A/N: This is a Harry-centric one-shot. Since this is my 94th HR fic, I am aware I am repeating myself. I am hoping this is different enough to be interesting.

Friday May 4th 2012 – late evening:

As if it had attained sentience, the car slid along the tarmac, its nose headed for home. He felt his mind wandering, lulled by the regular pulses of illumination from the overhead lights along the motorway. The only thing keeping him awake was the adrenalin coursing through his system.

As he guided the Audi off the A14, and turned right on to the all purpose road which took him towards home, he smiled into the dark. Home had become a word which elicited genuine meaning for him. Home was Suffolk, while his house in London was work. Home was serenity, while outside the walls of his London house, the city screamed and cried out from centuries of suffering. Home was safe, while London was a test of his survival. Most importantly, home was Ruth.

Thirty minutes later, he parked outside the cottage, and carried his holdall inside. Apart from the soft glow from the lamp on the small table next to the sofa in the living room, the house was in darkness. He stopped by the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, and as he drew it towards him, he noticed the slight shaking of his normally steady hand. Bloody adrenalin, he thought.

He took his holdall to the guest bathroom, and showered, washed his hair, and then shaved. Almost human again, he thought, examining his face in the mirror, choosing to ignore the dilated pupils, and the deep and messy graze to the skin above his left eyebrow, and then along his cheekbone and down his cheek to his jaw. The Thames House doctor had cleaned it up, mumbling something about a couple of stitches being a good idea. Harry had politely declined, but the doctor had applied a plaster to the deepest cut above his eyebrow, which Harry had removed the minute he'd left the clinic.

He stood at the toilet peeing, when again he heard the zing of the bullet as it had passed his ear, and again felt the hard graze of the brick wall as he'd tripped and fell, so taking himself out of the path of the bullet. It had been close, but not that close. He was aware that he was experiencing a flash-back.

"I thought I told you to stay on the flight of stairs."

"Since when do you give the orders?" he'd thrown back at Dimitri. "When you're section head, you can tell me what to do. Until then -"

"If they make me section head, it will be because we've had to bury you."

He'd run his fingers over his forehead, checking for anything which shouldn't be there. All he'd found was blood dripping from his eyebrow, and brick dust embedded in the cuts on his cheek and jaw. His face had felt numb.

It was not unusual for him to be crawling into bed beside Ruth in a darkened bedroom some time after midnight. They both preferred that to him spending the night alone in his London home. Quietly, he slid across the mattress until he was lying against her back. He wrapped one arm around her, and pulled her closer – his port in a storm. She mumbled something – he heard the words, Harry, cold, and home – and then he closed his eyes.

Just after three o'clock, Harry was back downstairs in the dining room, sitting alone at the table, staring through the window at the moonlit garden, a glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. He'd got up because he'd been woken by the incessant beat of multiple drums in his head. Two analgesics later, and a half measure of whiskey had him almost returned to normal.

Ever since he and Ruth had moved to the cottage, ten weeks after she'd been stabbed, and two weeks after she'd been given the go-ahead to resume a normal life, Harry had found solace in the garden …... sitting in it, walking through it, and even gazing out at it in the middle of the night. Despite his and Ruth's best efforts on his weekends at home, it was more jungle than park, and while Ruth often despaired of it, he loved it. He identified with it. Looking out through their dining room window at their untameable garden in the early hours was like gazing into his own soul – wild, untamed, unfathomable.

"Where's Harry?" Dimitri.

"God knows. He was meant to stay on the stairs." Calum

"I see him. He's here." Stuart.

"Jesus. Look at all that blood." Calum again.

"Check his pulse. Check his pulse." Dimitri.

"He's fine. I saw him move." Stuart.

"Of course I'm bloody fine. Someone give me a hand."

Harry couldn't understand why this operation – so simple and straight forward – had turned out so badly. He failed to understand how a lone sniper had managed to see him in the darkened stairwell, and then, had he not tripped and fallen when he did, how easily his life would have been snuffed out. He'd taken part in operations far more dangerous than this one, and he'd walked away unscathed, untouched – physically, as well as emotionally. This operation – part success and part debacle – had left him nervous and uneasy.

