A/N: And if you know nothing at all about cricket, then that is fine, because you'll possibly know even less about it as a result of reading this. A working knowledge of cricket is not a prerequisite to enjoying this fic.
He opens his front door wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, and a dark blue, long sleeved shirt, which hangs over his jeans, and bare feet. It is the latter which has Ruth flummoxed. She has never seen his feet bare. To be truthful, she has seen very little of Harry's skin, but suddenly she realises how ... intimate is the sight of his bare feet.
Not as intimate as -
Enough of the dirty thinking. I'm here on serious business.
"I have that file you asked for," she blurts out, her eyes still on his toes.
"You'd better come in. The match is at a critical stage, and I don't want to miss an over."
"Over?"
Harry closes the door behind her, and leads her into his living room, where he points to the sofa.
"Sit, Ruth. I'll make us some tea."
"But …..."
"But what?"
"Don't you want to watch this?" Ruth points to the TV in the corner of the room, where a group of men dressed in white are arranging themselves randomly on a large, grassed field.
Most people call it cricket.
Ruth calls it bloody bewildering.
"Yes, but I can make the tea while I'm listening. Anyway, if something happens, they do instant replays."
They certainly do. Ruth can see that. There has just been around fourteen replays of the last ball one of the men in white had chucked along the – track? lane? pitch? - to the man holding the stick? raquet? bat? She watches the TV, not even listening to the commentary, which could be in Swahili for all the sense it makes to her. The same man chucks? pitches? throws? the ball down the track to the guy holding the stick, and the guy with the stick takes a swing at it, the ball glances off the edge of the stick, and flies to another guy standing on the grass. This third guy throws himself at the ball, and then catches it, springs to his feet, and throws it into the air. All the other fellows standing on the grass race towards the catching guy, and they hug him, and slap him on the back, and the man with the big gloves on his hands ruffles the catcher's hair. The people in the stadium all roar, many are standing, victorious, baying for blood. Ruth feels like she's watching the gladiatorial games in ancient Rome. Meanwhile, the man who'd hit the ball takes his stick and walks off the grass, mumbling to himself. He looks unhappy, so it's clear to Ruth that allowing somone to catch a ball after you've hit it is not the object of the game.
"Harry …... I think something's happened. A man caught the ball, and everyone's excited."
"A catch? Another wicket? That's brillaint," he says excitedly from the doorway, a kettle of boiling water still in his hand. "That's 5 down. 103 for 5. Wonderful. Rule Britannia, Ruth. Aren't you pleased?"
Ruth looks up at him, a deep crease between her eyebrows. "How can I be pleased if I haven't understood a word you said? Apart from `Rule Britannia'. I get that."
"I'll make the tea," he says, turning towards the kitchen.
Once Harry brings the tea into the living room, they sit together on the sofa. Ruth sips her tea, while Harry watches the TV, smiling happily.
"I love it when we thrash the Aussies, Ruth. It warms my heart."
"It's only cricket, Harry."
"Ruth! How can you say that? It's war. We can't allow a country settled by convicts – which we sent there in the first place – to beat us at our own game. It's just not British, is it?"
"You didn't send them there, Harry."
"Didn't send what where?"
"You didn't send the convicts to Australia yourself."
"I know, Ruth. I wasn't born then. I'm not that old, you know."
He turns towards her, smiling. If only he were always this happy. Ruth smiles back. Being with Harry like this is intoxicating …... even when she doesn't understand a word he says.
"The file, Harry. Shouldn't you be checking it …... before I leave?"
"You can't leave yet. You have to keep me company. I can explain the rules of cricket to you. That way it will be more fun when you watch it with me."
"More fun that staring at your toes?"
His head whips around as he looks at her.
"I said that aloud, didn't I?"
He nods. "What's wrong with my toes?"
"Nothing. Your toes are …... rather lovely."
"No need to go overboard, Ruth. They're just toes."
"Nice ones, too …... as toes go."
Harry's attention is back on the cricket. Through the space between them she can feel the tension in his body, as he waits while the man throws the ball (and in the process almost turning himself inside out), and then sits forward while the man at the other end tries to hit it …... or tries to not hit it.
