"My father's love was always strong,

My mother's glamour lives on and on,

Yet still inside I felt alone,

For reasons unknown to me.

But if you send for me you know I'll come,

And if you call for me you know I'll run.

I'll run to you, I'll run to you, I'll run, run, run.

I'll come to you, I'll come to you, I'll come, come, come."

-LanaDel Rey, Old Money

"And I hear your words that I made up,

You say my name like there could be an us.

I best tidy up my head, I'm the only one in love,

I'm the only one in love."

-Adele, Melt My Heart To Stone

Gods and Monsters

Chapter V

It was a miserable way to join the team, poached from Six simultaneous to Danny's death, but Zaf weathered the circumstances with more tact than he would have expected from one so young, proving the changing times in his ancestry a widely sought after commodity. Danny had made his choice, provoking his own execution, sacrificing himself to save Fiona, to save Adam the torture of having to choose between them. He often finds himself wondering if Danny's life began ticking down the moment he had pleaded with Zoe to leave, embrace exile, save herself, live a life more real than she would have opportunity otherwise. It seemed to him Danny's pleas, as he had listened, had willed her to see the sense of exile, were entreaties for them both, that through her, he would achieve some measure of normalcy just beyond his fingertips, as though he knew he would never get out alive. No pasture for Danny, but a name scarring the wall. We lost Sam as well, needing to be sedated, unable to process the limitless hazards, incapable of reconciling that our turns come by whim, not reason, happenstance as a car crash, whether we survive, or die, up to the fates.

She had demanded to accompany him, refusing to relinquish her chance to see him, believing him still alive while her eyes could not yet hold him. Telling herself that it wasn't real until she was stood next to him, a response, however ill founded, he understood well. She spoke briefly, to tell him of the pledge they had made to one another, after the Forestall debacle, that they would always be there for one another, regardless of circumstance, danger, fear, that they would never let the other down. How could he have denied her the fulfillment of her word, of her vow spoken? That she had stayed at her post, flinching as the gunshot rang out over comms, dazed, staring as Sam dissolved, wailing from the depths of shock, but remaining, as true to her vow, never abandoning him.

Small, such a tiny, vulnerable thing, hugging herself as they left the grid, her grief was palpable, and he was forced to reconcile that, for him, and perhaps him alone, the deaths of those under him, while uncomfortable, had become something of an expectation, one in which he'd accustomed himself almost from the moment of first introduction. This one will die, too, perhaps soon, perhaps not, but best not to get too close, care too much, feel, love. Numbing, his years spent in the service, a survival mechanism, the cloak of protection he draped about himself without fail. Until her. Until he watched at a distance, as she carefully and with a delicate sense of reverence revealed Danny's face, gently caressing him, speaking softly, attempting to comfort someone who was already gone, attempting to absolve and comfort herself in the process. He wanted nothing more than to envelope her within his cloak of protection, to whisper in her ear the secrets of being numb, the relief found when the expected eventually became reality, an obscene need to harden her because her visible pain was more than he could bear, skirting his cloak, burrowing into his subconscious, thawing his heart.

Driving back into London, she did not speak, and he allowed the silence to continue, uncomfortable for him, irrelevant to her. She was staring into the pastoral expanse before her, registering little of it's beauty, her tears having dried, but she was dangerously far away, her eyes red and glazed, her mind elsewhere, perhaps with Danny, perhaps her father, both, he could not guess. Two dead men whom she had loved and cared for, who shared the same surname. Two Daniels taken from her too soon, leaving her behind to grieve, alone. He had reached across the divide, gently grasping her hand, bringing it to his lips, just brushing the surface of her palm, placing it between them, done before he had thought to think, before he had time to consider if she would welcome his touch. She had not pulled away, had chosen to remain connected to him, the fingertips of her left hand absently brushing the top of his, her attempt at self comfort, a connection he told himself prevented her from spiraling away into the darker depths waiting for her arrival. His silent vow, so like Danny's, becoming the anchor she needed, seeking to replace the safe haven she had lost with his death. Silently contemplating, he comported his face to hide the sense of victory he was experiencing, his thoughts a betrayal of Danny, of himself, of her. Death, the great equalizer, walked the periphery of their connection, he and Ruth's, and he tried not to identify the crumbling foundation, ignored the truth of what it signified, the outcome it demanded, the moments of affection bought by the cost of fatal losses, real or imagined. Instead, he drove, allowing the ripples of electricity to pass along his arm, memorizing the feel of her light touch, her fingertips, scarring his heart with her name, even as Danny's was added to the scars deep inside Thames House.

