A/N: Ruth's back-story in this fic has been loosely inspired/influenced by the 1991 movie, "Dogfight" (starring River Phoenix)

Now that he is approaching the front door at the address he'd given the taxi driver, Harry is no longer sure he should be here. Thirty minutes ago it had seemed like a good idea. He'd been in a bar just around the corner from Thames House, and while on his third whiskey, a woman had sidled up to him, the pheromones of need and desperation oozing from her pores.

"Would you like company?" she'd asked.

He'd not needed to think about it. He was not available for casual sex, and when he'd thought about it while in the taxi, he'd not been in that particular mind-set for some time.

"No, thank you," he'd answered, before he'd downed the rest of his drink, and left to hail a taxi.

He hadn't been planning to be here. Something – some siren song – had been calling to him ever since Ruth had left his office after grasping his arm, her touch warm and forgiving, even through several layers of his clothing.

He stands outside the front door for some time. She's hardly likely to invite him in …... not after that night at Havensworth. What can he be thinking? While the day has been difficult for him – an assassination, the dressing down by the Foreign Secretary (which he'd successfully countered with a surveillance tape), then there was Ros Myers' diatribe, all of which had a truth to it – it is not part of Ruth's job description to be offering him comfort out of hours. On top off all that, he's been drinking, and she'll be able to smell it on his breath.

But then, he recognises why it is he is here, why it is he has chosen Ruth, out of all the other people he knows, to visit at the end of this day. After this horrifying day, she is the only one who had offered him a semblance of love, and it is love that he needs, it is love he is seeking. He can get sex anywhere.

Remembering that she'd turned down his offer of a second dinner date, and how she'd looked everywhere but at him, and almost run from him when he'd approached her on the first night at Havensworth, Harry turns to leave, convinced that visiting Ruth is the worst idea he's had in some time. He is almost to the front gate when behind him, he hears the sound of the door opening.

"Harry?"

He turns to see Ruth framed in the doorway, dressed incongruously in blue jeans, a bulky red jumper, and fluffy pink slippers.

"Would you like to come inside?" she suggests. "It looks like it might rain."

He thinks that it always looks like it's about to rain in London. He nods, and joins her at the door.

"Have you eaten?" she asks, as she leads the way to the kitchen. "I can smell whiskey on you, so I know you've had a drink. You'll need something to soak up the alcohol."

Harry feels defensive when she mentions him having been drinking, but then he's pleased that she is taking charge. He likes it when she looks after him. When Ruth looks after him, he feels loved.

A saucepan is on low heat on her stove top. Ruth shows him to a chair at the table, and she ladles out a bowlful of soup, placing it in front of him.

"When you finish that, I'll make us a pot of tea."

He tucks into the soup – thick vegetable – suddenly aware of how hungry he is. Strangely, now he is here under Ruth's roof, with Ruth looking after him, the desire for alcohol has faded. Ruth toasts two slices of bread, butters them, slices each in half, and places them on a plate beside him. He has soon demolished not only the soup, but the toast also.

They sit across from one another at Ruth's kitchen table, a pot of tea between them, each of them nursing a mug of tea between their hands. Harry has felt loved by every act of Ruth's since he'd stepped through her front door. She makes him feel that he is special to her …... but not always.

"Why are you here?" she asks at last. He'd been hoping she wouldn't ask that question. He's been happy with the way things have been since he'd arrived. The domesticity of the situation warms him.

Harry looks across the table at Ruth. "There are some things we need to bring into the open."

"Like what?"

Harry sighs. He thinks it's obvious, and he can't imagine that she doesn't know what he's getting at.

"Us, for a start. We had such a good time when we had dinner together, and then …..."

Without speaking, Ruth puts puts down her mug of tea, and leaves the room. He hears her step on the stairs, and then a door closing upstairs. Perhaps she is visiting the bathroom. He waits for five minutes, then ten. He contemplates following her, but decides to give her another ten minutes.

When he was a student at university, a friends' mother was a psychologist. His own mother had died just over a year previously, and the psychologist had commented to him how she noticed that when he liked a girl, he'd treat her badly so that the girl would dump him.

"That's classic transference behaviour, Harry. Each girl you get interested in becomes your mother, so you behave in a way that will ensure she'll leave you, just as your mother did."

At the time, he'd said nothing. He'd listened to her, and filed her theory away under the heading `Things Which Are Bollocks'. As the years have passed, it seems to him that there is certainly something in the theory. He'd no sooner married Jane than he began to cut himself off from her. Every woman he's ever valued has received the same treatment. Until Ruth. This time, she seems to be the one who is shutting herself off from him, but with the same result.

He still remembers one particular sentence from his friend's mother, the one which had seemed to doom his relationships forevermore: "Until you grieve and accept your mother's death, Harry, you will always find yourself falling in love with women who will inevitably leave you."

Above his head, he hears the toilet flush, and minutes later, Ruth returns to the kitchen and sits down. Even though her eyes are cast downward, he can see that she's been crying. He waits for her to say something. She says nothing, and she gives him no eye contact.