"Harry …..." she ventures.
"Yes?" He is not looking at her, but that can't be helped.
"Why does the guy with the stick not hit the ball out of the park?"
"Ruth!"
"What?"
"This is not a game of baseball. This," and he waves his arm in the direction of the TV, "is a cricket match."
"Whatever. Why -"
"Whatever? You can't say `whatever' about cricket, Ruth. It's not a game …... it's a way of life."
"My question. I need it answered."
"Right," he says, turning towards her. "It's the end of the over, anyway."
"It's over? Already?"
"No. An over is a series of six deliveries made by one bowler from one end of the pitch. The next over is bowled from the other end of the pitch by another bowler."
Ruth stares ahead of her, and the crease has again settled between her eyebrows.
"Ruth? Are you alright?"
"I'm trying to take it all in. It may take a while. So, why doesn't the hitter -"
"Batsman, Ruth. They're called batsmen, and that round object is the ball."
"Very funny, Harry."
He is smiling at her, a glint in his eyes. Now he's taking the piss.
"And the wooden thing the batsman holds is a -"
"Bat."
"Good girl!"
"If he's a batsman, then he's holding a bat, just as a swordsman holds a sword."
"Right. Ooo – did you see that? He glanced one down the leg side. Cheeky antipodean sod."
Ruth again stares at Harry. She has a feeling she'll be here a while. She sips her tea, and watches Harry's face, more animated than usual. She might even begin to like cricket. One day.
The cricketers are off the field …... pitch? …... track? …. having tea, which Ruth considers to be an indulgence, considering these two teams are meant to be at war. Ruth is deciding that maybe cricket is not a game for real men …... other than Harry, of course, who is more of a man than any man she knows. Harry returns to the room with a fresh pot of tea, and he pours for each of them. For a few moments, they each enjoy sipping their tea, and that is when Ruth asks Harry to explain cricket to her. He sighs heavily, and asks is she sure, and she says she is. It takes another ten minutes of his mouth moving, while Ruth understands only around ten percent of what he says, before she asks him another question.
"Harry, why did the commentator say: Bell is fielding at silly point? It makes no sense at all to me."
"Bell is the name of the English fielder – Ian Bell – and silly point is his position on the field."
"And he's silly for standing there?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he's standing so close to the batsman …... who, it must be acknowledged, is armed with a hefty wooden bat, and is about to hit a hard leather-covered ball."
"Why would he stand there?"
"On the off chance he may intimidate the batsman, and also on the off chance that if the batsman hits the ball towards him, he'll catch it."
"Or die."
"There is that chance, yes."
Ruth sits back, and chews on her thumbnail. Harry can tell she is thinking.
"I think I get it now. The man who throws the ball is a bowler …... shouldn't he bowl the ball?"
Harry nods at her, smiling.
"And the batsman holds a wooden stick called a bat. When the batsman runs to the three little sticks and back -"
"The wicket."
"What?"
"The three little sticks is called the wicket."
"Right. When he does, it's called a run, and the team with the most runs wins."
Harry is gazing at her, a slight smile on his lips. This makes her feel uncomfortable, so she grabs the teapot, and in her hurry to refill her teacup, she spills some hot tea on herself.
"Oh, shit!" she exclaims, quickly putting the teapot and her cup down, and lifting the material of her skirt from her thigh, where the hot tea has quickly seeped though her skirt, burning her skin. "Oh, bugger."
Harry has taken off to the kitchen, and he returns with two clean tea towels.
"Here, put these over your leg," he says, holding them out to her.
When she doesn't take them, he realises that both her hands are occupied holding her skirt away from her leg, so – very delicately – he slides the tea towels under her skirt, and over her thigh.
"Is that alright?" he asks, his eyes on her face, and not her leg.
"It's just my thigh, Harry. You can look."
"No, Ruth, I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's your thigh ….. and I'm …..."
When he can't finish the sentence, Ruth understands. He is embarrassed – not by her leg, but by his own possible responses to seeing it, perhaps touching it.