"These things we see, Harry, the decisions we make, I can't...I don't see where we...Do we make a difference...Does his death...Harry..." the last on a sigh, her face crumbling, tears sliding down her cheeks anew, her hand still held in his, and he had pulled the car over, lifting the center console, pulling her into his arms as her body shook with grief, as she poured out her pain, her face buried into his neck, his arms securely around her. Her lips had found his pulse, and she drew a deep breath, inhaled him, his mouth on her hair, her forehead, overwhelmed by her proximity and his need to feel her, consume her grief and pain, desperate for her know she was not alone, desperate for her to stay tethered to him. Holding her face, gazing into her eyes, memorizing every line, every imperfection, caressing them in his thoughts, he made promises, blundering and rushed, one after the other, securing the tenuous connection keeping her present, with him. There will be time to grieve, he had vowed, he will not be forgotten in this, his sacrifice had meaning, denying the truth of his understanding of meaning, denying his arrogance in grasping the opportunity of having her, to himself, without encumbrance. Denying, too, his ability to fulfill them lay beyond his grasp, a considerable absence from his skills and talents proven with consistent frequency, his spoken vows, empty, hollow words without substance, as undefined as Mr. Shadow himself.

"Can we stop? I really...I could use a drink. I can't face the grid, not like th..this. Not now." Her eyes red, swollen, their color a combination not yet identified, and he remembers thinking how it was that a woman's eyes after crying become a color so striking, so intense and foreign that it can make a man's heart stop from the urge to drown in them? He knew better than to acquiesce, well versed in his susceptibility to the draw of situations illicit and dangerous, shivers tickling his lower spine a symptomatic tell, the heat rising and spreading across his chest, his better angels silenced in the onslaught of coursing adrenaline. Yet Death, their constant companion, had forged this opportunity, and his callous, desensitized heart could not deny serendipity, nor the demands of selfishness, his ruthless nature refusing to be denied. He could have simply driven directly to her home, releasing her from returning with him to Thames House, releasing her from his grasp to grieve alone, it is enough today, Ruth, rest yourself, love, but found himself unable, physically incapable of passing the first pub he could find, turning roughly at the last moment, ushering her to a table in the back. It was suitably dark, sparsely inhabited at that hour, and, in his recollection, perfect given the circumstances.

"Hmmm, Jameson's rocks. Double, please," removing her coat, sliding into the booth, she looked tired, drained, and altogether beautiful to him. Warring with himself, his fantasies and day dreams falling, one by one, pale victims of his sense of self, his very nature considerably more similar to the malignant seed reposing in his revived heart, demanding failure, demanding status quo results, reminding him he deserved no more, and so much less. He told himself he was not taking advantage, he had not manipulated this, and would have been successful, his sense of justification solidifying, but for his treacherous heart, it's venomous dialogue a refrain as he returned to her, you are mine, Mr. Shadow, in this act, in this lie, you are my fatal twin.

"Ruth, I know you and Danny were close, and this..." Settling himself, ignoring the deleterious refrain, even then, flowing unrepentant through his consciousness.

"I don't want to talk about Danny, right now, not now, if that's all right, with you?" Said in a rush as one would after anticipating the necessity, relieved to have done with.

"Of course." She was rubbing her forehead, eyes closed, as though in doing so she could forget all that she knew, erase the pain of it. Eventually lowering her hand, she had begun dragging the water droplets from her glass in circles on the tabletop, forming infinity signs with the moisture, "Did you like your birthday present?"

"My birthday?...Oh, yes, yes I did. Very much. Though I shudder to think of the cost, Ruth." She had hidden four bottles of my favorite scotch, and had written her initials on the top of each. At the time, if he remembers accurately, he was halfway through the "R" bottle, thinking of her with every sip consumed, as though every swallow was drinking her, ingesting her, allowing her inside.

