AN: This little one shot came to me on my drive to work this morning and so I tossed it together between meetings and reports. It's unbetaed but my muse is demanding I share.

~ H & R ~

Jadedly he steps through the front door, his body weary, and the cut on his head throbbing. To say it has been a long day would be an understatement, just as classifying it as horrid would be too weak a word. In all the years of his life, there have only been a handful that have cut deep to the bone, leaving his soul feeling battered and bruised, and even those, he's not sure could reach the level that this one has. Perhaps the day Graham had overdosed and he thought his son lost forever was comparable, but even then, the devastation he had felt was nothing to the feelings he is going through now.

Today he is poised to lose it all.

He pauses a moment, locking the front door and flipping on the night lamp, casting a shadowed glow about the entry. A glance at the stairs makes him long to drop into his bed, fully clothed, and awake the next morning to find it had all been a vile dream, but the pitter-patter of small feet on the wood has him sighing. Wearily he pulls his suit jacket from his body, dejectedly tossing it atop the bannister before pulling his shirttails free of his trousers and loosening his tie. A quick squat has him rubbing the head of his faithful companion before standing and walking to the kitchen.

"Hungry girl?" he asks, crossing to the small cupboard by the fridge and pulling out her food, her tail smacking against his leg as he empties the can of stewed beef.

As the dog eats her dinner, he contemplates the benefits of a meal, but decides against anything more than a tumbler of aged whisky and bed. He's poured himself a generous serving from the shelf separating the dining area from the kitchen when there's a scratching at his back door. For a moment, he freezes, glass halfway to his mouth, before deciding it's only a stray animal, and the glass finishes its journey.

There's another scratching at his door, this time louder and followed by a soft 'Harry'. It's a voice he knows well, and as the familiar warmth of whisky fills his mouth, he sets his tumbler down. Crossing quickly to the door, he undoes the locks, pulling it open to reveal the inky night, the pale glow of a quarter moon illuminating a pale face he dreams of nightly.

"Ruth," he says as she slips in the door, any other words cutoff as she wraps herself into him, her face pressed tightly against his broad chest, her arms slipping around his expanding waist.

No other words are spoken as he maneuvers them away from the door, his hand pushing the wood closed before holding her just as tight. He feels the wetness of tears against his shirt, and he mutters softly, his lips pressing tenderly against her hair, until she has cried herself out. She steps back, and as she does, his hands raise to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing the trail of tears from her cheeks.

"Okay?" he asks, unable to form any other words as he stares down at her.

She nods yes, her hands rising to frame his face as she presses her mouth against his in the briefest of kisses. "I thought you were dead," she says softly as she pulls back, eyes meeting his in the short distance between them. "When the comms went dead and they lost your tracker, I tho…" Her voice catches in her throat as the tears begin to run down her cheeks again.

"We both did," he says, his forehead coming to rest against hers as he remembers the dread that had filled him with the uncertainty of her life just hours before. He hisses, forgetting about the deep gash above his eye but makes no move to pull away.

It's Ruth who does, leaning back just enough to view him in the low light above the stove. "You've been cut," she exclaims, her fingers drifting to probe the gash.

"It's nothing," he mutters, wincing as she pushes against the tender skin, the throbbing that had momentarily been stilled by finally having her in his arms back with a greater vengeance.

"It is not nothing," Ruth states, finally breaking contact and stepping away from him. He feels the loss as she pulls him to the table, pushing him down into one of the chairs. "Did you even bother to have it looked at?"

"It never crossed my mind," he admits, watching her as she leans closer, examining the wound.

She spends long minutes looking at it, her fingers probing the jagged cut, her warm breath rushing across his skin as she examines it from every angle. Finally she sighs, her touch linger on his cheek as she watches him. "Where's your first aid kit," she asks, knowing he'll have one to avoid any unnecessary trips to hospital.

"Cupboard above the sink," he says, and watches as she turns to cross the room. His eyes never leave her frame as she stands on tip toes to reach in and pull free the canvas pack.

Silently she crosses to him, setting the bag on the table beside him as she unfastens it. She fiddles around for a moment before swiftly moving between his legs. There's an instant of surprise as he catches not only a whiff of rubbing alcohol, but of her familial movement before the sting causes him to wince. Her soft 'shh' is accompanied by a gentle touch as she slowly cleans the wound, ensuring not an iota of blood or dirt remains before reaching into the bag for a square of gauze.

"There," she mutters, stepping back to study her work, smiling at him for the first time that evening. Carefully, she leans forward, her lips pressing against the bandage in a tenderness long missing from his life.

And it's then he can clearly see the future without her in it.

"Marry me," he says, an urgency to his voice as he stares deep into her eyes. "Not because we both deserve someone at our funerals, but because I love you. Because there's going to be no guarantee that I'm going to come through this without losing everything and the one thing I can't bear to lose is you."

She's silent a moment, her eyes never leaving his as she searches for something in his gaze, smile frozen, and he feels his breath stop. He knows there is no other chance after this, that if she says no, th… "I love you," interrupts his thoughts and he breathes again.

"I love you," she says again, her smile growing as she holds his gaze.

"I love you," he says, moving to pull her into his arms. She moves with him, her arms sliding around his neck as she presses into him, her lips molding against his. "Is that a yes?" he mutters against her lips.

~ H & R ~

AN: I do hope you enjoyed, and that you'll take a moment to review.