"What's going on, Ruth? I don't understand anything any more. I feel as though somewhere along the line, I've done something wrong, but I don't know what it is."

She looks up at him briefly, and then drops her eyes. She sips her tea. Harry's frustration levels rise.

"I don't know how to be around you, Ruth. Tonight in my office, when you put your hand on my arm, it was -"

"Not everything is about you, Harry," she says coldly.

Suddenly, Ruth gets up from the table, and taking her mug of tea with her, disappears into the sitting room, leaving Harry sitting alone at the table. What now? He can sit here on his own, he can follow Ruth into the sitting room, or he can leave. The hurt child inside him wants to sit and sulk; the early 20's young man wants to storm out, slamming the door after him; and the adult Harry wants to join Ruth.

He waits a few minutes, and then follows her into the sitting room. She has turned on the gas fire, and is sitting on a rug, her pack propped against a couple of cushions, only a few feet from the heat. To Harry she looks hurt and vulnerable. Sometimes, he can be an insensitive fool. He sits on the end of the sofa farthest from Ruth, and places his tea on the end of the coffee table. He sits back and watches her …... and waits.

"Do you want me to leave, Ruth?" he says after a long silence, during which Ruth watches the fire, and he watches her watching the fire, hoping for some insight into what is going on.

She turns to him quickly, her eyes wide. "No. No, please stay, Harry."

"Then can you tell me what's happening here, because I'm struggling."

"I …..." Ruth begins, but then stops, again focusing on the orange flame of the gas fire.

Harry suddenly rises from the sofa, and pushes the coffee table out the way. It represents a physical barrier between them. He then moves a little closer to her, but not too close, and sits on the floor, resting his back against the sofa. Were he to reach out with his hand, he'd still not be able to touch her.

"You know how I said that I can't stand being gossiped about?"

"Yes."

"It's happened to me before."

"Go on."

She is still gazing into the fire, turning her mug of tea around in her hands. "It happened when I was at school. I was at an all-girls' school in Hampshire. I'd been there since I was eleven. It was after ….." Ruth takes a sip of her tea. "This tea is cold …... would you?"

Harry willingly gets up – with difficulty – from his spot against the sofa, takes her cup from her, and then retrieving his own cup from the end of the coffee table, he makes fresh cups for them both.

"It happened at the end of the school year just after I turned sixteen," Ruth continues, once they have fresh cups of tea in their hands. "We'd have a school dance – a formal – at the end of term, and that's when the boys from the boys' school socialised with the girls. It was always an event which was looked upon with much anticipation …... as you can imagine," she adds, looking across at Harry. Ruth has turned slightly, so that she no longer looks into the fire, but nor is she looking directly at him. "It was well known amongst my friends that I had a crush on the head boy from the boys' school. He was tall, dark and very good-looking, and in his final year at school. I had fantasies of him falling in love with me, and taking me away from it all." She looks up at Harry again, embarrassment evident in her face. "I should have known he'd not be interested in me."

Harry wants to interrupt, to tell her the head boy was an idiot, and why would he not like her, but this isn't his story.

"I think it was about the third dance of the night, when Tim …... that was his name – Tim Fielding …... he walked across the room to ask me for a dance. Me! I accepted, of course. He danced with me for over half an hour, and then he sat with me, talked, got me a glass of punch. He was kind and attentive, and appeared interested in all my babble about the Brontë sisters. He was perfect. Then he excused himself while he went to talk to a friend of his."

Ruth takes a long sip of her tea, before she turns to glance at Harry, perhaps to check if he's still listening. He can't take his eyes from her. Her story is like a train crash; he knows what she is about to say. He has a sudden desperate need to reach back into the past – to that school formal – and to grab Tim Fielding by his throat and …... Despite his desire that she tell him no more, he nods his head for her to continue.

"After twenty minutes or so, during which I just sat on my chair, waiting for Tim to come back to me …." Ruth looks down and shakes her head. "I got up and went looking for him. I went out on to the patio just off the dance floor. There were a group of boys standing at the edge of the lawn, and I heard them laughing. I hid in the shadows and listened. I heard Tim telling the others about me …... about how boring I was, and how I actually thought he'd be interested in me, and how …... stupid I was for imagining he'd like me. It was then that I realised that someone had put Tim up to it, perhaps for a bet."

Harry can't stand listening to any more. He leans across to her, and puts out his hand. "That's enough, Ruth. You don't have to tell me the rest."

"But I do, Harry," she replies, her eyes wide and stricken. "I sought out my best friend at the time – Jacqui – and I began telling her what had happened. It turns out she knew all about it, and thought it was funny. I burst into tears, and ran outside. I don't know how I missed being stopped by the chaperones, but I ran all the way back to school. It was two miles. I ran and walked and cried all the way. When I got back to school, I found that my shoes had rubbed the skin off my heels, making them bleed."

"Was that the same Tim Fielding who played cricket for Middlesex?"

"What? Oh, I think so. I seem to remember he was a star cricketer. A batsman, I think."

"He missed out on national selection in 1989 when the selectors picked Michael Atherton."