She smiled, eyes still closed, and tilted her head slightly, and he was overcome with the urge take her in his arms, rest her head on his shoulder, but refrained from doing so, the moment so delicate, so precious, he was loathe to disrupt it, to do anything which might break the spell.

"My father's name was Daniel. It means God is my judge in Hebrew. Did you know that? If God is your only judge, rather leaves the field of opportunity wide open, doesn't it?" Leaning back into the booth, her hand on her tumbler, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, her secrets, her meaning her own.

"Tell me about your father, Ruth." Rolling her name on his tongue, tasting it, like a prayer.

Sighing deeply, "He was a doctor, but you already know that." Looking directly at him, her eyes penetrating, daring him to deny he'd read her file. "He was a good man, honest, and gone too soon. I wonder, sometimes, if he would have been proud of me, of what I have become. His death was...very difficult, sudden..." Leaning her head back again, exposing the length of her neck, he can see her pulse beating, a faint shiver, wanting nothing more in that moment but to place his lips against it. Death, as always, his companion with Ruth, a twisted Cyrano de Bergerac to their Christian and Roxane.

"I think he would have been. You are an exceptional...you are a very rare find, Ruth." His voice hoarse, his throat closing as the words pass, his thoughts spiraling away, defiant in their lack of chastity, defiant of his considerable will to remain innocuous despite his internal pestilence.

"We promised each other, we promised never to become so jaded, so bitter and alone, like Andrew, so detached that we could no longer feel anything, see the beauty that surrounds us...everyday..." Sipping from her tumbler, brows furrowed, trying to divine meaning, see the pattern through the maze of irreconcilable circumstances.

It took a moment for him to realize she was referring to Danny Hunter, then another as he remembered during his debrief Danny had warned him of his concern for Ruth, his apprehension regarding her gentle nature surviving the onslaught of terror, the choices, the things we see and do. She had watched someone she knew, had known, had not known at all, suffocate, the life squeezed from him in his greed, his hand reaching for her, a silent plea before falling still. His eyes had stayed on her, clouding over as his body shut down, organ by organ, dominoes triggering the next, the orchestration of dying, and she, an unwilling witness, rendered immobile, had wept for him, the loss of his genius and promise, the contagion that had grown to consume his soul. Danny had included it all in his debrief, an absolution, a prayer, a warning, a prophecy.

"I...sometimes I feel parts of me closing off. It's as though I'm there, but distant, an observer, beyond reach, watching the parts darken, little bits and pieces of myself, getting smaller, and then nothing, but, so strange, it's loud, the darkness, so mind numbingly loud that I just want it to stop...stop ringing." He sees the fear, the panic in her eyes, her revelation drawn from the depths of her, laid out before him, her understanding that we all, inside, are mere moments from giving in to the darkness, a few disappointments away from becoming Andrew Forestall, and he reaches to still her fidgeting hands, holding them firmly in his, drawing her towards him slightly, gently fortifying the tether, linking them even as her words attempt to disengage and destroy.

"Stay with me, Ruth." It was a plea. It was a prayer. It was his deepest desire, and his greatest fear. "Don't go away, don't hide alone in the darkness. Don't make that mistake. You deserve, you're worth so much more. Stay with me. Here. Now. Ruth." Hushed, his breath warming her cheek, his hands tightening around hers.

She had turned her head, responding from the distance, her eyes large, clouded, and he leaned forward, placing his lips against the slight furrow between her eyebrows, I see you, Ruth, feeling her exhale against his throat, her body relax, her muscles settling, her hand pulling away from his, finding it's way to his neck, the tips of her fingers divining his increased pulse, her lips whispering against the hollow just above his loosened tie, drawing her back from despondency, guiding her back softly, his mind filled with her, I see you, Ruth, I see all of you, I understand more than you know.

Unable to stop himself, his entire body humming with recognition, like finding like, he leaned down, kissing her neck as he helped her with her coat, her warmth, her scent mining in him a familiarity so powerful he had to grasp her shoulders to keep from swaying. And she, leaning back into him, her forehead turned just under his chin, standing together, time spanning and lost, and his malignant heart grateful for death, for the losses that brought to him, them, that moment, the seed smiling a deceiver's welcome.

