I've always felt that the connection between Ruth and Harry, particularly when Juliet asks if he was in love with her, came on suddenly, and lacked the necessary foundation on screen. Where did she come up with that idea? So, I've tried to provide those things unsaid and not provided, background foundation, which makes such a question asked a bit more feasible, to me anyway. To that end, I have taken liberties, and hope that my efforts prove a genuinely believable interpretation for y'all to try on. Such is the way of things when two actors decide on a direction which is not what the writers had in mind. This chapter follows directly from the last, and continues in the vein of stream of consciousness, Harry POV. Please enjoy...

"Like a soul without a mind

In a body without a heart

I'm missing every part..."

-Massive Attack, Unfinished Sympathy

"Why'd ya do it she said, why'd you let her suck your cock?

Oh, do me a favor, don't put me in the dark

Why'd ya do it, she said, they're mine all your jewels,

You just tied me to the mast of the ship of fools"

-Marianne Faithfull, Why'd Ya Do It?

John Fortescue. Just the thought of his name sets his teeth on edge. She had begun concentrating on audio surveillance, more so than what was customary, enough that he had noticed, which in itself indicative of just how much of his time was occupied by thoughts of her, what she was doing, where was she spending her time. It felt as though he possessed an internal homing beacon solely dedicated to Ruth, and her whereabouts. He smiles to himself, content, the effects of the connection, rather than fading, have enhanced with the passage of time, a soothing consistency in his otherwise unpredictable existence. Even then, rather than unnerving, suffocating, he found his ability to hone in on her comforting, that at any point in the day he knew, intuitively, where she was located, and could, should the urge strike, find her. And he did, more often than not, drawn to her side like a magnet, needing to be near her. For the most part, he observed her covertly, and began to feel nearer to her, closer to her, whilst compiling mental lists of her tendencies, her particular idiosyncratic collection of tells and characteristics, both physical and emotional, all compiling the fascinating creature he had found himself incapable of ignoring. Resigned to appreciating her from the distance their situation demanded, he was nevertheless struck by the thought he had not, nor had Juliet, observed any such distance those many years ago, and as he sits, observing passerby, wishes not for the first time, that he had. Hindsight, he thinks, makes an ass of us all. The cataclysmic fallout from that liaison is something he wears everyday, as one would a hair shirt, uncomfortable, designed to torture the mind, if not just the body.

It's not as though the situation had not arisen before. Spies believing they have fallen in love with an asset, someone they handle, manipulate, monitor. It had happened to him. Twice. That Ruth had fallen into the fantasy so many before her had should not have been surprising. Her introverted and shy nature was ripe for just such a situation, and her daily responsibilities provided an easy, accessible opportunity. Perhaps his much younger self reminded him more of Ruth than he care to admit, though they could not have been more different, more opposite in character make up. Despite his inherent dislike of Americans, crass and boorish buffoons, all, as far as he could tell, Jim Croaver had managed to penetrate his natural animosity, and they had formed a bond between them, one which survived their differing goals throughout their coordinated efforts in Europe. The fact that he was married did little to curb his satisfactions, an array of young and nubile creatures only too willing to buy his proffered legends, only too willing to acquiesce, his cock only too willing to comply. It became a game, and he shakes his head at the foolishness of it all now, the reprehensible nature of it, the shallow depth and meaning, the story it tells of him, who he was, and, truth told, who he could easily be again. Women have never been a problem in the sense of fucking them, and though he may presently be in the midst of middle age, women continue, with regularity, to throw themselves at him, his natural charm and charisma, coupled with his position of power, if they knew, was, apparently, an irresistible combination, one he, on occasion, had been keen to take advantage of. Before Ruth, he admits, chuckling at how deeply she had managed to take hold, her absence at his side during these excursions into empty sexual conquests becoming the very presence that put a halt to them. So prolific sexually, he had little difficulty seducing assets and colleagues alike, and never bothered to pause in reflection, never bothered to ask of himself why? Always pushing the envelope, always needing that next high, that next rush, a consummate addict and spy, it became a game of one-upmanship between them, and while it was understood, then, he was the victor, he had simultaneously only begun to lose the war.

