Title: What The Hell Happened Last Night?
Fandom: Spooks
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Ruth
Rating: T
Warnings: None

Summary: Ruth wakes up in a bedroom that is definitely not hers…and she's not alone. Two-shot

Disclaimer: I don't own Spooks or any of the characters or dialogue you may recognise. They all belong to Kudos/BBC.

A/N: This is no way related to Sigma Creation's wonderful fic, 'We Didn't, Did We?" which is on the along the same sort of lines. Except that hers is longer…and much, much better! Hope it's okay that I posted.

The first thing Ruth Evershed was aware of upon waking was that the light in the room was all wrong. The second thing was the throbbing in her head. She blinked at the light. The room was totally unfamiliar to her. The bed was totally unfamiliar to her. And so was the naked shoulder that her hand rested on.

Startled, she slid away from the body next to her and eased herself up to a sitting position pulling the sheet up to her neck. She swept a wayward lock of hair out of her eyes and bit her lip as she considered the lump next to her. With a gathering sense of doom she peeked at person with whom she had obviously spent the night.

"Oh my God!" The words burst from her before she could stop them.

Disturbed by another voice, Harry's eyes popped open and then squinted painfully against the light. "What?..." He stopped and focused his eyes on her then looked around the bedroom wildly. "Hells bells!" He slid quickly to his edge of the bed. "Hells bells," he repeated, turning slowly to face her. They gazed at each other in shock.

It took an eternity for each of them to take stock of their surroundings. Her clothes were dumped with reckless abandon on the chair. His were in a pile on the floor. For a moment they were both hypnotised by the sight of his tie dangling from the ceiling fan, fluttering in circles.

"Are we...?" Harry began. He tried again, "Did we...?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

Ruth winced. "Well," she said shakily. "I'm definitely…erm, naked under here."

Harry took a brief peek under his side of the sheet then he slowly closed his eyes as though he never wanted to open them in this world again. Ruth took advantage of Harry's self-imposed exile to reach down for the blanket at the end of the bed and pull it up and around herself. She slid out from under the sheet and stood on rather wobbly legs. Her head throbbed mercilessly. "Could I use the...uh...?"

Without opening his eyes, Harry pointed in the direction of the en-suite. Ruth set off for the bathroom, staggering slightly. Once inside she closed the door behind her and leaned on it. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples and took several deep breaths. What the hell had happened last night?

Oh, right. She'd been to Richard Jenkins' retirement party at The George. Jenkins was the head of section G and had been one of her instructors during training - hell, he'd been pretty much everyone's instructor at some point of another. Then what?

The main event was a single malt whiskey "tasting." She'd only meant to have one or two but people kept pushing glasses into her hand and there were no bucket to spit into once you'd tasted it…and Harry had been there; he'd been enjoying sampling the whiskeys too. She remembered crossing the room to talk to him and...the rest was blank. What had happened?

She straightened up and padded over to the mirror to take stock. Leaning in toward her reflection she examined her face. Uh-oh. Stubble rash on her left cheek and chin. Quickly, she inspected her neck. No marks, thankfully. She felt that post-sexual lassitude and looseness in her joints and muscles.

Taking a deep breath, she unwrapped the blanket and looked down at herself. Oh yes. No doubt about it. "Well, Ruth," she said to her reflection. "You've really outdone yourself this time. You spend months lusting after your boss and denying your feelings and then you get drunk and shag him at the first opportunity!"

Ruth turned on the cold tap and splashed water on her face. What now? She looked in the mirror again. Her hair was at odd angles and traces of smeared lipstick stained her swollen lips. The first order of business was to clean up. She wrapped the blanket around herself and crossed to the door. Opening it she cautiously peeked into the bedroom. Harry was no longer in bed. He had put on jeans and was standing topless in the other doorway rhythmically, but very gently, banging his forehead against the frame. "...dammit." she heard him say. "This is not good. Not good at all."

She cleared her throat to get his attention. He stopped his litany and turned toward her, face carefully neutral. "Um...may I use the shower?" she asked. They tried valiantly to look each other in the face but failed, eyes sliding away to rest on something else. Anything else.

"Help yourself," he nodded, rubbing the side of his face reflectively. "There are some clean towels under the sink."

"Thanks." She pulled her face back and shut the door. Soaking under the hot spray, she tried again to remember. There was a vague impression of sitting in the back seat of a moving car. Of someone's mouth close to her ear. Of a baritone voice speaking...Harry's voice. Wanting to turn toward it... Turning toward it... Hang on? The back seat of a moving car? With Harry? Who the hell was driving then? She knew it couldn't have been his driver; Harry had given him the night off as his wife was 9 months pregnant and the baby was due any day now. The rest was a blank.

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. She was pondering the mystery of the car whilst finding towels, nice fluffy white ones, when another fragmented memory came to her. She was in the bedroom. Clothes were flying everywhere. There was a dim memory of the tie sailing into the air and catching on the fan and the fading echo of her own voice breathlessly claiming "bull's-eye". Followed by his laughter.

