Tariq Masood looks up from the three monitors arranged in an arc on the desk in front of him to see his boss enter the Grid. The man looks wrecked, and there appears to be a small cut above his right eye. Harry nods in Tariq's direction before he enters his office. Tariq lifts his eyebrows in greeting towards the older man, who has already closed his office door, as well as the blinds which afford him privacy from the remainder of the Grid. Tariq thinks for a moment that Ruth should have stayed at her desk for another thirty minutes. That's all it would have taken, but no, she took off in a hurry some time ago.

Tariq is busy tracking the Chinese who took the Albany weapon. He loves his job. More than loves it. There is nothing he enjoys more than desktop espionage. Amongst his friends from school – now doctors, lawyers, software developers, internet entrepreneurs, running family businesses – Tariq is the only one who is working at his dream job. He believes he is the luckiest guy in the world.

It is a while later that Tariq hears Harry leave his office, and walk to Ruth's desk. Tariq watches him, still keeping his head bent over his monitors. Harry notices Ruth's coat is missing, while her bag is still under her desk.

"Have you any idea -?" Harry begins, turning his way.

"None, Harry. She left a little while before you arrived back. My guess would be -"

"The roof?"

Tariq nods, then drops his eyes, and strokes his chin thoughtfully with his fingers. Everyone knows that Harry and Ruth meet on the roof. The important thing – as he sees it – is that neither Harry nor Ruth ever discovers that they all know. This is where a fine and delicate balance is required. Maintaining this balance is not something at which Tariq is especially skilled, but he is slowly getting the hang of it.

Harry steps on to the roof, but Ruth is not in sight. He steps to the balustrade, and rests his hands on the railing. It is cold up here. She wouldn't have stayed long. He'd noticed her gloves on her desk, sticking out from under a pile of files. He looks left and right, but she's not there.

He doesn't head anywhere in particular, but he knows he must find her. He crosses the road, and heads towards the embankment. He can't imagine her leaving Thames House without her bag or her gloves, but he's not Ruth, so he has little idea of what is driving her. It is already dark, but the river and the embankment is light enough, with lights on lamp posts at regular intervals. Harry's eyes are on the bench where they have sat together so many more times than he could count, but she is not there. He sits down anyway. He's wearing leather gloves, and he shoves his gloved hands deep into his coat pockets, as he stretches his legs out in front of him, and leans against the back of the bench.

The day has been harder than most – Lucas holding Ruth hostage, demanding that he, Harry, hand over Albany; finding Ruth in the nick of time; having Ruth condemn him for giving Albany away; his meeting Lucas on the top of Enver Tower, fully expecting this to be his last ever gesture of sacrifice. Yes, it has been one hell of a day, and it isn't over yet.

Something draws his eyes up and to the right, and there she is, slowly walking along the embankment towards him, her eyes on him all the while. He watches her as she approaches, and then pats the bench beside him, hoping she'll sit down. Neither speak as Ruth hesitates before him, removes her ungloved hands from her coat pockets, and sits primly on the bench, leaving an arm's length between them.

So, it's to be like this, is it?

Harry sighs, and again leans back. When she doesn't speak, he turns to look at her. She looks tired, overwrought, and near tears. Her hands are folded in her lap, and to his eyes, they look blue with cold. Harry sits up, and removes his gloves, handing them to her across the space between them. She shakes her head, looking up at him with sad eyes.

"What will you do, Harry? Then your hands will freeze."

"Take them, Ruth," he says gently.

Ruth hesitates before she again shakes her head. Harry slides closer to her, close enough to touch her. He grasps her right hand, and slides his right-hand glove on to her hand, before putting the other one back on his left hand. Then he slides close enough to her that their thighs touch. He takes her left hand in his right, and draws it deep into his coat pocket. Ruth's face shows shock, but there's little she can do, as he is holding her hand tightly in his. He'd noticed her resistance to his gesture, but it only takes a minute or two for her to relax. Through her hand, he feels the tension leave her.

"I'm not your enemy, Ruth," he says at last, his voice barely audible above the burr of traffic.

He feels her squeeze his hand, and he's sure she leans a little towards him. He longs to say, `Let me love you', but he knows she'd not appreciate the sentiment …... not after the day they've had. He feels her looking at him, and he slowly turns to catch her eyes. They are wide with fear and unshed tears.

"You have a cut above your eye," she says. "You should probably be home."

"It's nothing. Par for the course. You should be home, too. What did they tell you at the hospital?"

She says nothing for a minute or two. "They said …... that the long-term effects from the anaesthetic can be unpredictable, and I should have someone with me at all times during the next 24 hours."

"Which is why you went off walking on your own. Ruth -"

"I went looking for you."

"What?"

"When you hadn't come back to the Grid, I went looking for you."

"You should have rung me."

Ruth sighs as if measuring her words. "My phone's back on my desk," she says quietly.

"What?"

"I was sure I had it, but when I went to call you, I found I'd left it back on my desk …... along with my gloves, it seems."

Harry sits forward, facing her. Their hands are still clasped in his coat pocket, and he'll not let go of her …... just in case she takes off again, or goes to throw herself in front of a moving vehicle – a bus perhaps - just so that she can show him that her sacrifice will always be greater than his. Such a pair they are.

But he does let go of her hand. He shoves her hand deeper in his pocket, and then lifts his own hand out and touches the tears which fall down her cheeks. He leans into her, and takes her face between both his hands, one gloved, and one ungloved.

