AN: Alright, this was part of a larger story I wrote last year and then decided not to share as I didn't like it too much. This and the next chapter I'll post last night will make up this little two-shot scenario I give you for Harry and Ruth. Set in Series 2, I wrote this before seeing the rest of the show and then had to go back and fix some names for Harry's past lovers. I do hope you'll enjoy and the second half will be posted tomorrow night. And for the anon who keeps leaving a message asking for more 'Pelvis Pusher', it's coming and will hopefully be up next week. I'm having...difficulties writing what Harry does to Ruth.
Harry leaned back in the gray wing chair by the blazing fire and gazed moodily at the orange flames flickering in the hearth. Resentment warred with a large dose of guilt inside of him as he listened to Ruth move about in the bathroom. He could hear the taps turn on. The water splashing against the porcelain of the tub. Her removing her clothes. Would she be able to get that elegant dress off by herself? He knew she wouldn't ask for his help.
Since they'd entered this room, with all of its sensual expectation, she'd become icier than ever. It angered him. Her purposeful coldness. As if she couldn't even stand to be close to him and wanted him to know it, but still, he couldn't keep the small stab of pity from piercing that anger. She was a virgin; even if she would never admit it, there had to be some nervousness. He needed to make an allowance for that.
He could still feel the desire for her coiled low in his stomach, but still, he didn't relish the prospect of making love to his wife. Well, of course; there would be no love about it; and neither was new or a surprise. If he was honest with himself, he shouldn't even want it, not with not knowing what kind of woman Ruth really was.
There was no illusions on his part about how she would handle the night. Lie in their bed, stiff and straight as a board, her eyes scrunched tight as she thought of nothing but her marital duty. Just the thought of her like that was enough to squelch his desire.
Distantly, Harry realized that the sounds that had been coming from the bathroom had stopped, and he knew now that she must be stuck in that dress. He rose from the gray chair, dressed only in his trousers, and rapped softly on the door.
"Ruth? Do you need any help?" He was met with a silence, and he almost smiled, imagining the internal battle she was wresting with, admitting to him that she needed his help, and yet not wanting to accept anything from him. Almost certainly she didn't want to admit that she needed his help in unzipping the gown. "I'll close my eyes," he half joked, "if you want me to help you."
"It's not a zipper." Her voice was muffled through the solid door. "It's a hundred tiny buttons that Zoe did up."
Before he could stop them, Harry had visions of all those buttons following the elegant length of her spine, could picture his fingers popping them open one by one to reveal the ivory skin of her back. The desire in his leapt to life once more.
"Well, then you'll most certainly need my help," he said, and after a second's pause, he heard the sound of the door unlocking and she opened it, her head bowed, a few tendrils of brunette hair falling forward to hide her face. Wordlessly she turned around, her hand gathering her hair away from her neck, and he was presented with her narrow, rigid back, the buttons running from her neck to her tailbone. Each one a tiny, cream pearl holding the lace closed.
Harry didn't speak as he started at the top, his fingers sliding each button free, careful to not brush against her pale skin. The buttons were tiny and his task was hard, taking much longer than the moment he had originally thought. He didn't close his eyes or look away as he undid each one, the tender skin of her neck and shoulders revealing itself slowly as the silk fell away in a sensual slide.
And then his fingers brushed her skin – she felt both icy and soft to him – and he felt her give a tiny shudder, though whether it was out of desire or disgust, he didn't know. He could sense that she felt both, that she was as conflicted as he was; probably even more so; about wanting him. This realization sent a sudden rush of sympathy through him and he stilled, his fingers coming to splay across her bared back. He felt her stiffen beneath him.
"We can wait," he said softly, "if you'd rather."
"Wait?" her voice was no more than a breath, her back rigid and her head bowed.
"To consummate out marriage."
"Until when?"
"Until we're both more comfortable with each other."
She let out a little huff of laughter, the sound as cynical as anything he'd ever heard. "And when will that be, do you think, Harry? Tomorrow? A week? Next month? Sometime next year? I'd rather just get it over with."
What a delightful way of phrasing what was to be between them he thought sardonically. In the time his palm had been resting against her skin, it had warmed, but when he spread his fingers a little wider, he could still feel how cold she felt. Not just skin deep but all the way through. "You're right of course," he answered flatly, a cold filling him as well. "We might as well get it over with."