Hot on the heels of that memory came another. Strong arms around her. Her arms around a broad torso, hands on warm skin..."Stop!" she hissed, eyes squeezed shut. "Just stop!"

Thankfully, the memories receded.

Once dry, Ruth finger combed her damp hair and once again peeked out the door. Harry was not in sight. She stepped out and looked for her clothes. Her panties, bra and stockings she found folded neatly on the end of the bed next to a crisp looking man's white shirt. Her shoes were primly side by side on the floor below and with them, her purse. Her skirt and blouse were nowhere to be seen.

Grimly, she put on her underwear. Over that, the white shirt which was, luckily, long enough to cover her decency. Ruth scoffed at the thought; it was a bit late for that. She stuffed her stockings into her bag and, carrying her shoes, went to the other door. Opening it, she was met by the heady fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. She sniffed longingly and stepped out. She found herself on the landing of a short stairway that led down to a living room and adjoining kitchen.

Harry, now fully dressed, was standing in the kitchen carefully and contritely pressing the wrinkles out of her blouse with a steam iron. And he was doing a great job too, she noticed. Her skirt, already pressed, hung on the open door.

"Hi," she said shyly as she entered.

He looked up at her. "Find everything?" he asked. She nodded and ventured further in. "There's coffee in the pot," her told her.

"Thanks." She crossed to the kitchen and poured the steaming black brew into the mug that had obviously been set there for her. Fresh ground. So much nicer than her usual instant. Sipping gratefully, she went back and focused on Harry. He looked so different off the Grid; softer, somehow.

"H-how did we get here last night?" she asked.

"A taxi, I think. At least, my car's not here. Must still be at work." Thank heaven. No driving under the influence, and it explained the back seat memory.

"I can finish that," Ruth gestured toward the iron.

He nodded. "I'll just go and..." he gestured up the stairs.

She nodded. They gave each other wide berth in passing. Ruth lifted the iron and got to work. Just before he made the stairs she spoke. "There's one thing..." He froze. "Were we...um...safe...last night?" Her voice shook slightly. She kept her eyes firmly on her ironing. There was a lengthy silence. Then she heard him swallow.

"There is...evidence...to that effect," he said.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled in relief. Good. No drunk driving and no unprotected sex.

When she heard him turn on the shower she quickly dressed and fished her mobile out of her purse to call a cab to take her home before she realised with chagrin that she didn't know the address to ask them to pick her up.

Then another memory welled up from the deep. Coming through the door, she'd slid on something. Harry had caught her, nearly going down himself. Ruth smiled. Post. Letters and bills; that's what she'd nearly slipped on. She guessed correctly that the front door was to the side of the stairway. The mail was on the floor. She scooped it up and noted the address before pitching the loose envelopes on a table probably placed for that very purpose. She began to dial.

He was coming down the stairs as she finished her call.

"I called a cab," she told him. "It should be here in a few minutes."

"Ah. Right."

A few minutes. How to fill those minutes? This was hell. They stood not quite facing each other, arms folded. Ruth gestured toward Harry's CD collection which she'd perused idly while on the phone, "I never figured you for Bowie fan."

"Oh yeah. From a long time ago."

"I would have guessed more classical and possibly soft jazz."

"Can't stand jazz and as for classical I…," her told her, his voice trailing off. They looked at each other in confusion. "Didn't we already have this conversation?" he asked.

"I think so...at The George, I think. At least I'm pretty sure."

He groaned softly. "Ruth," he shook his head slowly. "I am so sorry about..."

She held up her hands to stop him. "Don't," she said. "You don't owe me an apology."

"But I do. I..."

She interrupted him again.

"Just think about it a minute," she said. "I do have field training Harry, so you obviously didn't drag me here against my will; I'd have fought against you. And we both know, at least I hope you do, that I'm not the type to be pressured into…this sort of thing. So obviously what happened here involved consenting, albeit very drunk, adults."

"It's not that easy Ruth."

"It has to be," her voice rose insistently, "because we have to go to work Monday and nothing about last night changes that."

They stared at each other. "Well," he said finally, "at least let me pay." He pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

"WHAT?!" she shrieked.

Startled he looked at her. His eyes widened when he realized what she was thinking he meant. "For the taxi, Ruth!" he pointed out the window where the driver was waiting outside. "I meant for the taxi!...It's the least I can do. I can't drive you home..." he put a hand over his eyes helplessly. "I didn't mean...I'd never..."

"Oh." Ruth blushed scarlet. "The taxi. Oh...No, that won't...be necessary."

Face flaming she shouldered her purse and strode to the door, yanked it open and marched to the waiting taxicab. She climbed in and, against her will, looked back. As the cab pulled away she could see Harry standing in the doorway, once again rhythmically banging his forehead against the doorframe.

A/N: More?