Norfolk – early September 2012:

He'd been rudely jolted from another dream about the beating - a clenched fist hurtling towards his face, shocking him awake. It's been ten weeks, and still his muscles and tendons complain as he trudges along the hard sand closest the shoreline, the red slate roof of his cottage now visible in the distance.

His cottage.

Harry thinks of it as their cottage, although whether he will ever share this cottage with her is still a question without an answer. He'd not bought her cottage, preferring this property close to the Norfolk-Suffolk border, its main attraction being the vast ocean view through the sliding glass doors off the kitchen, plus its rambling, eccentric design, rendering it part home, part holiday cottage. During the long months following Ruth's `funeral' he had visited the cottage once a month, but since recovering from the assault, he'd moved here permanently, his life in London fading like a long-lost memory of childhood.

He hadn't returned to the grid after the beating. He'd spent fifteen days in hospital while the worst of his wounds healed, and it was while there that Towers had visited, his face wreathed with worry. That concern had quickly turned into something more sinister, although Harry was prepared to accept that Towers' interest may also have had a sinister edge to it.

"Did you get a look at your assailants, Harry?" Towers had asked.

Given his jaw was wired, making speaking nigh on impossible, Harry had quickly written in red marker on a small whiteboard: I'd recognise their fists in a line-up.

"Apparently they were the usual suspects from Mi6."

I gathered that, he'd written.

"They were sending you a message … one which I feel was quite clear." Harry had nodded. "They're unhappy that you interfered in the .. incident in east London."

INTERFERED? I was doing my job! Harry can still recall the sense of satisfaction he'd gained from writing those exclamation marks, as well as the gut-churning anger that had fueled his written words.

"You know that there are some acts of .. terrorism which are … not as they seem."

You mean the ones carried out by 6. He'd scrawled the words quickly, his anger rapidly approaching nuclear proportions.

"Yes. Those," Towers had replied quietly, dropping his eyes. Harry had interpreted his lack of eye contact as embarrassment. "There are those who insist, I'm afraid. The orders originate from offices much higher than my own."

The PM?

"Higher," Towers had said bluntly, this time lifting his eyes to Harry's. "Much higher. Higher than you can possibly imagine."

Then I resign, Harry had written, as of today.

Towers had stood, closing the buttons of his jacket. "When you're well enough to visit me in my office, then we can further discuss the matter, but not now, not while you're this … emotional."

Fortunately for both men, Towers quickly left before Harry had had time to compose the desired insult in writing.

True to his word, four weeks after Harry had been discharged from hospital, he'd been ushered into Towers' office in Whitehall. The Home Secretary even had the paperwork ready for Harry to sign.

"Coffee, Harry?"

Harry had nodded, hooking his walking stick over the wooden arm of the chair before carefully sitting. If the Home Office was paying, then he was accepting.

"You're still planning to resign?" Towers had asked, once the coffee was poured. Harry had nodded. "Croissant? We have blueberry, and the other variety is something with lemon in it – lemon curd, I think, which bears disturbing references to the Middle East, rendering me unnaturally melancholic."

Harry doubted that. He had never seen Towers in a melancholic state, and nor did he ever expect to. "Blueberry sounds fine," he'd said quickly.

"All I need is your signature, then." Towers had shuffled the papers on his desk, clearly planning how to say what he still had to say. "There's still something which I need to discuss with you," he'd added carefully, briefly glancing up.

"Ruth's whereabouts," Harry had finished for him.

"I can't tell you where she is, other than to say she's not in the UK, but ..." Harry's heartbeat had increased at that `but'. What if something terrible has happened to Ruth? "But … I can't say exactly when she'll be returning. Her contract ran out twelve days ago, but there have been … complications."

"Such as?"

"She was meant to call me when she'd completed her contract. I'll need to arrange accommodation for her, and work. She can hardly return to the Home Office, not when she's meant to be .."

".. dead," Harry had finished for him, placing unnecessary emphasis on the word.

Harry can remember seeing a wave of discomfort pass across the other man's face, and he'd almost smiled. Perhaps Ruth had other plans. Silently he had hoped she'd remember the plans they had made … moments before she'd been stabbed. She'd had plans for them both, and he'd hoped she'd not forgotten, or what is even worse, changed her mind.

"When I move permanently … to my country cottage, I'll ..." Harry had begun carefully, not entirely sure that he was making a move which was safe, but having no other option for contacting Ruth, he'd reached into his coat pocket and removed a small parcel, placing it on the desk in front of him before slowly sliding it towards Towers. "I have a different contact number, so I'll need Ruth to call me on my new number. Could you … ensure she gets this … when you see her." It wasn't a question; in Harry's eyes, Towers owed him.