She didn't answer, just kept her her bowed, and he finished unbuttoning the dress in silence. She held her hands her front, holding the dress in place, and as he looked down, Harry could see the top curve of her bottom, encased enticingly in sheer tights, as she stepped back into the bathroom. With a grim smile, he watched as she closed the door and locked it once more.
.
Ruth lay in the bath until the water grew cold and the insistent throb of her body's response to Harry started to subside. Or so she hoped. Except it didn't.
She'd never been touched so intimately as when he unbuttoned her dress. She realized this probably made her pathetic to a man like him, a man who was so sensual and passionate, who had probably had a dozen, - a hundred - lovers. As for her? She'd had so little physical affection in her life that even a casual brush of a hand had everything in her jolting with shocked awareness.
And now the feeling of his fingers on her back, the whisper of warm skin on cold skin, so intimate, so tender, was an assault so much softer and gentler than that life-altering kiss they'd had six weeks ago. And yet, that kiss had still been so unbearably powerful, had awakened some buried need inside her into a blaze hotter, harder, than she'd ever experienced, and it demand to be one she was afraid she could not ignore.
The water was downright chilly now, and reluctantly she rose from the tub, swathing herself in the dressing gown that covered her just as Harry had promised but which she knew he could peel away in seconds.
She took her time brushing and blow-drying her hair, took a moment and stared at her pale face and wide eyes, and then pinched her cheeks for color. There were no more reasons to stay in here, to stall.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the bathroom door.
Harry was facing the window, one arm braced against its wooden frame, wearing only a pair of black silky pajama bottoms. The breath rushed from Ruth's lungs as she gazed at, the firelight flickering over his powerful shoulders and surprisingly trim hips, his hair light and slightly curled, his skin a canvas of scars. He looked so powerful and almost frightening in his latent sensuality, his blatant masculinity. Just his presence seemed to steal all the breath from her body, all the thoughts from her head.
She straightened her spine, took a deep breath, and stepped further into the room. "I'm ready."
"Are you?" His voice was a low, sardonic drawl as he turned from the outside, and swept her from head to toe in one swiftly assessing gaze. "You look terrified."
"Well, I can't say I'm looking forward to this," Ruth answered, keeping her voice hard even though her words were no more than lies. "But I'll do what's expected of me and needed."
"I thought you'd say something like that."
"Well, then perhaps you're getting to know me, after all."
"Unfortunately, I think I am."
She flinched at the harshness of his words, unable to stop herself from it, and Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"But you only said what you meant." Her voice was low as she stared at him.
"I only meant..." He let out a long, low breath. "I just wish things could be different."
That she was different, he meant. Well, sometimes she wished she was different too. She wished being close to someone - being vulnerable, intimate, exposed - wasn't scary. Terrifying.
Was that what Harry wanted? That kind of...closeness? Was what he said entirely different from what he really wanted? The thought caused a blaze of yearning to set her senses afire. Because a part of her wanted that too, but she had no idea how to go about achieving it. How to overcome her fear that ran so very, very deep.
"Well, then," she finally said, every muscle tensed and expectant.
A smile twisted at his lips even though she still sensed that restless, raw energy from him.
"Do you actually think I'm going to pounce on you right this second? Deflower you like some debauched lord and his maiden?" His hands moved, as though he was searching for pockets to slide them into.
"I hope you'll have a bit more finesse than that," she said, arms crossed around her middle.
"Thank you for that vote of confidence." Voice full of sarcasm, he strolled towards her with a graceful, loose-limbed purpose that had Ruth tensing all the more.
He stopped in front of her, his gaze sweeping over her so that already she felt ridiculously exposed, even though she wore the dressing gown that covered her completely. And it was even more powerful than if he had touched her. She shivered, wondering what it would feel like to have his hands slide over her. To touch her as his gaze has.
"You're as tense as a bow." Harry touched the back of her neck, his fingers massaging the muscles knotted there. "Why don't you relax, just a little?"
Her fingers clenched convulsively on the sash of her robe. Relaxation felt like an impossibility, especially with him touching her. "And how am I supposed to do that when I know-" she stopped abruptly, not wanting to admit so much, or really anything at all.
Harry's dark eyebrows drew together in a frown as he searched her face. "When you know what?"
"That you don't like me," she forced out, her voice small, she adverted her face from his. "That you don't respect me or hold me in any regard at all."
