A/N: Okay, so I lied. This chapter got too long and I've decided to split it, which means there are two chapters more after this and probably an epilogue too. Hope no one's disappointed by this development. This chapter is set during 3.04. Enjoy and please leave a review. Your wonderful feedback gives me life and I can't thank you enough for it. Cheers, S.C. x

Tuesday, 5th October 2004 – The Grid

"Ruth?"

She looks up. "Danny. What can I do for you?"

"What do we know about Harry and his daughter?"

She frowns, her heart thumping hard in her chest. "How'd you mean?" she asks cautiously.

"It's just... Harry wants me to get her to talk."

He looks rather troubled and she's relieved to realise that he's only come to her for information in her capacity as analyst. "Right... Well, it seems reasonable since she's involved in-"

"And wear a wire."

She stares at him incredulously for a moment until she realises he's serious. "Oh Harry," she sighs, shaking her head in fond exasperation. How can such a lovely man know so little about how to treat the important people in his life?

"What?" Danny asks, frowning at her, underlining how much he really has no idea what's going on between her and Harry.

It's amazing, when she thinks about it, but she supposes that they've done a good job of keeping their lust and sexual encounters well hidden, and as to the rest, it's been quite gradual – the growing trust between them – and the others have just attributed it to how much of a help she's been during these last few months of Tom's unravelling and the aftermath of his departure. Now that things have calmed down, however, and Adam has become a permanent fixture on the Grid, she has a feeling that they're bound to pick up on something eventually that'll raise their suspicions. With Catherine involved in this op and Harry clearly under some emotional strain, perhaps this is the time when it'll all come out in the open, and she can't quite tell, at the moment, if she's more scared or strangely excited by the prospect.

"His children were young when he divorced," she says cautiously, reluctant to share too much of Harry's personal history, yet knowing that Catherine's unexpected involvement in the Palestine Freedom Campaign entitles the team to some of the details. "Catherine was seven at the time. After that... who knows? It seems clear that they're not very close now."

"Yeah," Danny sighs. "I don't like it." He rubs one hand over his head in distress.

"I don't blame you. You're going to have do it though. Just promise me you'll tread lightly, Danny, and be careful. They might not be very close, but I suspect Harry loves her dearly, so don't do anything stupid."

He looks offended. "Me? Stupid?"

"You know what I mean, Danny." She gives him a pointed look.

He smiles. "Yeah. Alright. Don't worry, Ruth. I'll be nice. Thanks."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she mutters to herself as she watches him go. She knows what Danny's like with pretty, young women, but she doesn't dwell on that too long. She has more important things to worry about than the sex life of a grown woman – namely how best to broach the subject with Harry of him spying on his daughter.

There's so much she still doesn't know about Harry Pearce – the state of his relationship with his children being just one such thing. She wonders if he ever did send a present to Catherine for her birthday as she'd suggested. Perhaps he forgot or perhaps Catherine hadn't wanted to accept it. Poor Harry. Whatever the history between them, however, she's sure that spying on her is not going to help and she hopes to make him see that.

Sadly, she doesn't get the opportunity to talk to him until after the event, however, when Harry comes home to her in quite a state of emotional withdrawal. Clearly something was said that has wounded him deeply, so much so that he cannot get past it despite going off on his own again as he'd done after Tom, on her birthday. He's so distant, in fact, that it's a wonder he chose to come to hers at all tonight.

"Hello," she smiles. "Dinner?" she offers lifting her eyes to his when he steps into the living room doorway.

"No, thanks," he replies, his voice low and flat.

"Whisky then?"

"That would be grand."

She gets up and crosses the room to him, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze as she smiles softly up at him and kisses his cheek.

He sighs, squeezing her hand in return and resting his head against hers for a moment.

"Take a seat, Harry," she says. "I'll be right back." Then she slips out of the room, returning shortly with a glass for him and the whisky bottle.

Soon they're sitting in silence on her sofa together, his left hand cradling his glass and lifting it to his lips every so often for a sip, his right arm wrapped around her, cheek resting against her head as she cuddles him and rests her head on his shoulder.

"You alright?" she asks after a while, feeling rather concerned about him. She's not seen him like this before. Even after Tom, he'd not been this remote and distant.