Four days later, a mere hiccup, a benign blip in the eternity of time, he failed her, even as he could still recall the smell of her hair, and the feel of her forehead against his lips, he failed her.

"I need you," he had said, leaning close, breathing her in, and in that moment, as he watched, her breathing shallow, the skin tightening around her eyes, her desire to grieve waring with her desire to perform as expected, as he demanded, as he needed, giving way as she succumbed to him, replaced her desire to properly grieve with his need for her, his supremacy was established. He knew, in that very moment, he had achieved victory, but, as his malignant heart reminded, the seed bursting, victorious with darker intentions, you, Mr. Shadow, have only begun to lose this war.

The catalyst of his failure took the form of Shining Dawn. Ironic, he reflects, that he, the personification of that group's fanatical and twisted mission statement, the man who uses the death of a colleague as a sign his affection for another is fated, his actions justified, that he should be the one tasked to stop them. Laughable, a dark, sardonic comedy of errors, made more so by the arrival of Juliet Shaw. Sleek, feline, and ruthless to her very core, Juliet swept in, and he watched, apprehensive, as life's indifferent wheel revolved full circle without the power to prevent it.

Liaising with the cousins, attempting to prevent several bombs from detonating under excruciating time constraints, incorporating Juliet into the action left him both scrambling to remove Ruth from the immediate vicinity, and resentful at the prolonged loss of her calming presence. He had hastily, though loathe to have her beyond his protective wing, instructed Adam to send her off grid, to pick the brain of Stephen Curtis, an idol of Michael Monroe's, Shining Dawn's leader, and while the intelligence she had gleaned was to become the definitive key to dismantling the group's intentions, a final devastating bomb, his decision to do so reflected, primarily, his eagerness to prevent any interaction between she and Juliet, the security of the realm falling a distant second. Who was it that said, When it rains, it pours? Had she not been so successful with Professor Curtis, he might have been spared watching as both she and Juliet interrogated Monroe's right hand puppet, observing them, within feet of one another, and wondering, not for the first time, how he had ever thought, for even a moment, he had been in love with Juliet, that either one of them were capable of bringing to the surface something other than treachery in the other. Not love, never love, the blackmailing, treacherous bitch.

Ruth, alternatively, composed and poised in the midst of terrorism, calmly connecting, drawing the hints to form a picture, incandescent to his eyes, her inherent goodness making her a woman made to love, treasure, die for.

In the quiet of his car, he concludes he owes Michael Monroe and his band of genius misfits a debt of gratitude, one destructive tumor to another, for without their misguided and devious sense of right and wrong, Ruth would not have been sent into the field, and neither Adam nor he would be confident in her potential, her hidden strengths, her unfathomable depths. So too, Juliet's presence, evidence of the macabre sense of humor fashioned by the gods, for lacking his desperate need to keep them apart, Adam would have found himself short a tree branch, adding another name to an already extravagantly scarred wall.

He had conducted her debrief, his mind half distracted by Juliet's threat of blackmail, her desire to remain in London made plain, the lengths to ensure it's actuality detailed unmercifully, and he was reminded of the weaknesses the softer emotions within the species can unhinge, the damage done when allowed release from the controlled captivity of self restraint. Compromised by actions over fifteen years in the past, his deserving consequence, of course, because it is a deserving man who foolishly ignored the past which never slumbered, but remained within him, a parasite feeding into the present, never sated. She did not bother to hide her distaste for Professor Curtis, smug, elitist, pontificating prat figured prominently in description and evaluation, she nevertheless held the glassy stare of a successful field operative, and he had nodded, only half listening, watched the characteristic adrenaline as it drove her on.

He had understood, as the words passed Juliet's lips, love, careless love, voluntary resignation remained his only option. So it was, then, not the scarred wall for Harry Pearce, but pasture and disgrace. Ironic, love proving to be his undoing as well, like Tom before him, bettered by one underestimated by him, lurking in his past, awaiting an opportunity to pounce, simultaneous to his heart daring again, peeking around the walls he'd painstakingly erected, knowing her without knowing at all. And while he regretted his choice, regretted the sudden, unexpected end of his vaulted career, the voluntary sacrifice of what had become his life's meaning and duty, it was the additional, necessary loss of her that struck him most deeply. The viciousness of that fact, tearing through his thoughts, feeding his enmity and bitterness, the malevolent seed demanding satisfaction, did I not warn you, who are you but a man, pathetic and yearning as an infant? This is what comes of vulnerability, had you forgotten, were you not told?