Harry didn't answer, just let his faze rove over her, searching for something he didn't seem to find because he finally sighed, shrugging his powerful shoulders. "And you feel the same way about me."
"I-" She stopped, licked her lips. She should tell him that she'd only told him she didn't respect him to hurt him and protect herself, because she hated how vulnerable she'd felt. And yet somehow the words wouldn't come.
"I think it's best," Harry said quietly, "if we put our personal feelings aside. The last time we were alone together, I kissed you." He spoke calmly, rationally, and yet just that simple statement of fact caused Ruth's heart to thud even harder and a treacherous, hectic flush to spread over her whole body. "You responded," he continued, and she closed her eyes, the memory of his kiss washing over her in a hot tide. "And I responded to you. Regardless of how different we are, and how little regard we have for each other's personal priorities or convictions, we are physically attracted to one another, Ruth. We don't have to like one another or respect one another to have sex."
He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, and she felt the warmth of his palms, even through the thick terrycloth of her robe. They burned her, and yet she longed to feel them touch her skin. "It might seem repellent to you, to be attracted to someone you don't respect, but this is the only point of understanding it appears we have between us."
And with his hands still on her shoulders, he bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. That first taste of him was like a cool drink of water in the middle of a burning desert. And her life had been a desert, a barren wasteland of loneliness and yearning for something she hadn't realized she'd missed until he'd first touched her.
Now her body screamed.
Her mouth opened instinctively under his, her hands coming up to clutch the warm, bare skin of his shoulders, needing the contact and the comfort, the closeness. Needing him.
His lips hovered over hers for a moment, almost as if he was surprised by the suddenness of her response, the silent yes she couldn't keep her body from saying. Then he pressed his mouth back to hers, deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into the softness of her mouth, claiming and exploring her with a staggering intimacy that felt strangely, unbearably sweet. And known.
It felt important, to be touched like this. To feel warm hands on her body, gentle, caressing, accepting her in a way she'd never felt accepted before. Not since she's lost her father, since she'd let him die.
She'd never understood how much she needed this in the years since then, the touch of a human being, the reminder that she was real and alive, made of flesh, blood and bone, full of emotions, of wants, and of needs. She was so much more than she'd ever let herself be, and she felt it all now in an overwhelming, endless rush as Harry kissed her.
And then he stopped, pulling back just a little to smile down at her with what seemed terribly like smugness. "Well, then," he said softly, and she heard the satisfaction and perhaps even triumph in his voice, and with humiliation rushing through her she pulled away.
Of course he didn't accept her. Didn't like her, didn't respect her. Didn't even know her. And she didn't want him to, not really, so with all that between them, how could she respond to him this way? How could she crave the exposing intimacy she hated and feared?
Numbness was so much easier. So much safer. She might have lived her life in a vacuum, but at least it had been safe.
She tried to pull back from Harry's light grasp and he frowned.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't-"
"Want to want me?" he finished, his voice hardening and Ruth didn't answer, just focused on keeping some last shred of control, of dignity, intact. Blink. Breathe. Don't cry.
"But you do want me, Ruth," Harry said softly. "You want me very much. And even if you try to deny it, I'll know. I'll feel your response in your lips that open to mine, in your hands that reach for me, in your body that responds to me." He brushed his hand against her breast, his thumb finding the revealingly taut peak even underneath her heavy gown. "You see? I'll always know."
"I know that," she choked. "I'm not denying anything." She turned her face with all of its naked emotion away from him.
"No," he agreed, his voice hard as iron now, as hard as his gunmetal-grey eyes. "You're not denying it. You're just resisting it with every fiber of your being. Resisting me." She let out a shudder, and he shook his head. "Why, Ruth? You agreed to this marriage, as did I. Why can't we find this pleasure at least? The pleasure of the flesh."
"Because..." Because she wasn't strong enough. She'd open herself up to him just a little and a tidal wave of emotion would rush through her. She wouldn't be able to hold it back and it would devastate her. She knew it instinctively, knew that giving in just a little to Harry would crack her right open, shatter her into pieces. She's never come together again.
How could she explain all that?
And yet even so, she knew she had to stop fighting him, stop this futile resistance, because what purpose did it really serve? She was married to this man. She had known they would consummate this marriage. Knew they had to for both their sakes. She just hadn't expected to feel so much.