It is true that he'd engaged in a volatile and passionate affair with Juliet Shaw, his then boss, his frequent opponent, his enthusiastic lover. What is not well known is, simultaneous, he was carrying on an affair with Elena Gavrick, an asset. It was, in Jim's estimation, a state of convoluted circumstance which vaulted him beyond simple charismatic lucky guy into dedicated lothario, worthy of envy as so many openly coveted his lauded skills. The rumors, whispers spoken even as he passes today, are, for the most part, true, though some are so fantastically embellished upon, he wonders, in his more sardonic moments, if he had missed some opportunity for improvement.

It was his continuing affair with Juliet that destroyed his marriage, though in his heart he knew it was over the moment he waited until after he had married Jane to tell her of his impending career in the security services. And, while he had loved her, cared for her, the guilt he felt for betraying her between every pair of legs that parted for his pleasure never reached that level of soul crushing, knee buckling despondency which would have caused him to stop. That came later, when she took his children from him, when he, as a matter of course, ignored his outright refusal to give up the security life, give up the active ops in Europe, give anything up for the love of something beyond himself. Two children he couldn't have and, it appears, one he won't have, the sum of his skill as a man, discarded women, discarded spouse and children, divorce, but one hell of an agent, legendary, one of the best. And alone. Alone even in another woman's bed, a pull from some nameless pub, empty, hollow...he deserved as much.

Presently, he's come to understand that all Jane had ever wanted of him, besides the obvious dedication to marital vows, was to be seen by him, for him to truly know her, separate from himself, separate from their union, an entity unto herself, independent, with all that entails. But he, a motherless child of a drunken father, an adrenaline addict, a masterful Mr. Shadow, too poorly prepared for human interaction, companionship beyond what satisfies in the periphery, failed to know how. An honest failure, but failure just the same, and one he has only recently, with Catherine, made the attempt to address and rectify. They were always, Jane, Catherine and Graham, to him, an extension of himself, indistinguishable from him, and thus, or so he thought, would always be with him. That he had become, in his hubris, his belief that they were an indistinguishable part of one another, a younger, colder, absentee father, a darker mirror image of his own, is his worst failing to date, a gut punch that never wanes, never heals, never weakens. He loves his children, but readily accepts he does not know them, not the faintest flicker of knowledge, and they love him, but no longer want to know him.

Helpless, his life coming full circle, he been allowed, with John Bloody Fortescue, a taste, just the barest hint of what Jane must have felt knowing he was fucking another woman, someone he associated with during his workday, someone he was with as she sat waiting, her imagination becoming her willing enemy, her vows to him her curse. And as he watched as Ruth began to physically yearn, her emotions playing across her face, for something beyond herself, beyond the solitude, he couldn't help but reflect on how similar it must have felt to his children, yearning for him, companionship, wanting to believe, as she must, that they were worthy of such simplicities afforded everyone else they laid their eyes on, yet, without explanation, denied them. He had been curious, initially, thinking that she would tire of the exercise, tire of the sense of wishes unfulfilled, of distance insurmountable, in essence, give up, and to his mind, return to him, devote thoughts of that nature to him. Ridiculous, foolish old man, but it is what he had hoped. He knew, to his shame, the road she was embarking on, the consequences, the pain and emptiness, the idea that one could forge a relationship with someone else while never once revealing themselves from the shadows, never once dropping the mask, that way madness lay. And regret, a lifetime of regret. When Malcolm had mentioned having provided the documents to Ruth I had requested over the weekend, I knew, immediately, that she had lied, her duplicity and skill underestimated by everyone, save Adam and myself, and thus, who wouldn't have believed her? Seething at her audacity, nevertheless, I was torn between pride in her skill, and fury at her escalating attachment to this Fortescue. Rationalizing my feelings of rejection, I embarked on an elaborate game, one which I hoped would both teach her a lesson, and, in my darkest, malignant heart, hurt her. But hurting her, my heart screamed, wasn't enough. I had to break her on the rack of experience, teach her never to underestimate how very deeply I understood what it is that we do, everyday, and thus, reveal how excruciatingly hateful I could be.

So full of spite he had difficulty breathing, he had handled it badly, truth be told. She had accused him of cowardice at the conclusion of her reprimand, and she was right. It could have been simple, succinct, water under the bridge as this situation was by no means equal to the betrayal she committed in reporting activities to secure her secondment. By comparison, it was rather innocent in an endearingly lonely way. Except to him. To him, her attraction to Fortescue was a betrayal of him, and his growing fascination with her. That she was becoming likewise fascinated with another, acting on it, was, well, intolerable to him, and his admittedly irrational response was to spy on the spy, made all the worse for corrupting her colleagues against her.