He doesn't answer for the longest time and, when eventually she lifts her head to look at him, he simply raises his glass to his lips and drains it, removing his arm from around her shoulders to reach for the bottle on the coffee table. It'll be his third glass and she can't help reacting.

"It's getting late," she observes softly, running her fingers over his shoulder and the back of his neck. "Come to bed, Harry."

He doesn't respond, but he pours only a small amount of the amber liquid before replacing the cork and resting his elbows on his knees, his hands cradling the tumbler as he hangs his head and hums at the way she continues to caress his skin and the curls at the nape of his neck, endeavouring to soothe him.

A few minutes later, she tries again, murmuring softly, "Come to bed, Harry."

He sighs and nods his head, so she withdraws her hand and collects her empty wine glass and the whisky bottle, taking them through to the kitchen where he soon follows with his empty tumbler. She's already stowed away the whisky in the cupboard and is putting away the food she'd had for dinner, when she feels him hovering behind her.

"Can I help?" he asks, his voice gravelly from lack of use, or maybe it's emotion.

"I'm fine. Go have a nice, relaxing shower. I'll be with you in a moment," she suggests.

He nods tiredly and turns away, and by the time she makes her way upstairs and slides into bed beside him, he seems a little more relaxed and open.

She smiles at him and leans in, murmuring, "I love you," before she presses a soft kiss against his lips and pulls back, gazing fondly down at him as she softly caresses the side of his face.

"Do you?" he asks, the vulnerability in his voice piercing her heart.

"I do," she says gently, yet firmly, smiling at him. She's not quite sure how to support him, how to reach him, how to make things better for him, but as she watches the moisture gather in his eyes, she can't help the surge of affection, of love, of passion for him, and the desperate need to show him. So she leans in again and kisses him more firmly this time, her fingers tightening their grip as she cradles his face and whispers, "A lot," before kissing him again. And as the passion rises within her, she feels him respond with his own, his breath hitching as he fights to contain his emotion, his arms drawing her closer.

She makes love to him that night with all the fierce tenderness in her heart, forcing him to feel her love, her passion for him, taking control and showing him how wonderful she thinks he is, how beautiful and true, how strong and worthy.

"I love you," she repeats over and over again as she moves above him, kisses him, caresses him, cradles him inside her. And he seems to feel it, accept it, and cherish it as his hands draw her closer, his hips rise up to meet her, driving himself further into her, his kisses fevered, passionate, desperate, in between his gasping breaths and mantra-like murmurs of her name.

His cheeks are damp, she realises as she whispers her love again and lifts her head to look at him, gazing into haunted, beautiful eyes that are full of so much love and pain, open and more honest than she's ever seen them.

"Let me in, Harry," she murmurs softly as she moves above him, eyes holding his gently. "I love you. Let me share the pain. Let me soothe it. Let me shoulder the burden with you."

His eyes close for a moment, fresh tears sliding down his cheeks, his hands gripping her hips more tightly as she grinds herself against him, her lips feathering kisses over his forehead, his nose, his cheeks and eyelids.

"Let me in," she repeats, watching him as she moves, his laboured breathing telling her that he is nearing the edge. She wants tonight to be all about him, wants him to feel her love, wants to dismantle all the barriers he's erected around his heart, and most of all, she wants to see him, all of him, as he comes inside her. "Look at me, Harry," she whispers.

He does, eyelids sliding open, his eyes shining up at her, gaze arresting, open, overflowing with emotion, sucking all the air out of her lungs, tears welling up, her lips curving with joyful elation. "Now come," she orders, softly, gently, her hips rolling against him, watching with wonder as he does, hands gripping her hips more tightly, hips driving up, his eyes – oh, his eyes – windows into his soul as his breath arrests and he tenses before he breaks with a quiet moan and spills himself inside her.

It is the most moving, most beautiful thing she's ever seen, and as he shudders and sighs and relaxes into the mattress, she can't help pressing a myriad soft, happy kisses against his face before she finds his lips and snogs him for all she's worth, utterly overcome by him.

