This is a small offering for Valentines as a thank you to r4ven3, Chantale23 and wolfdrum who have all been particularly kind in their comments.
Set around early S5.
"You're in love with her."
"Why does everyone suddenly claim an intimate knowledge of my feelings?"
"So I'm not the only one who's said it?"
Harry's expression brokered no further discussion. But Malcolm had already gone too far to try retracting a thing.
"When you go home at night, what do you do, Harry?"
Cold eyes stared back, "Sign your transfer to Kazakhstan."
Malcolm smiled.
"You drink whiskey, continue to work and wallow in Mahler."
Harry stood, and true to form began to pour two large glasses of scotch.
"Your point….?"
"Versus Ruth? A life? Love?"
There was a beat before Harry turned back to him.
"Is it not a little rich, Malcolm... coming from you?"
"Absolutely. I make cocoa for my mother and listen to the shipping forecast."
Harry handed him the glass with a smile.
"But I know that if I was lucky enough for Ruth to look at me the way she looks at you, then I would not be sitting back and –"
"Wallowing in Mahler."
"Or sipping cocoa," Malcolm added.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry drank deeply, savouring the warm, clinging liquid.
"It's not that easy," he finally conceded.
"Rubbish. Stopping Al Queda isn't easy. Asking Ruth out is …"
"Considerably harder," muttered Harry.
"For god's sake, it's not like you're a shrinking violet. Besides which if you can't ask her this week, when can you?!"
An eyebrow raised slightly behind the now empty crystal glass.
Abandoning his drink and somewhat exasperated, Malcolm stood and made his way to the door.
"Do something Harry. Say something," he paused momentarily, "Before she sees sense and finds a life with someone else."
The door slid shut behind him.
There was a thought. ... Someone else.
It wasn't like she hadn't looked. Hadn't been willing. Hadn't craved a relationship, a life beyond the grid.
But now the thought of it provoked something within him.
Maybe it was time.
Ruth sipped her tea. It was early. Her fingers curled around the warm china mug as she waited for the temperamental central heating to kick in and warm the house. By the time it had, she pondered, she'd already be on her way to work.
The doorbell shocked her from her weary reverie and a splash of the tea scorched the back of her hand. Rubbing it and muttering, she swung open the door accusingly.
A young man stood on her doorstep.
She looked at him and he looked at her.
His hand suddenly shot upwards, proffering a single red rose.
"Happy Valentine's Day."
Ruth stared at him.
"I don't know you," she said simply.
"It's not from me," he replied, the rose still in front of face, waiting to be received.
"Then who's it from?"
He shrugged.
Ruth raised a perplexed eyebrow, silently reiterating the question.
"From someone who likes you?" he offered.
"But you don't know who?"
"Just found it, along with your address and twenty quid."
His arm began to sag slightly.
"Do you want it then, or not?"
Finally, slowly Ruth reached out and gently grasped the paper covered stem.
"Maybe whoever it is thought you would work it out," he said.
And with that he turned and walked away down her path.