"Yes, yes, of course," William Towers had said in that officious way he had. "I'll lock it in the safe," he said, nodding towards the wall opposite where a water-colour of the Thames, Big Ben looming in the background hid Towers' safe. While Harry didn't totally trust the man, his options were few. He had cut his ties with those on the Grid. Erin was clearly the section chief of The Future – the Orwellian Future, as he was beginning to think of it – and as such she couldn't be trusted. If the remainder of the team wanted to keep their jobs, then they would go along with whatever she expected of them.

Harry had cut ties with everyone, everyone other than his two children .. and hopefully, Ruth.

By the time his burner phone rang, he had almost used up his available reserves of optimism. It was early October, and over three months had passed since he'd been beaten by the three thugs from Six, and close to a year since Ruth had been spirited away from the UK to who-knows-where – a move which was no doubt designed to a) keep him and Ruth apart, and b) hasten his retirement from the service.

A light rain was falling, and an evening chill had descended. He had just finished washing the day's dishes, and was planning to spend the evening on the settee in front of the open fire, a glass of red on the small table by his elbow. When the burner phone was not in his pocket, he left it on the kitchen counter beside the cooker. He was startled and shocked by the sound of its ringtone – an electronic ee-awing, reminiscent of an ambulance siren. He turned from where he was about to add another log to the fire, and hurried through to the kitchen. Only the phone he'd left in Towers' keeping for Ruth had this number pre-installed. It could be no-one else.

"Yes?" he answered, hoping Towers had not broken his tenuous trust in him.

Before she even spoke he heard her sigh, and with that sigh his fears dissolved. "Harry?" Her voice was just as he'd remembered it – like liquid chocolate, rich and warm.

Afraid his legs may fail him, Harry dropped onto a kitchen chair. While the injuries he'd sustained when he'd been beaten were all but healed, he still walked with a limp, especially when tired. Other than that, his only continuing discomfort was to be had on cold days and nights when a few of his ribs, and his left ankle ached. "I'm so glad you rang," he said formally, while what he'd wanted to say was: Your voice is the music I've waited a year to hear. He and Ruth had never been that open. Their intimacy had mostly remained unspoken, conveyed through covert glances, or subtle movements of their bodies – a code understood only by the two of them. Perhaps it was time that changed.

"I'm sorry I took so long, but -"

"Ruth … please, no apologies. How soon can you get here?"

He heard the soft throaty flutter of her laughter. "And where is `here'? William claims he has no idea where you are."

"If he knows, he didn't hear it from me. Do you have a car? I'm afraid it's a bit of a drive."

Harry has waited eight agonising days for Ruth to arrive. Not because she'd lost her way, or is a very slow driver, but because she had – in her words – things to do, and ends to tie off.

On the morning of the day of her arrival Harry rises at five, unable to sleep, nervous excitement bubbling from deep inside him. Ruth has messaged him to say she'll be at his cottage by four, but when at half-three she parks her Ford Focus beside Harry's Range Rover, he is not there to greet her. When he doesn't answer the door Ruth messages him. While using the downstairs loo Harry hears the phone's message tone, and silently curses his terrible timing.

By the time he reaches the front door, Ruth is standing on the porch, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, while her other hand grasps the handle of a suitcase with wheels, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"Ruth, I am so sorry," he says, reaching out to take the suitcase. He stands back to allow her inside. "Come in. It's so good to see you."

By the time they are sitting over cups of coffee, Harry has had ample time to privately contemplate their greeting. They have not seen or spoken to one another in almost a year, and yet he'd chosen the exact moment of her arrival to take a piss! And he'd hardly welcomed her with open arms. Rather than meeting her at the door with a hug or kiss, or maybe both, he'd slipped into his section head persona, like an old pair of slippers which still provide a familiar comfort. He'd carried her bags to the spare bedroom on the mezzanine floor, while Ruth had trailed behind him, apologising for being early.

"It's not like me to be early," she'd prattled, "but I was so keen to get here that ..."

"I thought you could have this room," he'd said, placing her bag and case on the floor at the foot of the double bed. "It gets the morning sun, as does mine."

"Where's your room?" Her question was spoken bluntly, and Harry wondered was there a subtext, and if there was, then what was it exactly.

"It's along the corridor in that direction," he'd said, gesturing in the general direction of his bedroom, hoping she understood. Dropping his arm by his side, he'd breathed in, determined to begin again. "Maybe we should have a drink now," he'd said gently. "Coffee or tea?"