When the need for air overpowers her, she releases his lips, resting her forehead against his, right hand cupping his face, her left forearm on the bed, keeping her suspended above him, a giggle of pure joy escaping her to have experienced the bliss of feeling this close to him. "I love you," she whispers again.

He hums, so she lifts her head to look down at him, smiling, stroking his cheek, overwhelmed. He seems calmer, happier, reassured, more hopeful. "Thank you," he says softly.

She just smiles and presses a kiss against his nose before sliding carefully off him, but he doesn't let her go far, his arm tightening around her to draw her close, tucking her head under his chin, his left hand moving up and down her back as she wraps her arms around him.

Silence stretches on for some time before eventually he says, "You didn't finish, did you?"

"I'm fine," she replies, pressing another kiss against his chest. "Better than fine. Don't worry about me. It's you we need to worry about."

"Nonsense," he replies, pulling back and leaning down, his right hand fisting in her hair as his lips close around her earlobe, his mouth hot and wet, fingers trailing over her buttocks as she moans and arches her back towards him. Her body comes alive instantly under his touch, his passionate lips, his talented fingers inside her, and before long she's crying out, shattering in his arms.

Her body is limp, mind blank and blissful, the steady rhythm of his beating heart pressed against her ear, soothing her, lulling her slowly into slumber, but before she can succumb to the pull of sleep and the exhaustion of her body, his voice rumbles in his chest, husky and low, dragging her back into consciousness as her mind moves sluggishly to string the sounds together into words and decipher their meaning.

"Catherine told Danny I was dead."

Jesus! No wonder... Oh Harry!

"He asked her if her parents were worried about her going back to the West Bank," he continues, seemingly unwilling to stop now that he's started to unburden himself. "She said, 'My mum is'. And when Danny asked about me, she said, 'My dad's dead' – just like that – 'Or he might as well be, anyway'." His chest heaves and she realises how very much it's costing him to confess this. "She was my first-born, Ruth. She made me a dad and now..." He swallows and clears his throat. "Now I might as well be dead for all she cares."

"Oh Harry," she breathes, turning on her side to face him and wrapping him in her arms as he begins to weep, great sobs shaking his body while she holds him, rubs his back, and presses soft kisses against the side of his face. "Oh love. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Harry."

It hurts so much to see him like this and a part of her is very angry at his daughter for causing him such pain – even though Catherine had no way of knowing he was listening in, no way of divining how much she was hurting her father.

When eventually he quietens, she's at a loss as to what to say to make him feel any better.

"I suppose I deserve it," he murmurs, drawing back and wiping his eyes with his fingers, his voice still raw with emotion. "I wasn't there for them after the divorce. There was always something at work that made me miss custody weekends, and later – in their teens – it got to be so hard to relate that I eventually gave up trying. It's no wonder really that she thinks she's better off without me." He sighs and rubs his temples with his free hand, his other clasped tightly in her own.

"I don't think that's what she's saying, Harry," she says softly, lifting herself onto her left forearm to see him better. "Think about it. She said you were dead, but then she backtracked very quickly, admitting that you're not but you might as well be, anyway. I don't think she doesn't care, Harry. It sounds to me like she's a young woman who very much wishes she had a father. She's saying you're not a part of her life, but she's not saying she wouldn't like you to be." She pauses, smiling down at him and lacing their fingers together before she continues, "You're a good man, Harry. I imagine your children have some very fond memories of you from their childhoods. And as someone who lost her dad quite young, I can tell you that there isn't a day goes by when I don't wish that he was here... to see me now, to hold me and tell me how very proud he is of the woman I've become." She blinks back the tears welling in her eyes. "You can fix this, Harry, if you want to. It's not too late, I promise you."

His gaze softens, his fingers squeezing hers in gratitude. "You're too good to me, Ruth, you know that? I'd be utterly lost without you."

"There now, you see, I happen to think that's a good thing. I'm good for you, you're good for me. We make a good team, you and I." She kisses his lips softly, then lies down again beside him, a large yawn surprising her and making him chuckle.

"God, sorry."

"Sleep," he tells her and she doesn't argue, murmuring goodnight and closing her eyes, falling asleep in a heartbeat.

Thursday, 7th October 2004 – The Grid

"Yes, Adam. That'll help. I've been doing that for twenty years and look where it's got me," he murmurs in defeat, turning around and leaving the room, heading into his office.

