A/N: This story started out as a one-shot, but grew into a two-shot. I believe it still works.

Being an AU scenario, I have tweaked the time frame somewhat. In this story, at the time Ruth found out about Sasha being Harry's son, she was already working at the Home Office.

Ruth hadn't expected to see him in Tesco's. She was there to buy some wine, and there he was, standing alone, his lips protruding in that familiar pout, a frown furrowing his brow, as he stared at the vast display of bottled sauces, rows and rows of them in all brands, sizes and flavours, and from every conceivable corner and kitchen of the world. She wanted to call out his name, but something stopped her. It was the watcher in her – what she liked to call her Inner Spy Self - the desire to see how people behave when they're unaware they're being watched. She'd been at the end of the aisle, next to a display of chocolate biscuits, just about to turn down his aisle, but she'd stopped when she saw him.

He appeared to have changed little. She liked that he still dressed well, in chinos, a pale blue shirt, and a lightweight jacket. In his left hand dangled one of those plastic baskets which supermarkets provide for their customers who only have a few items to buy. Upon further scrutiny, Ruth could see that he was definitely a different man to the Harry she'd stormed away from, her righteous anger fuelling her escape, as she'd slammed the door behind her.

It was almost three years since she'd seen him, but at that moment – having watched him for three or four minutes – it felt like no more than a week or two. To say she'd missed him was a given. She'd thought of him every day she'd been away.

She'd rung Malcolm on her return eight days earlier. His was the only phone number she had which was current.

"You know he's retired?" Malcolm had said when she'd segued into an enquiry about Harry. Malcolm was no fool; he knew that her phone call was just a ruse to find out about their former section head.

"I hadn't known that, no. In fact, I've heard almost nothing since I left."

"He had …... a breakdown of sorts. It was around a year after you left," Malcolm had told her. "Erin Watts still thinks that he began to deteriorate once you left. I'm not so sure. I think it's just that the service was changing, and Harry no longer fitted the required template for a section head. But losing you was also a factor."

Malcolm had given her Harry's new address – a small town house in North London, close to where his daughter and her husband lived. He had not offered her Harry's phone number, and nor did she ask for it.

"And Ruth," Malcolm had said, "in case you're wondering, he hasn't anyone in his life. I think he's given up on that side of things. It's sad, really. He was such a dynamic force of nature …... back then."

Ruth had knocked on the front door, but there'd been no reply. There was also no vehicle in the driveway, so she'd walked to the nearest Tesco to buy some bottles of wine. She had little idea how Harry would feel about seeing her again, but perhaps some wine might oil the wheels of communication, making things more comfortable for them both.

He turned rather quickly so that he was looking in her direction, and he saw her before she realised it. He stood still, and watched her, just as she had watched him. She could feel her face flushing, but she was happy to see those eyes on her again, so she smiled at him as he slowly walked towards her, his almost-empty supermarket carry basket hanging from the fingers of his left hand.

"Hello, Ruth," he said quietly, once he was close to her.

"Hello, Harry. I'm wanting to buy some wine. I was about to come around and visit you at home -"

Harry lifted his eyebrows, but there was a smile on his lips.

"- if that's alright with you."

Harry nodded slightly, his eyes still holding hers. How could she have forgotten those eyes? (She hadn't.) How could she have lived elsewhere for almost three years without even a glimpse of his face, with not even a photograph to remind her? (It had been difficult, too difficult, which is why she is back.)

"If you have time," she continued, "would you like to help me choose some wine?"

"Are you really coming to visit me?"

"Of course. If that's alright with you."

"I thought I'd be the last person you'd want to see."

Suddenly, behind the sadness in his eyes, she saw what she had done. She'd left London in a hurry. She'd left her job in the Home Office, but chiefly, she'd left him …... and she'd not even attempted to contact him since.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," she said, reaching towards him, but not quite connecting her hand with his arm. "I hadn't known how …..."

"How difficult it was to be speaking to you one day, trying to tell you about …... what I told you about …... and then two days later having you leave. And …... and that was it. Ruth …..."

"Let's get the wine. We have so much to talk about."

Ruth could feel the sadness and loneliness radiating from him. She had expected him to be dismissive, or angry, or even to have rejected her outright, but she hadn't been prepared for this …... this level of melancholy, which billowed around him like an early morning fog in autumn.

Harry led her to the wine section at the back of the store. He politely suggested a merlot and a chardonnay, and Ruth chose two bottles of each. At the checkout, he insisted on paying for them, and despite feeling relieved that he seemed to bear her no malice or resentment, she thought it inappropriate that he should be paying for the wine she was taking to his house to share with him as a peace offering.

"We were both at fault, Ruth," he said, as she helped him stack the wine and groceries into the boot of his car.

Since Ruth had taken a taxi to his house, and then had walked to Tesco, she accepted his offer that they travel together to his house. While he drove, she watched him …... that is, until he glanced at her and smiled.

"I know I've aged, Ruth, but am I really that bad?"

"You haven't aged very much, Harry. You're just …... different."

"I know."

They spoke no more until they were inside his house, and he showed her around the spacious living area – a kitchen, sitting room, and dining area.