He had offered her a ride home, out of courtesy, and she had surprised him by accepting, uncharacteristic, interpreted as a sign to come clean with her, an opportunity to tell her of his predicament, to wash himself clean while providing her the tools to turn from him, judge him, forsake him as was necessary, as was required. Parked outside hers, he had felt her watching him, as he'd studied his gloved hands still tightened around the steering wheel, squeezing, releasing, over, and again.

"Ruth, I..."

"Come inside, Harry," opening the door, she had stepped out, had already unlocked her front door and entered by the time he had exited, her certainty that he would follow established in failing to close the door behind her. He did, of course, and was slightly bemused as he acknowledged he had been incapable of doing otherwise. He remembers smiling a bit as he walked the hallway, peering around doors, seeing the organized chaos that he had come to associate with Ruth, her habitat so much a reflection of her, chaotic, unpredictable, inasmuch as his own home reflected his iron fisted self restraint, searching for the room she had chosen, eventually locating her in the kitchen.

She had already poured them both a tumbler of whiskey, his significantly more in proportion to hers. She had casually motioned for him to sit, and as he selected the chair next to hers, had slid his drink towards him, watching him over the rim of hers as she leaned back, her movements fluid and confident. He could still see the telltale signs of adrenaline, fading slightly, but still present to his trained eye, and wondered how much of her countenance was down to the fading rush, steeling himself to bid her a gratuitous be well and goodbye. Mr. Shadow, there, gone, never was.

"I'm going to have to do something tomorrow. I'm left no option, really. It's my own fault," sighing, shaking my head at the crap timing, the wheel turning, "Time's come to face the proverbial music." Downing the contents in one, reaching for the bottle, his conscience ringing in his ears, careful, Harry, softly, softly.

"It seems..."

"Juliet." Interrupted, a statement, rather than question, a simple prod to get to the point, or a technique to avoid hearing of her, either, both, he couldn't be certain. Her face revealed nothing, no clues to what she was thinking, no tells to aid him, navigating her mind, her intentions as a blind man navigating an unfamiliar terrain, his imagination the fingertips, delving.

"We had a...an alliance once, a long time ago. It's left me a bit compromised. More than a bit, if I'm honest. She wants to stay in the UK, with the service, and, well blackmailing me to ensure it." Swirling the contents before taking a deep swallow, wanting to wash his mouth of it, the memory, the words, the shame, the guilt and regret, not daring to look at her.

"Did you love her?" Culling the intelligence, no surprise, forming the picture in her mind, the conclusions to be drawn remaining with her until she had exhausted every possibility, sucked the marrow and discarded the bone, clinical in her approach, sharp as a scalpel's blade.

Jesus Christ.

"At the time, maybe..." His frustration getting the better of him, he snapped at being invaded, dissected, even as he felt the hypocrisy of it, rich and luxurious, his own worst enemy. Had it been Tom who had provoked me, physician heal thyself? And in that act of confession, to her, had that not been exactly what he told himself he was doing, the lie he had asked himself to swallow without offense, as though he was not the man he knew himself to be, down deep, where the truth festers extravagantly?

"Christ, Ruth, I don't bloody know, maybe I loved her, maybe I loved the thrill of it, maybe I loved a thorough, hard fuck with someone I could talk myself into caring for, or not at all, maybe I loved that I saw myself reflected in her, another ruthless, maliciously cruel and empty mirror of myself, an act of soul crushing masturbation, I don't fucking know the answer to that!"

She had physically flinched from his words, withdrawn her eyes to her whiskey, as yet untouched, her breathing audible, and he had wished the outburst, the cruelty of it, both, back into his mouth, unspoken rather than be forced to watch the effect they had, drawing first blood, as she retreated to her corner, wounded.

"God, Ruth...I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No. I understand. I do, Harry," his name on her lips, soft, mesmerizing, infinite, unfolding herself from the distance of withdrawal. "You regret her, you regret your actions and feelings..."

"I never loved her, I never did...Not then, and bloody well not now."

