It's been an exhausting day, one of the worst she's had since her return, and as she hangs up her coat, slips on her slippers and steps into her open plan kitchen and dining area, she can't help feeling a little lost and overwhelmed.
What the hell am I doing here? Why did I come back? What's the point? One battle after another – fought, won, lost, people getting hurt, people dying, week in week out, and for what? So I can come back to an empty flat every night? An empty life? No George. No Nico. No Fidget. No Smudge. No Harry.
She moves restlessly at the thought of him, her conscience pricking at what she'd done to him today as she goes through to the kitchen area and fills up the kettle, flicking it on as she gets the milk out and pours a little into her mug before opening the tin where she keeps the teabags.
Sweet tea. That's what you need.
The memory comes unbidden. So long ago. So much has happened. So much has changed.
But has it?
He's older certainly, looking almost defeated these days. His eyes perpetually sad, his face lined, his shoulders stooped with fatigue. She doubts he's sleeping much if at all... or eating for that matter. Does he even make it to bed at night? Perhaps he falls asleep in his armchair, in front of the TV, with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
Stop it, Ruth!
The kettle's boiled so she pours the water into the waiting mug before picking it up and carrying it through to the living room. She knows she should eat, but she's not hungry right now. She's not hungry very often these days. Everything tastes the same, feels the same, almost as if it's happening to someone else.
She takes a seat and flicks on the TV, channel hopping while she sips her tea until she settles on a comedy that brings a smile to her lips from time to time, but not often. They used to make her laugh out loud, these shows and she'd missed them when she'd been away. No other place makes comedies quite like the UK.
She'd laughed with George and Nico, hadn't needed the TV.
She'd laughed with Harry too before, on their date. Not initially. She'd been too nervous for that, but later, after their conversation had moved away from Grand Tours and thermobaric bombs. It had been quitepossibly the best evening of her adult life and she'd stayed awake for ages afterwards, remembering it all, unable to stop smiling. The knowledge that she'd finally found someone she could see herself sharing the rest of her life with had been overwhelming. Never before or since had she felt so good.
She'd settled for George. He'd been a good, kind man, and she'd wanted a family. After months on the run, she'd wanted to settle down, build a life again, and George had been perfect because he came with all she'd been looking for – a large extended family, a child, a beautiful place, a home. He'd been easy to please and to love, but there had never been any fireworks, any feeling of totally belonging together.
She'd felt that with Harry. There had been fireworks when they'd touched, when he'd kissed her goodnight, when their eyes had met and held and they'd smiled at each other across the Grid the following morning. And she'd felt... wonderful, like she could float on air and would never be sad again.
Is it still there? Can I find it again?
She's been fighting it so long that she doesn't know. She'd touched his hand today, when she'd passed him the note. It had been momentarily thrilling to feel its warmth next to hers, his skin against her fingertips. No fireworks this time, but maybe that's because she's conditioned herself not to feel them, not to feel anything any more, least of all for him.
Things had been getting better before. Her grief had been abating and she'd felt herself begin to open up. She'd even asked him for a drink, but then Ros had died, and something had died inside her too. She's not quite sure why. She and Ros had never been close, but perhaps the knowledge that there was no one else left now from the old team, no one but her and Harry, had broken something in her, and before she'd had a chance to find it again, mend it, figure out what's going on, Harry had proposed and that had been that.
Stupid man!
What had possessed him to do that? And in such a way? No talk of feelings, of love, just numbers at a funeral.
S tupid, stupid man!
I s it all just maths , Ruth? H e'd asked her soon after. I think sometimes it is, she'd replied. But not always, she should have told him. Not when we've just lost Ros. Not when you ask me to be your wife !
She's crying, she realises in surprise. She hasn't cried in such a long time – not since before all this, before Ros died. Not since they lost Jo.
Jo. Oh Jo. How I wish you were still here. I miss you. I need you. I need you badly. I need a friend.
And that's part of what's gone wrong. She's lost all her friends. George, his sisters, her friends in Polis, her friends in Britain who still think her dead, Malcolm, Jo, and after Ros, Harry. There's no one left. Dimitri, Beth and Tariq – they're lovely and she enjoys their company, but they're colleagues. Ros had been just a colleague too, by choice, and Lucas... There's something seriously wrong with Lucas. She doesn't trust him and bloody Harry won't listen to her any more.
Stupid man!
Angrily she wipes away her tears and gets up, going back into the kitchen to make some cheese on toast and open a bottle of wine.
"This had better be good," he answers grumpily and it's only then that she realises she's actually carried through on her impulse to ring him. It also brings to mind another time, long ago, when he'd answered the phone in a similar gruff, impatient manner, saying something about having her passport up to date. She smiles at the recollection. "Who is this?" he demands, bringing her back to reality with a bump.
Didn't he see who's calling before he answered the phone?