"Penny for them." Ruth's voice was quiet, and smooth like honey, as she sat in the chair next to his. He felt her palm circling his back over his t-shirt and dressing gown, sharing with him some of her body warmth.

He turned to face her, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hide his face from her forever. She leaned in as if to kiss him, and then quickly pulled away from him, her face a picture of shock.

"What happened to you? Harry …. tell me you fell down the stairs. Tell me you were not in a fight with some low life."

"It's just a graze," he said, gently putting his fingertips to the worst of the injuries – the deep graze on his forehead.

"Just a graze? Harry, you look like you went a couple of rounds with a bulldozer."

"It's …... nothing." He reached across to place a quick kiss on Ruth's lips. "Sorry I can't kiss you properly. My face hurts."

Ruth began stroking his good cheek, and he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, enjoying her touch.

"I was thinking about Adam …... and Ros …... and the others," he said, opening his eyes to glance at Ruth, who was watching him closely. "I've just realised how much I miss them."

"So much so that tonight you tried to join them," Ruth said, her voice snappy.

"I tripped over a brick, so that my face planted on the brick wall of the landing. Had I not tripped, you'd now be organising my funeral. As I fell, I felt the bullet pass my ear."

There was a long silence as Ruth absorbed what he'd told her. "Dimitri texted me while you were seeing the doctor. His words were something like, Harry has minor injuries, but will live to fight another day. Do you know what I say to that?" Harry shook his head – slowly, because his headache had returned. "I say over my dead body. I don't want you putting your life in danger …... not now, not ever. No country on earth is worth that degree of sacrifice. You've given enough, Harry. I need you more than our country needs you."

Ruth's words hung in the air, reverberating inside Harry's head like a rung bell. Strangely for him, he'd been thinking along much the same lines. After his funeral, who apart from Ruth and his two children would care that he had ever lived? He'd be remembered by a name etched on a glass wall …... and by Ruth, who would mourn him for far too long... much longer than he deserved.

"Your head," Ruth said, her hand under his chin guiding his face closer to her own. "It's bleeding." Harry moved to touch his forehead, but Ruth grasped his fingers, and pulled them away. "Your beautiful face," she said quietly, her thumb stroking his unblemished cheek. "What have you done?"

Harry had no answer to that, and he wasn't about to dispute her use of the word `beautiful'. He knew that beauty was in the eye of the person making the call. He liked it that she considered him beautiful, although whenever he stared at his face in the mirror, he could see nothing beautiful about it – well worn, haggard, lived in, yes, but not beautiful. He swallowed hard as she continued to examine his face.

"Upstairs," she said suddenly.

"Ruth …. I'm not at my best -"

"I don't mean the bedroom. The bathroom. Your wound needs some attention."

Harry sat on the edge of the bath while Ruth cleaned the deepest wound – the one on his forehead – and applied steri-strips to hold the skin together.

"What sort of doctor doesn't fix a wound this deep?" she mumbled, as she held his face between her hands, and examined her work under the light.

Harry could have stayed like that all night, with Ruth fussing over him, attending to him, and occasionally meeting his eyes, the fresh, warm smell of her in his nostrils. "I didn't ….. give him a chance. I left as soon as the wounds on my face were cleaned."

Ruth stood back to watch him more closely. "Why would you do that?"

"Habit, I guess. It began when I was young, and no-one wants to be seen as weak, so …... wounds are treated as -"

"Rites of passage. Yes, I know all about that. It's stupid, and it's dangerous."

Harry was shocked by Ruth's anger. Angry Ruth was more likely to occupy herself with some task, or to bash pots and pans around than she was to openly express disapproval. Underneath his shock was a kernel of pleasure. He loved how she loved him, her fury swirling around them like a winter wind.

"Were I to be this careless with my life, Harry, how would you feel?"