He could have stopped it early. He could have addressed her breaking protocols, but curiosity got the better of him. In truth, he wanted to know how far she would go, how far would she take it? Would she meet him, date him, sleep with him, honestly fall in love with him? What legend would she use, and for how long, would she submit the Permission to Socialize for his approval? Would she, in fact, follow through, or cut bait and run? Did she, in her naiveté, believe that any relationship embarked on in this way, the foundation a crumbling mass of fabrications and lies, would stand the test of time, let alone the inevitable moment when all was confessed? Did she believe this Fortescue was something she could effectively test drive as one would a car, deciding after a taste if one wished to make a genuine offer? Hadn't Jane screamed much the same to him? Tears streaming down her face when he would come home stinking of another woman's perfume, another woman's sex, Juliet's scent? Why, Harry, just tell me why? Am I not enough, are we not enough? How could he tell her that no, they weren't enough, she and the children would never be enough, and in the telling make it real? Worse still, confess that he didn't even know what enough looked like, what it felt like, that he needed so much, needed to breathe, needed to forget the ugliest things ever imagined burned into his memory, that to touch her was to infect her, that she wasn't what he wanted, maybe never wanted because she needed him to be who he was not, could never be, for her, for them? That the parade of women never asked anything beyond his cock, the satisfaction found in the simple, hard thrusts, easier because it was artificial, because it was disingenuous, because he wasn't actually there. He could bloody breathe. How do you tell another the truth of your counterfeit soul, that you are, in essence, , not here, not there, not anywhere, and then ask them, expect them to forgive?

She wanted to breathe, he knew, he understood, palpable as a heartbeat. Ruth wanted to feel, hidden in the shadows, and she wanted to erase what she knew to be true, of herself, of the species...she wanted. He loved her for it, the symmetry, as much as he hated and damned her for the same. He saw himself, he saw his vulnerability, and he wanted her to hurt for not recognizing the same in him, bloody bastard that he was...and is. And is.

So it was with a divided and slightly guilty conscience that he entrusted Sam to monitor Ruth's actions, who, in turn, co-opted Malcolm, each encouraging her to continue while reporting every development, every action, back to him. Sam suspected, he is certain, it was more than simply Harry wanting to make some demonstrably authoritative point with Ruth. On the rooftop, even as he tried to appear casual, proffering an air of oh you silly, naive girl, Ruth, fortified with a rare chuckle, she had, nevertheless, stared at him a bit too long, gauging his reaction to her assertions, and he knew he was beginning to unravel, refusing to either look at her, or dismiss her, lest he completely give himself away. Sam, far more observant than given credit, watching Danny pine for Zoe, waiting, always waiting for him to notice her adoration, professing to be uncomfortable with her role in the game, but the twinkle in her eye giving her away, her excitement at being taken into his confidence, and another weaker subject for him to victimize. Malcolm was another story altogether. His facial expressions never wavered from contemplative indifference, but he knew Malcolm was suspicious of his motives, the lengths he was going to, the simplicity that could be afforded the situation altogether, apparently, not in the offing. He is half convinced that, when push came to shove, Malcolm performed as requested to better keep abreast of what exactly was going on, and his offer to pose as Ruth's brother solidified, for him, the very real possibility that Malcolm would, if necessary, do what was required to protect Ruth from him. Admirable, certainly, but not something for which he was going to thank him, proving yet another obstacle in an already obstacle littered arena. Both Malcolm and Sam had dutifully reported the details regarding the scratch requiem, and to this very day, both remain unaware of the necessity, he had already known all there was to know. He had spooked the spooks, neither Ruth, nor Malcolm, or so he had thought, aware of his presence, hidden, ever watchful, a serpent coiled in the darkness, the uninvited toxin.

