy.
They'd been at this for hours now, comparing the last two weeks of Lucas's activity, monitored via GPS tracking on his mobile, to the reports he'd logged. So far, they'd found nearly a dozen instances of his not being anywhere near where he said he was. Interestingly, the place he must often absconded to during his truancy was St Thomas's Hospital.
"What on earth is he doing?" Beth mused, staring at the little red dot that marked the hospital's location on her map. Why would Lucas be spending so much time at a hospital? Was he ill? Injured? If he was, why hadn't he told anyone?
Ruth was staring at the pile of reports in her lap. "Battersea Park, St. Thomas's, that pub in Fitzrovia…if there's a pattern connecting these places, I don't see it." At this she sounded particularly frustrated, and Beth couldn't blame her. Ruth lived for patterns, making sense of the insensible, deconstructing chaos and bringing order to the orderless. Mapping out Lucas's erratic behavior had been an exercise in futility; they had proof that he was lying, but without knowing why, they were no closer to reaching a solution.
"We need to look at CCTV," Ruth said, still staunchly refusing to look up from the reports. Beth noticed with some amusement that Ruth was using her ever-expanding belly as a prop to hold the papers in place, but even that rather silly sight was not quite enough to bring a smile to her lips. "Pull the feeds from these days and see if he was meeting anyone."
"I agree, but to do that we'll need access to the Grid's computers. And we might need Tariq."
Ruth shook her head at this. "We can't involve him. Harry is adamant that he doesn't want anyone else from the team to know about this little project."
Of course, Beth thought ruefully. Why ask for help when we can sit here with our hands tied behind our backs?
"Why is he so dead-set against this?" she asked. So far she'd behaved herself, and had not drawn Ruth into a discussion of Harry and the minefield of his emotional state, but she was on her third glass of wine, she was tired, and she was frustrated beyond all reason.
"Honestly," Ruth said quietly, "I think it's because of me."
At this Beth looked up sharply. They did not talk about Ruth's burgeoning relationship with Harry, beyond one rather brief conversation several weeks before about Ruth moving in with him, and even that was more about logistics than romantic entanglements. Curiosity was nibbling at Beth again, and she sat quietly, waiting for further explanation.
"I know I haven't told you much about what happened when I left," Ruth continued in that same soft, sad tone of voice. "I got caught up in something, and Harry wouldn't listen to me. When he finally came around to my way of thinking, it was too late, and we were well and truly stuck. I think he's trying to give Lucas the benefit of the doubt, give him time to work this out, because he still feels guilty for not affording me the same opportunity."
This didn't quite ring true for Beth. "But if everything fell apart because he didn't listen to you then, surely that would be all the more reason for him to follow your lead now, wouldn't it?"
Ruth smiled sadly. "I'm not sure he's thinking about this logically, Beth. He feels he owes a debt to Lucas, and he doesn't want to betray him."
"If only Lucas felt the same," Beth muttered under her breath.
Ruth rose ponderously from her chair, and Beth took this as a signal that the time had come to pack in their paperwork, and find their beds. For a few minutes they worked quietly together, gathering up the maps and the reports and tucking them away in the files Ruth had smuggled out of Thames House.
"I'll have some time on Sunday afternoon to pull the CCTV footage," Ruth told her. "The rest of the team will have the day off, so no one will be looking over my shoulder."
"Not even Harry?" Beth asked, making a stab at lightheartedness despite the rather ominous tone of their evening so far.
"Not even Harry," Ruth agreed.
"Right then, I'm off," Ruth said, gathering up her bag and spinning in a slow circle, looking for her keys. Really, for someone with such an organized mind, Beth would have expected Ruth to be more together at home. She was forever losing her keys and misplacing her boots, perpetually running late because she'd had her nose stuck in some book and completely lost track of the time. In anyone else such disorder would have been a grievous fault, but Beth just found Ruth's general state of disarray to be endearing. Beth located Ruth's keys, stuck under the bowl of apples on the kitchen counter, and handed them off to her hapless flatmate.
"Will you be gone long?"
Ruth nodded. "We're looking for furniture this morning, and then we're having dinner with Catherine tonight."
"Catherine?" Beth asked, intrigued. Ruth flushed scarlet at the question.
"Harry's daughter," she confessed in a small voice.
Harry's daughter? Beth thought, all bemused. Harry had never once mentioned his having a child, and for that matter, neither had Ruth. A thousand questions jumped into Beth's mind all at once; how old was this girl? Who was her mother? How many other children did he have that Beth and the team knew nothing about? How did Ruth feel about this?
