"Harry."

The way she spoke his name, low and soft and sad as a song, sliced through him deeper than any knife, left his heart cracked and bleeding there in the corridor outside her little flat. How could it be, he asked himself, after two long years of separation, after everything he'd lost, everything she'd lost, that she still held this power over him? She'd been back in his life for less than a month, and already he needed her more than he needed his next breath.

"What are you doing here?" she asked when he offered no explanation, just stood there in her doorway looking downtrodden and forlorn. She was soft and lovely, as ever, her hair longer than when she'd left him, the dark circles under her eyes speaking so eloquently of the many sleepless nights since they'd been rescued from Mani's clutches. How had he forgotten just how small she was, how when she stood before him like this with no shoes upon her feet that the top of her head came up just underneath his chin, the perfect height for him to wrap her in his arms, to cradle her close and whisper against her hair that he would never let anyone or anything hurt her ever again?

"I didn't know where else to go," he confessed quietly.

It was true; the operation with the Tazbeks had come to an end, Bibi was dead, Jo was drowning in righteous indignation, and Harry was lost. Nothing had been right since Ruth had returned to him, broken and distant as the moon. She was finally back in London, where she belonged, but she was not by his side, had for the first few weeks doggedly refused to see him until at last she relented, until she stood beside him on the bridge and offered him what little absolution she could. It was not forgiveness, not complete, not yet, but she had come to him, had been kind to him, had offered him that sad little smile that had haunted his dreams during all the long days of her exile, and in that moment, standing beside her, knowing that she did not hate him, not truly, he had felt hope for the first time in many long years. Though he did not know what would come next, for him, for her, for them, he clung to that hope, that hope that had brought him here to her door.

Ruth did not laugh at him, did not rage at him, did not chide him, did not even sigh in resignation. She simply nodded, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and ducking her head in the way she did when she did not know what else to do, and took a silent step back, holding the door open for him to enter.

Safe house was something of a misnomer, he thought as he entered the little flat for the first time. It was hardly safe, tucked away inside a towerblock full of all sorts of undesirable characters, the roar of the motorway outside rattling the windows. And it was hardly a house, just three little rooms, with only the barest furniture and no sign of life. For all that it was not hers, that it was dark and cold and soulless, there were still some touches of Ruth, for those who knew what to look for. Her shoes in an untidy heap by the door, her coat cast over the back of the little sofa, dirty teacups in the sink, a book lying open in the chair by the only window. She had been reading, then, had been sitting alone, quiet and pensive, in this awful little flat, and he had interrupted her solitude, a ghost drifting through to unsettle and unnerve her.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked him, leading him to the open space that served as both sitting room and kitchen. "The kettle is just about the only thing that works in here."

"Tea would be lovely," he answered softly. How was it, he wondered as he followed her, docile as a chastised dog, that she could invite him into her home, could offer him tea so kindly, when she had lost her husband and her child and her whole life, for his sake.

There was a small round table set off to the side and so Harry settled himself in one of the chairs, watching her as she started the kettle and fetched two clean cups, keeping her back towards him all the while. She was dressed, as ever, in a long dark skirt, but gone were the bohemian tops and garish jewelry she had favored in her previous life. Instead she wore a black cardigan, wrapped tight around her lithe frame, and underneath it a soft black top. She had no further adornment, had not troubled herself with makeup, and as she went through the motions of domesticity not three feet from where he sat he could not help but think of her as a ghost, all in black, her skin so pale, her eyes so huge and sad. She was a shadow, a remnant of who she had been before, just as was he. So much had changed; how could they possibly hope to move forward, to face the future together, after so much grief?

"I spoke to the Home Secretary," he said, suddenly feeling the need to shatter the silence that surrounded them. Ruth did not respond, did not make any sound or turn to face him, only carried on pouring their tea, fetching milk and sugar from the cabinets. None of either for her, and too much of both for him, and wasn't it strange, that she had changed the way she took her tea but remembered his preferences exactly?

"He owes me rather a large favor, you see, and he remembered you, from before. He's given me assurances that he will do whatever he can to...give you back your name."

This time Ruth did sigh, lifting both their cups and carrying them over to the table. Even the cups were soulless, black and smooth, utterly unmemorable. Ruth had owned a eclectic variety of teacups, he remembered, some chipped, some covered in little cats or birds, all different sizes and shapes, no two the same. What had become of all those teacups? For some reason the thought made him sad.

"I went by Ruth, in Cyprus," she said softly, staring down at her tea. "I chose a different surname, of course, but I wanted to be Ruth again. Maybe that was the wrong choice. Maybe that's how they…"

Her voice left her and she gave a little cough to cover the sudden welling of her emotion, but she did not fool him; Harry had seen the sheen of tears in the corners of her eyes. He wanted so badly to reassure her, but somehow he thought it would not comfort her, to know that Mani would have found her no matter where she went, no matter what she called herself, that nothing she could have done would have been sufficient to protect her. It was all he had to give her, and so he kept his mouth closed.

"Still. It would be nice to be Evershed again. To stay in this country. I've been away far too long."

At those words she squared her shoulders and looked at him, right in the eye, for the first time since he'd arrived at her door. There was grief in her, yes, but resilience, too. She was here, sharing her tea and her time with him, had once more willingly thrown her lot in with his, and the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Wounded but strong, she would carry on. Somehow, though he could not say how, could not discern the exact moment of her transfiguration, she had become the only woman in the world who could ever hope to stand by his side, the only one who would ever want to. Death and damnation dogged his steps, and this beautiful, brilliant, broken woman understood that better than anyone else ever could. Oh, Ros and Jo had faced their fair share of pain, but theirs was a different path in life. Ruth understood him, understood what it was to make the choices that put people like Ros and Jo in danger, to stand on the wall while his soldiers fell all around him. Ruth knew what it was to play the long game, knew what it was to sacrifice every piece on the board, just to protect the queen. Ruth knew, and she was not running from him.

"I can't tell you, Ruth," he began, his voice hoarse as if he'd been shouting for hours, struggling for every word, "how sorry-"

"If you apologize one more time I think I'll scream," she told him tartly.

He let loose a short, sharp bark of laughter. How very Ruth; she had always been clever, had always possessed a talent for knocking him onto the back foot.

"Very well," he agreed. "Then let me just say how...glad I am, to have you back home."

For a long moment she regarded him in silence, her eyes huge and shining brighter than any star. How had he forgotten the ocean-dark radiance of those eyes, the way they cut him to the quick, the way they enchanted him, the way they seemed to see straight through to the very heart of him?

"It's good to be back," she answered slowly, neither moving nor looking away, remaining rooted in the moment with him, and in those words he heard everything she wanted to say, everything she could not say, not yet, not now, with her husband's death so fresh in her mind and her life in ruins. "I've missed it," she said, and in the resultant stillness he heard her voice echoing in the vault of his mind. I missed you.

And oh, but he had missed her, had longed for her, had lost track of the moments when he had looked up from his desk, his eyes searching for her, though he knew that she was gone. She was everything to him, his guiding light, his hope, his guardian angel, the dagger twisting in his back, the wound in his chest that would never properly heal, so long as she was far from his side. She was everything, and finally, after all his nights of longing, after all the many days when he had closed his eyes and asked himself what Ruth want me to do, she was here. She was here, sitting across the table from him, sharing her tea, her time, her gentle words. It seemed a miracle, seemed too good to be true, and so he savored every second, until she spoke and shattered him anew.

"I want to come back to work, Harry," she told him softly.