"What about your old house, Harry?"

"I sold it. It was far too big for one person, and when I retired, I just had to get out of it. It reminded me of those nights when I'd get home late from work, and curl up with Scarlet in front of the fire and …..." He'd almost said, `and think about you', but had stopped himself just in time.

Ruth looked at him, but he was occupied putting away his shopping. "Can I do something to help, Harry?"

He turned from the cupboard he was stacking with cans of soup, and looked right at her, what she'd always thought of as the Harry stare. "You can promise me that you'll never again leave without properly saying goodbye."

Ruth knew what he was saying, and she suddenly felt very guilty, very bad about her behaviour of almost three years earlier.

"Harry, I'm sorry for what I did, for the circumstances of my leaving. There's not been a day since that I haven't regretted it." Ruth spoke quietly, choosing her words carefully.

"But Malcolm told me you got married there. In San Francisco."

"Yes. It was a rebound relationship, Harry. We divorced after eight very difficult months."

The truth was that Charles Granger, expat Englishman, living in San Francisco, had been a bad idea from day one, but she had been determined to exorcise all thoughts of Harry from her life.

Harry opened a bottle of chardonnay, and he brought the bottle and two glasses to the dining table, where he indicated to Ruth that she should sit opposite him, so that she could enjoy the view over his back garden, resplendent in late-summer flowers and shrubs.

"Were you ever happy with him?"

Ruth shook her head, and against her conscious will, she felt the tears forming in her eyes. She looked down, hoping he'd not see them, but when one tear began rolling down her cheek, he stood up, walked around the table, and sat in the chair beside her.

"Was it bad?" he asked, passing her his handkerchief, clean and pressed. Trust Harry to still carry a cloth handkerchief.

"Were you expecting to come across a damsel in distress in Tesco?"

"No, but I found one anyway." He lay one hand gently on her forearm, and turned in his chair, watching her. "Tell me what's wrong, Ruth. I need to know everything. I don't sleep well these days. All I can think about is you, and those harsh words which were the last we spoke to one another."

"Damn you, Harry. All you do is tell me things that you should have told me years ago. How many other women are there? Do each of them have a child of yours?"

"Of course not. None of this is relevant, Ruth. All that matters with us is you and me. Elena is no longer -"

"Elena is here, and so is her son. Your son. There's no room for me here, Harry. There's no room for me in your life. Your past …. your women – she'd spat that word at him – your women fill your life. You have such a messy history, Harry. I should have seen that years ago."

And it had gone on and on in that vein for over half an hour, and they'd become progressively angrier with one another, each hurling words at the other that once spoken, could not be taken back. What was worse, they each seemed to derive enjoyment from hurting the other.

Harry watched as Ruth cried silently, relieved to be able to let it all out, the story of the unsuitable marriage she should never have entered into in the first place. The tears fell down her cheeks as Harry sat beside her, his hand resting on her arm.

"Where is Elena and your son now?"

"Sasha is not my son. It's a long story, but she'd duped me in an attempt to bind me to her, to get me to bring her and the boy to London. Ilya was his father, and she knew that all along. Elena is dead." Ruth's eyes widened in surprise, and Harry nodded. "Her own husband killed her. He and Sasha are now in Moscow. I don't know their fate. I've wished so often that you had stayed in London for just a few weeks longer. You would have been here when I discovered the truth about Sasha's parentage. We could have …..."

"I know. By the time I got to San Francisco, and got myself a job, I began to feel sorry for the cruel things I said. Then I met Charles, and …... well, I thought I deserved a fling with someone, and the next thing I knew, I was married. I was reacting, Harry. I was reacting to how hurt I'd felt over Elena. I can see now that I over-reacted, and that what you'd done before we met didn't matter. I'm sorry …... and I know that saying sorry doesn't change what's happened."

Nothing more was said until Ruth stopped crying, and then blew her nose on the handkerchief, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. All this time, Harry's fingers rested on her arm, a source of warmth and reassurance.

"Tell me about …." she began.

"My breakdown?"

She nodded, looking up into his eyes at last, and seeing forgiveness there, and something else – something she'd not seen since she'd left London, since before she'd angrily run from him. Was it love, or was she wanting it to be love? Harry's eyes were soft and forgiving. He sat back, so that his fingers fell away from her arm. Ruth missed the warm touch of his fingers. She took a hefty swig of her wine to compensate. She needed to feel warm. She'd been cold for far too long.

"I never recovered from your leaving. I buried myself in work, and rarely slept. It was as if I was possessed. I had no life away from the Grid. I worked, I slept. Around ten months after you left, Scarlet - my little dog – was run over and killed in front of me. She'd run after another dog, and I lost my grip on her lead. I sat down in the middle of the road next to her body, and couldn't move until a couple of sturdy chaps helped me to my feet, and took me to my house. I was a mess. I couldn't think straight, and some days I couldn't stop crying. It was Malcolm who suggested that I was grieving for more than the loss of my dog. He suggested that I'd experienced so many losses for so many years – since my mother's death when I was twenty – and I hadn't allowed myself to grieve, and then the added grief of losing you, and then Scarlet, simply tipped me over the edge. I no longer functioned normally. I took days off when I couldn't get out of bed. There was one time when I forgot to eat for a whole week, and I was surprised when my trousers almost fell off me. Malcolm told me he had your details in the US, and he offered to give them to me, but he also mentioned that you'd married, so I wasn't about to upset the new life you'd made for yourself, nor did I wish to rub salt into my own wounds. I was offered the opportunity to retire before they sacked me. That was it. A year and eight weeks after you left London, I was pensioned off …... and a year and seven months into retirement, here I am."