It was plain that Ruth hadn't meant to divulge quite so much; she was fidgeting slightly under Beth's confused gaze.
"I hope it…goes well, then," Beth said, a bit lamely.
"Thanks," Ruth answered, standing rather awkwardly there by the doorway, as if she were debating saying something else for a moment before she gave herself a little shake, and departed.
This just gets stranger and stranger, Beth thought, returning to the table with a sigh.
Furniture shopping with Harry turned out to be a bit of an ordeal, in the end. Ruth had been insistent that she wanted solid, wooden pieces for their baby, and she had been so sure she wanted them in a dark color. Harry had indulgently driven them to a rather nice little shop, and it was at that point that all of Ruth's convictions fell apart. It was all so bloody expensive, and that of course raised the question of who was going to pay for what. Harry said he was planning to purchase everything himself, Ruth said perhaps they ought to split it, he tried to put his foot down, she protested, and on and on it went. And then there was the furniture itself; Ruth fell in love with a little white cot, with a little flower pattern etched into the crosspieces, but Harry had already purchased a cherry-wood rocking chair. She had thought she wanted everything to match, and now she wasn't so sure.
After several hours, many different shops, two crying fits, one rather tense lunch, and several hundred pounds of Harry's money, they'd finally purchased everything they needed, and arranged for the lot to be delivered to Harry's house the following weekend. He drove them home, and Ruth immediately shuffled off to his bed, snuggling down for a nice long nap.
And that was where Harry found her, at a quarter past five, fast asleep. She woke to his lips, brushing soft kisses against her cheek, and his hand, rubbing gentle circles across her stomach. She hummed happily, every bone in her body whispering the desire to stay exactly where she was, bundled beneath his sheets.
"Time to wake up, I'm afraid," Harry murmured. A slight pout formed on her lips unbidden, but Harry just laughed and kissed it away. "Catherine will be here in about an hour."
Ruth sat bolt upright in the bed, very nearly smacking her head against Harry's jaw in the process. All thoughts of their impending dinner with Harry's daughter had faded from her mind, replaced with more immediate worries about wood stains and baby bedding, but now they were back with a vengeance.
"Oh God," she groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I must look a fright."
"You look lovely," Harry replied, smiling. "But you've enough time for a shower, if you'd like."
Ruth smiled at him gratefully from between her fingertips.
"Go on," he said, dropping one last kiss against her forehead. "There's a hair dryer, under the sink."
Ruth deliberately chose not to ask the obvious question, about why a man who had as little hair as did Harry might have such an item in his bathroom, and choosing instead to be thankful for small mercies. If she was going to face her lover's child for the first time, she wanted to do so looking fresh and clean, not wrinkled and crusty-eyed from sleep.
It's going to be all right, she told herself firmly. It's going to be all right.
The doorbell rang at exactly six o'clock. Ruth still hadn't made an appearance; Harry was vaguely concerned she might have fallen back to sleep, but he resolved to give her a few minutes more to prepare herself. In a way he was appreciative of the fact that Ruth's characteristic tardiness would buy him a few moments alone with his daughter. He wiped his hands carefully on a tea towel, and went to answer the door.
Every time he saw her, Harry was struck by just how grown up Catherine had become. In his mind she was perpetually fourteen, all knobby knees and tangled hair, but she'd grown into a lovely young woman, willowy and graceful, just like her mother, with a wariness in her eyes to match.
"Catherine," he said warmly, stepping aside to let her pass.
His daughter smiled at him hesitantly, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in her hands. That she had come bearing a gift, and one so obviously meant for Ruth, seemed to Harry to be a good sign indeed.
"This is a lovely house," she said in a strained little voice, taking in her surroundings slowly.
Harry had bought this house after the Firestorm debacle; his security had been compromised, and it was procedure to relocate any agent, no matter their rank, after such an event. In truth he'd bought more house than he needed, and though he had not been willing to admit it to himself at the time, he knew now that he'd bought a home with three bedrooms in the hope that one day his children might visit him there. Not that he spoke to his son, not that he'd ever extended any such invitation to his daughter before tonight, but still, he'd harbored that dream. He was grateful for the space now; he had the feeling that he and Ruth were going to need it.
"Thank you," he said, in response to her hesitant compliment. "Come into the kitchen, Ruth's just getting ready."
"She's not one of those people who dress for dinner, is she?" Catherine asked in a tone thick with distaste. Harry struggled to repress a laugh at the thought of Ruth doing such a thing.
