Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC. Title taken from the lyrics of 'In This Shirt' by The Irrepressibles.
A/N: Spoilers/speculative spoilers up to and including 9.4. This started as one thing and then went in an unexpected direction. Angst and grown up content.
Sometimes, you have to give a man a chance, Ruth, to show you who he really is.
His words haven't gone away; they keep reverberating around her head – a low-level hum, most of the time, when her mind is occupied with the myriad problems of the working day. They are louder in the early hours of the morning; loud enough to wake her, cutting through the jumble of half-remembered dreams and memories that punctuate her sleep. And they won't leave her alone because she knows he spoke from the heart, and he's right.
And yet…
She's still feels angry with him at times, still blames him for George, for Nico, for Jo, even Ros. In her calmer, quieter moments she knows her anger is fuelled by grief and guilt. She is judging him for decisions made in difficult circumstances yet pushing him to make difficult decisions when he falters. They are off-kilter, both of them, and it's making it almost impossible to separate out her feelings for him. But she does know that somewhere in the teeming mess of her emotions, her love for him still survives, albeit tarnished and dented, not that it's helping her to work out what she wants, from Harry or life.
The sound of a siren slices through the evening air and Ruth realises she's done a full circuit of the park and is back by Horse Guards Road. A police car races past, heading towards The Mall. She watches it disappear out of view, debating whether to ring Dimitri and tell him she'd like to take him up on his offer of a drink after all. He's charming and funny; a couple of hours in his company would provide a pleasant, and much needed, break from the endless, torturous contemplation of her relationship with Harry. And it could lead to something else, which in turn would undoubtedly lead to more heartache and wounded egos. So she decides against it, crosses the road and heads towards the parade ground. She'll stand a better chance of getting a cab on Whitehall and, with luck, will be home within half an hour.
-x-
Ruth surveys the interesting array of ready meals that have appeared in her fridge. Whilst cooking is obviously not one of Beth's prime interests, she clearly enjoys her food. Everything appears to be from the nothing-under-a-fiver, Marks and Spencer luxury range. She reads a few of the labels, eventually finding something that appeals, and puts it in the microwave.
She's busy opening a bottle of wine, taken from a case that Beth seems to have acquired from an exclusive vintners in Chelsea, when there is a knock at the door.
"I, er, I wasn't expecting you, Harry," she greets him, more than a little thrown by his appearance on her doorstep.
"I thought I'd should drop by. Make sure you're all right," he replies. "You don't mind if I come in do you?" he adds, already across the threshold and closing the door behind him before she can draw breath.
She follows him into the living room. "I was just about to have something to eat."
"I won't stay long. Like I said, I just want to make sure you're all right."
"I'm fine."
He looks at her for a long moment before turning his attention to the room. "Beth not here?" he enquires, casually.
"She's out, flat-hunting."
"You two not getting on?"
Unsettled by his presence and still recovering from the day's events, Ruth finds the question far more irritating than she should.
"Given I didn't get any say about her moving in, Lucas expects me to spy on her and the small matter of her killing a couple of Colombian hitmen in my hall, I wouldn't describe it as a match made in heaven. Would you?"
"To be fair, she didn't kill the Colombians herself. And I thought you liked her."
Ruth turns away muttering something that sounds suspiciously like 'infuriating bastard' but he lets it go. She does an abrupt about turn and stomps past him, heading into the kitchen. He waits for a minute or two, considering whether it's wise to follow her into a room where she has easy access to sharp implements and heavy objects. He decides to risk it.
She's attempting to remove the plastic film from her microwave dinner and swearing as puffs of steam from the contents burn her fingers.
"Sorry," he offers, from just inside the doorway, "for being infuriating."
Her hands still and she raises her head but doesn't look at him.
"Is that for being infuriating in general or for back there?"
"Both."
She puts the food back in the microwave, presses a couple of buttons and then turns to face him. "Do you want a glass of wine?"
They seem to have reached a truce.
"Please."
After she pours his drink she retreats a little and stands with her back to the sink.
"This is good," Harry says, appreciatively, and picks up the bottle to inspect the label.
"Beth got it. Says it's from someone she knows. I suspect she may have held them at gunpoint for it. Or she has some particularly juicy information on them and they pay her by the caseload to keep quiet."
"I don't think you believe that for one moment," Harry replies, amused.
Ruth shrugs, wearily. "God knows, Harry. I know I don't."
"You haven't answered my question."
How does he do that? He's standing right in front of her and she hadn't even realised he'd moved.
"Are you all right?" he prompts, into the silence.
She fidgets about, looks at the floor then the ceiling. "I told you, I'm fine," she mumbles, using her wineglass to shield her face.
He knows she's lying.
"When I heard about the explosion-"
"Harry!"
"I was worried about you! Can't you even allow me that?"
The hurt and anger in his voice stabs at her conscience and she finally looks him in the eye. "I'm OK, really. It wasn't that big an explosion," she adds, desperate to take the heat out the situation. "I'm still in one piece."
He doesn't believe that either.
He tilts her chin up with the index finger of his right hand and studies her face. "You've cut your lip. Any other damage?"
It still shocks hers to feel his touch, and it happens so infrequently she can remember every time. Vividly.
"B-bit of a headache," she stutters out. "And my ears are still ringing."
He nods.
Then he kisses her, sucking gently on her bottom lip. And then he backs her up against the sink and somehow manages to relieve her of her glass whilst still kissing her. Now they have only each other to occupy their hands with, they rearrange themselves, pressing their bodies more firmly together. Her hands are under his shirt, her fingers stroking the smooth skin of his back. She runs a fingernail lightly up his spine and is rewarded with more of his tongue in her mouth.
His hands are on her hips, then her thighs, clutching at her skirt, trying to hitch the material up. Eventually, he succeeds and his fingers move slowly, exploring the soft flesh he has exposed. She squirms against him, heat against hardness, and they are so close, so close…
"Not here," Ruth gasps.
This is not the response Harry expects and enough of his brain remains unclouded by lust to understand she's saying no, stop; for the moment, at least.
He loosens his hold on her. "Sorry, sorry," he croaks out, voice unsteady.
"It's just…Beth…she could walk in."
"And this would take some explaining."
Ruth laughs, softly, and steadies herself against him. "I think it would be quite clear what we're doing."
"Probably. But not why."
She looks at him; his eyes are still dark with desire. "No, not why."
He finally releases her, and begins to straighten his clothes. "I should go. Leave you in peace."
"Harry-"
"It's OK."
It isn't OK and they both know it; but neither of them have any idea what they should do.
She hears the door click shut when he leaves. Fifteen minutes later, when Beth arrives home, she's still standing in the same spot in the kitchen.
To be continued…