"But you do regret her, and if I'm understanding you correctly, you're planning on doing something...tomorrow...that is a consequence of that feeling. As if, by doing it, you reclaim some measure of control. But you can't, Harry. You can't ever control the past." Chewing her lip, her face a picture of apprehension and interest, deliberating whether to continue, resolving to dare.

"What is the something, Harry?"

"Offer my resignation." He had said it, matter of fact, blunt, as unalterable as the past that haunted him. A stricken look flashed across her face, and he is shamed to admit he enjoyed the idea she should be stricken by his absence, that it should cause her anguish, a poor chess move in a previously fixed game, punishing her for making it easier for him, always.

"Because of an indiscretion over fifteen years ago? That's a bit of an overreaction? I mean surely..." Her eyes sharp, indignant at the suggestion, she had, he knew, already began an outline in her head, designed the step by step process necessary to dismantle Juliet's attack, and he half wished he could allow her to act, his heart near to bursting at her vehement display of loyalty, his baser urges welcoming the opportunity to watch Juliet squirm uncomfortably under Ruth's deadly focus. It was, after all, the nature of infection to travel silently, traversing the body, liberating toxins to destroy and plunder, one weak moment, one single opening, and all that is healthy and good deteriorates in the face of such seduction, eroding and unrecognizable, a shadow of desolation foretold in the first deliberate act against conscience. No, he vowed to himself, not Ruth.

"There's more, Ruth...and I'm afraid I can't tell you all of it. It was the operation we were involved in, sanctioned, but off the books...if it were just the indiscretion I wouldn't bother, I can assure you."

"So, what, she wins, then? You're just going to let her do this?"

"There are no victors in this kind of war, I'm afraid. Everyone loses, it's just a matter of degrees." Smiling at her gently, tilting his head, he felt lighter somehow, relieved without the ability to identify exactly why, but deliciously at peace, the afterglow, he assumed, of having become resolved to one's circumstances.

"You are to do nothing, do you understand?" To his ear, his tone was light, a bit teasing, the smile he wore decorating the words as they came forward, disguising the panic he felt at keeping her uninvolved, untainted, beyond the muck he swam in, wanting his memory of her to remain untouched by his infected existence. She deserved her brilliant future, he rationalized.

"Harry..."

"I'll have your word on that, if you don't mind. Please, Ruth." He had chuckled a bit, for the necessity of extracting a promise of no joy as much as for the face of disapproval she made. It served to remind him of how very young she was, reverting to an angst addled countenance better suited to sullen teenagers, than the flourishing woman who so frequently occupied his thoughts.

"Fine." Huffing, exasperation clear and projected, slouching back into her seat, as resigned as he to the coming events, picking absently at the tablecloth before her.

And despite himself, despite his reasoning, his knowing better, his intended purpose, he couldn't bring himself to voice the consequence left unspoken, the reality of this goodbye, he, soon to become a new inhabitant of the multitudes, reborn and renamed, fresh from defeat, and she to the darkness that awaited at Thames House, unprotected.

He would look back on this moment with regret, he knew, lined up for the choosing with so many others, trotted out to torture without recourse, as he gazed at her, unselfconsciously, drinking her in as he sipped her whiskey, in the warmth of her kitchen, surrounded by the comfort of her belongings, the comfort of her presence, his new existence bereft of her, passing but never again making contact. Forbidden, he would become one of the disavowed and she his illicit obsession, denied his touch, his comfort, his protection, and the effort to suppress his fury at Juliet for destroying what had barely yet begun was Herculean, draining him to his very core as he desperately tried to maintain his composure, preserve the moment as bittersweet, rather than allow it to be destroyed, dripping with his bitterness.

And as they chatted amicably, having agreed, mutually, or so he had thought, the matter was settled, he began to think it could have been so good, with her, the possibilities dancing across his thoughts, flushed with fecundity, all that he had ever dared hope for. His heart, an internal betrayer, yearning to tell her what she had awakened in him, the gift she had brought him, before he disappeared into the ether, so that she would know however much she felt alone, untethered, she was with him, always and forever, anchored in his heart as no other before her.