"Oh, right."

"What I'm saying, Ruth, is that when this Fielding character was overlooked for national selection, justice was served."

"I suppose so." Ruth suddenly looks sharply at him. "You'll not try to trace him, will you, Harry? I don't wish to discover that he's been maimed in some kind of freak accident."

"I won't if you say so, Ruth, but all you have to do is give the word."

They fall into silence. Ruth's story has told Harry so much about her, so much more than he'd been able to glean from her Personnel File.

"I'm so sorry that happened to you, Ruth."

"It wasn't your fault, Harry."

"I know, but sometimes I'm shamed by the actions of other men, even the young ones …... and I'm supposing you and Jacqui didn't remain friends."

"No. She showed her true colours that night."

"As painful as it is, that can be a good thing."

"It was, yes. I'd believed her to be my friend."

There is another long silence during which they each finish their cup of tea. Harry gets up, and takes both their cups back into the kitchen, placing them on the sink.

"Do you have something stronger than tea, Ruth?" he asks from the kitchen doorway.

"There's whiskey in the cupboard above the cooker."

Harry walks back into the sitting room carrying the whiskey bottle and two small glasses. He pours them each a generous measure. Ruth looks into his eyes and smiles at him as he hands her a glass. They drink their whiskey in comfortable silence.

"Ruth," he says quietly, "would you move back here …... next to me? It's more comfortable – better for your back. I'd like it -"

Ruth shoots him an angry look. "You don't mean that."

"I do."

Harry watches her while she struggles with what to do and say next.

"Why are you still here, Harry?" she says at last, not able to look at him.

"Because I care for you, and you haven't yet asked me to leave." He takes a deep breath. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No!"

"Then, if you don't want me to leave, could you perhaps sit next to me? I'd like that."

Ruth looks across the space between them, and very carefully, shuffles across the rug until her back is against the sofa. Harry shifts closer, making sure he is close enough to Ruth to hold her hand …... should she suddenly want her hand being held.

Ruth surprises him when she reaches out towards him, and grasps his free hand in hers. He turns his hand so that their fingers entwine, and then rests them on his thigh. Glancing at her, he sees her smile, so he smiles back.

"I understand, Ruth."

"What do you understand?"

"Why you are reluctant to go out with me again."

"Because you're the `head boy'?"

"Something like that, yes."

"I seem to have a weakness for head boys."

Harry chuckles quietly, and squeezes her hand.

"I'm not Tim Fielding, Ruth."

"I know you're not."

"And Jo and the others are not those kids at the school dance."

"I know that, too."

"They're not laughing at us, Ruth. They're just interested, and …... they care."

"I suppose so."

"And …... I think most of all, if there's anyone who's being laughed at, it's me."

"You?"

"Older man, chasing after a much younger woman. I suspect they think I'm a bit sad for thinking you might even look my way."

Harry looks at her, hoping to gauge her reaction. "I'd never thought of it that way, Harry. I thought I was the one who was sad, hoping my …... my attractive boss might be interested in me. I always expected them to be laughing at me."

"Maybe they're not laughing, Ruth. Maybe they're just jealous."

"Jealous? Of whom?"

"Of us both. Some people search all their lives looking for love. We've found it without having to go speed-dating."

"Is that what this is, Harry? Is this love?"

"It is for me."

Harry places his glass of whiskey on the end of the coffee table, and turns his head to look at her. Ruth's eyes are shining as she returns his gaze. He feels her hand squeeze his, and so, feeling bolder than he has in some time, he leans down to place his lips on hers. When she responds, he lifts his free hand to cup her cheek. It is a soft kiss, and when her lips part a little, he allows his tongue to reach for hers. He pulls back before the kiss becomes passionate. He is not about to take advantage of her. His hand still cups her cheek, and their faces remain close.

"It is for me too, Harry."

"I didn't want to assume anything."

"I wouldn't have gone to dinner with you had I not felt this way."

Harry loosens his hand from Ruth's grasp, and slides his arm around her shoulders. Slowly, he draws her to him until her head rests against his shoulder.

"I like sitting here like this," he says.

"Me too." Ruth's left hand still rests on his thigh. Her palm feels warm through the material of his trousers.

"So you'll have dinner with me again, Ruth?"

"I suppose I'll have to now, won't I"

A quick glance at her face tells him that she's smiling. He takes that as a yes. At least, it wasn't a no.

They sit that way for some time. It is not yet late, so they have ample time in which to enjoy being together and alone, without the world watching them.

"I should go soon," he says after a while.

"Not yet. Stay a little longer."

So he does.

It is while sitting with his arm around the woman he loves, her head nestling into his shoulder, that Harry remembers why he'd visited Ruth on this night – to have her love him – and how much more they have both gained from his willingness to bestow his gift of love to her. He'll ask her to dinner again soon, but on this night, what they have, what they are sharing, is enough.

A/N: Michael Atherton is a real person who was picked to play cricket for England in 1989, and went on to captain the team between 1993-1998. Tim Fielding, however, is fictional ….. and aren't we glad he is?