A/N: Set early in S.10, before the Russians turn up …... or maybe instead of the Russians! AU.
This began as a one-shot, and then it went somewhere I hadn't planned. This is what happens when I throw self-discipline out the window, and allow my unconscious to dictate terms. M-rated pretty much all the way through.
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle -
Why not I with thine?
from "Love's Philosophy" by Percy Bysshe Shelley
She knows that staring out the window into a black night will not bring him back any quicker. Having Harry go dark is one of Ruth's very worst nightmares. He could be being tortured, thrown into the sea, dead already, and she'd have no way of knowing. (Although deep inside herself, where she knows Harry and she are connected, she senses he is still alive. She's certain she would feel it had he died.) He'd asked her to be patient, to stay in the safe house – little more than a cabin amongst the trees on a remote farm on the west coast – and were he not back within 48 hours, she should leave, and ask Donal to drive her to the ferry in Belfast. Once she reaches Liverpool she should pick up the hire car, and drive back to London.
Except that she knows she won't. Were he to not come back within the designated time, she'll stay in Northern Ireland until she discovers where he is, and who he went out to meet. If he is dead, she will have his body taken home. She has planned this, but it is a collection of vague thoughts, nothing tangible.
She'd asked him why he'd thought bringing her here with him was a good idea. Surely two deaths would be worse than one.
"I need a cover, a plausible legend," he'd said. "Travelling as a part of a couple, we could just be on holiday, or visiting relatives. On my own I stand out. Besides, the man I'm meeting is only interested in me. So long as you remain in the cottage, you'll be fine."
He'd left just before dark. He'd stood in the open doorway, looking at her with sadness and longing in his eyes. Feelings such as these normally remain hidden while they are at work. He'd closed the door, and stepped back inside the cabin to take her face in his hands. His eyes had devoured her face, taking in every detail. "Be here when I get back," he'd whispered, before he'd kissed her lips softly and quickly, and then he'd placed his cheek against hers, only for a second or two, but long enough for her to feel the delicious rasping of his unshaved face against her own. She'd watched him leave then, wondering if the kiss had really happened. She had wanted to ask how long he thought he'd be, but hadn't wanted to sound like a nagging wife.
The bed is surprisingly comfortable. It is wide enough for three adults, and she suspects it was custom made – perhaps for two adults and two or three small children. The cabin has only one bedroom, and there is only one bed. Ruth drifts off to sleep, imagining Harry beside her, his strong hands on her body, his lips on her shoulder. Despite the circumstances, her dreams are pleasant.
She is relieved that she carries books with her wherever she goes. In her carry-all she has more books than clothes. She stokes the fire, and spends the day in front of it, since outside it is drizzling with rain. It is a Jane Austen kind of day, and she is comforted by the familiar prose, rhythmic and orderly. Harry does not appear. She cooks a meal of curry and rice, and leaves a generous portion on top of the stove, covered with a saucepan lid, for when he comes home. She has not given up hope. She goes to bed at midnight, thirty hours after Harry had left. She knows nothing of his operation, although she also knows it would take her only a short time at her computer to find out.
She likes the bed. It is warm, soft, the duvet is thick and comforting. The only missing ingredient is Harry. She lays under the covers, her eyes closed, her ears alert for any sound, any movement. Waiting is exhausting, and she falls asleep, confident in her belief that Harry is still alive, and will be coming back to her.
What seems like only minutes later, Ruth senses there is someone beside her in the bed. The mattress dips, and she is no longer lying in the middle. Her breathing quietens, and she turns her head to see Harry's bulk lying under the duvet. On his breath she smells the curry she had left for him, and as she adjusts her eyes to the dark, she sees that his eyes are open, and he is looking at her.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi. I have a confession to make," he says quietly.
There is a wide space between their bodies, and Ruth wishes she had the courage to slide across to be closer to him. "Tell me," she says, copying his quiet tone.
"I brought you with me for a reason."
"Which is?"
"So that when I got back – if I got back – you'd be here waiting for me."
"I'm glad," is all she can say. Her heart rate has just doubled, and here heartbeat thumps in her ears. "Is that the only reason you brought me?"
"No. There's this also."
Harry lifts himself on to his elbow, and reaches across the space between them to place his lips on hers. Without thinking too much about it, Ruth slides her arms around his neck and draws him closer. His kiss is gentle at first, and then he unleashes his hunger for her. He inches his body towards her until they are lying side by side, their chests and hips flush. He has found his way under her pyjama top, and he is sliding his hand over her skin. As his fingertips reach the mound of her breast, he moans into her mouth, and then pulls away from her.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean to manhandle you, Ruth. It's just that ….."
"I know, Harry. Look, I think we should just sleep for now. It's been an emotional couple of days for us both."
"You look disappointed."
"I am," she says, smiling across at him. He has removed his hand from under her top, and she misses its warmth, and the surprisingly gentle touch of his fingers. "I was enjoying that. I'd forgotten how …... good ….. it feels to ….."
"I know, but do you understand why I stopped?"
"Yes, Harry, I do. I suspect you need to debrief first."
He nods, and rolls on to his back. "It's tempting having you here. I didn't bring you here for sex. Not that I don't want …... because I do."
Ruth is disappointed, but she knows that sex immediately after a dangerous operation is like drunken sex, or angry sex. She and Harry deserve better than that.
"And I want to make love to you, Ruth," he says, staring at the ceiling, "just not like this. Back in London -"
"If you can wait until we're back home, then so can I."
Ruth soon falls asleep, but Harry lies awake for a long time. He wishes he'd been able to continue where he was going with her, but it wouldn't have been fair. His body really needs the release, but he considers it a dishonourable act to empty himself into the woman he loves only hours after he'd taken someone's life. He considers getting up and going to another room to masturbate, but he falls asleep before he acts upon the thought.
When Harry wakes it is still dark. He has again moved close to Ruth, and his arm is around her, his fingers touching her over her pyjamas, but dangerously close to her pubic bone. Just a twist of his wrist, and he could touch her, and make her wet and ready for him. He is rock hard, and his erection is nestled against her buttocks. It takes every ounce of self control for him to not push himself against her, hoping she'll turn to open herself to him. His face is almost against her neck, and with the smallest of movements, he could run his tongue along the curve of her neck. He is sure she is still asleep, and as much as he wants her in this moment, he mustn't act on it. He mustn't. To do so could destroy them before they'd even begun.
Slowly and carefully he turns away from Ruth, and leaves the bed, pulling the duvet up to her shoulders. He has to meet Jim Leary at the farmhouse at 8am, and he needs to wash first. He heads to the bathroom, and while under the primitive, but functional shower, he soaps his hand and jerks off. He climaxes quickly, eyes closed, imagining Ruth naked beneath him, and he has to push his free forearm over his mouth to silence his cries. He experiences a deep and bone-shaking orgasm, but it is not a happy release. As with every other time he has taken the life of another, along with the primal pleasure, the guilt surfaces. The man he'd killed may be scum, but he has a mother, a sister, and a teenage son. He carries guilt for the loss they have yet to endure.
Once he is dressed, he writes a note to Ruth, and slips it under the kettle. He knows he'll be given a hearty breakfast at the farmhouse. Donal's wife has always been an excellent cook.
From the bedroom, Ruth hears the click of the door as it closes. She'd woken while he was in the shower. She'd even heard him masturbate – and she knew he had tried to silence his cries while he came. She'd experienced a moment of regret that she'd not been in the shower with him, perhaps helping him to release his pent up tension. When he'd re-entered the bedroom to dress, she'd feigned sleep.
They were safe for now. It would be their time once they were back in London. She has that to look forward to.