"Ruth," Harry said, and he sounded so tired. Weary of this, of her.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'll...I'll try better."
"Try better?" He raised his eyebrows. "You don't need to prove yourself to me, Ruth."
Didn't she? Hadn't she been proving herself to her mother, to everyone, for so long she didn't know how to do anything else? How to just be?
She dragged in a deep breath. "Let's...start over." She forced herself to meet his narrowed gaze, even to smile although she felt her lips tremble, and the tears she'd kept at bay for so long threatened once more to spill.
When had she become so emotionally fragile? Why did this man call up such feelings in her? She wanted to be strong again. She wanted to be safe.
She wanted to get this awful, exposing encounter over with.
"Start over," Harry repeated. "I'm wondering just how far we need to go back."
"Not that far." She made her smile brighter, more determined. She could do this. They'd get over this, and life with him would be safe again. "You're right. I...I do want you." The words felt so much like rock in her mouth; she nearly choked on them. Willing her hands to be steady, she undid the sash of her dressing gown, shrugged it off, and stood before him naked.
Harry's gaze widened, and Ruth felt herself flush, a rosy stain covering her whole body that could not be hidden. And she longed to hide it, hide her whole self, mind and body and heart, yet she forced herself to stand there, chin tilted proudly, back straight. Proud and yet accepting.
Harry shook his head, and her heart swooped inside her. "This isn't starting over," he said quietly. "This is just you gritting your teeth a bit more and putting a game face on."
"No-" she said, and with desperation driving her, a desperate need to get this all finished with so she could hide once more, she crossed to him and, pressing her naked body against his, she kissed him.
.
Harry felt the softness of her breasts brush his bare chest, her lips hard and demanding on his, a supplication his libido responded to with instant acceptance. Instinctively his arms came up and he pulled her closer, fitted her against the throb of his arousal and claimed the kiss as his own.
She tasted so sweet, and her body was so soft and taunt against his. Too pliant. He inwardly cursed.
He didn't want this. Ruth might be submitting to him, but it was an awful, insulting submission. He wanted her want, needed her not just to acknowledge her desire of him, but to embrace it, him, even if just physically. Because without, it'd be not much better than rape. Emotionally they might be poles apart, but couldn't they at least have this?
Almost roughly, his own hands shaking, he pushed her away from him and shook his head.
"No. Not like this."
Her eyes widened. "Why not?"
He stared at her for a moment, wondering just what was going on behind that beautiful, blank face. Except she wasn't quite so blank right now. Her eyes were filled with panic, and her breath came in uneven, frantic gasps.
This wasn't the understandable shy reticence of a virgin, or even the haughty acceptance of the ice queen he'd thought she was. This was, he realized with a sudden jolt of shock, pure fear.
"Ruth..." He put his hands on her shoulders and felt a shudder rack her body. "Did you have a bad experience?" he asked quietly. "With a man? Is that why you're afraid of me? Of physical intimacy?"
She whirled away, snatched up her robe, and pushed her arms into the billowing sleeves. "I'm not afraid."
"You're certainly giving a good impression, then."
He folded his arms, a cold certainty settling inside him. Something had happened to her. It all made sense: her extreme devotion to her work, her lack of relationships, her fear of natural desire. "Were you...abused? Raped?"
She whirled back round to face him, a look of shocked disbelief on her face. "No!"
"Most women wouldn't fight a natural, health desire for a man, Ruth. A man who has admitted he wants you. Why do you?"
"Because..." She licked her lips. "Because I wasn't expecting it," she finally said and he raised his eyebrows.
"You weren't expecting us to find the physical side of things pleasant? Why not?"
She shrugged. "Nothing about this marriage or our meeting suggested we would."
"The kiss we shared six weeks ago didn't clue you in?" he asked, a gentle hint of humor entering his voice, surprising even him.
She blushed. he liked it when she blushed, liked how it lit up her face and her eyes, her whole self. it gave him hope. "before that, I mean," she muttered.
"All right, fine. You weren't expecting it. But now it's here between us, and you're still fighting it. Why?"
She hesitated, her gaze lowered, before she lifted her face and pinned him with a clear, blue eye stare. "Because I agreed to this marriage because it was convenient, and I didn't want anything else. I didn't want love or even affection. I didn't want to get to know you beyond a...a friendly kind of agreement. I thought that's how you would think of this marriage too, and so far nothing-" her breath hitched, her face not fiery but almost sad "-nothing has been like I expected!"