It was, as he often thinks of it, a first date of sorts, unplanned and unexpected, resplendent with conversation and connection, they became comfortable in each other's company, delicately divining the other, relaxing into topics, revealing in fits and bursts. There was laughter, her nose crinkling adorably when she thought something equally amusing and off color, wine after the whiskey, moments spent foraging for food, clumsy, unintentional contact, hands, fingers, shoulders, their inhibitions set aside in the haze as alcohol's warm effect resonated within them. He had been happy, in those few short hours, in a way he couldn't remember ever experiencing before, or had simply forgotten in the expanse of time, Smiling, he remembers the feeling coming as a shock, his system had shuddered with uncertainty, and he had attempted to aline it with something, anything, to categorize it, examine it, while his sense of control, his carefully constructed safety net struggled to reassert itself, wildly rejected in favor of an altogether unidentifiable emotion, once felt, impossible to willingly relinquish.

Foolish man, staring down at her upturned face, the evening with her drawing to a close, his sense of loss keen, pulsing through him, focused on reining in his urge to kiss her, to feel her lips on his, to pass his tongue along the ridges, tasting, savoring, for the first and last time before disappearing, his sacrifice of her a physical vibration resonating through his broken soul.

She had leaned up, placing a kiss on his cheek, whispering, "I wish you would reconsider, let me help you..." Her lips tickling his earlobe, her hand lightly resting on his chest, remaining there, her breathing warm on his neck, the hair on the back of his neck raised in response, as she waited, very close, too bloody close, for his reply.

He was lost in the scent of her, surprised by the bold physical contact, what could have been interpreted as an unspoken invitation, should he decide, and his body stirred in response, his cock tingling, seductive, illicit, forbidden, all melding together in a rush of unconsummated lust and yearning, making his head ring, wanting only to carry her upstairs and lovingly explore every inch of her, taking his time, languid, relishing the gift of her body.

"No, Ruth." Placing his hands on her shoulders, squeezing even as he drew himself away from her, smiling sadly, "You already have helped me. You have." Kissing her forehead, chaste, knowing time had begun ticking down the moment he arrived, counting off the minutes, measuring the moments he had left against the moment he possessed no more, resignation accepted, a Mr. Never-Was waiting to be born.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry?" Something in her tone, subtle, easily overlooked, but he had heard it, and his heart identified it as regret, like recognizing like, and he believed it possible that she would regret his loss as he would hers, that she knew, without needing to be told he would fade into the background, one of the masses, protected at all costs, anonymous.

"Yes, Ruth, tomorrow. You take care, yes?"

She had nodded, smiling, but in her eyes he had glimpsed dread, and the mask she wore, dropping a bit before closing the door behind him, could not hide her doubt and unease. And he, left standing in the darkness, silently wishing he could take it all back, yet, oddly comforted, knowing in his lifetime of deplorable, reprehensible moments, he would come to understand this as a single moment for redemption of deeds past, he had, at long last, despite his nature, his baser instincts, chosen correctly. He had released her.

As he drove home, he had congratulated himself, so full of wonder that he had overcome his inherently poisonous instincts, saving her, and himself to an extent, in the process, his demons silenced for a precious few moments, his slumber deep and uninterrupted for the first time in many years. How was he to know, then, the demons were simply resting, planning a strategy, awaiting the moment to unveil themselves for the recommencement, the ceremony he knew by rote? How was he to know all that would come?

How was he to know, then, it had been only a rehearsal for their first goodbye?

***In this chapter I tried to come up with plausible ways in which Harry would begin to see Ruth as receptive and aware of his attentions, but still somewhat in keeping with the series. To me, the two of them having a drink after identifying Danny's body seemed in keeping with a gathering of friends, and toasts, etc. It also seemed rather likely that with Juliet back, Harry would be rather more keen to keep their (she and Ruth's, perhaps his own, too) interactions to a minimum, and a late night debrief, leading to a ride home did not feel like I was stretching it. In all, I felt the circumstances I came up with plausible if viewed through the scope of colleagues dealing with difficult circumstances in any workplace, the personal affections aside, and provided a good opportunity for them to become a bit more familiar with one another as colleagues verging on friendship. I also took liberties in making Ruth more bold and forward, but not so much she became, IMHO, unrecognizable. Reviews make me smile, and are always appreciated. Thank you all who have taken the time, your effort is altogether humbling for me.