The details he remembered were of a sort that foretold heartache inasmuch as the possibility of companionship, his imagination running riot over his common sense. He knew, for example, what she looked like in her dress, lovely, form fitting, understated, altogether enchanting. He knew what she looked like as she lost herself in the music, joining and gradually blooming whilst surrounded by voices, joined in purpose, a single entity of which she was invited to become a part. He knew, from the dark recesses beyond, what she looked like as she gazed at the object of her infatuation. The open adoration, the nervous gestures so familiar to him, the glances afforded to her by Fortescue had filled him with an almost violent jealousy. His resentment flourished, his realization that while he had wanted her to push her structured routine, her self imposed limitations and boundaries, that she had chosen to do exactly that with another, when he had handed her the opportunity, he had allowed her to flex and stretch, to realize her brilliant potential, his agent, his prodigy,...he hated her for it. That he had been the masterful puppeteer, orchestrating from the start, served only to stoke the fires of his rejection, his ever present resentments. He hated her for the weakness she stirred in him, the hopes she generated in him, the affection he felt for her, his reactions and distractions because of her fueling a livid fury, irrational, toxic, building, waiting to hurt, wanting expression despite the consequences, once done, impossible to turn back. He hated, most of all, that he was hidden, compelled to attend, an uninvited usurper incapable of turning away, needing to watch her, needing to hear her, needing...her. His curiosities satisfied by his own design, his bitter pill to choke on. And he hated himself for hating her.

He took a perverse form of pleasure, therefore, in watching them as they walked along the fountain, reading the body language, knowing she was collapsing, understanding that Fortescue was too unsure to push her, and as they parted, he to his solitude, and she to resume hers, Harry truly understood what manipulative, self serving, corrosive son of a bitch he had become, an acknowledgement that, however honest and necessary, left him reeling. And angry, furious with himself, and livid with her that she should stir him in such a way, that she should affect him, that he would want her to continue doing so, turning himself into his own most formidable opponent.

His fury still simmering, unresolved, he conducted himself in an admittedly shameful manner following, and she called him heartless, a coward. That he had wanted, in that reprimand, the very same answers Jane had wanted, from her, was another moment of prophetic symmetry experienced. Why, Ruth he had wanted to ask. Tell me what you want, and I will tell you all the ways I yearn to satisfy, list every moment I have felt the same, every reason you should succumb to me, be with me, breathe with me, always. He is a coward, of course, not least because he waited until she stormed away to quietly admit, albeit to an empty room, that he was not heartless. He had orchestrated this elaborate farce for her own good, he told himself, rationalizing every action, decision, manipulation. That she was fast becoming the reason his heart continued to pump, that it was because he cared for her that he remained distant, despite the thought of her with anyone else sending him into paroxysms of frustration and "what if" tortures scenarios, his imagination unleashed to explore every painful detail. Because, he knew, to indulge in anything further would sully her, would taint her, like Jane, and she would regret never being clean again. Unlike Jane, he realized, she had become that thing, that one thing he could, in all his life and experience, sacrifice for, and in the sacrifice, become whole. Did he love her? Did he simply crave the similarities found within her, and, thus, crave himself in the same self absorbed manner which characterized his younger days? Was she common ground, mirrored symmetry, simply another extension of himself, as Jane was, as his children were, or does he see her as a separate, independent entity worthy of affection, devotion, love in her own right? He couldn't answer then, though he knows the answer now, feels it in his bones, his shifting of perspective, seeing with the eyes of age and experience, feeling with the heart of an aged and damaged man.

Harry, I'm concerned about you, what with Tom and...all that has happened. Do you understand what you are doing, what you are starting. With Ruth Malcolm had asked, late, after Ruth had left the grid, after he had exposed himself a fraud during the reprimand.

Foolish to have thought he could game his own agents, but regarding Malcolm, more so the fool. Malcolm, who had sat sentinel, a quiet observer to the better portion of his time at Five, who knew, better than anyone currently present his considerable failings, liaisons, encumbered conscience. He had, to his credit, waited until the grid was all but deserted to enter his office, confessing his knowledge that he was at the requiem, demanding, albeit in his signature unassuming Malcolm way, what he thought he was playing at? He had made to rebuke him, a full throated, volatile rebuke, and as Malcolm had simply raised his hand, waving away his denials like so much smoke, he had, uncharacteristically, backed down, simply facing him, waiting for the judgements and recriminations. Instead, much to his surprise, and in his heart, relief, Malcolm had simply sipped the whiskey he had offered him, using the time in preparation to collect his thoughts, manipulative as clockwork, and waited for what he would offer by way of explanation, if at all inclined.

