A/N: At last, the final chapter. I'm still working on the epilogue as I feel this fic needs one, but I've yet to settle on an idea for it, so there might be a slight delay in posting. In the mean time, this chapter is still set in 3.04 and I'd like to acknowledge borrowing a few lines of dialogue from canon. Thank you so very much for all your support and wonderful reviews. Hope you enjoy this update. Cheers, S.C.
Friday, 8th October 2004 – Harry's Place
"How many women have you seduced for Five?" she asks, her fingers drawing patterns across his stomach, toying with the fine blonde hair she finds there.
The hand caressing her hip stills and she can feel the sudden tension in him. "I don't know."
"You don't remember?"
"It's been over a decade since I was last in the field, Ruth."
She hums to acknowledge this fact. "But isn't it the kind of thing men like to keep track of and brag about?"
He's silent for a few moments before he admits, "Once upon a time, perhaps, but I honestly no longer recall the number. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. I suppose I'm wondering how you do it – seduce someone you hardly know, someone you often have reason to dislike, despise, or even be revolted by."
"You mean like David Swift?"
"Yes."
His hand resumes its motion down her arm and back again. "You do it because you have to, because it's the only – or the quickest – way to get information or take someone out of the picture."
"But how do you... perform? How do you not recoil in disgust?"
"You find something about them that's attractive. Everyone has a least one thing. Perhaps they're physically alluring, or well read, or they've travelled. Maybe they dance well, or they're charming, or they love food, or films, or something. You focus on that one thing that you can admire and on why you're doing what you're doing. And you need to remember, Ruth, that you're not yourself in that moment. You go in with a legend. You become the legend. And while it helps to have some things that are the same between yourself and the person you're pretending to be, it's equally important to make certain that other things are entirely different. It's not really you carrying out the seduction."
She sighs. "I don't know, Harry. It sounds impossible. I don't think I could ever do it."
"Not everyone is as bad as Swift and we all do it, to some extent, to cultivate an asset. How many mathematicians from GCHQ do you have wrapped around your little finger?" His voice has a tinge of pride in it as he says this and it makes her smile and blush with pleasure.
"Like Claire from the Home Office, you mean?"
He chuckles. "Exactly."
"All the same, I'm glad Adam picked Fiona for this, though I can't imagine how he feels, watching her flirt with Swift."
"Proud, I should think."
"Proud? You don't think he's jealous?"
"Of Swift? Why would he be? It's all an act and Adam knows it. She's not Fiona Carter tonight, but Karen Bailey. Besides, where there's trust and love, there's no room for jealousy, just pride in her accomplishments."
She smiles against his shoulder. "Is that how you feel about me?"
"Yes." He turns his head and presses a kiss against her forehead. "I am immensely proud of all your accomplishments, Ruth."
"Especially the blow-jobs," she teases, making him laugh.
"Don't forget the Sheppard's Pie you made the other day," he teases right back.
She smiles and sighs in contentment, cuddling closer to him as her fingers continue their journey over his soft skin. They lie in silence after that for a little while before she speaks again.
"Do you think she's got him yet?"
"I hope so," he replies, voice husky and low. "I can't wait to nail the bastard."
She lifts her head from his shoulder to look at him at the note of malice in his voice.
"What?" he growls. "No one threatens my daughter and gets away with it, Ruth."
She smiles as she watches her teddy-bear Harry turn back into a bear.
"No one threatens any of my loved ones," he adds, eyes dipping to her lips as he raises his right hand to cup her head and draws her in for a kiss. It's not soft or gentle as she expects, which takes her a little by surprise. It's been a while since the last time he's wanted her more than once on the same night, so the passion he unleashes is entirely unexpected, though as always, very welcome.
When he pulls back, they're both breathing heavily, but he doesn't release her, his strong arm holding her close to him, eyes probing hers deeply. "I want you near me, Ruth," he says seriously. "Now everyone knows, I'm afraid you will be in danger and I need to know that I can protect you."
