A/N: Ok, here we go, chapter 41 redux. For those of you who managed to read this chapter before it was taken down yesterday, most of this will seem familiar, but it is fundamentally different, and I hope it works better for the changes.
Supper wasn't too badly burned, in the end. Harry managed to salvage most of it, pouring the vegetables and the chicken and the sauce he'd prepared over little bowls of rice, and setting the lot of it on the table for them to eat. He poured them each a glass of water, and they ate with gusto, speaking little. There was still a delicate sort of tension in the air; while they had addressed some of their more immediate concerns, Ruth knew there was much left to be said. Harry still had questions to ask her, and she had answers still to give. Just the thought of explaining herself, her reasons for leaving him that night, made her heart flutter in her chest and set her hands to shaking; how would he respond, if he knew what she'd really been thinking? For just a little while he'd held her in his arms tonight, and she didn't want to lose that closeness with him again, so soon after having rediscovered it.
She needed to give voice to her doubts, put a name to her fears, and she knew she owed it to him, to see this through to its conclusion. Over the many years of their acquaintance, they had developed a bond of trust, built up a reliance on one another that was rather surprising, all things considered. She had come to him as an interloper, a sheep sent to spy among the wolves. She had been young, and hopeful, and scared, and naïve, a million different things all at once. And Harry had been Harry, steadfast and sure, intimidating as a boxer, powerful and almost all-knowing, in her eyes. That they had ever come to trust one another at all was a miracle in itself, but over the years that trust had grown into something more. He told her things, not just about work, but about himself, gave her little pieces of his heart for safekeeping. Harry was every inch the fearless leader, and never the sort to advertise his misgivings, but he confided in her, because underneath it all he was still just a man, and he needed reassurance, from time to time. Ruth for her part had reveled in his confidence, and sought with her every word and deed to be worthy of his faith in her.
And now here they sat, all these years later, older and wiser and sadder and just a little broken, bound together in a way that defied all explanation. Yes, she owed him her truth, because he had entrusted her with his own long ago.
As they finished their meal, and Harry gathered their bowls and cutlery, telling her quietly to sit, to relax and let him do the washing up, she could almost see the wheels in his head turning. Is now the time? She imagined him asking himself. He was always so careful, was Harry, ever the skillful interrogator, waiting for his moment, choosing his words and his tone with precision. This wasn't an interrogation, however; this was their life, and she needed Home Harry now. Grid Harry would have to wait.
"Ask me what you want to ask me, Harry," she said softly, watching him intently.
He tensed for a moment, his back to her as he washed the dishes, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the powerful muscles in his forearms bunching and flexing with each move of his hands. Ruth loved his arms, loved the feel of them wrapped around her, loved the way they supported him as he moved over her, loved the way they anchored her when she curled up against his chest to sleep, loved feeling his quiet strength when she wrapped her hands around them and clung to him in her passion and her fear. He had lovely arms, did Harry; lovely arms, and lovely hands, a lovely smile, and a lovely soul. While she waited for his answer she kept her gaze focused on his arms, and tried to focus on all those fond feelings, rather than allow herself to be washed away by her own misgivings.
"Why did you leave?" he asked her finally, his words soft and uncertain. "I thought things were going rather well, and then I woke up, and you were gone."
For almost a week Ruth had been trying to prepare herself for this question, and yet she still could not quite find the words. Where should she begin? Should she go all the way back, to losing her father, to coming home one Christmas to discover that her mother was going to remarry, that she was about to have a brother, that she was about to be ripped away from the boarding school that had become her home, and forced to fit into the cookie-cutter family her mother was hell-bent on molding them all into? How could she explain the panic attacks that had paralyzed her during her teenage years, or the nightmare that was Peter? Every choice she'd ever made, in her personal life, had been built on a foundation of anxiety, always going for the path of least resistance, performing an in-depth risk analysis every time some bloke asked her for a drink, and she rebelled at the very idea of sharing any of this with someone else.
Breathe, and take it slow, she told herself. It was the same advice every psychologist she'd been forced to see from the time she was eleven years old had given her.
"It wasn't your fault," she began haltingly. Almost immediately she stopped herself, and added, "well, not entirely your fault."
Harry had turned around, waiting for her answer, and he was leaning back against the sink now, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes soft and open as he watched her. For a moment she allowed her gaze to flick up to those eyes, and took some strength from the compassion she found there. She could not keep up the contact for more than an instant, however; she'd never been this honest with anyone before, not ever, and she worried she would not find the courage to continue, if she faced him for too long.