An agent of the November Committee. He simply can't believe it.

Catherine!

No way.

She's been making documentaries about the plight of the Palestinian people for years now. She's been a passionate advocate for them. She's always taken the side of the underdog, always stood up against the bullies, taken in the strays, cared for the injured. Even when she was little, she used to look after all the broken things.

He smiles as a memory surfaces of a three-year-old Catherine bringing him a broken toy to fix, saying, "Daddy, mend it," looking up at him with such faith, such confidence that he wouldn't let her down. There had been other instances too over the years – baby squirrels and birds she'd found that had fallen out of their nests, the pigeon in the park with the broken wing, the mangy cat she'd convinced him to take in. There had been no tears, just gentle compassion and a certainty that he would help her help them, fix any problem she laid at his feet. But that had been before the divorce, before he'd failed to fix the one thing that had mattered to her most – keeping their family together.

He sighs, massaging his temples as he stares down at the photograph in his hand, trying to get his head around how his daughter – who has always hated what he does – could ever come to be involved with a man from Israeli Military Intelligence. There must be some mistake. This surely can't be possible. But how can it be wrong when Ruth had been the one to find it?

His anger flares again at the thought of her. Why hadn't she come to him first with this information? How could she have let him find it out in front of the entire team? How can she not see that his daughter – his daughter – couldn't possibly be involved with an organisation that espouses something as despicable, as vile as ethnic cleaning? He'd taken her to see the Berlin Wall fall, for Christ's sake! He'd-

The door slides open, revealing Ruth, her eyes worried as they seek him out, but changing instantly as they alight upon his sullen face, taking on a determined glint as she steps into the room and slides the door closed behind her.

"Before you say anything," she begins without preamble, "I did plan to come to you with what I'd found before the meeting started, but there simply wasn't time."

He sets his jaw and purses his lips, annoyed that she should have read his mind and have a perfectly reasonable explanation. He knows it's highly probably that she's speaking the truth, knows how hard they've all been working on following up leads, decrypting Swift's computer, sifting through tons of surveillance, and despite his rounding on Adam earlier, he did know that all the members of the Palestine Freedom Campaign were being watched because Ruth had told him.

"Look, Harry," she says, gentling her voice as she takes a few steps towards him. "Adam knows, we all know it could be circumstantial."

Could be?

"She can't be the agent," he replies vehemently. "She just can't. She's spent months out there filming, trying to direct the world's attention to the plight of these people, Ruth. She hates to be told she'd wrong. She's emotional, pigheaded and stubborn as a mule. There's no way anyone could change her mind – turn her – especially not someone from Military Intelligence."

He's started pacing back and forth across his office, his agitation rising, overwhelming him. This is his daughter, his little girl and he can't bear the thought of it. He must protect her, he must!

Christ, he needs a drink.

He turns, flinging the photo of Gilad Laskar onto his desk as he crosses to his decanter, his hands shaking as he lifts it, chest heaving with emotion. His head spins, he can't breathe, and he feels himself begin to sway on his feet, but then she's there, hand sliding down his arm to take the decanter from him, her cool hand on his cheek, turning him to face her, her eyes warm and blue, a balm on his battered heart to soothe him. She says something, her lips move, but he cannot hear her over the roaring in his ears, and then she's gently guiding him over to his sofa, coaxing him to sit and kneeling before him. Her hands reaching up to loosen his tie and the collar of his shirt, cool hands pressing against his flushed skin, her gaze still holding his as he feels the pressure ease and he draws air back into his burning lungs.

"Just breathe," she's saying softly. "It's going to be alright, Harry. I'm here. Just breathe and everything will be alright."

He sighs and closes his eyes, hands reaching for her, resting on her hips – so solid and strong – and immediately he feels grounded. They'll fix this. Together. Just like they do with everything else.

He tries to draw her closer, but she's on her knees already and doesn't budge, so he leans towards her instead, forehead resting on her shoulder as her fingers thread through his hair and her lips press softly against his jaw.

"Better?" she whispers after a moment or two.

"Much," he admits on a sigh.

"Good, because I suspect we've got rather a big audience gawking at us by now."