Her mouth opens in surprise. It's not that she hasn't considered this before, but somehow, she's managed to forget that they've kept their liaison a secret for reasons more important and sinister than her desire to avoid being talked about behind her back and have assumptions made about them. And it's true – she's been with MI-5 long enough to know that family members of powerful people do need extra protection.
"Near you, how?" she asks, searching his gaze, her heart suddenly pounding.
"A few weeks ago you said that you wished we could spend every night together," he replies, his voice low and measured.
"Did I?"
"You did," he says firmly, clearly undeterred by her apparent forgetfulness. "And back in April, you said that you'd eventually like us to live together."
She hums, pleased and happy to hear that he remembers.
"So I think that it's time for us to do just that," he finishes.
She smiles. "What about Scarlet and Fidget though?"
"I have a feeling they will like it," he replies with a smile of his own, clearly pleased that she hasn't shot him down yet and is considering his proposal. "I know Scarlet will be pleased not to be left to her own devices every time I want to see you and, I imagine, Fidget will feel the same."
"There is that," she agrees, smiling. "Whose house would we live in?"
"I don't much care," he says immediately. "As long as I have you and Scarlet, I'm a happy man."
She smiles at him, thinking how easy to please, how truly wonderful he is. "Here then," she tells him. "You have fewer things to move anyway. You're renting yours, aren't you?"
"Yes." He reaches his hand forward to stroke her cheek, his gaze warm and open.
"When will you move in?"
"Well, I need to give a month's notice, but I suspect it'll be easier to do it gradually. I could bring the essentials over this weekend, then slowly pack up the rest, see what I want to keep and give away the rest of it. If all goes according to plan, my driver can start picking me up here on Monday and I'll be properly moved in by early November."
"For your birthday."
He smiles. "Yes."
"Sounds great," she says, heart full and happy. She leans in and presses a soft kiss against his lips. "I love you and I'm glad," she tells him. "It will be wonderful to have you here every night, every morning, every weekend – Scarlet too. Maybe she and Fidget will become great friends and they'll be just as happy with each other as we are together."
He smiles, eyes softening. "I love you, Ruth. I always will. I intend – if you'll let me – to spend the rest of my life with you. I need you to know that."
"I know," she whispers, touched by his words.
"And I need you to know that I want to marry you." Her eyes widen in surprise, but he ploughs on. "Perhaps it's too soon to consider that now, but I'm ready whenever you are."
"Is this a proposal, Harry?" she asks, trying and failing to suppress a smile. He really is hopelessly, adorably wonderful sometimes.
"Yes. No. In a manner of speaking."
"Well, if you're not sure, how am I supposed to take it seriously?" Her lips twitch with amusement.
"You're teasing me," he complains, pouting adorably.
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Right." He sits up abruptly and swings his legs out of bed, reaching for his underwear that's lying on the floor beside the bed.
"Where are you going?" she asks in alarm.
"Nowhere. Just getting dressed," he replies, pulling his trunks and trousers on as she turns the bedside lamp on.
"Why?"
"Because." He crosses the room to her dressing table, pulling his shirt on as he goes, buttoning it up and shoving it into his trousers. When he starts rummaging around in her jewellery box, she begins to understand what he's up to.
"Pull out the little drawer," she tells him. "The one with the clasped hands should do nicely."
He chuckles as he does as directed and locates the ring she's talking about. Then he turns to face her once more, walking around the room to her side of the bed where she's sitting with arms wrapped around her knees, barely able to contain her excitement and delight.
"Shouldn't I get dressed too?" she asks.
"No," he replies as he stops beside her. "I'm going to need you naked, whatever your answer." And with that, he drops to one knee beside the bed and reaches for her hand, clasping it gently with his own and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, his gaze soft and hopeful. "Ruth. My lovely, Ruth. I love you with a passion and intensity I hadn't thought possible. With you in my life, I know exactly what I'm fighting for. You give me hope, you bring me joy, you ground and support me. I hope I do the same for you. I hope I make you happy. I have no wish to spend even a single moment of the time left to me without you. Please, Ruth, will you marry me?"
The tears gathering as he talks spill over and she finds she cannot speak, so moved is she by his words. She shakes her head at herself, then nods, then laughs as he says with twinkling eyes and a half-smile, "Now who's giving mixed signals?"
She reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shirt, taking a deep breath to steady herself and savouring the feel of him, his scent, the love that's filling her heart and overflowing.
"Is that a yes?" he asks huskily, pressing his lips against her shoulder, his hands running up her back and down again.
She laughs again and pulls back, wiping her cheeks with her hands and nodding her head, gazing into his gorgeous eyes as she finally finds her voice and murmurs, "Yes. Yes, Harry. Of course, I'll marry you."
He smiles – one of those very rare ones that tell her he's truly happy – and reaches for her hand, slipping the ring he'd fished out of her jewellery box onto her finger. "I'll get you a proper one tomorrow, but for now..."
"No," she objects softly. "This one's great. It's perfect, Harry."
He frowns. "But it's already yours, Ruth."
"I know and I love it." She smiles at his sceptical expression. "It wasn't a gift, if that's what's worrying you. I bought it for myself some years ago because I liked it so much. It's supposed to be an engagement ring and I remember thinking how much I'd like to receive it as such one day, when I bought it." He still looks unconvinced, so she adds, "It cost fifty quid, if you'd like to pay for it, but really, Harry, you won't find another ring that I'll love more, and you've already put it on my finger. After such a wonderful proposal, it would feel wrong to wear another one, no matter how beautiful."
He sighs in defeat. "Very well, but I am going to pay for it, and not a measly fifty quid either."
She smiles. "I'm not marrying you for your money, Harry," she points out gently, sliding her arms over his shoulders, threading her fingers through his hair.
"I know that, Ruth, but-"
"But nothing. It's not how much it costs, but how special it is to me."
He scowls. "I suppose you'll also be wanting to get tin wedding rings to match then."
That makes her laugh. "I'll have you know it's sterling silver! I'll tell you what though – you can choose the wedding rings," she offers, generously. "How does that sound?"
"Good. That sounds good. Now come here," he says, drawing her closer. "I want to kiss the future Mrs-."
"Not on your life!" she interrupts, leaning away from him. "Ms Evershed, if you please, or-"
"Oh shut up and kiss me, you infuriating woman," he growls before he silences her with a passionate kiss, leaning into her until she's lying flat on her back with him on top of her, his hands and lips and tongue working their magic, rendering her inarticulate – a moaning, quivering mass of thoroughly loved ecstasy.
Sunday, 10th October 2004 – Catherine's Place
He looks at his daughter – this beautiful, intelligent woman that she has become – and can't help the surge of pride he feels, and of love. She is remarkable, her own person, a gift to humanity and it's all down to her – her own choices, her own struggles, her own determination and effort. He really had nothing to do with it, though Ruth would likely tell him otherwise. She'd insist that a big part of who Catherine is today is because of him – the example he set, if nothing else, of service and self-sacrifice. And maybe in the end, they're both right. He could have done better – he knows that – but there's not much point in dwelling on his failings now.
"I'm sorry if I've been a bad father," he tells her softly, watching the surprise register in her eyes. "I don't expect you to forgive everything, just to understand that I would like things to be better between us."
She nods repeatedly and smiles, and he feels a weight lift off his heart. "Well, I've got your email," she says.
He dips his head, smiling as he says gently, "Let's hope you'll use it."
She smiles, but then her face turns serious again. "Bye, Dad," she murmurs, looking lost and small all of a sudden. It tugs at his heart to see her looking vulnerable, to think that he won't see her for weeks, perhaps months, to imagine the danger she might be walking straight into by returning to the West Bank, so he does the only thing he can think of – he wraps her in his arms.
"I love you, Catherine," he whispers a little hoarsely, squeezing her against him.
"I love you too, Dad," she replies.
He closes his eyes, savouring the moment, trying to remember when last he held her thus, but it's been too long to identify with any certainty. She certainly wasn't as tall as this, so it's likely been near two decades. Far too long. Far, far too long, and as he feels her pull back and he releases her, he silently vows never to let her down like that again.
He clears his throat. "When do you think you'll be back next?" he asks, not quite ready to let her go just yet.