"It's me. Ruth," she replies as she realises she's ringing him from her landline and he probably isn't even aware she has one.
"Ruth," he sighs her name, sounding resigned and it serves to wipe the smile off her face and sober her a little.
"Sorry to call so late," she says quickly. "I was just..."
"What?" he murmurs when she falls silent, her courage suddenly deserting her. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes," she giggles a little, trying hard not to cry. "Fine. Just... I was just wondering if... if you could..." but she can't manage to finish the sentence before a sob escapes her and she hastily mumbles, "I'm sorry, Harry," and puts down the phone.
What were you thinking?! Stupid, stupid idiot!
She takes another mouthful of wine, draining the glass and reaching for the bottle only to find it empty. It is the last straw, and as she returns it to the table with a loud thunk, an anguished sob of pain escapes her and she curls up on the sofa and weeps for all that she's lost, all that she cannot overcome, all that she could have been.
When the doorbell rings, she ignores it. She ignores the knock at the door too and the phone. In fact, it's not until she hears Harry's voice murmuring her name that she finally reacts, lifting her head and pushing her hair out of her face to see him standing before her, his eyes full of concern for her.
"What you doing here?" she gasps, suddenly sitting up and drawing her knees to her chest, feeling rather dizzy and disoriented, his sudden presence in her home throwing her completely off balance, not to mention all that wine.
"You rung me," he replies. He looks around him and her eyes follow his, taking in the empty wine bottles littering the table and frowning.
Did I really drink that much?
"Did you have company, Ruth?" he asks gently. "Did someone... something happen?"
He sounds serious, worried and it draws her eyes to his as she wonders at his question. "No," she replies, a little bemused. "No one was here. I..." but she tails off as she remembers suddenly why she'd been drinking. Quickly, she puts her feet on the floor and stands, taking him by surprise and making her head spin so violently that she loses her balance and topples over. His arms are round her in a flash, but though he manages to stop her falling to the floor, he doesn't quite succeed to keep her upright and they both fall onto the sofa, her weight pushing him back, his arms wrapped round her as she closes her eyes and sinks into him, fighting valiantly to settle her stomach and keep the room from spinning quite so fast. The last thing she needs is to be sick all over him.
When she comes round, recovering sufficiently to be able to take in her surroundings once more, it is to the feel of him against her, her upper body lying on his, her face buried in his neck, one of his hands rubbing comforting circles across her back and his other running soft fingers through her hair. They're not completely horizontal, but he's leaning sideways on the sofa, clearly having lost his balance when she slumped against him, his back resting on the cushions she'd piled on one side of the settee cheek is resting against the top of her head, she realises and she wonders suddenly how long she's been lying in his arms like this.
Who cares? It feels so, so good.
Isn't this what she's wanted for so long? What was missing from her life? A friend, someone to rely on, someone to share life with, someone to hold her, someone to cuddle, someone to love?
"Harry," she whispers, burying her face in his shoulder as the emotions overwhelm her and she begins to weep once more.
"Hush," he murmurs in her ear. "It's all right, Ruth. Hush now." And as her sobs begin to quieten again at the reassurance in his voice and the comfort of his arms, she hears him ask gently, "What is it, Ruth? What's upset you so?"
She doesn't say anything for some time, but he doesn't press her, just holding her and offering her what comfort and support he can.
I've missed this. So much. I want this again. Desperately.
"Everything," she sighs then adds softly, timidly, "You." She feels him tense a little and his hands pause in their movement, and a little part of her begins to panic that he'll get up and leave her now, so she continues speaking, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out, to explain, "I've been such an idiot, Harry, and so unkind and unfair to you. I was doing better and then Ros and the funeral and you, and I felt... I didn't... I've lost everyone, all my friends, Jo, you... I couldn't... didn't want... I wasn't ready for more change, but I didn't explain and I lost... so much. All that mattered to me really. I didn't want this. I don't want to be like this – all dead inside. I want the old me back but I don't know how... and I want what we had. I want that more than anything, but it's gone and it's all my fault and I can't..." She tails off, taking a deep breath to keep herself from crying again. "Your eyes today… You looked so surprised and hopeful, and then so sad again when you realised," she whispers, tightening her arms around him, pressing her face into his neck once more, fighting for control. "I'm so sorry, Harry. So sorry."
He doesn't say anything for some moments, but his hands resume their motion across her back and through her hair, allowing her to relax a little when she realises he's not leaving, though part of her wonders if what she's just said made any sense at all. She really is quite drunk.
"I'm sorry too, Ruth," he murmurs eventually, "for everything."
"You always say that," she comments before she can stop herself, but it makes him chuckle softly, suddenly making her aware of how close their bodies are and how much she wants him.
