Well I'm absolutely overwhelmed by the response to chapter one. Twenty-one reviews! What is this, Christmas day? Thank you so much everyone. It's encouraging to see some of us heartbroken Spookies are still about.

Majority wise you were in favour of the blue t-shirt. Good choice my friends. Gem6 and Mamzalini, I'm somewhat tempted to acquiesce to your suggestion that Harry turns up shirtLESS, however, I'm obliged to maintain at least a minor level of plausibility for now... because sooner or later it's going to get ridiculous. :D If you know me, you know Harry will miraculous loose his clothing at some point in the very near future.

Oh and don't despair just yet Nat; Chapter 1 was a K rating because it needn't have been anything else. It'll change soon, I can promise you that ;)


It never occurred to her at any level that he would be dressed in anything other than his work clothes. And in fact, as she clambers down the ceiling ladder having noticed him walking up her drive, for a brief moment she doesn't recognise who he is. Yet she smiles to herself and the butterflies set up to work havoc in her stomach. She accepts there and then that that's a fact that will probably never go away.

Before he has chance to knock she's opened the door with more enthusiasm than she's aware of, greeting him with a smile he knows he never see's enough of. The warmth is appreciated no end as he enters her home, the food already cooking it would seem, mixed with the sharp acrylic smell of paint. An odd combination, there's no denying, but his first thought is not of its strength but of the domesticity it creates so naturally. Ruth only amplifies the fact with her appearance; black jeans and a burgundy fitted t-shirt splashed with that pale green, hair tied impeccably, and grubby trainers that have never seen a treadmill but have evidently seen other paint at some point. And with all of it she looks beautiful.

"I brought this," he holds out a bottle as they stand themselves in her hallway. White Burgundy.

Well if that's not an incredibly unsubtle hint, she doesn't know what is.

The smile still hasn't faded so she takes it with a soft chuckle as he beams too.

"Good choice. I haven't had that for years."

Years. Always sounds painful. Has it really been years?

She notions through the hall, past the sitting room that resembles a bomb site, and into the dining room and adjoining kitchen where she places it in fridge, allowing him to take in the detail of her house. Not that there is an unusual amount of detail to take in, but the smile he wears is enough to tell her he's found something right, logical maybe, of standing here. Like he fits. He could stay here, she thinks, we could have started living here so many years ago.

Equally caught in exactly the same daydream, it takes the sudden hour countdown of the seven o'clock news on the radio to tug them both back. He finds himself suddenly shy and slips his hands into his dark blue jean pockets. Before he can explain something he technically doesn't need to Ruth smirks and steps closer, though it's unclear if she's completely conscious of doing so or not.

"You look nice in a t shirt," she says unexpectedly, gesturing as if he's unaware of the tight and wholly alien feel of the material hugging his chest and stomach. And if ever he was going to blush, he had prayed it wouldn't be now. But God wasn't listening and he flicks his embarrassed gaze away.

"Oh, this old thing," he pinches the side of the light blue material.

"And I want to comment on the jeans," she continues with substantially more confidence than she feels, "But I'm not sure what to say."

Other than you look unbelievably sexy.

"Well I can say the same of you," he replies quickly. "You look nice in jeans and t-shirt."

"I'll admit I feel a little odd," she dips. He chuckles,

"You're telling me. These clothes don't even fit properly."

She wont protest.

She wont admit she loves it either.

"They're fine," she smiles, "They're..."

"Distracting it would seem."

"Ha, yes... er – drinks!"

It's obvious he's laughing as she suddenly leaps from the conversation and disappears into the kitchen. To compose herself as much as to retrieve a couple of glasses. Even when she asks what it is he'd actually like to drink, she does so from around the corner, making a point of not returning so he can't melt her into a pile of mushy, hot and incoherent mess of a woman.

"Would you like to open the wine now?" she calls, and gets only a soft chuckle in response. "Harry."

"I don't mind Ruth. Perhaps you should have something cold."

Silence.

And then, only because he can't see the colossal smile,

"I imagine I will do later."

Still she doesn't emerge, but waits, with a bitten lip. And he waits too until he decides that if the flirtatious tension is going to become a considerable part of the evening, then it needs to be done in stages. Either that, or completely loose self control.

"Wine is great," he calls back, "Thank you."


The two sides they've created for themselves – professional and hopelessly in love – are still adopted, even as they work as 'friends' in her home. By the time she introduced him to the task in hand she's already dizzy on what's probably a mixture of adrenalin, nerves, excitement and wine. He stands, one hand in his pocket, observing the room as she shifts the ladder over slightly and searches for the second paintbrush under numerous layers of dusty furniture covers.

"I can see why you needed the help," he says, "It's actually quite a large room isn't it."

"Yes, that corner," she nods to her right, "Forms part of the extension. The previous owner had his piano there but it's a bit of an empty space for me really. I was thinking about buying some nice furniture for it. A cabinet or something. What do you think?"

He can't ever voice what his real thought in that moment is.

They could have been. They should be. Husband and wife, planning, working, decorating, living in this house together. He knows for a fact that he would have chosen this colour for this room with its large low window and paintings on opposite walls, books shelves, sofa in the left hand corner, television to the right.

"Yes," he says quietly. "That'd look great. A good use of space."

"Mm. Oh, here it is," she locates the paintbrush and hands it to him triumphantly.

"Right then," he places his glass down by the corner, next to hers and takes in a 360 degree view of the room. "Where would you like me to start?"


Apologies for this chapter not erupting with fluff... but y'know, gotta 'set the scene' and all that. ;) More soon!