With what remains of the afternoon Harry familiarises her with the layout of the house; Ruth declares his house to be `quaint'. They take a quick stroll along the sand before an approaching shower of rain has them scurrying back up the sand-hills, weaving through the marram grass to the house. Conversation comes in staccato bursts, much of it polite enquiries one to the other, which are answered with equal politeness. When he suggests she sit back while he prepares dinner, her answer is: Give me something to cut up, Harry. I'm good at that. So, side by side, they prepare dinner together, the occasional glance of her skin against his, or her large eyes holding his sending his spirits soaring.

"We work well together," he comments quietly, as she passes him the carrots, scraped and diced.

"We always did. Don't you remember?"

Of course he remembers. How could he ever forget? For the first time in many months he is a happy man.

By the time dinner is over, and they are once again sitting at the table, each with a glass of wine, the atmosphere is relaxed, and Ruth turns their attention to Harry's injuries.

"William told me about … what happened to you," she says gently, "about how you were ... bashed." When he nods, she continues. "He told me that it was bad, and that you were hospitalised for a couple of weeks."

Again Harry nods, his gaze holding hers. "I was told that .. for a man of my age, it was quite serious. The doctors feared I'd have brain damage."

"I think anyone who makes the conscious choice to work in intelligence is probably a little brain damaged to begin with," Ruth says, her eyes twinkling as her fingers fiddle with the stem of her wine glass. "Maybe the .. attack realigned your brain cells."

Harry feels his body relaxing. "I'm sure there's some truth to that."

"I've noticed you limping," Ruth continues.

"I don't like talking about it, but ..."

"I know you don't, but I'd like you to tell me about it. That's what friends are for."

"We're friends?"

"Among other things," she says gently. "We're many things to one another."

Again, a subtext which proves elusive to him, but he begins to talk, and the rest just follows. "I woke suddenly. It was the early hours of June 27th. It was a warm night, so I was sleeping under just a sheet."

"But you wore pyjamas." Ruth is watching him closely; he can't escape her scrutiny.

"I wore underwear. I don't sleep … without clothing … these days." Harry hopes he doesn't have to qualify that. When Ruth nods slightly he continues. "There were three rather large men in my bedroom, and one of them threw aside the sheet, commenting rudely on my choice of underwear -"

"Which was …?"

Is she serious? Of course she is. This is Ruth, and she needs to know the details. "They were white. Apparently that's some kind of fashion faux pas." Ruth nods without smiling. He wonders does she also consider white shorts to be a clothing failure. "The other two grabbed me and dragged me off my bed, and down the stairs. They drove me to an abandoned building where they began to beat me and kick me. Few words were spoken, but I knew who they were, and why they'd chosen me."

"They were from Mi6, and the reason was that you had investigated three terror attacks which you'd been told to leave well alone. Thus, you learned that these attacks had been planned and executed by Six using crisis actors to fill the roles of perpetrators, police, and witnesses, and a film crew to capture the whole thing."

"How did you know?" Harry speaks gently.

"While I was in China I had access to information gathered by the some Chinese technicians. They were proud of their ability to circumvent the firewalls used by British intelligence. I learned a lot from them." When Ruth stops speaking, Harry lifts his eyes to hers. Her expression is direct, but gentle. He believes he has said enough about the beating, but Ruth has other ideas. "Tell me about your injuries, Harry," she says quietly. "I need to know."

He watches her, wondering where to begin. He can barely think about his injuries without feeling ill. "I ..." he begins, but drops his eyes to the wine bottle, which he quickly grabs, topping up both their glasses. After taking a long gulp of the wine, he sits back, but he can't give Ruth eye contact, not yet. "I sustained what I was later told was a severe concussion, along with a broken jaw -"

"Which side?"

Still he is unable to look her in the eye. Even though it is weeks since it has healed, with his fingertips he gently touches his left jaw. "And I lost a couple of teeth, one of them being embedded in my cheek. I also had a number of rib fractures, badly bruised hips – both sides -"

"How?"

"How were my hips bruised?" Harry finds himself eye to eye with Ruth, and he is surprised to see compassion in her eyes. She nods. "Mostly from being kicked by heavy, steel-capped boots. I also had a ruptured testicle which, fortunately, doctors were able to repair, so I didn't lose it, although ..."

"Although what?"

"I'm not planning to have any more children, so … keeping it was .. immaterial." There. He'd said it, and he hopes Ruth isn't about to give up on him because of it.

"That's good, so we're both on the same page there, although I know it was probably … painful at the time."