"I felt trapped, Harry. I'd just met your daughter, and I'm about to have your baby, and I was lying in your bed, under your arm, and you'd called me darling and I just felt…trapped."
"Ruth-"
She held up her hand to stop him. "Please, Harry, let me say this. I know you didn't mean anything by it. That was a strange night, and we were all a little uncomfortable, I think." She took a deep breath, waiting for another interruption, but none came. Do it, do it now, before you lose your nerve.
"I was fourteen, when Mum married David and he and Peter moved into our house."
Whatever Harry had been expecting, it clearly wasn't this. His expression had clouded for a moment, at the mention of Peter's name. They'd never discussed Peter, not really. In fact, Ruth could only recall two occasions during which he'd ever factored into a conversation; the day she'd gone to ask Harry for leave to attend Peter's funeral, and the day that Angela Wells held them all captive on the Grid. That was it, no more and no less. Ruth knew there was a brief note about Peter in her file, and she knew that Harry had read it. Step-brother, Peter Haig, officer in the Royal Protection Unit. Haig passed all requisite background checks. Involved in domestic disturbance incident at Miss Evershed's home on the night of April 29, 1995, no charges filed.
"Peter was always very…protective, of me. He was two years older, but we went to the same schools, knew all the same people. At first, I thought it was normal, I thought he was just trying to play the part of the dutiful older brother…" her voice trailed off as her stomach clenched in fear. Even now, all these years later, just thinking about him made her break out in a cold sweat and start looking for an exit. "I couldn't do anything without him hearing about it, and he would get so cross, when he found out I was seeing someone. And then there was Blackpool."
Silence reigned, again, as Ruth lost herself in her memories, and in the twisted version of events she'd told to Angela in a desperate gamble to save all their lives.
Angela had always been suspicious of the relationship between Ruth and Peter. Funny, that a woman as bold and strong and self-assured as Angela bloody Wells would see meek, mousy little Ruth as a threat, but she had. Perhaps Peter had talked about her, when he drank too much (which was often); perhaps Angela had drawn her own conclusions on the very few occasions (two) she'd had the opportunity to observe them together; perhaps she was just a paranoid bitch. Whatever the reason, Angela had sensed that all was not well between them, and she had loathed Ruth for it. And it was that loathing that had brought her down in the end, the very idea that it was Peter who pined for Ruth, rather than the other way around, that made Angela crumble like a piece of ancient parchment paper. Even knowing what had come after, Ruth still believed that Angela's breakdown was real. She had to believe that, had to believe she hadn't given away a piece of her own humanity for nothing.
"Our parents were fighting, and it was miserable, in that house. I remember it was winter, maybe Christmas; mum always has a hard time at Christmas. I was seventeen, and by that point I knew that what Peter felt for me wasn't…normal. I knew he loved me, or he thought he did, but I was young and I wanted to escape for a little while, so I went with him. That day, when Angela…I told you that I lied to her, about sleeping with Peter. It wasn't a lie, Harry."
She paused here for a moment, and studied his face. Ever the spook, he kept his expression guarded, even from her, no sign of his reaction to this news playing on his features. Fear gripped her, but she continued on, determined to tell him everything, no matter the cost.
"I did sleep with him. Not just once. I don't know how many times. We stayed in Blackpool for a fortnight, until his money ran out and I got scared. He was talking about how we ought to run away together, change our names and get married, and I realized then what a mistake I'd made. I always cared for Peter, and he had made himself indispensable to me. I couldn't imagine going on without him, but he wanted to take away my life, my freedom, my future. He was so angry…" Memories overwhelmed her, as the sound of her own voice faded.
At seventeen, Ruth had been young and shy and uncertain, and Peter had meant everything to her. That he had loved her, that he had wanted her in that way, seemed like a miracle to her, this girl who had never really felt special before, and for two short weeks she had lost herself in the fantasy of being loved. While it was happening, those days spent with him had seemed so precious, a beautiful, delicate gift. He was the first man she'd ever slept with, the first to show her all the ways a body could give and receive such great pleasure, and she had basked in his attention. And then the penny dropped, and real life came crashing in. She'd thought they could continue on, once they came home, thought that things could still be the same, but then Peter had told her how he longed to take her away, how in the life he'd build for them she would never go to Oxford, never see the world, but stay in his house and raise his babies. Peter had shattered the dream that was Blackpool, and plunged her into a nightmare.
All too clearly she recalled the hurt in his eyes, those eyes as soft and brown as Harry's; all too clearly she recalled the sharp pain of his fist, colliding with her cheek. Peter only struck her once, and he never stopped apologizing for it, the whole way back from Blackpool, but the damage was done. In that one moment he had revealed himself to her, had shown her that to him she was a possession, a pretty thing put on the earth for his enjoyment, with no right to control her own life.
