So I've set up permanent residence in denial camp and will continue to write fluff as long as it can detract me from exam work.

This one's set mid Series 8. Enjoy. :)


He first notices the anomalous matt pale green substance on her collarbone when he perhaps should be looking somewhere else, such as her face, as she gives an account of the LakeYard bombings. As she paces the top of the meeting room he can only assume she's taking his puzzled appearance as a reaction to the nature of their latest threat. Which is fair enough given it involves multiple suicide bombers, kidnappings, and murders.

When she finishes he reels off the orders to the rest of the Section and is left behind – as per usual though this time unintentionally – alone with Ruth as she collects her folders to move out of the meeting room lastly. As he stands she looks at him and offers a smile, routine really, and only stops when she becomes aware of his fixation on her neck area.

"Harry?" she quizzes, making an attempt to peer down at herself in the hope that she might establish whatever it is he's found so intriguing. "You alright?"

"I'm sorry Ruth," he explains, eyes still unmoving, "But it's somewhat distracting. Mainly because I can't determine what it is." He squints a little and takes two steps forward – close enough to send the heat rising to her cheeks. "It looks like... paint."

"What does?"

He nods to her, "That does. On your collarbone. The pastely green smudge."

Then before she sees and before he registers his hand, his fingers find her skin and a wide thumb spreads across it, setting a forest of goose bumps lining her shoulders, neck and back. Instantly her eyes close as he meets her skin, some sort of fire lit in the space between them. They become hot rapidly and quite unexpectedly but unaware of the magnitude of the effect they're having on each other. Though he knows for a fact that he hides it better than she does, and removes his hand as quickly as it was placed there, subconsciously leaning backwards as the body language of guilt takes hold. A quick breath escapes her, a change in her tone,

"Oh – yes, that... yes it probably is paint; I'm redecorating my lounge."

"Before you go to work in the morning?" he teases. And she swears he almost winks.

"I had a spare ten minutes this morning," she shrugs, "Paint was out, thought I'd just touch up a patch I'd missed last night. It's a bit of a nightmare though," she sighs and loves how his face becomes suddenly serious when she's anything other than content, "I'm trying to get it finished before my mother comes down this weekend, but it's a mess. I've still got three walls to do." She pauses as the cogs churn, "What day is it today?"

"Thursday."

"Oh God." She dips, biting her lip. "I can't finish it in two days. Two evenings."

It takes him less than one second to set a proposal.

"Can I help with it?" he says. And it's incredible; the eyes that meet his there hold the same surprise, ecstasy, as those that stared at him when he asked her to dinner four years ago. Her face cracks into a smile. A small voice crawls it's way from her throat to her mouth 'no, it's fine, I couldn't possibly ask you to' but something quashes it before it spills from her tongue. A greater need, or a want (she can't tell which now), takes hold and unbelievably, she nods.

To which he nods back – delighted.

"Umm, yes, I don't see why not. Great," she beams, "That's... that'd be great. Thank you." Her embarrassment at the rose in her cheeks forces her eyes to fall to the table while his press into her features.

"Good. I was worried for a moment there you'd claim it was manageable for the sake of saving me some hard labour."

"Ha. No, it'd be much appreciated if you have the time... if you really want to help," she adds.

"Of course. Shall I pop round tonight then?"

"Okay. I'll cook us dinner?"

Quite a leap. Quite a conversation shift.

With oh so many implications, none of which he signifies he has registered, even though he has.

"Free dinner," he chuckles, "Sounds like a good deal to me. What sort of time is best?"

"Whenever. Depends what time we finish today. I don't want to pressure you; the day's still young, you never know what might happen this afternoon and if you feel you'd really rather not, then I don't mind if you'd prefer to get an early night... at... home..."

Her sentence trails as he pads closer again. Now, they're in Havensworth; he's wearing that look. She can't see his gold tie or black blazer, the meeting room that surrounds them, only that casual and tired lusty eyed man that stood before her on that fateful night. The swallow she takes echoes around her head but he's still smiling and offering everything he can - his time, his effort, his affection.

It's what this beginning level of affection could turn to that unnerves her. And excites her too beyond anything she can really say.

"I'll come over as soon as I can," he purrs.

Remarkable. How can he make a discussion about redecorating so bloody erotic.

She struggles for a reply, words catching by the delighted shivers coursing through her nervous system.

"Okay," she manages, eventually, still pressing the files closer to her body by the heartbeat, "Is there anything you'd like me to cook specifically?"

He shrugs with a casual shake of the head.

"I'll eat anything, as it probably wont surprise you to know. Up to you. You're head chef. It's very kind of you to cook."

"It's very kind of you to offer a hand for the painting."

They smile and she shifts to leave and walk back into what feels like a distant reality at her desk.

"Alright," she says, "See you tonight then."


More soon. Fluff approaching, with Harry in a t-shirt. (But what colour people? WHAT COLOUR?)