A/N: This story is set late in S.8, after the death of Jo, but before the death of Ros. Totally AU/fantasy-land, which is all I have left.

Kudos own the characters herein, while I own this particular fantasy, which I'm sure I share with many of you.


Ruth had been in that pleasant state between waking and sleeping for most of the journey in the taxi on her way home from the four-day GCHQ conference at Havensworth. She'd presented two talks – one on creating flexible and user-friendly software for interpreting coded language, and the other on the value of technical support to analysts in the intelligence service - and she had had to present each talk twice over the span of four days. On her first night there, she'd revisited the corridor where, on their first night at Havensworth over three years ago, she and Harry had had their `moment'. She'd chosen the same time – 11.20 pm – as she quietly stood in the same spot she'd stood then, barely able to look at Harry, his eyes hungry and needy, his intent, his desire for her clear. It was just an empty corridor, quiet this time, but she was sure she felt the ghost of what-had-never-been, and she felt sad and frustrated and angry all over again …... only this time she was angry with herself for not having been braver. Back then she hadn't known that she and Harry had only a few short weeks left before she'd have to leave. It was always going to be difficult with Harry, and ever since she'd returned to work after George's death, he'd been so distant, the complete professional, and she didn't know how to cross that great divide between them.

She'd been about to leave, to catch the train back to London, when Damien Flynn had collared her and begged to buy her dinner in exchange for a taxi ride back home. She'd rather have taken the train, and not had to listen to Damien's bluster about `the efficiency, effectiveness and importance of GCHQ in the new millenium', and how Ruth's experience in what he'd called `the deep and dirty pond that is MI5' would stand her in good stead for a managerial position at GCHQ. She thanked him for dinner, told him she'd think about it (she wouldn't – what was there to think about?), and she accepted the cab voucher he'd given her to pay for the trip home.

Ruth dragged her bag behind her into her flat. She hadn't immediately noticed anything different, but as she struggled down the hallway to the kitchen, she felt the hairs rise on her arms and the back of her neck. Instinctively, she knew that something was different …... not wrong necessarily, but definitely her flat felt different to her, like someone had entered it while she was away, and given it a spring-cleaning. Her living space smelled strange …... but not unpleasant, although she couldn't place exactly what it was she was sensing.

All she wanted to do was to make herself a cup of tea, and then fall into bed, and hopefully sleep for at least twelve hours. She had two days in which to catch up on sleep before she had to be back on the Grid. She left her bag on the floor beside the sofa, and in the kitchen she boiled the kettle, and made herself a quick cup of tea. Taking the cup through to her dining table in the annexe just off the kitchen, she sighed as she sat down and took a sip, her elbows on the table, her cup resting between her hands.

Then she saw it. A jacket hanging over the back of one of the chairs. Ruth's heart began thumping …... fast. She had an intruder ….. a male intruder …. (although she also recognised that any man who meant her harm, would not announce their presence by leaving clothing lying around). She took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the other side of the table. On the floor beside the chair were shoes – black lace-up shoes – the kind Harry wore, and they were rather shiny, as Harry's shoes always were. She lifted the jacket from the back of the chair, and held it to her face, breathing it in. The jacket smelled of Harry …. his warm, rich and spicy, masculine smell. No other man she knew smelled quite like he did. Where was he, and why had he left his jacket and shoes here?

Ruth knew it was wrong of her, but when she felt the bulk of his wallet in the inside pocket of his jacket, she just had to take a peek. Harry was nowhere downstairs, it was late, and so it was clear that he was upstairs somewhere, perhaps sleeping, perhaps visiting the bathroom. She lifted the wallet from the pocket, and opened it. She'd seen this wallet many times; she'd seen him open it, and take out one of his cards to pay for meals at the George. She noticed that he had several credit cards – Mastercard, Visa, American Express – and a few notes. There was a slot for business cards, and then she opened a folder inside the wallet, the kind with clear plastic pockets, where a man can keep photos of loved ones. The first photograph was of two children, clearly his own. The girl was around twelve, and her hair was straight and blond, her nose long and narrow, and her expression serious, with just the beginning of a smile on her lips. She had her hand around the shoulder of her brother, and it was in his face that Ruth could see Harry – his thick and unruly blond curls, his dark eyes, and his pouting expression. It seemed to Ruth that Harry's son had not liked having his photo taken. There were no photos of his children as adults.