"Ruth," is all he can say.

Their faces are so close, but he doesn't wish to act inappropriately. He doesn't want to have her get up and walk away from him. Again.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry I hurt you with what I said."

He nods, knowing she's talking about more than what happened that day. He feels her moving, and then both her hands settle on his waist, outside his coat. He wishes he'd thought to open the buttons of his coat, so that he could feel her hands closer to his body. As it is, there are several substantial layers of fabric between her hands and his skin. Harry sighs heavily, and imagines her hands on his skin. The thought is exquisite and painful, since he knows that it is unlikely it will ever happen.

He feels her lean towards him – a surrendering of control – and so his arms naturally slide around her, pulling her against him, so that she rests her head on his shoulder.

"You were a bloody idiot going off like that to meet Lucas. You could have been killed."

"I know."

"And when you said what you did …... about it being your turn …... Harry, that was -"

"I know. I shouldn't have. It was cruel."

"Yes. It was. But I said it first."

"You did, Ruth."

There was not a lot else they could say about their day. They'd both made bad calls. Harry feels her hair under his nose, and he closes his eyes and breathes in her scent. Apart from the probability that they'd be found frozen together in the morning, he could stay like that all night, his arms around Ruth, her head on his shoulder, one of her arms around his waist, her other hand resting on his chest. For the first time in many weeks, he is happy.

Then he remembers the implications of him having given away Albany.

"They'll kick me out, Ruth."

"Who?"

"The powers that be. The grey men in Whitehall. They'll want me out. When I gave away Albany, I committed treason."

"If you go, then so will I."

"You can't, Ruth."

"Why not?"

"I won't let you."

"We'll see about that."

Harry smiles into her hair. His bold Ruth, strong Ruth, is on the mend. She is on her way back to him. All she needs is something to fight for …... something other than herself.

"About what they told you at the hospital," he says after a time. "I think you need to come home with me."

He feels her hand hit him lightly on his chest, and he smiles at the gesture. Were she not offering resistance to his suggestion he'd be worried about her. She shifts away from him so that she can look at him. Her eyes are bright, her expression feisty.

"You'll try anything, won't you?"

"I'm serious, Ruth. You shouldn't be alone, not even for a few minutes."

"Not while I'm in the shower?"

He smiles then, knowing he's been caught out.

"I still think you should come back to mine, and let me look after you."

"You got hit on the head, Harry. Don't you need someone to look after you?"

He gazes into her eyes. The light on the lamp post behind them casts an ethereal glow over their faces. To him, she has never looked more beautiful or desirable. He wants her in his home, in his bed, in his bath, his shower, his kitchen, in his life. But he'll settle for her to come home with him and sleep in his spare room.

"Perhaps we can look after one another, Ruth."

They watch one another for what seems like a long time, but is probably only a minute. Harry swallows, watching her face, trying to read it, and failing. What he doesn't know is that Ruth has already made up her mind to go home with him. She is examining the dearest face she knows, memorising its features for some time in the future when they'll be parted, as she is sure they will be. That is how their relationship goes …... no sooner do they get close to one another, than circumstances conspire to pull them apart. That appears to be a law of the universe.

Harry calls his driver to take them home. Ruth had suggested public transport, and he'd smiled at her, imagining them sitting at the back of the bus, holding hands, enjoying their closeness as they are thrown together each time the bus turns a corner. They sit in the back seat of the car not touching. Harry's driver just may not be as discreet as he should. They don't wish to give him anything to gossip about, although they'd driven by Ruth's flat so that she could grab her overnight bag, which would have given the driver ample fodder for any amount of stories to concoct, and then pass on.

Once inside his house, Harry shows Ruth to the spare room, which is just down the hall from his own.

"I don't know about you, Ruth, but I need to wash today's events off me in the shower. The guest bathroom is next to this room, and my en suite is across the hall from your bedroom. We can order something to eat after we've showered."

Ruth busies herself unpacking her overnight bag, more to hide the flushing in her cheeks as she imagines them showering together. Harry hadn't exactly specified who should shower where. He'd only implied. He leaves the room, slightly bewildered by Ruth's inability to make eye contact with him. Since they'd left the anonymity of the bench by the embankment in the half-light of evening, nothing has been quite the same between them. There has been a slight distance, reminiscent of almost all their other encounters for as long as they'd known one another.

Harry sighs heavily as he takes off his clothes in his bedroom, and lays out some fresh clothes on the bed. As much as he wishes he could share his bed with Ruth this evening, he thinks it unlikely. Walking naked through to his en suite, Harry turns the hot water on full. He needs cleansing, but he also needs to feel. What he overlooks is that the second door to his en suite, the one which leads straight into the hallway opposite the doorway to the guest bedroom, is standing open.

Ruth is satisfied with a short shower, has dried herself, and then wrapped herself in her bathrobe, loosely tying the tie, when she opens the bathroom door to the hallway. With only a few yards to her bedroom door, she should reach it in seconds, but at the last moment, she senses movement to her right, where through the doorway – half open – she sees Harry drying himself. She should turn away and head straight into the guest bedroom. She should at least avert her eyes. She should keep moving, but she can't.

Even had her life depended upon it, her muscles are paralysed, nor can she remove her eyes from the vision she sees through the doorway.

A/N: I have to confess that I have `borrowed' this particular scenario from parttimeficwriter's fic, "Smug Marrieds." I thought the image too delectable to not be repeated.