"What did he do, Ruth?" Harry asked her, not unkindly.
"He hit me," she answered slowly. "That's not the issue here, Harry, don't you see? For years he had done everything he could to make sure that I needed him, that I couldn't do anything without him. Peter had these mad ideas, this fantasy of the life we could have together, and he was furious when he realized it was never meant to be."
Do you understand, Harry? She wondered. Would he make her say it? They were so very different, Harry and Peter, but there were times when Ruth was frightened that Harry, like Peter, had grander dreams for them, and that in those dreams she was caged, held captive to someone else's desires. The very thought of it made her skin crawl. Harry wanted to marry her, move her into his house, raise their child together, and though rationally she knew that he wasn't Peter, there was a small, frightened part of her that wanted only to run. The fact that she had spent a fortnight in Blackpool with Peter before it all fell apart, and that history had repeated that particular cycle with Harry, was not lost on her. They had reached the breaking point tonight; they would wake up together tomorrow, or never again.
"When we came home, our parents had made up, and I was set to go to Oxford in just a few months. They were the worst months of my life, really, staying in that house with him, but when it was time for me to go, I never looked back. I promised myself I would never, ever let anyone else have that kind of power over me. For a while things were all right, and I thought I'd put all behind me, until…"
"Your twenty-fifth birthday," Harry prompted. He hadn't left his post by the sink, was still just watching and waiting, listening intently to all she had to tell him. In a way she was grateful he had kept his distance; it was easier to tell this story to the table, rather than to his face.
"I was seeing Gary Hicks at the time, and Peter showed up, piss drunk and angrier than I'd ever seen him. I don't know, to this day, how he found out where I lived. They fought in the street like a pair of teenagers. The police came, but I managed to keep everything rather quiet. After that, I stopped going home at the holidays, I stopped speaking to David, I moved, and I only saw Peter a handful of times, before he…"
While she'd been speaking her voice kept fading in and out, but she knew that Harry would be able to fill in the gaps on his own. They always did that for one another, picked up the thread where the other left off, worked together to paint the full picture. Surely that was enough for now, she thought, staring glumly at her hands folded in her lap. Before he killed himself, was how that sentence ended, and even now, all these years later, Ruth felt the sharp sting of guilt over her stepbrother's death. Peter had always had a streak of darkness in him, but she had always wondered, would always wonder, what would have happened if she had never given into her need for him in Blackpool. If he had never had a taste of what they could have been together, would losing her have hurt him so badly? She'd been young and naive and scared, teetering on the edge of adulthood, looking a world of possibility in the face, never realizing the damage her heart could cause. Maybe Peter's death had nothing to do with her, or maybe it had everything to do with her, and she would never know for sure. And so she carried on, his death just another chain around her neck, dragging her under.
Ruth had never told this story to anyone, had never shared this piece of herself, frightened of the truth of it. She knew what people would say, upon learning that she'd slept with her stepbrother, willingly, that she had crossed that unspeakable line. At the time she had been young, and so dependent on him; it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be doing, and then it all fell apart.
"What about your parents?" Harry asked gently, and Ruth fought the urge to laugh aloud at the very thought.
"My mum was furious with me, and she told me that if I tried to tell David what had happened she'd cut me off, make sure I never got into Oxford. She wasn't about to let me break up her happy family." That was one of many, many reasons Ruth had never really trusted her mother; even now, after so much time had passed, knowing that her mother was slowly fading away before her very eyes, she could not find much affection for the woman in her heart. Guilt overwhelmed her at the very thought; what sort of daughter didn't love her own mother? The sort who's been hurt one too many times.
For a long time Harry stood still as a statue, trying to digest Ruth's words. From the moment her file had first come across his desk he'd been curious about her connection to Peter Haig; the man's name was well known, in certain circles, as he had been something of a degenerate and a rabble rouser, and romantically involved with one of Harry's own agents to boot. Rage overwhelmed him, at the thought of what that prick had done to Ruth, but her story brought with it a certain clarity, too. Her hesitancy towards him, when it came to their personal relationship, her intense desire for privacy and her desperate need to follow her own path all made a certain amount of sense, in context. He'd always been protective of her, himself, and he was in a position to wield a great deal of power over her professionally; the fact that she had ever allowed him into her life at all seemed remarkable, given what she'd been through.