"I'm drawn to her," was the extent of what he offered, and Malcolm only nodded his understanding as though he was validating a fact Malcolm had long since drawn, and had reconciled himself to.

"She is an exceptionally well suited match, it seems," after a moment, looking into his tumbler, "It's been some time for you..."

"Yes..." Moments pass in companionable silence, each of us contemplating the contents of our respective tumblers.

"Don't play her about, Harry. She is not someone...she is, well...she's alone, Harry. She's alone, and easy prey for someone with your...skills. See that you don't destroy the very thing you find so captivating about her, is all. I just...If it's just an infatuation, then, please, leave her be."

"And if it's more?"

"Is it?" Delving deep, he was, eyes sharp, keen to notice any falsehood, any artifice, any lie passing the lips of Mr. Shadow.

"I don't know. The thought of her with...if I'm honest, Malcolm, I don't know what I feel. I've never..." Sitting there, nursing the first of many drinks for the evening, he remembers being stunned, literally, that he would engage in the conversation, let alone admit to anything, least which having unresolved inclinations towards a subordinate to yet another subordinate, regardless of their history.

Setting his tumbler on the desk before him, Malcolm rose, comporting himself, and he knew the worst was in the offing, did what he was able to prepare and armor himself.

"Perhaps, before you continue further, you should know. For both your sakes."

With that parting comment, Malcolm left, but not without, however unobtrusively, making sure he knew that he would be watching, for any misstep, anything untoward, and he would, if needs must, chose to protect Ruth.

Malcolm, he had told himself, sitting in the quiet of his office, didn't see her as he did, as Adam did. Fragile, vulnerable, in need of protection, that was the sum total of Malcolm's evaluation. No, she was more than that, and he could have his picture of her, to caress and protect, but he would rather the truth of her, the warrior inside he knew was there, the passionate woman he saw, however fleetingly, surface as she sang, as she allowed herself to express who she was, without thought or inhibition. It would be their secret, he and Malcolm's, one of numerous secrets. Malcolm would not reveal to her that he was there, and he would not reveal to Ruth the extent of Malcolm's duplicity, nor desire to protect her from him. It would seem, he thinks now, falsified foundations have a tendency to metastasize, capturing the otherwise healthy surrounding environment, and corrupting it, killing it in the end.

And the niggling thought, the one that, for a time, came to the fore, demanding recognition as he faced himself in the mirror each morning, had Ruth's breach in protocol been simply the convenient excuse necessary to construct a legitimate, albeit secretive, means by which to follow her? An opportunity, as such, to stop wondering what she was doing, and actually observe her, in the flesh, in a house of God, as she reached for the same satisfactions he likewise yearned for? And every morning, without fail, he told himself that he, not John Bloody Fortescue, had a right to her, that only he would understand the complexities of their lives, the nature of their work, the nature of her. Only him. And thus, the malignancy grew, even as he lied to himself that he, like Malcolm, was only protecting her, saving her from the pain and regret, the inevitability of the path she had briefly walked, but for him, Mr. Shadow, longing, as it became clear, his immunity to the seductions of being seen by another having forsaken him.

Then, the unimaginable.

He knew, had always known, that those in the services were dispensable, an understood expectation of the job, lay your life down for the lives of others, sometimes hundreds of thousands of others. He had put whatever resentments he may have once fostered aside years ago, telling himself that one must choose their battles. Until, that is, Zoe was forced into exile as a sacrifice to public perception. The bitterness that her forced absence saved not one single life lives with him today, as does the loss of one who had become to him, in his own's absence, a surrogate daughter. She was an unnecessary sacrifice, and her absence was felt by all, inasmuch as one can mourn someone living, but for all practical purposes, dead to them, no one more than Danny. Adrift, Danny having lost both Tom and Zoe suddenly, became a sullen shell of who he once was, betrayed, resentful, angry. Yet, Ruth, in her patient way, managed to break through, managed to forge a bond with him fostering a growing friendship which would prove, had anyone had the gift of precognition, life saving. It was Danny that first raised the alarm of her uncharacteristic absence from the grid, his understanding her well enough to know she didn't know how to text, her acumen at intelligence gathering not extending to a mastery of advances in technological gadgetry. He remembers now the numerous times, after Zoe's absence, when Danny would tease Ruth, changing her ringtone to songs he knew would embarrass her, laugh at how she couldn't figure out how to delete her phone messages, leaving it full for days, and he envied the easy way they had with one another, familial in a way he had yet to breach with her. To say he was jealous would be accurate, if not wholly unflattering, indicative of his continued obsession.

