AN: A one-shot written back in October for SigmaCreations for Harry's birthday. This continues a year after my previous one-shot entitled 'Harry's Birthday'. I do hope you all enjoy. Xx
A steady rain falls as his birthday dawns, the gray clouds heavy as they swirl through the dark sky. To the easy, twilight is just starting to peak on the horizon, the wind whipping leaves and rain around those brave souls slugging into work. Soon he will need to join those souls traveling into the city-center, but for now, he enjoys the luxurious ten minutes of a lie in. His Mulberry silk-filled duvet has created a cocoon of warmth, one that only the shared warmth of his companion could make better. But he dwells not on her absence. He can't fault her for staying at hers when choir practice had not ended till ten.
But he can miss her.
It's hard to fathom the monumental changes that have occurred in his life in just one year. Three hundred and sixty-five days before, he had woken on his fifty-fourth birthday as alone as he is today. But then, the loneliness had been a heavy weight as the woman he loves was not his to worship. Fear had been keeping them apart; fear of others and fear of mistakes; and for months, that fear had seemed to have no path to being overcome.
That had all changed over a magical dinner at a quaint Italian bistro.
Danilo's
Their one-year anniversary is that evening at seven, and as he lies in their bed, he smiles. The thought of a quiet dinner over candlelight, the soft glow warming the sparkle in her eyes across the table has him pushing aside the duvet. They've reservations tonight at the same bistro. For the exact same table with the same violinist. He's planned everything out to a T, dotted every I. Everything recreated and perfect.
Dinner.
Accompanied with dancing.
Followed by a romantic stroll – hopefully sans rain – along the Thames to their bench.
Where he'll sweep down on one knee and ask her to marry him.
Or at least he hopes to sweep down on one knee. With the stiffness that age and injury has brought, perhaps he should settle for not falling awkwardly to said knee, requiring an unplanned trip to hospital. That part he's still working out.
He swings his legs to the side of the bed, his hand reaching out to turn on the lamp, flooding the room with light. His mind is still working on how he will propose as he stands, that stiffness he has been worrying about during the proposal enticing a small grunt as he stretches. From the foot of the bed, he hears a grumpy meow and he laughs as Fidget lets his displeasure of being awoken known. Ruth has the same reaction each and every morning.
"You'll be asleep again before I get to the wardrobe," he mutters with a glance at the cat. He's answered with a large yawn as the cat shifts onto his side, a paw rising to cover closing eyes.
With a shake of his head and a smile on his face, Harry crosses to the large wardrobe, opening his side to gaze at his collection of suits. It takes but a moment to settle on the dark gray one he had worn the year before, adding the navy shirt and corresponding tie Ruth had picked on their last shopping trip. Setting them on the chair, he crosses to the en-suite, the smile growing as he checks off all his plans.
Everything is set to be perfect.
Which is why then it all goes to hell.
- H & R -
It's going on ten when he finally trudges home, the rain from that morning now falling in buckets.
This suits him and his mood just fine.
Nine hours he has spent in a special – and surprise – parliamentary hearing on the upcoming budgets of the services; a gift from Macon on the most joyous of days; focusing on whether the oversight of Five should stay a separate entity or fall under a special committee.
One overseen by Sir Oliver Mace.
How the weasel had managed to secure a Knightship after all he had done, Harry would never know. Nor does he particularly want to contemplate it as he closes the door to his Range Rover. It's late, the dinner and proposal he has planned had to be scrapped, and the warm glow coming from the windows of his London townhome are not because Ruth is waiting for him but rather from the timers his security team has installed. The text message received at five-thirty had been brief – Going home. Make sure you eat. Love you. – which means he'll finish his birthday and anniversary alone.
Not that he can blame her, he thinks as he trudges up the front path. His overcoat is soaked by the time he covers the distance from drive to front door, and he curses himself for leaving his umbrella in the stand by the door just that morning. All he wants now is a warm shower and something for dinner because he had, in fact, forgotten to get something to eat.
Stepping into the entry, he deals with the door and alarm before peeling off the sodden wool, hanging it on the stand to dry.
And smiles.
Toeing off his shoes, he pads across the plank wood towards the kitchen, a quick glance in the sitting room confirming his thoughts that his companion is in the back of the house. Quietly he steps into the brightly lit room, the scent of a roast wafting through the air and he feels his stomach rumble as his smile grows. For the moment, he ignores the scents – and his stomach – instead crossing the empty kitchen to the back most room of the house.
It's here; in the conservatory/reading nook; that he finds the woman he loves. She is standing next to a stack of boxes in old jeans and one of his jumpers, her back to him as she stretches up to place some volume on the top shelf. For the moment, he ignores the boxes, instead focusing on the soft curl of her hair resting against her face as she turns to him, a warm smile spreading across her face. "You're home," she says softly, her eyes running over him as they do every time they're apart, stemming from a combination of worry and want.
It hits him each time she does this that someone loves him enough to worry – and want – him at this point in his life.
"I am," is his response, his own smile growing as he steps into the room. It's five short steps to reach her, the smile growing on her face as he gently cradles her cheeks in his palms to softly kiss her. "I thought you were going home."
"I did," she answers, her grin growing as she leans up to press her lips against his.
"You know what I mean," he mutters, his hands sliding along her back to cup her bottom, pushing her flush against him as he nips at her lower lip.
She just smiles as she presses closer, the hand playing with the curls on his neck moving away as she reaches blindly into the box beside them. She hands him a book, muttering happy birthday as he takes it in his hands. His eyebrow lifts as he reaches for the volume, his eyes only briefly leaving hers to take in the title. Chanson D'Aspremont. "Thank you?" His confusion grows as he takes in the cover.
Ruth laughs as she takes the book from his hand, dropping it back in the box before running her fingers along his cheek. "It's my book Harry."
Realization hits him as a large smile fills his face, his hold on her tightening. "You've moved in." This is quickly followed by a frown as he thinks of her carrying in heavy boxes by herself in the rain.
"I bribed your security team to arrange a team to move what I wanted and donated the rest towards furnishing safe houses," she says, knowing why the frown as filled his face. "But I love you even more for worrying about me."
His smile returns as he thinks about her ingenuity at arranging for her things to be brought over without his knowledge, but even more from knowing she's here to stay. Slowly he slides his hand into his trouser pocket, his fingers brushing the small box he has been carrying for weeks. As he quietly opens the black velvet, he thinks about the evening he had planned; the recreation of their second date, the flowers and wine picked perfectly to complement everything, the stroll along the River Thames; all put together with the precision of a mission to ensure everything was just perfect.
None of that is what was going to make it perfect he realizes as he pulls the small, white gold and diamond ring from his pocket. He watches as her eyes go wide at the sight of the ring, at the perfect o-shape her mouth makes as he lifts it between them and the slight gasp that fills the air.
"Marry me."