A wave of guilt crashed over him, as he realized the position he'd inadvertently put her in. Finding herself pregnant with his child meant that she was tied to him in a way, and he understood now how she could feel trapped by it. And then he'd gone and put a trace on her mobile; Christ, how must that have terrified her? How could he have done that to her? Earlier in the night he'd told her wouldn't apologize for it, and now all he wanted was to fall to his knees at her feet, and beg her forgiveness.
"Say something, please?" she asked him in a small, unsteady voice, and he shook himself out of his reverie. He knew what it must have cost her, to share this with him, and he knew that she had placed a great responsibility on his shoulders. So much seemed to hang on how he answered her now, and he prayed he wouldn't make the wrong move.
He crossed the kitchen and sat down beside her, taking one of her hands in his own.
"Thank you," he said softly, "for telling me. I hate that you've had to carry this burden all these years, and I'm sorry for frightening you."
Her eyes were huge and shiny with tears, and it took everything he had to keep from pulling her into his arms. In this moment that was likely the last thing she needed; Ruth longed, in her heart, to be free, and he did not want her to feel as if his arms were chains, binding her to him.
"I know you aren't like him, Harry," she said quickly, using her free hand to dash away the tears that stained her cheeks. "I just get scared, sometimes."
"That's ok," he told her, keeping his voice warm and low. "If you need space, or time, take all that you need. Just, please, let me know you're all right. I don't need to know where you are or what you're doing every minute of every day, I just need to know that you're well."
Ruth nodded, having apparently lost her voice altogether. I love you, he thought, not for the first time, not even for the hundredth. This was not the moment for such a declaration, he knew, but he thought it just the same, hoping she could feel his love for her in the touch of his hand. And oh but he loved her, loved her when she was scared and when she was brave, loved her when she was angry and when she was glad, loved her when she was impassioned and loved her when she was soft and gentle from sleep. Every shattered piece of him loved every broken piece of her, and he hoped that in the sharing of those pieces they might find a way to continue on, together.
"So you see," she continued after a time, still staring at their fingers, intertwined and resting against Harry's thigh. "I don't like feeling as if I don't have a choice. It was easy for me to be with George, to live with him, because he didn't expect anything from me, and I could leave any time I chose. I had cash and fake passports and I was already living under a false name; he was never, ever going to know the real me, and I thought that meant he couldn't hurt me. But you…" Somehow telling him this was even harder than telling him about Peter. The words stuck in her throat, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth. You're nearly done, she told herself. Nearly there. "You know every part of me, Harry. You could…break me, so easily, and sometimes, that scares me."
Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking and she couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes, but somehow she felt better for having said those words aloud. Just admitting to him the fears that kept her up at night, the depth of her feelings for him, made her feel as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Whatever he said now, he would know the truth of her, and that deep, soul-bearing honesty made her feel almost clean.
"Ruth," he said her name in a voice so low and soft that she could not help but turn her gaze to his face. He called to her, the sound of his voice a siren song she could not ignore. For a moment she waited for him to speak, waited to hear some recrimination, some reassurance, some…something, but he looked as if words were quite beyond him. He leaned across the space between them and brushed her lips with his, just for a moment. "You know me, Ruth," he said finally. "You know me as no one else ever has, and as much as you think I may have the power to hurt you, please understand you hold that same power over me. Perhaps we just need to-"
"Trust each other?" she supplied helpfully, offering him a tired little smile. He returned her smile in kind, and she felt her panic begin to fade. She had told Harry the truth, all of it, had laid her heart bare before him, and he had not been cross. He had not been cross or cruel or scolding; he had been honest, too.
The peanut gave a furious little kick, just then, and Ruth took Harry's hand, still clutched inside her own, and pressed it against her belly without a word. His smile grew, when he felt their daughter move.
"Hello, little one," he said softly, leaning close to her bump. "Were you feeling left out, my love?"
My love. Tears filled Ruth's eyes once more, at the sound of those words coming from Harry. She was safe here with him, and he loved their daughter, who was even now doing her damnedest to make her presence known. So much had happened tonight; Ruth felt completely drained, but lighter too, for having made her confession.
Harry did not remove his hand from her body, even after the peanut stopped moving, but Ruth didn't mind. After all they had shared she liked being this close to him, longed to be closer still. And so, once, more she drew in a deep breath, and took a chance.
"Take me to bed, Harry," she said softly.
He smiled and kissed her forehead once before rising from his chair to the sound of his knee cracking. Poor old Harry, she thought fondly. He was a bit battered, her Harry, like a ship after a storm, but he was solid through and through. Without a word he led her from the kitchen, his fingers still laced with hers, and all their doubts and all their fears fell away with every step they took.