It was, in the end, Danny who saved her, from Forestall, a man so gifted, so full of promise, so filled with bitterness that he would have sold the world to salve his wounds. They, he and Ruth, had known one another while both were at GCHQ, and it seemed to him, at the time, Forstall's interest had not waned. Her body language, much to his chagrin, seemed to mirror that interest, and his resentment at having virtually invited another rooster into the yard, no matter how well suited to solve the predicament a pharmaceutical hacker had plummeted all of London into, grew exponentially. Fortescue and Forestall, a refrain in his head, Malcolm's questions, his warnings, all a riotous noise, leaving him ill tempered and unusually curt. She had, it was believed, texted Sam of her sudden illness. Had he been of clearer mind, he would have seen the uncharacteristic nature of her sick out, and as Danny correctly asked of us all to name a time when Ruth had ever called out sick, he knew, in that moment, that he knew less about her than previously believed, that he didn't know her at all. As Danny volunteered the details in his debrief, he remembers thinking that this young man before him knew Ruth in a way he had not dared. Danny knew the person, he only the ideal of what he thought she was, of what he needed her to be, and were it not for Danny, his lack of understanding her could have nearly killed her. While he resented, yet envied Danny this gift, he was also, curiously, grateful, thankful that she was still alive, she was still a possibility, she was, in a word, knowable if he dared risk it. The malignancy in his heart, the seed planted before Tom left them, Adam's arrival, and Zoe's exile, breathed into his consciousness, but you are on the periphery, and you nearly got her killed. You have yet to answer the question, is she more than an infatuation? Is she your redemption or your undoing? Will you dare to find out?

Still he could not divine the answers, then, calm his mind as it is calmed now.

Aware of Malcolm's silent scrutiny, or, if he were honest, despite it, and having had a glimpse of Ruth off the grid, he found himself eager to manufacture any opportunity to spend time with her, even covertly, again. The mandated interview for the DG position, a position even he couldn't feign interest in, surrounded by politicos he openly held in distain, requiring he become, if successful, some bastardized Harry Pearce version of ineptitude and self aggrandizement was as fortuitous as crap timing, but afforded the perfect opportunity. Conspiring, his better angels quieted, he saw it as an opportunity to come between them, Danny and Ruth, to reveal himself in bits and pieces in allowing her to help him prepare, wide open in it's potential. Yet still, his lessons of the past seemingly lost to him, so egregiously about him, about what he wanted, that he wonders, now, how it was he didn't explode, implode, both, so stuffed full, so preening, so entitled, his face coloring with embarrassment, and he's momentarily thankful he had chosen to raise the privacy screen.

She approached the task, dogged and determined, and he found himself vacillating between wanting to be near her, and longing to hide, so penetrating were her inquiries, so voracious was her appetite for information, her need to know, her thirst for knowledge about him, the man, the sleeper inside. His inability to concentrate, yet unwilling to end the psychological examination, despite his discomfort, he had allowed Adam to determine the course of action, the interrogation of Robert Morgan, mercenary, and, as it later turned out, devoted father. Plausible deniability overlooks a great deal, useful, perhaps even indicative of his political suitability? But for her, but for her demand for answers, is there a line we do not cross?

Smiling from a school photo, the daughter of mercenary Robert Morgan, in need of an organ transplant, innocent, her face flushed with joy, her childlike trusting nature literally jumping off the page. "Are there some lines we don't cross," she had asked him, and he knew that it was a crossroads for him. The child had, likewise, pulled at his heart, and the decision made, the answer given would determine where he fell on her scale of ethics and morality. How far does one go in the name of Queen and Country? Do we use a child as a pawn and call that just? Do we, alternatively, admit having as a collective become the mirror image of what we fight against? He knew she felt a kinship with the girl, that she, too, had had too much on her plate as a child, too many adult issues coloring her young life, and understood that in sacrificing the child, Harry would prove, by correlation in her mind, willing to sacrifice Ruth as well. That she very nearly did not inform him of what she had uncovered suggested that she, too, did not want to know the answer, did not want to believe him capable, preferring those hard truths to remain floating in the ether of uncertainty, where hope lives, when one can more easily lie to oneself. The place is familiar to him, it's walls and comforts, the deceiver that wears a smile.