He didn't know whether to laugh or groan. "But you're still not telling me why you don't want those things," Harry finally said quietly. "Why don't you want love or affection?" And while her admission didn't surprise him, he suspected the reason for it was different from what he'd thought. She wasn't cold. She was hiding.
She stared at him mutinously, and then her lower lip trembled. It made him, suddenly and fiercely, want to take her in his arms and kiss that wobbling lip. Kiss the tears that shimmered in her eyes, tears he knew instinctively she wouldn't let fall. Then the moment passed and her expression become remote once more. "I just don't."
"Still not an answer, Ruth."
"Well, it's the only one I have to give you."
"So you don't want to tell me."
"Why should I?" she demanded. "We barely know each other. You don't -"
"Like you?" he filled in. "That might have been true initially, but how can I ever get to like you, or even know you, if you hide yourself from me? Because that's what the whole ice-princess act is. isn't it? A way to hide yourself." He'd never felt more sure of anything. Her coldness was an act, a mask, and he felt more determined than ever to make it slip, to have it drop away completely.
"Oh, this is ridiculous.." She bit her lip and looked away. "I don't know why you can't just toss me on the bed and have your wicked way with me."
He let out a choked laugh of disbelief. Ruth, it seemed, had read a few too many Jane Austen novels. "You'd really prefer that?"
"Yes." Her eyes turned the color of a stormy sea and she shook her head. "I want to want this," she said, her voice filled with frustration, and he thought he understood.
She wanted something different now. Well, so did he. He wanted to know this contrary bride of his, understand her in a way he certainly didn't know. But he was getting a glimpse of the woman underneath the ice, a woman with pain and secrets and a surprising humor and warmth. A woman he could live with, maybe even love.
Unless of course he was being fanciful. Unless he was fooling himself just as he had with Juliet, with Jane, believing the best of everyone because he so wanted to love and be loved.
But surely he'd developed a little discernment over the years?
"I'm not going to throw you on that bed, Ruth," he said, stepping closer, "and have my way with you, wicked or otherwise. When we have sex - and it won't be tonight - it will be pleasurable for both of us. It will involve a level of give and take, of vulnerability and acceptance I don't think you're capable of right now."
She didn't answer, just flashed those stormy eyes at him, so Harry smiled and took a step closer to her. "But I will sleep with you in that bed. I'll lie next to you and put my arms around you and feel your softness against me. I think that will be enough for tonight." He watched her eyes widen with alarm. "More than enough," he said, and he tugged on the sash of her gown so it fell open and she walked unwillingly towards him.
"What are you doing-?"
"You can't sleep in that bulky thing." He slid it from her shoulders, smoothing the silk of her skin under his palms. "But if you want to wear that frothy nightgown, go ahead."
Her chin jutting out in determination, she yanked the nightgown from the bed and put it on. It was made mostly of lace, clinging to her body, and Harry's palms itched to touch her again.
"Now what?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her breasts, covering the dusty peaks he yearned to kiss.
"Now to bed," Harry said, and he pulled her to the bed, lay down, and drew her into his arms. She went unresistingly, yet he felt the tension in every muscle of her body. She was lying there like a wooden board.
He stroked her hair, her shoulder, her hip, keeping his touch gentle yet sure, staying away from the places he longed to touch. The fullness of her breasts, the juncture of her thighs.
If he was trying to relax her, it wasn't working. Ruth quivered under his touch, but it was a quiver of tension rather than desire. Again, Harry wondered just what had made his wife this way.
And he knew he wanted to find out. It would, he suspected, be a long, patient process.
He continued to slide his fingers along her skin even as his groin ached with unfulfilled desire. He wanted her, wanted her in a way he hadn't let himself before. He'd fought against this marriage, against this woman, because he'd assumed she was the same as the over conniving women he'd know. Jane. Juliet. Elena.
But he suspected now - hell, knew - that his wife wasn't like that. There was too much fear and vulnerability in that [blue] gaze, too much sorrow in her resistance. She fought against feeling because she was afraid, and he wanted to know why. He wanted to know what fears she hid, and he wanted to help her overcome them. He wanted, he realized with a certainty born not of anger or rebellion but of warmth and fledgling affection, to melt his icy wife.
To Be Continued
AN: Hope you enjoyed. Xoxo