"Not at all. We had rather a busy morning, and she gets tired easily these days. She just wanted to straighten herself out before she met you."
They meandered into the kitchen, and Catherine made a beeline for the table, folding herself into the chair furthest from the door, running her fingers lightly along the smooth grain of the table once she was settled.
"How is she, then? And the baby? Everything all right?" It was obvious that his daughter found this whole situation as strange and difficult to navigate as he did, but she was trying, and Harry loved her for it.
"They're both doing well. Ruth has her seven-month check, next week."
Catherine nodded, and fell silent.
What to say now? Harry wanted to ask her about her work, but that was a touchy subject. Discussing her films inevitably put her on the defensive, and she bristled at any mention of Fabian, her long-time partner. He knew she was simply trying to protect herself, remembering years of Harry doggedly trying to dissuade her from following her passions, and he felt guilty for having been the cause of such anxiety in her life. It wouldn't do to raise the specter of his failings as a father so early in their dinner, but at the same time, he didn't want to gush on about Ruth and the baby. That left a paltry few safe topics of conversation for him.
Luckily he was saved from any further unpleasantness by the timely arrival of Ruth, who came rushing into the kitchen with an apologetic look on her face. She was radiant tonight; she'd brought a dress to change into, soft and black, casual and cut to emphasize, rather than conceal the curves he loved so dearly. At almost seven months gone, there was no hiding the size of her stomach, or the swell of her breasts straining against the top of her dress, but she looked rather demure, her expression warm and open, her hair freshly washed and dried and falling around her face in a gentle wave. In that moment Harry very much wanted to go and wrap his arms around her, pull her close and kiss the sweet skin of her neck, but he restrained himself for Catherine's sake. Such a display would only put her ill at ease, and likely raise Ruth's ire in the process.
"Hi," Ruth said, stopping short when she caught sight of Catherine.
For a moment silence reigned in the kitchen. Harry had taken the flowers from Catherine and deposited them in a vase, and was currently standing by the sink, holding the vase tightly and watching with bated breath as his daughter and his lover got their first look at one another. What must Catherine be thinking now? He wondered, watching her face closely for signs of any imminent outbursts. Ruth was far too young for him he knew, and he was certain his daughter would agree. Surely she wasn't quite what Catherine was expecting, given the stories he knew his ex-wife had shared regarding his previous liaisons. Ruth was gentle and kind, and it showed on every inch of her face, lined from the stress of her life, but still soft and warm. Juliet had carried something of the predator about her, a jungle cat forever stalking its prey, and so too had Elena; the others, all the nameless, now faceless women who checkered his past had been ruthless, almost aggressive, matching him in their ambition and their drive. Ruth was another sort of woman entirely, and he hoped that Catherine would see that, and approve of what she saw.
"You must be Ruth," Catherine said finally, rising from her chair and crossing the kitchen to offer her hand in greeting.
Ruth took it gratefully, giving her a hesitant smile. "It's so lovely to meet you Catherine. I've heard so much about you."
This wasn't entirely a lie; Harry had told Ruth about Catherine's life abroad, about his fears for her, about how fiercely proud she made him, but there was so much more he hadn't said. He hadn't spoken of exactly how he'd fallen out of her life, of the guilt he carried, of how deeply his own daughter mistrusted him. Catherine's eyes flickered briefly from Harry to Ruth, and he knew in that moment that her thoughts had followed much the same path as his own.
"Catherine brought these for you, darling," he said.
Ruth's mouth fell open, and for his part, Harry very nearly dropped the vase he'd been holding. Until this moment he had never once referred to Ruth in such a way; he used similar endearments with his daughter, but that was a habit that had begun when she was small, when he was still young and life had not yet hardened their hearts toward one another. Ruth was another case entirely. In quiet moments, with her head pillowed on his chest and the steady sound of her breathing filling his ears he had wondered how she might respond, should he ever use such a word with her, and always he had assumed that she wouldn't like it. Ruth was the sort of woman who liked being referred to by her name, thank you very much, and he couldn't believe he'd just done that.
For just an instant Ruth stared daggers at him, but she recovered quickly. No doubt he'd hear more about that later, but for now she was focused on Catherine, likely wanting to salvage the moment and make as a good an impression as she could manage.
"They're just lovely, Catherine. That was very thoughtful of you."
Catherine gave her a quick, tight-lipped smile in response, and the silence returned.
"Would anyone like a drink?" Harry asked, a little desperately.