"Malcolm told me there's been no-one for you."

"You mean …. a woman?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"Look at me. Who would want a broken old spook like me?"

Ruth moved her mouth to say, `I would', but she stopped just before she uttered the words. It was too soon for such declarations.

"Harry, I think that you've always been so much more than your job. At your job you were amazing, phenomenal, even, but you were an even better man. You just had difficulty believing that."

"Thank you, Ruth. That's nice of you to say that."

"I said it because it's true." Ruth broke eye contact with him, feeling the tone of their meeting changing, perhaps a little too fast for her comfort. "What have you done with your time, Harry? You were always so dynamic, so busy."

"The garden you see out there? That was just a patch of long grass when I bought this place. I made it my project. I spent hours each day out there, digging, weeding, planting. I used to hate gardening, but in a way, that garden saved my life. I've had enough of death, Ruth. I had a deep need to create new life out of the death and loss I've lived through. I may have been an effective spy, but I can't do it any more."

Harry got up from the chair to open another bottle of wine – a merlot this time. He wanted to keep pouring wine until Ruth was too inebriated to go home, wherever home was. He was afraid that should he allow her to walk out his door, he'd never see her again. He couldn't lose her for a third time. He just couldn't.

"You haven't told me where you're living," he said, pouring them each a glass of wine into fresh glasses.

"I have a colleague from San Francisco who owns a one bedroom apartment in London. She won't be needing it again for at least six months, so that gives me some time for finding a job and a place of my own. It's not far from here. I could walk there quite easily."

"You'll not walk home, tonight, Ruth. It's already dark. Stay for dinner, and I'll drive you home afterwards."

Ruth was enjoying being with Harry again too much to say no to his offer. He made lasagna, and she helped him. They stood side-by-side in gentle companionship, doing something so everyday, something their previous jobs had not offered them time to explore. Ruth felt comforted by Harry's arm as it rested against her own while she handed him the next ingredient for the sauce. She could feel the movement of his muscles, and the rhythm of his breathing, just by maintaining contact with his arm. She wished they could stay that way for the rest of their lives ... standing side by side in Harry's kitchen, their arms touching, warmth against warmth.

"Was this why you were stuck in the sauce aisle today?" she asked.

He nodded, looking down at her. "Nothing was exactly what I wanted, so I'm making my own."

To Harry, as he stirred the sauce, very aware of the woman standing close to him, they felt like a couple all over again. It was as though the past thirty-three months had never happened.

Almost.

His heart was singing, but he hoped it was not breaking into song too soon.

They ate their meal at the dining table, a fresh bottle of merlot opened and waiting for Harry to pour. They'd finished the first bottle while they'd prepared their meal. There was so much they each wanted to say to the other, but instead they said very little.

Harry was almost sure she knew how he felt about her.

Ruth hoped that Harry knew how strong her feelings still were for him.

"I must go home," Ruth said, soon after ten o-clock. "You'll be wanting to go to bed."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Would he think she was dropping hints? Would he think she was offering herself to him? She breathed out slowly into the silence.

"It's alright, Ruth. I know what you mean. I know that you don't mean …... that."

"What if I had meant that?"

"I'd say that we should schedule another time, when we've both had a little less to drink."

Ruth smiled across at him, and sighed heavily. They still had terrible timing.

"I'll drive you home, Ruth."

"No, you won't. If you were breathalysed you'd be well over point-o-eight. I'll ring for a taxi."

"I'll ring for a taxi."

While Harry went into the kitchen in search of his phone, Ruth gathered her things, and made sure she had her money and her keys. When the taxi arrived twenty minutes later, Harry walked her to the door, and stuffed a piece of paper into her hand.

"It's my phone number. I had to get a new one when I left MI-5." They stood just inside the closed door, a little closer than necessary, their eyes locked. "I'd like it if we kept in touch, Ruth. Ring me. Any time, for any reason. Ring me even if you have no reason." He hoped he didn't sound desperate, although he knew he did. He felt desperation flood his being, but he wasn't brave enough to ask her for her number. Perhaps that was best. Leave her with the ball, and if she wanted to bounce it back to him, then that would be wonderful. Better that than having her turn him down kindly when he rang her …... which he would first thing in the morning, were it up to him.

"I will," she said, taking the paper from him. She reached up to him, and kissed his jaw. He wondered whether she'd been aiming for his cheek, but it was a stupid thing for him to be obsessing about.

Harry stood in the doorway and watched her get into the taxi, and he watched as the taxi drove away …... leaving him alone …... again.