Proving more than capable, measuring sacrifice, deciding as would a god who lives today, and who may die all in the name of greater good, he had failed her, he and Adam both, spectacularly. She would have, he has little doubt, slept soundly were she to have chosen the child, secreting the information back from whence it came, despite the cost, regardless of lives lost. Measuring the sacrifice by perspective, sacrifice a child, or untold numbers, where does one fall, how does one decide? That they had used the child, that it had, in the end broken her father, another successful conclusion measured on an evolving scale of losses, made little difference. He has learned that you can do a thing, you can dress it up, you can rationalize it, you can do all that is necessary to make it palatable, but it does little to change the fact that you have done it, past tense, unalterable, willingly and deliberately, one's reasons become incidental no matter the voracity of your convictions.

It was with no small amount of jealously, then, that he watched, an unwilling observer, as she began to move closer to Danny, evermore likeminded, their friendship becoming stronger, their bond something he began to envy. It was Danny who, more appalling to admit, in his ability to understand Ruth better than he, who had become an obstacle, to Harry, obscuring the path to his prize, his right to have her. The guilt at his selfish relief, relief for bloody sake, when they were separated by his death, the bond irretrievably broken, was overwhelming, sickening, and very nearly bucked him. Lacking foresight of a nature that told of such things, he only understood the moment, his immediate moment, and thus had yet to face the shame of Danny's death, allowing the jealousy to fester and beat about him, becoming evermore a part of him concerning Ruth. He could confess a thousand sins, beg for a thousand absolutions, and he would never wash himself clean of that self-realization. He was, he knew, in his darkest heart, a ruthless bastard, wanting what he wanted, taking it when not given, manipulating, entitled. It's what made him a good, no, legendary spy.

He had, subsequently, relinquished his right to deniability, for her, and the image he wanted her to have of him, another manipulation of sorts, coloring the facts in his favor, fixing the game. Still, they had used the girl, and by doing so, had broken her father, had saved nameless citizens, but they had used the girl, put her in play, tainted her innocence, the sacrifice necessary, he rationalized then, he justifies still. That she would not forget was a certainty, as was his certainty she would, however, forgive him. It was her nature, her ability to empathize, her compassion, the very foundation her entire being was built upon. Her intelligence allowed her to see his position, if not embrace it, and in this, she offered absolution without meaning, forgave because she did not know how to continue otherwise, even as she would be wise not to forget the man, the particular kind of moral ambiguity necessary to make these kinds of unimaginable decisions. In his heart, he knew she would do well to discern how that kind of pressure can warp and soil a man's soul, irrevocably, even as he hoped that she would never, ever examine it too closely, her mind a dangerous trap from which he had no hope to escape clean and fresh.

That he would allow her to question him, argue his choices and decisions, manipulate her way into his head, granting her access to decisions yet made, influencing the outcome was not something he could, with any level of certainty, guarantee continue should Adam replace him, but it was increasingly obvious that it was needed, that one voice asking is this right, can we justify this, can we still look at ourselves in the mirror? He had no choice but to throw the interview, he told himself, because he couldn't be sure Adam would be reined in, by anyone. Privately, he knew he threw it in part because he wasn't yet ready to give up the thrill of the grid, despite the decisions, the horrors and tortures that walked his nightmares, but, sadly, pathetically, because he was not yet ready to leave her, to give up the rare moments they shared, the way he could watch her through his office windows, the way she knew how he liked his tea. How she, apparently, noticed that he paced, wondered if he would forget them, that she had been watching him all along, covert and sly, it was, fortifying, and he entirely unworthy. He thought of the day he saw her waiting for the bus not long after the EERE exercise, horribly cold day, rain in sheets, and she waiting, set apart from the others, and he in the comfort of his chauffeured car. Always set apart, yet appearing somehow serene, content, and his heart stuttered a bit, squeezed in recognition their shared solitude, and she so young, he nearly asked Dave to pull over, to offer a ride, to offer comfort, but the car pulled forward, and he lost sight of her, and he thought to himself, another time, maybe. Another time. He couldn't leave, abandon her to the cold and rain again, so he threw the interview.

And, she went on her date.

And, the seed began to pulse, ever stronger.