She shifts her weight, moving so her left thigh's now pressing into his groin and she's lying across most of his body, forcing him further back onto the sofa so he's almost horizontal. She feels him tense under her, then pull his right hand from her back and attempt to lift his chest, and she wonders if he'll try to pull out of their embrace, but it seems he's enjoying it too much to want to go because he only rearranges the cushions behind his back and head so he can lie more comfortably, lifting his left leg onto the sofa and pulling his right further in, his foot planted on the floor, right by the edge of the settee.
She sighs contentedly, mumbling, "I've missed this," and pressing herself further against him. Her lips find his neck, beginning to explore his exposed skin, delighted by the realisation that he's not wearing a tie and his shirt must be unbuttoned at the top, giving her access to more of him.
"Ruth," he murmurs, "don't."
"Why not?" she asks in surprise. "You're enjoying it," she adds, pressing her left leg firmly against him where she can feel him swelling with desire.
"Yes," he agrees after a momentary hesitation, perhaps a result of her being so forward, so uninhibited, "but it's not a good idea right now."
"Why not?" she objects, grinding herself against him, her left hand cupping his cheek and turning his face to kiss him. She hums as he kisses her back, softly at first, then with more passion as their tongues venture forward and find each other, swirling together as his left hand pulls her head closer, his thumb running sensually along her jaw, his kiss becoming deeper, hungrier, his breathing rugged.
She moans in pleasure, pressing her body further into his, but it isn't long before he pulls back, placing another soft kiss against her deliciously swollen lips before murmuring, "Not now, Ruth. Not like this."
"But I want you and you me. You're hard," she complains, running her palm along his length and making him groan with want, but it doesn't sway him.
"It's just an erection, Ruth," he replies, reaching for her hand to pull it away. "It'll go down again soon. You're drunk and I won't take advantage of you."
"But-" she begins only to be interrupted.
"But nothing," he insists. "It's not happening tonight, and if I have to get up and go home to ensure that, I will, Ruth... though I'd much rather you didn't force me to do that. I'm enjoying this cuddle more than I can say."
"I know," she giggles, suddenly overcome by the ridiculousness of their conversation. "I can feel it."
"Quite," he smiles, his eyes gazing into hers with such love and devotion that she can't look away.
"I must look a fright," she whispers after a bit, suddenly feeling acutely self-conscious.
"You look beautiful," he replies, lifting his hand to cup her cheek and gently stroke her hair out of her face. "You are the most beautiful, most brilliant, most wonderful woman I have ever known, and I love you so much, my heart aches with it. I would give anything for you, Ruth, and I want you, a life with you, more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life. I'm sorry I'm so rubbish at showing it, expressing myself in plain English and getting the timing right."
"It's pretty good tonight," she smiles then looks away, toying with the buttons of his shirt for a moment before lifting her eyes to his once more and confessing softly, "I need you, Harry. Don't give up on me. Please."
"Never," he replies, making her smile, then sigh and bury her face in his neck again, feeling his lips press softly against her temple. "I'll always be here for you, Ruth, if only you'd let me in."
"But what if I let you in and then I lose you?" she whispers softly, voicing one of her biggest fears.
"What if you don't and I live to be a hundred?" he counters. "Is it not better to have loved and lost than to live with the regret?" He pauses for a moment while she digests this, then adds, "I'm almost fifty seven, Ruth. Even if I only live to be seventy, we'd have thirteen whole years together to look back on. Thirteen years of love. I could retire with my full pension in a few years time. It would be a decent pension, and with what I've saved up over the years, we could live comfortably somewhere outside London even if neither of us worked again. We could travel. We could do so many things together, Ruth. We could be happy. You've given so much to this country; we both have. Don't you think we deserve a little piece of happiness in return for all that?"
"But the things we've done, Harry," she replies, her voice coloured by the anguish in her heart.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, Ruth. We're not clean, me especially. I know that and I regret... so much. But though I've made mistakes, I have always tried to do my best, to stick to the high moral ground, to do the right thing. I haven't always succeeded, but I've tried. And that has to count for something."
"Yes," she sighs, closing her eyes and holding onto that comforting thought as she drifts off to sleep in his arms.
She wakes disoriented with her stomach churning and ready to revolt, and it's all she can manage to get up and stagger to the bathroom, only vaguely registering the murmur of surprise from Harry, followed by the grunt and exclamation of pain that precedes the swearing.
Her head feels like it might explode and she can barely think as she sits on the floor by the toilet, trying to find the strength and courage to attempt to get up and crawl back into bed.
Except I wasn't in bed just now.
She frowns as she tries to focus, remembering the feel of Harry lying below her on the sofa, the warmth of his body, snippets of their conversation last night.
Christ! Did I really come onto him like that?