"I don't know," she replies, looking uncertain.
"Christmas?" he suggests hopefully.
She smiles. "Probably. I'll let you know."
"Good." He smiles, then gets the door for her, watching fondly as she steps closer to get it, only to suddenly blurt out, "There's someone I'd very much like you to meet... when you're back in England."
She pauses, frowning at him, and he begins to regret giving into the impulse to tell Catherine about Ruth. "Someone?"
"Yes." He swallows. "Someone very special to me. I hope very much that you will like her."
He waits with bated breath, terrified of Catherine's reaction.
"Not your illegitimate daughter, I hope?" she says, her eyes narrowed, and it's such an unexpected response that he can't help the chuckle that escapes him.
"No," he reassures her quickly. "I only have one – beautiful and remarkable – daughter."
"Good," she says, then smiles. "I'll look forward to meeting her then. Now I must be off or I'll end up missing my flight." And with that, she's through the car door and pulling away in no time at all, and he's left watching after her until her car disappears round the corner, his heart full of the progress they've made, then suddenly empty from her departure.
He turns, lost in thought, memories, and regrets as his feet carry him back to Thames House, where he pours a largish whisky and sits himself down to get some paperwork sorted. The place is deserted and he suspects everyone's gone down to the George to celebrate the successful conclusion of another operation. Even Ruth seems to have disappeared, which leaves him with a mixture of emotions, from disappointment that she's not here to greet him, to pride that she's chosen to face her fears and the others head on by going to the pub with them.
He turns to his inbox and pulls out the first folder, but try as he might, he can't seem to focus and, before long, his hands have reached for another folder entirely, one that's taken up permanent residence in the top drawer of his desk over the last few days, and again he is reading that poem – A Prayer for My Daughter, by Yeats.
He has no idea what it is about these words that speak to him – perhaps it's just the coincidence of Jane teaching it to her A-level students while Catherine was a helpless, adorable infant. She used to look so angelic in her sleep, he remembers, so intelligent and curious when awake. He'd never been around babies until she'd come along and he'd found it quite captivating to watch her, his heart melting at the sight of the big grin she used to give him when he got home and her babbling conversation. She'd had quite a pair of lungs on her too, of course, and there had been many a night when he'd stayed up with her, trying to soothe her cries to give Jane a break and feeling like an utter failure when, minutes later, she'd walk back into the room, take Catherine from him, and simply calm her down by popping a boob out and nursing her back to sleep. That had been the closest he's every come to wishing he had a pair of lactating breasts instead of the useless nipples he was born with.
"What are you contemplating with such focused attention?" Ruth asks softly from the doorway, and when he lifts his gaze to hers, his heart sighs with relief, his mind calming, equanimity restored.
"Memories mostly," he murmurs with a soft smile, setting aside the poem. "Wishing I had a pair of nice tits," he jokes.
She lifts her eyebrows.
"I was remembering feeling rather at a disadvantage in the parenting department when Catherine was a baby."
She smiles and crosses the room to his side. "Well, you know you can always borrow mine," she offers, making him chuckle.
"Thank you." He takes her hand in his, linking their fingers together as he tilts his head back to look at her. "How was it at the George?"
She makes a face. "Alright. It was fine really. Adam asked me if you were coming, so I told him that I have no idea and that I'm not your keeper, so that seemed to shut everyone up nicely and there was no more talk about us after that."
He smiles. "Well done."
"Thank you." Her eyes are shining with pleasure.
"You didn't tell them then?" he asks, more out of curiosity than anything else.
"No," she admits. "And no one noticed because apparently Will proposed to Zoe too and they're engaged now."
He hums, eyes probing hers with concern. "And how do you feel about that?"
"I'm happy for them."
"I meant-"
"I know what you meant, Harry," she smiles, running the fingers of her right hand through the curls at the nape of his neck. "I'm happy they didn't notice. I like that it's a secret for a little while, though I suppose I should tell Mum and David soon."
"And I should probably meet them," he adds with a wry smile.
"That too." Her eyes are twinkling at him with pleasure as they stare at each other for long moments in silence, until she clears her throat and changes the subject. "What about you? How did it go with Catherine?"
