Kudos owns MI-5/Spooks. I'm just borrowing a few characters for a little light entertainment. Set in that all too short time between their one and only date and her having to leave. Not sure in my universe that she will be leaving … haven't gotten that far yet.

Streams of Consciousness

Chapter 1

Sometimes you don't see the forest for the trees? Honestly, that's so true. Not that I like to think of myself as thinking in such obvious cliches. After all, I am a classics scholar by education, and a bona fide spook by career and commitment. So why is this whole "Harry asked me out … again" thing so difficult? What the hell am I waiting for? Why do I push him away?

Damn it, I just missed my bus stop. Note to self: stop talking to myself and concentrating on things that are so diverting I … miss my bus stop. Ugh, and it's raining as well.

No doubt I deserve cold driving rain in my face, and against my body. It might teach me to pay attention and multi-task just a bit better. Harry wouldn't miss the stop while thinking about me, would he? No, not likely. He'd be thinking of the next five things he had to do, and the most efficient route to get there, and … oh, thinking of Harry is not really a good plan here. That's what got me into this whole damp mess.

Now, although I have an umbrella, I've managed to get my feet completely wet and cold. Does it ever stop raining here? Sometimes, I swear, it's a deluge and it's too much. Perhaps I should consider a warmer climate.

Except Harry is not there in a warmer climate, even in my imagination.

I expect Harry would have a plan for a Friday night, even after a long, grueling week like this one. No doubt, he'd come in (completely dry, having been ferried by his driver at his convenience), take off his coat, hang it properly in its place (I bet everything in Harry's place is neat as a pin, totally in order, lined up with military precision, no clutter), change into comfortable clothes, no wet shoes or socks for Harry, and once changed, pour himself a scotch, turn on some music, and then sit for a few minutes of quiet reflection before getting up to prepare dinner.

He probably cooks something … what does he eat? Is he one of those men who cooks? Is he chef material or is he just a guy who resorts to takeaway or worse, frozen foods? In the best of all possible Harry worlds, I'm thinking he probably has some interest in cooking, but doesn't do it often enough to be great, but would, if he had the right companion to share tasks with in the kitchen.

How nice to open a bottle of wine, and talk about our day while cooking something delicious. Actually, it would be quite wonderful to come home to that, wouldn't it? Well, if I'm honest, to come home to him (or with him) … and just hang out together.

Does Harry "hang out"? I don't know. He's a man, of course he must. But I never recall hearing him say, oh, I stayed in all weekend and watched the telly or did spring cleaning or went to the races or … what does he do when he's not at work?

Well, I know he thinks about the Grand Tour. He mentioned that. He thinks about me being his companion. He implied that. So he thinks about travel. And he thinks about us.

I like to travel. I like to learn and see and do things in person. Maybe we should explore the (restated) maxim: what happens outside London, stays outside London. Could that work?

I wonder what it would be like to travel with him. A lot of first class hotels and venues? Probably. Harry doesn't strike me as a budget "Lonely Planet" type of traveler. Well, except in the past when he might have been on an op which required that as a legend. So, first class accommodations in Europe's best destinations. Hm, I could do that.

And he mentioned having a spirit of romance.

I think I could have a spirit of romance. I'm quite sure of it. It would make me really nervous, but if I could relax (somehow), Harry would be a fun person to be romantic with, if only he wasn't my boss. But he's very, very attractive.

It's funny – he's not classically handsome, in the way that Tom was or Adam is. But that voice, seriously. It's a much … is bigger the right word? It's a much more powerful weapon than anyone supposes. Or at least, it's tuned to a frequency that absolutely seems targeted to reach me (and only me? … I wish). He has lovely eyes as well. The truth of the matter is: the combination is deadly.

Right … deadly attractive.

People watching, without the surveillance van and a backup team? I know who I'd be watching.

Harry.

I wouldn't need the van or the backup team either.

It would be fun to sit in cafes and argue about this or that, and visit museums and discuss art and literature and movies … without having to worry about saving the world. What leisure. We could even discuss philosophy or ideas … How much fun would that be?

We're so pressed all the time, we rarely have the opportunity to sit back and reflect on how we could do our jobs better, how we could be better resourced, how we could "outthink" the enemy (ies), how we could be even more coherent as a team. Well you get the picture. We don't have enough time to step back and just … be.

So frequently, I find myself thinking, oh, I must tell Harry that, or I must bring this to Harry's attention. Or I wonder what Harry would think about this thought?

One thing I know, he always stops and listens to what I say. In fact, when he's listening to what I have to say, he seems to focus on me in such a way that there's no one else on the planet at that moment. Such concentration, such focus.

How does he do it? How does he convey the idea that he considers every word that I'm saying as important? I suppose it's one of his real talents. When coupled with his ability of knowing how to respond in such a variety of situations, he's really rather impressive.

By now, of course, Ruth had made the 15 minute walk back to her flat, let herself in, divested herself of wet clothes, shoes, coat, donned her most comfortable (dry) pajamas, put the kettle on, and settled down in her front room with Fidget by her on the sofa. A stack of books on the table beside her beckons, but her attention is diverted when her mobile rings, showing a familiar number.

Harry's.

What could he possibly want?