Ruth is loving cricket more and more. What a truly fascinating game it is. She decides that the very best part of cricket is when the players bugger off and have tea.
They are in Harry's bathroom, the cricket forgotten. Ruth is sure the cricketers have finished their tea, and are preparing to again go into combat, with their silly rules, and even sillier positions, but she doesn't much care about the cricketers, does she? Not when she is perched on the rim of Harry's bath, wearing a bathrobe of Harry's – her skirt in the drier after Harry had rinsed it – and Harry has just asked her to pull the bathrobe aside so that he can rub some pawpaw ointment on her reddened skin. He is gently rubbing the ointment over her skin, and she has taken the red tube from his fingers, and is reading the label.
"It's by far the most effective treatment for simple bites, burns and abrasions, Ruth," he murmurs. "It's good for the lips, too."
Oh, I'll bet it is!
"But it's made in Australia, Harry. Isn't that …... unpatriotic?"
He looks up at her, wiping his fingers on a tissue. "No, Ruth. I don't hate the country itself, nor do I hate its population. Only its cricket team. And rugby team. And any other team which has beaten England in the past thirty years."
Harry is kneeling at Ruth's feet, and she looks up from the tube of ointment to see him gazing at her, his pupils dilated, and then he surprises her by touching his fingertips to his lips, and then placing those fingers gently on her burned skin. Moved, she reaches out, and rests her hand on the back of his, gently caressing his knuckles with her fingertips.
They each appear hypnotised by the movement of their hands.
Harry lifts his head to again look at her, and she moves towards him slowly - to give him time to get away, if that's his desired strategy – and she places her lips on his. His lips are very soft, and plump, and she murmurs something into his mouth which even she doesn't understand. The kiss is tentative and sweet, but it eventually ends, and they pull apart. While they've been kissing, Harry has slid his hands over the bathrobe, and grasps her waist. Somehow, that feels just right to Ruth. She allows her legs to part so that Harry can slide closer to her, and so that she can wrap her arms around his shoulders while they again kiss. This time the kiss is more serious, and there are tongues involved, but it ends far too soon for Ruth.
"Ruth," Harry says, his voice strangled, "can we perhaps stand? My knees …..."
"Oh, sorry."
They both stand, and they continue kissing. Then they again come up for air.
"What about the cricket, Harry?"
"Never heard of it, Ruth," he says at last. "Is that a code name for some Russian diplomat?"
Harry leans towards her, and again kisses her, a deep and intense kiss. Ruth is also having trouble with her knees. They are barely able to support her weight.
She smiles a wide smile, and Harry takes her hand, leading her out of the en suite, and into his bedroom.
An hour later:
Ruth is woken from her semi-sleep by the ringtone of her phone. She leans over the edge of the bed, and scrabbles amongst her clothes until she finds it.
"Hello," she whispers, not wanting to wake Harry, who has one arm curved around her shoulders.
"Ruth, it's Beth. How did you and Harry go with that file?"
A file? Is that what they're calling it now? Ruth almost giggles to herself, but not quite.
"Er ….. the file is proving tricky, and Harry has to work on it before I can bring it back to Thames House. It might take us all night."
"Ri-ight. Okay. No problem," Beth says before she hangs up.
In Thames House, Beth grins to herself. About bloody time! She wants to shout, and punch the air. Only she knows that the `file' contains a confusing trail which can only be explained by accepting some massive contradictions, and if either Harry or Ruth had even bothered to glance at it, both would have known it contains pages and pages of abject nonsense.
Working on it, my arse.
"What's up?" Tariq asks, passing Beth's desk on his way to the tea room.
"We're going to have to do without Harry and Ruth for the rest of the weekend, Tariq."
"Oh, no …... why?"
"They're busy …... working on a file."
"Is the word `file' code for -?"
"Yes, Tariq, it is. Any questions?"
"None that I'm brave enough to ask."
Tariq walks away from Beth's desk, does a little skip, and then punches the air.
Beth smiles at his departing back.
A/N: And I'm aware that I haven't provided an explanation for Harry's absence from the Grid on this Saturday. There isn't one. Sore toe, maybe?