"Fine." He sighs. "Better. Progress was made."
"Good. I told you she wants you in her life."
"I know. You were right." He presses a kiss against her knuckles, then adds, "As usual."
She beams at him and kisses his lips lightly before pulling back again. He's thoroughly enjoying their colleagues finally knowing about them – Ruth would never have dared hold his hand, caress his skin, and kiss him on the Grid before, even on a day like today when there's no one around to witness it.
"I told her about you," he confesses, watching her eyes widen in surprise. "Well, I only said that I'd like her to meet you when she's next in London. I didn't tell her anything about you. I thought it right that she should know you exist though since-"
"We're going to be married," she finishes the thought for him.
"Exactly." He smiles and drops his gaze to the ring on her finger, feeling so pleased and proud to see it there and finding that it's growing on him – her choice of ring, the simplicity and understated nature of it, the fact that it's not obviously an engagement ring, so she feels free to wear it at work, and the symbolism of the two hands clasped together: their hands, holding onto each other for all eternity.
"And how did she take it?" Ruth asks, pulling his thoughts back to their conversation.
"Rather well." He smiles wryly at the recollection of Catherine's words. "Well, initially, when I said there's someone very special to me I'd like her to meet, she thought I might be trying to introduce her to a half-sister she doesn't know about."
"Blimey!"
He chuckles. "I know. Anyway, once I'd promised she's my only daughter, she relaxed and said she'd look forward to it."
"That's promising. I think you might have to prepare her for it a little bit though. For starters, she's not going to be expecting someone my age," she points out logically.
He frowns, his heart sinking somewhat. After years of having no contact with either of his children, he can't bear the thought that his relationship with Ruth might push Catherine away again.
"Of course, I could use make up – make myself look a little older when I meet her if you like." Her voice is teasing and there is mischief in her eyes, but somehow it doesn't serve to lift his spirits. And of course, being Ruth, she realises that immediately despite his attempt at a smile. Her gaze softens and she bends down to deposit a soft kiss on the top of his head and rest her cheek against it for a moment. "It'll work out, Harry. Don't worry so much. Even if she hates me, we'll find a way to make it work."
"I find it hard to believe that anyone could ever hate you, Ruth," he replies honestly, resting his head against her stomach and drawing her hand to his lips again.
"There you go then. She won't hate me and everything will be fine." Her hand gives his an encouraging squeeze as she pulls back to look at him and offers him a gentle smile.
"Yes," he agrees, but without much conviction. He suddenly feels very drained by the whole thing, the events of the last few days with Catherine and the November Committee, the stress and uncertainty, his exhaustion weighing him down, dulling the joy of Ruth accepting his proposal that's kept his hopes up for a future that includes Ruth and his children – together – a family he hasn't had in such a long time.
She watches him in silence for a moment or two, her eyes full of understanding and compassion. Then she squeezes his hand again and says, "Well, I'm not sure there's much point worrying about it now anyway. It's getting late and I'm going to head home. Coming?"
He sighs and tries to shake himself free of his gloomy thoughts, rubbing his eyes with thumb and fingers and nodding his head.
"Good." She leans down and presses a soft kiss against his lips, pulling her left hand from his grasp and cupping his cheek. "We'll sort it out, Harry. You'll see. Everything will work out in the end. You're tired and in need of rest and a good night's sleep."
He sighs again. "Probably," he concedes.
"Come on then. Let's go home. Scarlet and Fidget are waiting."
He smiles at that – the thought of the two of them waiting for them together, under the same roof for the very first time. At least they have that – their own little fur-family. Their introduction had gone quite well and there's definite reason to hope, he feels, that they'll be able to leave them together unsupervised before long – they'd closed Scarlet in the kitchen this morning, just to be on the safe side – and that they'll perhaps even become the best of friends soon.
"That's better," she says, smiling. "I'll go get my things." And as he watches her leave his office, it's suddenly not that hard to look on the bright side, push aside his worries, and go home with the brilliant, kind, and generous woman who has agreed to be his wife.