She groans, rubbing her face with her hands in mortification as she searches for the courage to leave the room and face him. Eventually she realises she can't spend all morning in the bathroom, so she stands and rinses out her mouth at the sink, fighting the nausea and the pounding headache she's woken up with by splashing water on her face and taking deep steadying breaths. Then she dries her hands and face on the towel, reaching into the medicine cabinet for the painkillers, and it's only as she swallows the two caplets that she realises that she actually kneed Harry in the balls as she got up to rush to the bathroom.
God! The poor man!
"Stupid idiot," she mutters at her reflection, less than pleased by what she sees and the memories of her actions last night and this morning. At least she didn't vomit all over him too, she thinks grimly.
This is why you must never drink more than one glass of wine, Ruth.
She sighs and turns to leave the bathroom, slowly making her way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She should drink something to help with the dehydration though the thought of food almost sends her hurrying back to the bathroom.
"Morning," he says softly, smiling at her across the kitchen, his eyes warm and hopeful. It looks like he's beat her to it; she can already hear the water begin to boil in the kettle.
"Hi," she replies, gripping the door-frame with one hand to steady herself. "I'm sorry," she adds, glancing down at his groin before lifting her eyes to his again in alarm. "God! Sorry. I mean, are you all right? I didn't mean to... That is-"
His warm chuckle silences her and she takes a deep breath and smiles at the big grin spreading across his face as she fights to contain the blush staining her cheeks red. "It's fine, Ruth. Not the most pleasant way to wake up in the morning, but I'll live."
"I'm so sorry," she repeats, softening her eyes as she watches him cross the room to stand before her.
"How are you feeling?" he asks gently, thankfully changing the subject. "A bit rough?"
"Yes," she nods, then winces.
"What can I get you?" he asks, his gaze full of compassion. "Painkillers? Tea? Coffee? Food?"
"That's very presumptuous," she replies. "It's my kitchen!" She'd meant it as a bit of playful teasing, but she can see he's taking it the wrong way, his face serious as he hesitates and begins to take a step back. "God, I'm sorry," she says quickly, reaching for his hand and gripping it tightly as she explains. "I was joking, Harry. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry. I'm really not at my best this morning... nor was I last night, for that matter. I'm sorry. Just ignore me. Okay?"
He's smiling again, moving his hand to lace their fingers together as he gazes down at her with total adoration. "You do realise you're asking the impossible of me?" She frowns in puzzlement at that, wishing that her brain weren't so fuzzy this morning, not to mention that the colossal headache she has would disappear. "I could no more ignore you than stop breathing, Ruth."
She smiles and blushes at that, dropping her gaze for a moment in embarrassment as she murmurs, "You say the sweetest things sometimes, Harry."
He doesn't say anything, just steps closer, reaching his free arm around her and pulling her into his embrace, his hand lifting to gently massage her neck, making her have to fight to contain the groan of pleasure that wants to escape her. It feels so good, loosening some of the tension in her neck and shoulders from spending a night on the sofa, not to mention easing the pain in her head, though she supposes that might be due to the painkillers beginning to take effect. She wraps her own free arm around him, gently sliding her palm up and down his back, delighting in the solid feel of him, as she bends her other arm, pulling their joined hands close to their chests.
"Thanks for coming over to check on me last night," she murmurs.
"You're welcome," he replies and presses a soft kiss against her forehead. Then he pulls back to smile down at her before adding, "It's getting late. I should go soon." Her face falls which seems to make his smile grow brighter. "Work," he explains. "I need to sort out what's going on with Lucas."
"Yes, of course," she agrees, dropping her gaze from his. "I'm sorry about the bug. I didn't think-"
"No," he shakes his head, causing her to lift her eyes to his. "You were right. I've been letting him get away with things that should have raised alarm bells long ago. I'd like your help, when the time comes. I need you there with me when I confront him. I trust your judgement and I fear mine is somewhat compromised in his case."
"Of course," she says, a mixture of surprise and pleasure colouring her voice. "Anything you need, Harry."
"Anything?" he asks, his voice dropping and eyebrows arching as he dips his head to give her a playful, suggestive look.
Her heart rate shoots up and she has to swallow to moisten her throat before she can reply. "Anything," she says softly, holding his gaze with her own, and they get lost in each other's eyes for long moments, overcome by the wonder of finding themselves finally on the same page, at the same time.
"Dinner tonight?" he asks eventually.
"Yes," she agrees, despite the tightening of her stomach at the thought of food. "That would be lovely."
He smiles, a truly brilliant grin that lights up his face and makes him look young and devastatingly handsome all of a sudden. "I'll look forward to it," he murmurs, leaning in a little hesitantly to press a soft, sweet kiss against her lips. Then he takes a step back, his eyes alight with joy while he leads her by the hand over to the table and bids her take a seat as he asks once more, "Tea? Coffee? Toast? Painkillers?"
"Not food," she grimaces. "Tea, I think. I already took some Paracetamol."
"Right," he smiles. "One sweet tea coming right up."