Could she not see the parallel which was so clear to him? He looked up into her eyes and held them.

"Of course I know how that feels, Ruth. You didn't have to protect me from that boy's attack. I could have handled it myself."

He was now as angry as she. He had sat by her bedside for almost all of the ten days that she'd been hospitalised after the younger Gavrik had stabbed her. He had worried about her, sometimes staying up all night, sometimes falling asleep in a chair beside her hospital bed, his head resting on the bed. It was not until he had moved her into their cottage that he knew she was safe, and that she would recover and again live a normal life.

"Let's go to bed," Ruth said, taking his hand, and leading him towards the door to their bedroom. "We won't reach a resolution tonight ….. not at this hour."

Ruth shuffled under the duvet, while Harry felt his body creak and complain with every movement. He settled down next to her, and turned on his side to face her.

"I ache all over," he said at last, determined to put aside the competitive bluster of his youthful self. His body hurt where he had twisted as he fell – his lower back, his knees, his elbows, his shoulders, his upper arms – he could feel them all.

Ruth reached across to place a soft kiss on his lips. "Better?" she asked.

"Only partly. If you want me to be fully better, you'll have to kiss me all over."

"I'm not sure we have time for that tonight. What if I ring Sonja in the morning? A massage might do the trick."

The Amazon Of Woodbridge, also known as Sonja Eklund, was a force of nature …... and a very skilled therapeutic masseuse.

"I think she has a thing for me, Ruth."

"Hardly. Have you seen her husband?"
"No."

"He looks like Michael Fassbender."

"Who?"

"He's young and tall and rather buff."

Harry groaned quietly. He was none of those. He was not young, nor was he tall, and he had only ever been buff for around five minutes one day in his early thirties.

"I can shop while you're on the table."

"What do I get if I submit myself to this torture?"

"You just might get me."

Harry smiled into the darkened room, and leaned towards Ruth. She saw his movement, and met his lips with her own. The kiss was brief, as goodnight kisses usually were, and they both settled back on to their respective pillows. Ruth was almost asleep when Harry again spoke.

"I have a lot of leave owing."

"And?"

"I …... thought I might hand in my resignation on Monday. I'll give two weeks notice, and then walk away. How does that sound?"

When Ruth said nothing, he waited for a few moments, and then turned to look at her, and caught her just as she wiped her fingers across her cheek.

"Ruth, are you alright?"

She nodded. "I'm just happy. That's the best news I've heard in months."

"Good. You had me worried there."

"Do you mean it …... about retiring?" she asked.

"Yes, I think I do. The time is right. I've ….. given enough."

"It's time for us, Harry."

"Yes. It is."

"We've earned this …... time to be together."

"We have."

This time, Harry was almost asleep when Ruth spoke.

"I forgot to tell you …... I've applied for a job."

"Not with the security services, I hope."

"No. I applied a month ago, but didn't tell you because I was sure I wouldn't be considered. At my first interview I was told I was over qualified. My third interview is on Wednesday. They were rather impressed with the reference William gave me."

Another long silence ensued.

"Are you going to tell me about the job, or do you expect me to guess?"

"It's at the library in Woodbridge. One of their part time staff members is retiring next month. It's ….. managing purchases, as well as the library's website. I thought it might …... keep me interesting, without ... threatening my life."

"You're always interesting to me."

"Thank you, Harry."

He could hear the smile in her voice.

"I love you," he said quietly.

"I know you do."

"And I'm proud of you."

"I know that, too. I'm also proud of you."

"For what?"

"For having the courage to walk away. It's not easy to walk away from all you've ever known."

"No it's not, but the alternative is unthinkable."

"It is."

Harry stayed awake long after Ruth's breathing deepened, and she expelled little puffs of air each time she breathed out. His body hurt, but as the minutes passed, and he sank further into the mattress, he became less aware of each twinge and ache. He rolled on to his good side, and slid as close to Ruth as he could without waking her. Her breath on his cheek was a balm. He planned for it soothe him for the rest of his days.