"Excruciating." He takes another quick gulp of his wine, and this time it is Ruth who takes the bottle, emptying it into his glass. "I had numerous bruises all over my torso, but the most serious injury was multiple fractures in my left ankle, which can be tricky in someone of my … vintage." Ruth smiles at his use of the word `vintage'.

"I rather approve of your … vintage."

"Thank you. I've been hoping you would."

What follows is a long silence. Having shared the extent of his injuries with her, all Harry feels is a deep sense of relief.

"Thank you," Ruth says at last.

"For what?"

"For being honest about … what happened to you. I promise to treat you with care and … love."

So moved is he by her declaration that Harry cannot speak. He stands suddenly, taking the empty wine bottle to the counter. "More wine?" he asks, his back towards her.

"Harry, what's wrong? Look at me." When he turns around he is afraid she'll see the tears in his eyes. "What is it? Tell me."

Taking a deep breath, he drops his eyes, then determined to be honest with her, he again lifts his head to look at her. "I'm not used to someone … caring about me … as you do."

"Nonsense. There are many who care about you. I may not always have shown it, but I have always cared about you. It's you who's been careless with your well-being."

While he is annoyed with Ruth at that moment, he also knows she is right. He is about to return to his seat at the table when she stands, slowly moving towards him.

"It's been a long day, and I need to turn in," she says gently, before stepping so close to him that he can feel her body heat, sending his own temperature soaring.

"You don't have to."

"I do .. otherwise ..." Harry waits patiently for her to finish her sentence. He is about to prompt her when she continues. "Otherwise I might be tempted to act foolishly." Ruth speaks coyly, her eyes holding his.

He waits – patiently for him – silently praying that for once she will choose to `act foolishly'. He takes a small step closer to her, while at the same time Ruth lifts her face to his. Feeling her hand grasp his, her fingers threading between his own, some primal instinct has Harry lean into her until their lips meet. As much as he longs to slide his arms around her, drawing her against him, he is thankful for what they have in that moment. The kiss is gentle, careful and sweet, soft lips on soft lips, but it lasts only a few seconds before Ruth draws away, squeezing his hand before disengaging from him.

"Goodnight, Harry," she says lightly, taking a half step away from him. "Don't stay up too long."

And then she quickly turns and leaves the room. He listens to her footsteps fading as she climbs the stairs to her bedroom. He sighs heavily, before taking an unsteady step back to lean against the counter. As she has done many times in their shared past, Ruth Evershed has knocked the air out of his sails.

He has been asleep for some time when he is woken by movement in the mattress. For a moment he stops breathing, lying still, waiting for whatever is about to happen. Then he feels an arm slide around his waist as Ruth rolls closer to his back. He breathes out heavily as his body relaxes, sinking deeper into the mattress.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"But you did," he says lamely.

"I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

"You know, I didn't drive all this way to sleep in your spare room."

Harry waits, but she has finished speaking. "And I never expected you to stay there."

"So .. why put me there?"

Very slowly he turns his head towards her. Her arm is still around his waist. "I was being … a gentleman."

In the darkness he can see her smile. He'd like to kiss her, but he hesitates. After all, he hasn't the best timing. For a long moment they lie like that, watching one another.

"What are you wearing?" Ruth says at last, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Not the white trunks."

"What then?"

"I'm wearing a blue t shirt, and my track bottoms are also blue."

"Matching."

"Not quite, but I hadn't expected to see you while wearing them. Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

Harry waits, but she says nothing more. "I'm glad you're here … with me," he says quietly.

"In this bed, or in your house?"

"Both." Again he waits a long moment, wondering is it the right time to be saying what he's about to say. He says it anyway. "I bought this house for us both, so it's our house."

He swallows, waiting for a response from her. What happens next thrills him. Ruth leans closer and places her lips on his. The kiss is long and slow, her lips soft and warm, and as their lips part he can taste the barest hint of toothpaste. He is aware of a delicious tingling throughout his body, and an accompanying stirring in his groin. He could roll closer and return the kiss, or he could stay as he is, happy with the prospect of spending the night lying beside Ruth in what he hopes will be the first night of many.

When Ruth draws away from him he sees her smile. "We have plenty of time, Harry."

"I know we do," he says before planting a quick kiss on her lips. "You're staying here .. with me?"

"That's my plan, yes."

He turns back onto his side, facing the wall. "Glad to hear it," he says.

And they settle on their sides, her face against his back, her arm around his waist, his fingers entwined in hers. They are no longer in danger, and there likely will be no more beatings, and for that they are grateful.

Fin