"The situation in Syria is grim, and only getting grimmer," Catherine said, leaning back against her chair with a glass of wine in her hand. "I was in Damascus two years ago, until someone decided it was time for me to come home." She shot Harry a look that somehow managed to be both exasperated and affectionate, and Ruth smiled to see it. Though they had gotten off to a bit of a rough start, she had discovered that the conversation flowed quite well, so long as they kept away from discussing anything even remotely personal. Catherine shared her father's intense, passionate nature, and Ruth found she rather liked the girl.
"Ah yes, he told me about that," Ruth said, giving Harry a warm little smile. They had both teased him a bit over the course of the evening, but she felt he deserved it, after his little display earlier. Darling, indeed! She didn't quite know what to make of that; was he trying to convince his daughter that they were a perfectly normal, happy couple, or had the word simply slipped out, his own affection for her showing its face when his guard was down? There was a part of her that bristled at the thought of him laying claim to her in such a way, but there was also a part of her that preened to hear him refer to her so warmly.
"Did he tell you about how one of his goons punched Fabian in the face, when we refused to leave?" Catherine asked shrewdly.
"No, he didn't," Ruth responded. She didn't recall that particular detail, but considering the fact that Harry had told her about it while they had been lying in bed together after a particularly draining round of love making during which he'd made her come an alarming five times, Ruth's recollections of the story were rather vague.
"It's not as if I told him to do it," Harry protested.
They all chuckled a bit at that, and the conversation lapsed once more. So far they had been doing quite well at avoiding those tense little silences, but to a person they were rapidly running out of topics to discuss.
"So, are you two planning to get married?" Catherine asked after a time, watching them carefully over the rim of her wine glass. She was one cool customer, was Harry's daughter; Ruth got the sense that the girl had been waiting for the pair of them to let their guard down, to relax and open up to her before she sprang the trap.
"We haven't really discussed it," Ruth answered carefully, not wanting to go into the details of Harry's two wildly different proposals. "We've decided that it would be best for all of us if we lived together, once the baby comes, and we've started work on the nursery."
"Can I see it?" Catherine asked eagerly.
"I'm afraid there's not much to see at present," Harry told her truthfully. "The furniture will be delivered next weekend. Maybe you can come back, once we have everything set up."
He sounded so bloody hopeful, and Ruth's heart went out to him. The love he had for the peanut was no more and no less than the love he bore for Catherine, both of them his daughters, his little girls, so near and dear to his heart, and Ruth knew that Harry dearly wished to find a way to bring Catherine back into his life. They'd made progress, the two of them, in the years since the November Committee incident, but Harry had confided to Ruth that before they'd met for coffee all those weeks ago, Harry had only seen his daughter in person twice, and one of those time has been when he'd gone to fetch her from a Hezbollah hospital after she'd very nearly gotten herself killed. His invitation, as innocuous as it seemed, was his attempt at bringing them together again, and she hoped for his sake that it would work.
"I'd like that," Catherine said. "Have you chosen a name?"
At this Harry and Ruth exchanged a rueful look. Harry was stuck on Sophia, Ruth changed her mind on an almost hourly basis, and they were still no closer to finding a name for the peanut.
"I'll take that as a no," Catherine laughed.
How very like Harry she was, Ruth mused. The girl was insightful and perceptive, and she had quickly learned how to translate their poignant little glances, immediately grasping this unspoken method of communication that served them so well. No one else had ever quite worked out their private language, but it seemed fitting that Harry's daughter would see straight through their attempt at being discrete.
"Oh, Christ is that the time?" Catherine exclaimed suddenly, having taken the lull in conversation as an opportunity to glance at her mobile. "I'm so sorry, I have to go meet Fabian." She rose from the table in a hurry, and Harry and Ruth followed suit, though Ruth was moving much, much slower.
"Bring him with you, the next time you come round," Harry suggested, standing there rather awkwardly with his hands swinging uselessly by his side. From just one look Ruth could tell he very much wanted to embrace his daughter, but he was holding himself back, unsure how such a gesture might be received.
"I will," Catherine promised. She hesitated for a moment, and then hugged him quickly.
"It was lovely to meet you Ruth," she said as her father gruffly ushered her towards the door.
"And you," Ruth replied earnestly.
She heard Harry and Catherine speaking quietly to one another, heard the door open and shut, and all the while she stood in the kitchen, staring at her flowers and smiling softly to herself. She had met Harry's daughter, and it hadn't been a total disaster.
Imagine that, she thought.
Two warm, strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and she smiled as she felt Harry's hands come to rest against her stomach, felt his lips make contact with her neck.
"Stay with me?" he murmured.
"Of course," she said. "Darling."