It was when she flipped over the photograph of the two children that she received the biggest surprise of all. Perhaps even more surprising than his coat and shoes being in her kitchen this late on a Friday night, was that the photograph on the other side of the one of his children was of her. It appeared to have been taken before she'd had to go into exile, given the blouse she wore, and the shell necklace – a style of dress which now seemed frivolous to her. She was smiling at someone off-camera, and she was pleased that Harry had chosen this image of her to keep. She looked relaxed and happy, and even rather attractive. In those days – her early days on the Grid – both Malcolm and Colin often crept around the place with cameras, snapping people as they worked. There were no other photographs in his wallet – just his children and her. Ruth momentarily wondered if Harry had put this photo in his wallet at the time she'd left to go into exile, and if, over the years, he'd forgotten it was there. Did he still look at it, and if so, what did he think when he looked at her image? These were questions she could hardly ask him without giving away her invasion of his privacy.

Ruth quickly closed the wallet, and slipped it back into the pocket where she'd found it. She returned to her chair, and continued to sip her tea, all the while contemplating the meaning of Harry keeping a photo of her in his wallet.


Feeling far too weary to be unpacking her bag, Ruth turned out the downstairs lights, and climbed the stairs to the bathroom. She checked the spare room, but it was empty, the bed unmade. That could only mean one thing. Carefully, she opened the door to her bedroom, and immediately heard the soft sound of breathing. As she moved closer to her bed, her eyes became accustomed to the dark, and she could see the lump of a body under the duvet on the side farthest from the door, and judging from his steady, regularly breathing, Harry was asleep.

Christ …... what now? It was her bed, and intruder or not, she'd have to share her bed with him. She looked around her room, and there, folded neatly over the back of the armchair she often sat in to read, was a white shirt and a tie, the pale mauve one which Harry often wore. A pair of socks had been dropped randomly on the floor beside the chair. This was really bad news – or good, depending on which way you looked at it. The most he'd be wearing would be an undershirt, trousers and pants, while the least would be just trousers and pants. There was every chance he was bare-chested. Christ! There'd been nothing in the MI5 manual to prepare an officer for what to do if you came home to find your section head in a state of semi-dress in your bed. There was no addendum under: Special Circumstances D (c): special field options …... not that her own bedroom in her own flat was the field exactly, and even Ruth knew how disastrous she was whenever she entered `the field'.

Ruth knew she had few options – field or otherwise. She could sleep in the spare room, covering herself with a blanket, she could sleep on the sofa downstairs, which she knew from experience to be too narrow and uncomfortable to accommodate a decent nights sleep, or she could sleep in her own bed, where she belonged, where she had every right to sleep …... but next to Harry.

Of course she chose her own bed. Harry was asleep, and had not even stirred as she'd moved quietly around the darkened room, changing into a pair of track pants and an over-sized t-shirt, one which hung on her loosely, and fell to mid thigh. Normally she'd wear a nightgown, but she thought it prudent for her to wear something which hid her figure. Who knew what Harry had in mind?

Very carefully, so as to not disturb her bed companion, Ruth lifted the duvet, and slid under it, pulling it to under her chin, just in case Harry woke and looked her way. As much as she longed to snuggle close to his warmth, Ruth kept to her side of the bed, breathing slowly and quietly. Harry was lying on his side facing her, so she rolled on to her side facing the door, which meant that her back was to him. To Ruth's mind, if she couldn't see him, he wasn't in her bed with her. Despite her discomfort, and her heightened awareness of the other person in the bed, Ruth quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


She was woken by a movement close to her, and it was then that she remembered that she was not alone in her bed. She climbed out of sleep slowly, trying to ground her thoughts, deciding where she was, what day it was, what time of day, and whose arm it was encircling her waist.